Run Silent, Run Deep - Страница 66

WHRRUMP! Number Three went home, right under the stack. The explosion flash of the shallow-running torpedo momentarily obliterated him from sight. The water spout came up, I thought the motion of the stack looked a little strange, different from the crazily tossing masts of the rest of the ship, when the white water deluged down, the smokestack was leaning drunkenly, slowly toppled forward. And there was some- thing a bit different in the way he rolled, too. Slower, farther over each time a sea tossed him.

The fourth fish. Same place-where the stack had been. Hold the button down: "Four's away, skipper!"

Maybe we could have saved that one. The masts had not come back from the last roll, were still leaning toward me. thought I could see part of the deck, grayer than the black hull.

There they go-back up again, slowly, however-no, just a wave rolling past. Down came the two masts, lower than ever to- ward the black, eager water, the deck now clearly visible as a gray slash at the top of the black outline.

Our fourth torpedo smashed squarely into it, right into the black spot in the center of the gray where the stack and central deckhouse had been.

Supplicatingly, as if tired of conflict and travail, the masts lay on the water. The hull separated into two parts, and I saw the outline of the bottoms of both, intermittently, as the seas raced upon them.

"Radar shows he's sinking, skipper! We're blowing up now!"

The Eel's forward half-rose quickly; they were using high pressure air instead of the low-pressure blowers. In a moment it seemed, we were fully surfaced, and Keith and Al joined me.

I pointed silently astern. There was the thump of the main induction beneath my feet.

"I ordered it opened, skipper," said Keith. "We'll be putting the engines on in a minute." We were all three looking a when four exhaust plumes shot out, and the roar of our engines came faintly upwind to us. Al handed me a clean piece of lens paper, helped me do a thorough job on the TBT binoculars.

We could barely make out the low-lying hulks of the two halves of our antagonist, more by their dark red color than by their shapes. Every succeeding wave which tore down upon them buried them, and finally there came a time when we could see only one.

"What's the range, conn?" I called into the after speaker.

"Eight hundred yards, sir!" We had been drifting backward during the whole time of our attack. "We still have four pips on the radar, bridge!"

At this moment the second red blob failed to rematerialize.

A long instant we watched for it to rise into sight, finally knew it too had gone. "One pip's gone, bridge! Three left, coming in and out!"

"He doesn't know what he's talking about!" muttered Al.

"No, he's right. Those are the lifeboats!" Keith's voice was matter of fact.

Of course, the lifeboats. And Bungo was just the man to weather the storm in them, too. Less than fifty miles from shore, he'd be back in business with his crew of sonar and depth-charge experts within a week!

"Go below, both of you!" I spoke roughly, an unaccustomed dryness in my mouth.

"Why, what's the matter…?" one look and Keith shut up- I waved him impatiently to the hatch.

"Right full rudder! All ahead flank!" This time there was no trouble turning, with the wind helping. And then it was pushing us, blowing at my back, the seas alternately lifting first stern, then bow, as they steam-rollered on by. Every time our bullnose lifted clear of the water it must have heaved twenty feet into the air, before the sea caught up with it.

I pushed the forward speaker button. "Radar! What's the bearing and distance to the nearest pip?"

"Three-zero-zero, one thousand!"

"Keep the ranges coming!" I shouted. Then to the helmsman: "Steer three-zero-zero!"

We came right a little. After a little I could see it, a little boat with oars out, tossed up against the sky. It was not so hard to see; dawn was breaking, I realized. A little to starboard.

"Steer three-zero-five!" That put it right ahead. On we came.

Now they saw us, lay on their oars, looking. A row of faces staring out of hunched-over bodies, heads sunk between their shoulders. They had had a rough night, and a rougher morning. I gritted my teeth. "Steer three-zero-four!"

They suddenly realized their danger. Oars moved jerkily, frantically, not in unison. They had been in the "no-quarter" business too. They knew what was coming. We were right on them, towered above them, our huge bow raised high on a wave, poised in deadly, smashing promise, pitiless; the row of freeing ports at the base of bow buoyancy must have looked like foaming dragon's teeth. I looked the steersman right in the eye as he stood at his oar, dead ahead and far below-the wave passed. Our bow dropped like a guillotine.

