The torpedo did run true. It couldn't have had more than five hundred yards to traveclass="underline" it was a point-blank shot, too. Three Rebs were standing with their heads and shoulders out of the conning tower. An instant before the torpedo slammed home, one of them spotted it. Enos saw him point. He might have yelled something, but that was lost in the dull boom! of the torpedo's slamming into the submarine a little before amidships.
Water and spray spurted up from the explosion, hiding the submersible for a moment. When it became visible again, it had broken in half. Bow and stern portions both sank amazingly fast. Diesel oil from the submarine spread over the water, flattening out the light chop. In the oil floated bits and pieces of debris and three splashing men-probably the ones in the conning tower, George thought. Most of the crew wouldn't have known they were in danger till the torpedo hit.
"Let's go pick 'em up," O'Donnell said, and they rowed toward the Confederates struggling in the Atlantic. As they did so, the U.S. submersible that had torpedoed the Rebel boat surfaced like a broaching whale. Men tumbled out of the conning tower and ran to the deck gun to cover the Confederate sailors.
Enos reached out a hand to one and helped drag him into the boat filled with the crew of the Spray. The Reb was filthy with fuel oil and, beneath that dark brown coating, looked stunned. "My name is Briggs, Ralph Briggs," he gasped in the accent George had learned to hate down in North Carolina. "Senior lieutenant, Confederate States Navy." He rattled off his pay number.
"Welcome aboard, Senior Lieutenant Briggs," O'Donnell said as sailors hauled the other two Rebel survivors into the boat. "You're a prisoner of the United States Navy."
Briggs looked over to the U.S. submarine, then glared at O'Donnell. "You're the luckiest damned fisherman in the history of the world, pal, having that damn boat show up just when we were about to blow you to hell and gone."
O'Donnell erupted in laughter. So did George Enos. So did all the other sailors from the Spray. "That wasn't luck, Reb," O'Donnell said, a huge grin on his face. "We were out hunting boats like you. We had the Bluefin there on tow behind us all the time. When you came up, I telephoned 'em, they slipped the line, and they put a fish in your boat while you were busy with us."
"We don't need to give you to the Bluefin to make you U.S. Navy prisoners, either," Enos added gleefully. "We're U.S. Navy, too, but I don't have to tell you my name, rank, and number."
More laughter roared out of the sailors and ex-fishermen who crewed the Spray. Charlie White said, "How many more Rebel submarines do you think we can sink before your boys catch on?"
Briggs and the other Confederates looked appalled to discover the trap into which they'd walked. The senior lieutenant had spunk, wet and stunned though he might be. Savagely, he ground out, "I hope you sons of bitches tow that damned boat right into a mine."
"You go to hell," Enos said, horrified at the notion. Several other sailors echoed him.
An officer from the Bluefin used a megaphone to shout across the water: "Shall we take your friends off your hands? We have more men aboard to keep an eye on them."
"Sounds good to me," Patrick O'Donnell yelled back. They rowed over to the submersible. Sailors there-sailors in Navy whites, not fishermen's dungarees-helped the Confederate survivors up onto the Bluefins deck and then marched them into the conning tower and down below. When they had disappeared, O'Donnell said, "All right, we can go home now."
They returned to the Spray, which bobbed in the chop. Once up on deck, Charlie White shook himself, as if awakening from a happy dream. "Lord, that was sweet," he said.
For the black man, jeering at the Rebels had to be doubly delightful. It was plenty sweet enough for George, too. "Didn't figure I'd just keep on doing a fisherman's job after I joined the Navy," he said. "It's worked out pretty well, though-couldn't have worked out better." He turned to Patrick O'Donnell. "This whole hunting scheme was your idea. Do you think they'll make you an officer now that it's worked?"
"I'm too old and too stubborn to make an officer out of me now," O'Donnell said. "CPO suits me fine." He waved to the Cookie. "Charlie, why don't you break out the medicinal rum? This may be the first submersible a fishing boat ever sank, but it isn't going to be the last."
"Yes, sir!" White said enthusiastically. You weren't supposed to call a chief petty officer sir, but O'Donnell didn't correct him.
Sam Carsten was walking along the wharf toward the Dakota when all the antiaircraft guns at Pearl Harbor started going off at once. Guided by the puffs of black smoke suddenly blossoming in the sky, he spotted an aeroplane flying so high, it seemed nothing more than a speck up in the sky, too high for him to catch the sound of its engine.
For a moment, he stood watching the spectacle, wondering if the guns could bring down the aeroplane. Then he realized that, if they were shooting at it, it had to be hostile. And a hostile aeroplane could not have come from anywhere on the Sandwich Islands, which were firmly under the control of the United States. It had to have been launched from an enemy ship, and an enemy ship not too far away.
"And an enemy ship means an enemy fleet," he said out loud. "And an enemy fleet means one hell of a big fight."
He started running back toward the Dakota. As he did so, klaxons and hooters began squalling out the alert the guns had first signaled. When he got to the battleship's deck, he looked around for the aeroplane again. There it was, streaking away to the southeast.
He pointed to it. "We follow that bearing and we'll find the limeys or the Japs."
One of the sailors near him said, "Yeah." Another one, though, said, "Thanks a lot, Admiral." Carsten shook his head. You said anything on a ship, somebody would give you a hard time about it.
" Battle stations!" shouted people who really were officers. "All hands to battle stations. Prepare to get under way."
Carsten sighed as he sprinted toward his own post. Inside the sponson, you couldn't see anything. All you ever got were orders and rumors, neither of which was apt to tell you what you most wanted to know.
As usual, Sam got to the five-inch gun after Hiram Kidde, but only moments after him, because no one else but the gunner's mate was there when he arrived. "Do you know what's up for sure, 'Cap'n'?" he asked.
Kidde shook his head. "Limeys or Japs, don't know which." That Carsten had figured out for himself. The gunner's mate went on, "Don't much care, either. They're out there, we'll smash 'em."
The rest of the crew was not far behind. Luke Hoskins said, "I heard it was the Japs." One of the other shell-jerkers, Pete Jonas, had heard it was the English. They argued about it, which struck Carsten as stupid. What point to getting yourself in an uproar about something you couldn't prove?
The deck vibrated under Carsten's feet as the engines built up power. Lieutenant Commander Grady, who was in charge of all the guns of the starboard secondary armament, stuck his head into the cramped sponson to make sure everything and everyone was ready, even though they were still in harbour. He didn't know to whom the aeroplane had belonged.
After Grady had hurried away, Carsten said, "There-you see? If the lieutenant commander doesn't know what's going on, anybody who says he does is just puffing smoke out his stack."
"We're moving," Kidde said a few minutes later, and then, after that, "I wonder how they-whoever they are; Sam's right about that-managed to sneak a fleet past our patrols and aeroplanes. However they did it, they're gonna regret it."
There wasn't much to see. There wasn't much to do, either, not until they'd caught up to whatever enemy ships had dared approach the Sandwich Islands. The gun crew took turns peering through their narrow view slits. Hoskins and Jonas quit arguing about who the enemy was and started arguing about how much of the fleet had sortied with the Dakota. Given how little they could see, that argument was about as useless as the other.