It was almost like one of the old drills with Blunt, the skipper and at the same time the training officer, examining his younger trainees. The speed difference — two knots, or 200 yards every three minutes for nine minutes. “About sixty-two hundred yards,” said three voices at once.
“Seven minutes since last look,” said Buck, reading the timer dial on his TDC.
“All stop.” The annunciators clicked. “All back one-third.” They clicked again.
Keith was checking the “own-ship” speed dial on the TDC. “We were right on seven knots,” he said after a moment. “It’s dropping slowly now.” There was a long wait. “Six knots,” said Keith. Another long wait. Richardson could feel tension mounting. The approach was being made by the book. The tactics were exactly right, but a long run toward the track without observation was risky in case the target maneuvered in the meantime. On the other hand, they had caught her just at the turn of the zig. Most zigs lasted at least six minutes, generally longer, and the target had been observed to be on the previous leg of the zig for a much longer period than this. But one never knew what might happen up above. “Five knots,” said Keith.
“All back two-thirds.”
“Eight minutes since last look.”
The range, according to the TDC, was approaching 5,800 yards. It would, of course, be far more accurate than the mental calculations, since Eel’s own course and speed were automatically integrated into the solution. The information as to target speed and course were, by contrast, derived from observation. They were the critical factors. The machine would only solve according to the information put into it.
The drumming of water through the superstructure, of which Richardson had been only subconsciously aware, was reducing. This was always the hardest moment: to make the decisions, to be confident they were the right decisions, and yet to have to wait for them to work out; to know that while judgments were right they could easily be overturned by unanticipated events. For the second time he ran over the check-off list pasted to the side of the TDC. Keith, he noticed, had been doing the same thing. The torpedoes were ready, the depth was set, all necessary data for the patrol report was being recorded. The fathometer had been turned on for a moment, barely long enough to confirm that the depth of water was as shown on the chart. It was not yet time to fire; consequently the outer doors on the torpedo tubes were still closed. The ship had not maneuvered into the firing position, was still on the approach phase. There was much to be done before they could shoot, and a lot would depend upon what the target, unseen for nine minutes, and not yet seen at all (except the masts) by Rich or anyone except Blunt, would do.
“Four knots,” said Keith.
“Eight and a half minutes,” said Buck. “Range by TDC five-six-double-oh.”
Eel’s speed through the water was dropping rapidly now.
“Eight minutes forty-five seconds,” from Buck.
“Speed three knots.”
“All stop!” barked Blunt. He waited a moment, then ordered, “All ahead one-third.”
There were two sets of clinks from the annunciators at the forward end of the conning tower, then Cornelli’s voice, “Answered all ahead one-third.”
From below, up through the conning tower hatch, came Al Dugan calling, “Steady on ordered depth, six-two feet.”
“Up periscope,” said Blunt.
“Nine minutes,” said Buck. “Right on.”
“Speed two and a quarter knots,” said Keith.
“What should the target bear?” asked Blunt. He had arranged himself so that when the periscope came up he would be facing about twenty degrees to the right of dead ahead.
“Should bear one-four-three true, zero-three-seven relative.”
“Put me on it,” rasped Blunt. The ’scope was coming up. Rich grabbed the handles, swung them around to the indicated bearing as Blunt applied his forehead to the rubber buffer, rode it up.
“There they are — no zig, bearing, mark!”
“Zero-three-nine,” said Keith, peering at the azimuth circle at the top of the periscope.
“Range — use seventy feet — mark! Down ’scope.” Blunt slapped up the handles, stepped back.
Rich rode the periscope down on the opposite side, reading the dials as it went, pulling his head clear just in time to avoid being struck by the heavy yoke as it descended into the well. “Six-three-double-oh,” he said.
“That was a good range,” said Blunt. “He hasn’t zigged yet. Angle on the bow still port thirty.…”
“Should be thirty-three,” said Buck from his TDC.
“Good,” said Blunt. “What speed does that give us?”
“That checks at eleven knots,” said Buck.
“I make it ten and a half knots,” said Larry Lasche from his plot.
“Was that a good range, sir?” asked Rich. “Could you see his waterline?
“Excellent range,” said Blunt. “I could see his waterline clearly. He’s riding low on the water. There’s just a little of his red boot topping showing. It’s an old freighter, probably coal-burning.”
“Can we run a little deeper, sir?”
“Yes, make your depth six-four feet,” commented Blunt. “I want to catch him on the zig. He should be zigging any minute now. How long since we looked?”
“Mark — one minute. Ten minutes since last zig.”
The short clipped sentences must have been musical to Blunt’s once finely tuned ears. They were to Richardson’s. Everything was clicking into place. This was just the way it should be.
“Recommend another look around, Captain,” said Rich. “Also take a look for aircraft over the target.”
“I want to catch him on the zig,” worried Blunt. “Right, I’ll take a quick look around for aircraft. Stand by for an observation. Time?”
“Coming up two minutes!”
“Up periscope.” He grabbed it, spun it around quickly, steadied on the target. “Bearing, mark!” he said. The ’scope slithered away.
“Zero-three-six,” said Rich.
“No zig yet,” said Blunt. “Nothing in sight except land to the east.”
“Did you check for aircraft, sir?”
“Yes. No aircraft in sight.”
“How about the escort?”
“Escort is patrolling ahead and is well clear on the target’s far bow. It’s a small ship, about like one of our PC sub chasers.”
“Not one of those we saw yesterday?” asked Rich.
“No. Smaller. He’s patrolling on station. I’ll keep my eye on him.”
“One minute since the last look,” said Buck.
“Up periscope! Observation,” barked Blunt.
“Bearing, mark!”
“Zero-three-five.”
“No zig yet. Range”—he turned the range knob—“mark!”
“Five thousand!” said Rich as the periscope dropped away.
“How long now since the zig?” asked Blunt.
“Twelve minutes.”
“Distance to the track?”
“Two-seven-double-oh yards.”
“I’ve got to get in there,” said Blunt, “but I don’t dare run over there right now with a zig due to come any minute. Besides we’ve got to get pretty much on the track in order to swing for a decent stern tube shot.”
“There’s still plenty of time, Captain,” said Rich. “A zig must be about due. As soon as he steadies up on his new course we can put our head down and run for a firing position.”
“Right,” said Blunt. “But it will be just our luck to have an airplane show up just when I want to increase speed.”
“No need to worry about a plane seeing us under water, Captain. The sea is too dirty. All we have to be careful of is kicking up a wake at the wrong time. Dropping down to a hundred feet or so before speeding up might be a good idea if the patrol plane comes back.” Richardson wanted badly to ask for a look himself, but refrained. Such a request, a natural one from a sub skipper supervising a junior officer’s approach during training, would in this case be interpreted as an assertion of his prerogative as the real captain of the submarine. It might destroy the atmosphere he had been so successful in creating up to now. Instead, he must content himself with formation of a mental picture and with insinuating into Blunt’s consciousness, as any proper assistant approach officer should, such maneuvers as he might think necessary.