Run Silent, Run Deep - Страница 52

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Lots of it!"

Hugh handed me a wadded-up hunk, leaned to the hatch to call for more.

"Range!" I shouted into the mike.

"Five thousand, leading ship!"

"Where's the nearest tincan!"

"Four thousand, thirty degrees on our port bow!" answered Jim.

"How about the other one on this side?"

"Sixty-five hundred yards, sixty relative!"

Jim had gotten us into the best position possible. We were going in astern of the leading escort, which was maintaining station more or less dead ahead of the convoy, and were well clear and ahead of the port-flanking tincan.

"How much farther to go?"

"I figure to start shooting at two thousand. They're all pretty well bunched. We'll shoot a spread of six fish forward, then swing for the stern tubes, shoot them, and in the meantime reload the four torpedoes left forward. Then if we get a chance we can let go with those four. That will leave us only one fish, in the after torpedo room."

"Good," I said into the mike. "What's the range now?"

"Four thousand! We're all ready, except for opening the outer doors. We'll start opening them at three thousand yards!"

I felt curiously detached and emotionless. The die had been cast the moment I directed the rudder be put right. Now it was merely the matter of riding it on out to a finish. The reload would be a problem, because of the motion on the ship, and I was glad that back in New London Keith had insisted on the installation of special pad-eyes for extra securing tackle. We had also carried out special reload drill while on the surface, against just such an eventuality as was now before us.

The ship, of course, carried only twenty-four torpedoes in all, sixteen in the forward torpedo room and eight in the after room. Having attacked with three fish twice out of the forward tube nest and once out of the after nest, we had fifteen fish left: ten forward and five aft. It would be worthwhile to reload the four left after the first salvo forward and try to get them off, but hardly so for the single left aft.

"What's the range now?" I had been searching for the targets, was still unable to see them. We were racing to destroy some men and some ships I had never seen. Perhaps I never would see them, I could tell their approximate bearing by looking up at the angle swept by the parabolic radar reflector whenever, from the motion of the mast behind me, I knew it was taking a bearing. They had been slightly on the starboard bow; now the leading ship bore several degrees on the port bow.

"Three-three-double-oh! Recommend change course to two- nine-oh! We're starting to open outer doors now, with this speed it may take us a little time!"

The newer boats had hydraulically operated outer torpedo tube doors, but not Walrus, already outdated. Ours had to be cranked open by hand, one by one, against the water pressure built up by our speed.

"Left to two-nine-zero!"

The rudder indicator went left a little, came back to center, Oregon's voice: "Steady on two-nine-oh!"

Out of nothing they popped into view. "Targets!" I bawled.

I flung my binoculars into the TBT bracket, twisted it violently both ways, taking it all in. A solid mass of ships, dead ahead and to starboard. Well to port, a single smaller vessel, the leading escort. No need to worry about him. To starboard, far to star- board, a single tiny shape-the port flanker. He would be a problem soon.

But the ships ahead, we couldn't miss! There must be columns at least, solid black against a lowering grayness.

Eleven ships in all, Jim had said.

"Range, Jim!" I said into the mike. "I've got the TBT on the leading ship, looks like a tanker!"

"Two-five-double-oh! Do you see the escorts, Captain?"

"I see theme We're all right! Keep the ranges coming!"

"Range, two-four-double-oh! Outer doors are open, sir! TWO- three-double-oh! Two-two-double-oh! Taking a radar sweep. clear all around-Range two-one-double-oh!"

"TBT is on the leading ship, Jim," I said into the mike.

"Angle on the bow is large, around port ninety."

Hanging on to Walrus' careening bridge, I kept my binoculars rigidly fixed on the leading ship. Walrus rolled spasmodically from side to side, pitched her bows under, her bows, where six bronze warheads needed only the word from me to send them on their deadly mission. A sea roared up to the bridge; instinctively I ducked. Walrus heaved and pounded.

It had stopped raining. Somehow the sky looked just a bit less dark, the gray less pronounced. Our targets were outlined distinctly for me now. Two tankers in the near column. Maybe more beyond. A large freighter bringing up the rear of the nearest column. All big ships, big and fast.

"Two thousand yards!" Jim's voice carried a finality, a defiance to it.

