“Give me a minute,” Joe Sirocco said. He made a final thin pencil line on the chart and pushed the parallel rulers to one side and picked up a pair of dividers and began to prick off the distance.
“I make it three hundred and seventy miles from Truk,” he said. “If we can run say nine hours at night and make eighteen knots good and we should be able to do that, the bottom is still clean, and make good three knots during the time we’re submerged, we should be in position by the time we’re ready to surface, a little less than, oh, thirty-six hours from now, sir. That’s about twelve hours before the ETA of the battleship, according to the message. We’d spend the night on station, waiting for the target to appear, the message says the target will arrive at the Northeast Entrance at dawn, local time about zero five forty.
“Or we could slow down a little on the way and arrive there just ahead of the target if you didn’t want to spend the night off Truk.”
“The question of air patrol from Truk has to be considered,” Mealey said slowly. “But I’d rather risk the air patrol than take the chance that the battleship would arrive on time. They might be ahead of their ETA and what the hell sort of an excuse do you make if you get there after the horse has got safely into the barn?” He looked at the circle of officers.
“We’ll make all possible haste, get there as soon as we can. If he’s early we’ll be waiting for him. If he’s late we’ll be waiting for him.”
“Is he proceeding alone or does he have an escort?” Grilley asked.
“He’ll have medium to long distance air patrol out of Truk, I’d guess,” Mealey said. “The intelligence report says there are twelve destroyers with the battleship. Six of those destroyers are going to relieve six other destroyers now stationed at Truk.”
“Twelve destroyers for an escort, six more tin cans in Truk and we’re going to attack at the entrance?” Simms said. “My God, we’ll never have a chance to even get in a shot let alone get away!”
“Spoken like an experienced PT-boat commander,” Mealey said dryly. “I don’t want the content of this message told to the crew. I’ll decide when to do that.
“Mr. Grilley, I want every torpedo aboard to be fully routined, including those in the tubes. That must be done at once. Mr. Simms, any and all repairs, large or small, that must be done in your department are to be taken care of at once. Mr. Cohen, I want the baker to have plenty of doughnuts and sweet rolls baked the night we spend on station. If we go to the attack and if he’s got twelve destroyers with him we may be under a long, long time with no chance to cook meals. Doughnuts and sweet rolls will have to suffice. Deck officers will double up on watch while we run submerged. Periscope will be manned continually, one hour on and one hour off. Joe, you make up that watch list. I want both torpedo rooms to double the watch, two men on watch. The same for the sonar watch, man it continually while submerged. Get everything that has to be done in your respective departments done in the next twenty-four hours. After that it’s going to be a game of dice and if we’re lucky we’ll have the first roll. That’s all, gentlemen. Joe, I’ll help you work out the course.”
An hour later Sirocco pushed aside the chart and paused, listening to the clank of a chainfall in the Forward Torpedo Room and Ginty’s muttered cursing.
“Captain,” he said softly, “I think you’ll have to give the crew the word on our destination and target pretty soon, don’t you?”
“I’d rather not for a while,” Mealey said. “Sailors are always sailors, there’ll be more talk than work.” Ginty’s heavy voice came through the water-tight door that led to the Forward Torpedo Room.
“Don’t bellyache at me, shithead! Just get your fuckin’ back into haulin’ on that chainfall! The Old Man wants fish routined so we routine fish. Don’t ask me why. I don’t know. All’s I know is that this is a bunch of shit!”
“I see your point,” Mealey said. He reached for the telephone handset on the bulkhead and turned the switch to the circuit that would be heard in all compartments.
“Now hear this,” he said slowly. “This is the Captain.
“We have been given a special assignment. That is why all of you have to do extra work today.
“We are on our way to Truk Atoll, in the Carolines. Truk is held by the Japanese. It is a major naval base and air base. We expect to be there in less than thirty-six hours.
“Naval intelligence has told us that a Japanese battleship will arrive at Truk within twelve hours or so after our arrival.
“We are going to attack the battleship!” He paused to let his words sink in.
“The battleship will have air cover from Truk and it will be escorted by twelve destroyers. In order for our attack to be successful, every torpedo must run perfectly, every piece of machinery must function perfectly, every man must do his job not only perfectly but superbly.
“No other American submarine has ever had a crack at a battleship! We are going to get that chance and when we get the chance we are going to sink the battleship!
“That is all. Carry on with the ship’s work.”
Ginty looked around his torpedo room and wiped a stream of sweat from his broad chest.
“A wagon and aircraft and twelve destroyers! Shit! We’re on a fuckin’ suicide mission!”
“How do you get through twelve destroyers and attack a battleship?” Johnny Paul asked.
“How? I guess you dive under the fuckin’ tin cans and come up and shoot everything you got out of both ends and then you ask for a transfer to shore duty! How the fuck do I know how to get through twelve destroyers, shithead? That’s the Old Man’s job. That’s why he’s the Old Man and not me!”
Hendershot stuck his head through the opening of the watertight door to the After Room and called to Mike DeLucia, the Torpedoman First Class who had replaced Spook Hernandez.
“You think you and the Exec had some action on those two patrols on the Gudgeon, wait until this cold-eyed son of a bitch we’ve got here takes us in on this tea party!”
“We might learn something,” DeLucia said. “Hard-asses like him sometimes ain’t so hard when the chips are down. If he’s got a soft middle we’ve still got Sirocco. Now there’s one gent who’s all guts!”
“I wouldn’t worry about the Old Man,” Hendershot said. “He’s got that look in his fucking eye. He’d kick the Devil in the balls and then sell him an ice pack!”
Chapter 15
The press conference in the Palmer House Hotel ballroom in Chicago had been wearing. The highly competitive reporters from the four Chicago newspapers, the wire services and the radio stations had bombarded Captain Hinman with questions. Most of them he fielded easily, a veteran now of Washington and three press conferences in New York.
Joan Richards had warned Hinman about a reporter from the Chicago Tribune and had described the man so he’d know him if he spoke up. The Tribune was violently anti-Roosevelt while at the same time it was fervently pro-war. Colonel McCormick, the newspaper’s owner, had for years trumpeted that he had won World War I because of his promotion of the machine gun as a weapon.
The Tribune’s reporter let the other reporters ask Captain Hinman the usual questions before he bulled his way to the front row of reporters confronting Captain Hinman.
“Captain,” he said in a loud voice, “all of us admire your ability as a submarine commander and your courage. But I wonder, my editors wonder, sir, is this all there is to you? Do you ever think about being a pawn in Roosevelt’s war? Do you ever think about anything except what you see as your duty?”