Adjusting the trim, or balance of a submerged submarine is an intricate exercise in mathematics at any time. Determining the amount of negative buoyancy that will be just sufficient to allow the submarine to cruise at a desirable depth can be figured, can be figured so closely that a single man walking from either end to the center of the ship will cause the ship to slowly sink downward.
A submerged submarine can be compared to balancing a yardstick on the edge of a razor blade after putting dozens of tiny weights of varying sizes along the length of the yardstick. Move one weight a fraction of an inch or remove a weight and the yardstick is out of balance and will tip one way or the other. When Captain Mealey began shooting at the battleship each torpedo that was fired would represent the loss of 3,000 pounds. The water that would pour into the open torpedo tube would not be as heavy as the torpedo and when the outer door to the tube was closed that water would be blown to a Water ‘Round Torpedo (WRT) tank that was aft of the torpedo tubes. Each torpedo that was reloaded represented a different problem: the shifting of 3,000 pounds 30 feet farther forward than where it had been resting on its rack. The problems that would be raised as a torpedo was fired every 6 seconds from the forward and then the after tubes was enough to drive a diving officer mad. To solve the problems the Diving Officer had to first calculate all the weight changes and write them down and then, as was usual, adjust his calculations to the speed of the Captain’s firing. It required, as well, a perfect performance. from the machinist mate who manned the trim manifold which, with a trim pump, controlled the water pumped from or flooded into the forward and after trim tanks, two auxiliary ballast tanks, negative and safety tanks. Vic Abbruzio, a Boston Italian who had ten years on submarines, stood at the trim manifold, balanced on the balls of his feet, ready for the challenge he faced. He looked at Lieutenant Simms’ wan face and grinned, his white teeth flashing in the dense black beard that covered his lower face. He made a thumbs-up motion and Pete Simms managed a weak smile.
In the Forward Torpedo Room Ginty walked over to the port side where a small brass Buddha was fastened above a bank of gauges. He rubbed the brass belly of the Buddha with a spatulate thumb.
“Give us your luck, little Chiney man,” he said softly.
Lieutenant Cohen’s voice was soft but in the dead silence of the Control Room it carried to everyone’s ears.
“I have several sets of high-speed screws, Plot. These are screws that criss-cross each other’s bearings from two four zero to two nine zero. Somewhere in the background of those high-speed screws I have a very heavy multiple screw beat, probably four screws, that I cannot get a fix on as yet.” He paused for a moment.
“If I am permitted an educated guess I would say, estimating the decibel levels, that the range to the high-speed screws has been cut roughly in half, Plot, cut in half since we dove.”
“Mr. Cohen,” Captain Mealey’s voice was low, “the screws closest to us, those are high-speed screws? Doing what?”
“Coming closer,” Cohen said. “There appear to be four sets of those screws, sir. They criss-cross. There are some other screw noises in the background, they appear to be single screws but I can’t get any fixes on them as yet.”
“Do you think they’re making too much noise to hear us?”
“I would think so, Captain. The high-speed screws are revving up pretty strongly. I know that no one on those ships can hear anything at all over sonar. There is a chance, I’d do it if I was on the other side, that they’ve got one or two ships going very slowly and trying to listen to whatever they can hear above the sound of their own ship’s noises.”
“Let’s hope they don’t think of that,” Captain Mealey said. “Can you give me any estimate of the rate of closing?”
Cohen looked at a stop-watch that hung from a cord around his neck.
“I’d say the high-speed screws will pass ahead of us in eighteen to twenty minutes if they continue as they have been for the last hour, sir.”
Captain Mealey nodded at Sirocco and Grilley who were standing at the chart table over the gyro compass with their maneuvering boards and pencils. He climbed into the Conning Tower.
Mako waited.
Chapter 17
Lieutenant Nathan Cohen’s lean body was slumped on his stool in front of his sonar dials. His long, hairy legs stuck out at right angles from his rumpled khaki shorts. His eyes were half-closed as he listened to the clutter of sounds coming from the two rotating JP sound heads below Mako’s keel. Joe Sirocco came over to him and Cohen pushed one earphone up on his temple.
“I’m going to start the preliminary plot,” Sirocco said. “Can you give me any identification of the ships up there for the plot? So I know which ship is which?”
“I’ve got more ships up there than I’ve heard ever before at one time,” Cohen said. “The target ship is easy to pick up. It has a definite, slow beat. Four screws. He’s been on the same course since I picked him up. Doesn’t change course, doesn’t change speed.
“There are four other ships between his sound and our position. These are fast ships, twin-screw, very fast propellers. One of them has a nicked blade or a bent blade, he’s got a funny sound.
“There are some other ships out there but I can’t tell how many. Single-screw stuff making about the same speed as the target. I’ve heard three or four of those, maybe more.”
“The ships running between the target and our position are the van,” Sirocco said. “The Skipper figured they’d be there. They’re sweeping, looking for submarines. The other ships must be the rest of the escort. How about giving me some names for the ships?”
“I wouldn’t want to try that with each ship,” Cohen said slowly. “I could get fooled too easily. The main target is easy to identify, we could give him a name. Why not just give a name to the other groups, the four ships running fast and the other ones?”
“Fine,” Sirocco said. “What do you want to call the target?”
“Call it ‘Aleph,’ that’s the first letter in the Hebrew alphabet. It means ‘ox.’ ”
“That’s ‘Alpha’ in Greek, isn’t it?” Sirocco asked. Cohen nodded, smiling.
“Okay,” Sirocco said. “Give me a name for the van, for those ships running ahead of the target, the fast-screw ships.”
“They remind me of a folding door someone is opening and closing all the time,” Cohen said. “In Hebrew ‘Deft’ means folding door. In Greek that’s ‘Delta,’ okay?
“The others, well I don’t know. Let’s stick to the Middle East since we started there. Call them the camels. ‘Gamet’ in Hebrew, ‘Gamma’ in Greek. How about the aircraft the Captain said would be overhead? If I pick them up on the sound heads you want me to give them a name?” His lean face was solemn but his brown eyes were twinkling merrily.
“Nate, you’re a character!” Sirocco said. He got up from his squatting position and heard his knee joints creak. “I’m getting too old for this sort of thing.”
He walked over to the gyro table where Don Grilley had laid out the plotting charts. Grilley had spent hours drawing in the details of the atoll, the Northeast Entrance and the water depths shown on the chart on sheets of transparent paper. Then he had affixed each sheet of transparent paper to a plotting sheet so that by flipping the transparent sheet over the plot the position of the target, its escorts and Mako in relation to the reef could be seen at once.