The boat never even came up. One black round head swam by, looking up with horror-filled eyes, arms and fists raised out of the water, skidded down our rounded belly, vanished aft spinning in our wake. I steeled myself. This was how they had looked in Walrus when the unexpected fatal torpedo explosion had hit them. This was the look Jim had given to Rubinoffski, that Knobby Robertson had exchanged with Dave.

Push the button again. Go on with it! This is what you came out here to dot You have to kill Bungo and all of his crew!

"Radar! Range and bearing to the nearest pip!"

"North! Six hundred!"

I could hardly talk. My voice suffocated in my chest. "Steer north!" I croaked.

"Skipper, may I come on the bridge?" asked Keith.

"No! Goddamit! Stay below!" The choked swear words came easily. "Keep the hell out of this!"

"What's the bearing now!"

"Three-five-nine!"

"Steer three-five-nine!" I could catch the note of disbelief in the helmsman's voice as he acknowledged. Scott had not divined my purpose the first time, but he knew now. The rules. of discipline held firm, however, and the lubber's line settled one degree left of due north.

It was getting lighter, and I could see better all the time. I didn't feel the wind and spray on my face, or the pounding of the sea coming aboard over our exposed starboard beam.

I aimed the juggernaught, myself, exactly at the center of the boat. As before, they watched at first in surprise, suddenly in terror, when they knew. They rowed better than the first boat, started to edge out of our way. I was ready.

"Left ten degrees rudder!" We curved left a little. "Amid- ships!"

We smote it amidships with our bullnose rising, smashed in the side, tumbled it over, rolled it down and out of sight under our keel. Some sticks of kindling came up in our wake, nothing that could be recognized as a boat.

"Radar, give me the bearing and range to the last pip!"

No answer. "Radar! Acknowledge!" The voice was weak, hesitant. "Nothing on the radar, sir!"

"You're lying!"

"Zero-six-three, one thousand!" Keith's voice, strong and dominant.

This time it was right into the teeth of the storm. Mindful of our former difficulty in turning, I gave no order to the screws, only to the rudder. I staggered back as the wind hit me over the edge of the cowling, had to duck periodically as the seas came aboard and broke with great sheets of solid black and gray water yards over my head. The boat came into sight at around eight hundred yards, a tiny dot in the water, an infinitesimal oasis in the great sea-desert. Rolling, pitching, staggering, like a drunken man, we headed for it. Five hundred yards. One hundred yards.

"Zing!" A rifle bullet. "Zing!"

"Zing!" A sharp rap, as one hit the armored side plating at the front of the bridge, and the whine of a ricochet. Somebody was still fighting. Maybe he had seen us ride down the other boats. The boat turned bow on as the Eel approached, making the most difficult target it could. I aimed right for its stern, watching carefully. Our bullnose rose above it with the short, quick, choppy movement of a ship plunging into a sea, just grazed it on descending, had it a little on the port bow.

"Left full rudder!" I ducked at the same time as I gave the order, a split second before a bullet smashed into the TBT binoculars.

Peering over the bridge cowling, I saw our bow alongside, pushing the boat as we began our swing to port. They were fending us off with their oars. Once the bow came by, of course, our stern would swing wide and clear by many yards. I ducked again.

"Shift your rudder to full right!" Scott had not yet reached full left, reversed himself immediately. We bumped them again with our belly, sideswiping.

The man with the rifle had been standing in the stern, along- side the steering oarsman. I caught a quick glimpse of a short, fat fellow with an impassive moon face as the boat skidded by.

He looked mean, hard, in the oily dead-pan way that only certain Orientals can. Then the exhaust of the two port engines poured into the boat. A sea lifted it, set it down on the turn of our tanks, cracking the ribs with a loud smash of splintered wood. It bounced off, half-capsizing, drifted aft into our wake, bilged and flooding.

I left the rudder at full right, and we came around in a circle.

This time there was no avoiding us. The lifeboat was completely filled with water. The rifle pocked the front of our bridge before we hit.

Our stern knifed through the fragile sides as if they were match sticks. It split in half. A final shot cracked overhead.

I saw the gun flying out into the water at the instant of the collision. There were bodies in the water on both sides as we hurtled past. One shook his fists at us, his mouth open in a scream no one could have heard, and tried to swim over to us.