I risked a quick glance to starboard, the port-flanking tin- can was still clear, much nearer. We had a couple of minutes to go, to be deliberate with. Now that we had got there, as Captain Blunt used to say, TAKE YOUR TIME AND MAKE EVERY FISH COUNT!

"Stand by forward!" Into the mike. "I'm on the leading ship, Jim! Let me know as each one goes out! Shoot!"

"Fire!" Jim had been holding the announcing system button down as he gave the command. I felt nothing. No jolt, no jerk as three thousand pounds, a ton and a half, was expelled.

"One's away," blared the bridge speaker. A pregnant pause.

"Two's away!" More time. I took my glasses off the TBT, swung around to inspect the nearing destroyer. "Three's away!" Jim was shooting a spread, would need no further TBT bearings from me. "Four's away!" I looked forward, reaching out to see the white wakes, impossible in the heaving black water. "Five's away!" The oncoming tin-can was looming larger all the time.

Wonder if he's seen anything yet? "Number six away! All torpedoes expended forward! Range to target, one-three-double- oh!"

"Left full rudder!" I yelled the order. Walrus scudded around, the starboard mufflers roaring their choked protest.

"Recommend course zero-nine-zero!"

"No!" I shouted, then recollecting myself, grabbed the mike: "No good, Jim. Too close to the port-flanking tincan!" I tried to speak calmly. "How about one-seven-zero with a left ninety gyro for the stern tubes?"

"Roger!"

"Oregon, steady on one-seven-zero!" He had heard the colloquy with Jim, and the rudder had already eased a few degrees in anticipation. But, disciplined helmsman that he was, he had to have the order.

"Steady on one-seven-zero! No question about Oregon's steering ability. He gently eased the rudder off and the ship lunged ahead, the lubber's line right on the marker.

I picked up the mike, ran to the after TBT, plugged it in.

"Stand by aft! After TBT!" I said into the mike. I had to push Pat Donnelly aside to give me a clear shot for sighting.

The after bridge speaker: "Standing by aft! We're all set below, Captain! Range one-two-five-oh!"

"Shoot!" I had the TBT aimed right between the first and second ships of the near column, at another ship in the second column whose black silhouette completely filled the space between them.

"Seven's away! Eight's away!" Another look at the destroyer.

We were running nearly right away from him, gaining, with our. temporary speed advantage. "Nine away! Ten away! All torpedoes expended, Captain! We're reloading forward."

Ten torpedoes, we were lighter by better than thirty thousand pounds, and about seventy thousand dollars' worth of complicated mechanism was out there running in the ocean.

And we were in something of a box, too. Any change in course would increase the approaching destroyer's chances of catching us, make it easier for him to see us.

"Range to the near escort, dead astern!" I called the inquiry into the mike, leaning against the periscope supports with my feet braced in front of me. In this location I could not feel the radar mast rotate, but I could sense it going around, sweeping aft. Walrus' motion was no different on the new course. Seas were still sweeping her with regularity, leaping higher than her radio antenna stanchions-higher than a man's height, splattering all over the deck aft, sometimes virtually submerging it.

Steam, from our hot mufflers under the deck, boiled up through the wooden slats, drifted faintly away. It would be suicide to walk aft there.

"Range to escort, one-nine-double-oh!" He WAS close!

Something had happened in the direction of the convoy. I turned, a flash as though of light, but bigger than any light, and yellower. It lasted only a fraction of a second. Then an- other, and another! No sound-there couldn't be any sound, with all the natural noises of wind and sea going on. I looked harder. Could that be the suspicion of yet another flash in the second column? These were all torpedo hits, of that there could be no doubt, and probably from our bow salvo at that. Our stern shots would be a minute or so later getting there.

Back to the escort: "What's the range now?" He didn't look any different, but in the dim visibility it would be hard to tell anyhow. Still bows on, still coming, no indication of having seen anything out of the ordinary.

"Range to escort, one-nine-five-oh!" That was not good. We should be making twenty knots to his fourteen, should be pulling ahead faster than that.

Flash! Another hit! And then, flash-flash-two, almost together.

Some notice at last from the convoy. Now it was evident that it was breaking up. Ships were turning every which way.