“Down ’scope!” Blunt stepped back, snapped up the periscope handles as Richardson jerked the lever and the long silver tube dropped away.
“Looks like a beautiful approach, Rich. You’re in a perfect position to get all four of those bastards!” Blunt was rubbing his hands together with pleasure. “How I wish I were still young enough to take a boat on patrol! You young fellows are having all the fun!” The aging face was alight. The jaw muscles no longer looked flabby. In the space of a few seconds, ten years might have dropped from him. Richardson was barely able to conceal his astonishment at the precipitant right-about-face in his attitude, but temporary deliverance from a problem for which he could not, in the short time available, think of a permanent solution, supplied an even greater emotion, of relief.
Keith was coming up the ladder from the control room. Behind him was someone tall, and behind him, a third person, short, powerful, and black — Yancy and Chief Commissary Steward Woodrow, in charge of the wardroom, in charge of all the provisions on board as well, and one of the most respected men in the ship.
Yancy carried a small cardboard box in his hand. Woodrow had a rolled-up blanket under his arm and two uniform web belts over his shoulder. Keith also had picked up a pair of web belts, Richardson saw, as for the second time in half a minute he made a signal of negation. He pointed back down the hatch, saw the grateful looks of the two enlisted men as they went back below. They could not have much relished the job they had been about to carry out.
Keith’s arrival in the midst of the fire control group caused a certain amount of shuffle among the tightly packed men, and in the process Richardson found the opportunity to maneuver Blunt back to his old position under the hatch — the only free space in the conning tower — while Richardson himself shouldered past Rogers on the radar console to where Stafford stood watch on the sonar. He leaned over to speak to him. Stafford, probably the only person in the conning tower to have been totally unconscious of the difficult situation just past, pulled away one earpiece to listen.
“Stafford,” said Rich, “can you hear them okay?”
“Yes sir, I can hear them fine. The leading ship has twin screws, I think, and the others — I can’t hear them quite as well because they’re behind him — I think they’re single-screw ships. I can hear three escorts, too. All the tincans have twin screws.”
“The nearest escort, the one we need to worry about most, bears around two-zero-zero true. The other one that I’m worried about bears around two-four-five. He’s the leading escort. I think that one will probably pass well clear ahead, but the one on two-zero-zero might come pretty close to us. Keep on that one, and let me know if you notice any change in what he’s doing, either ping interval or speed, or anything.” Stafford nodded, replaced the earphone over his right ear. Richardson crossed back aft to the after end of the conning tower, crowded in alongside of Keith and Buck at the TDC.
Behind both of them, facing in the opposite direction, Larry Lasche toiled at an automatic plot board. Rich heard him as he spoke over his shoulder: “Buck, I’m getting seventeen knots overall. Target course for this leg, three-four-zero.”
“I’ve got three-four-five, seventeen knots, Larry,” answered Williams. “Looks pretty good.”
“What’s the distance to the track?” said Richardson.
“Twenty-six hundred yards.”
“We’ll have to turn toward a little more,” said Richardson, addressing both Leone and Williams. “We have to maneuver for this stern tube shot and at the same time not close the track too much in case they zig toward.”
The face of the TDC contained a number of dials, the two most prominent of which represented the target and the Eel, on converging courses. Somewhere to the left of the target dial, all three men knew, there lay an escort, zigzagging back and forth irregularly as it patrolled on station to starboard of its charge. It would pass nearly overhead shortly before the time to shoot.
Rich raised his voice. “Left full rudder,” he said, “make your new course one-nine-zero.”
“One-nine-zero,” responded Cornelli, swinging the stainless-steel steering wheel. Obediently the “own-ship” dial on the face of the TDC began to turn counterclockwise, finally settled with the bow of the miniature submarine aligned with the number 190 on a surrounding dial.
“Time since the last look?”
“Two and a half minutes,” said Keith. “About nine minutes since the last zig.” Keith also was ignoring the data from Blunt’s observation of half a minute previous.
“Steady on one-nine-zero!” said Cornelli.
“Observation,” said Richardson. “Up periscope. Number two.” The periscope started up. Once again he had to ignore the muscular pain as he went through the deep knee bend ritual, motioned with his hand to Scott to stop it just before it had reached its full height. “Bearing, mark!” he said.
“One-nine-five,” said Keith.
“Range”—turning the range dial on the side of the periscope—“mark! Down periscope.” The periscope dropped away.
“Four-three-double-oh,” said Keith.
“Angle on the bow starboard thirty,” said Rich. “No zig yet. The near escort bears about ten degrees to the left of the main target, angle on the bow zero. He’s patrolling on station as before. The aircraft is circling the convoy.”
“Speed checks at seventeen knots,” said Buck.
“Plot gets seventeen knots,” said Lasche.
“Target course three-four-five,” said Buck. “Distance to the track two-one-double-oh.”
“This may turn out to be a long-range shot,” said Richardson. “I’m concerned about this near escort. If the convoy zigs away, we’ll have to close the track more, which will force us to a speed burst. We’ll be broadside to him, too. If the convoy zigs toward us a little, we’re in a perfect position, but if it zigs too much, it may run right over us. How long since the last zig?”
“Eleven minutes,” said Keith.
“Time since last look?”
“One minute.”
“Up periscope,” said Rich. “I’ll take a look around.” He grabbed the periscope handles as soon as they came up out of the well, kept the periscope down low, spun it around rapidly. “All clear,” he said. “Up!” He motioned with his thumbs. The periscope started up. “Bearing, mark!” he said. “Range, mark! Down ’scope. No zig yet.”
“Checks right on,” said Buck.
“How’s the near escort, Skipper?” asked Keith.
“Looks like he’ll pass astern,” said Richardson. “Distance to the track?”
“Nineteen hundred yards,” said Buck.
“We can’t swing around to the right any more for our stern tubes, because there’ll be a zig any minute,” said Richardson. “Control,” he spoke more loudly, “make your depth six-five feet.” In a more normal tone he said, “That will barely let me see over the top of the small waves we’ve got up there. It’ll also give us a little more clearance in case he runs over us — up periscope!”
“It’s a zig away!” said Richardson. Through the periscope he could see the bulk of the leading ship begin to lengthen. She was riding low on the water, belching smoke again, heeling over slightly toward him in her turn. A quick turn of the periscope to the nearest escort showed it also with the starboard side in view. He had evidently turned a little sooner. Astern, three freighters were plowing along in the original path, evidently planning to turn in column as before, when they reached the knuckle in the water where the leader had put over his rudder.