“Here,” Cazanavette said. “Look up the freighter in here. It’s the best way for you to learn.”
Wright hated standing watch with Cazanavette around. He liked the man as a person, but he always took it upon himself to teach Wright something. Of course, that was his job as XO, but sometimes Wright was not in the mood for the tutoring sessions, especially today. Not after what he had heard down in the torpedo room. He could not get the thought out of his head. He felt anger brewing deep inside him. As the monotonous watch went by, the anger grew. His anger was directed at one person, Tee. He hated the man for O’Connell’s death, for Anderson’s death, for not coming forward, and for his treatment of Margie.
Several times during the watch, he thought of going against his word. He thought of telling Cazanavette the whole story. But what good would that do? The whole story really was just a rumor. He knew it was the truth, but he could never prove it to the XO. And besides, how could he expose an internal problem when they were in the midst of such an important mission? It could serve no useful purpose. And Johnson was right; Anderson’s name should not be tarnished any further. Wright decided that he would wait, and when the time was right he would confront Tee, and he would seek retribution for all the trouble he had caused.
Chapter 22
Tremain rolled over in his rack and stared at his cabin bulkhead bathed in the red glow from the solitary red light bulb in the overhead. He had just come below to relax for a few minutes before going back up to the bridge to spend the rest of the night. Mackerel had been on station for four nights now, and still there was no sign of the Kurita.
Mackerel had conducted the same routine for the past four days: surfacing at night to probe the channel with the radar, then submerging during the day to search with the periscope and sonar. Large convoys had overrun them on two more occasions, both at night. Both times Mackerel barely submerged in time to avoid detection. During the daylight hours, single merchant ships and sporadic aircraft continued to keep them on their toes, but there was no sign of the Kurita.
The crew had openly started to doubt the quality of Sub-Pac’s intelligence reports. Tremain could not blame them. He had started to doubt the reports himself. Each night had been one nerve-racking experience after another, and it was stretching the crew to the limit of their endurance.
Tremain struggled to keep his eyes open. He knew that he would fall asleep the instant he shut them. So far, this evening had been tense just like all the others.
As evening had fallen on Kii Suido, a dense fog fell too and it now hugged the ocean’s surface like a fluffy sheepskin blanket. The fog compounded with the moonless night had made it virtually impossible to see anything, and it was having its effects on the crew. The gun crews were high-strung, fearful that a destroyer could emerge from the fog at any moment. Every sound, every light, every ripple in the calm waters startled them, for they did not have complete faith in Mackerel’s radar.
“Captain to the conning tower,” the speaker near Tremain’s head intoned just as he had shut his eyes.
He rolled out of his rack, not bothering to put his shirt on. Groping through the darkened passage and past several sailors in the control room his hands finally found the cold polished rungs of the ladder, gleaming dimly in the red light. Climbing up into the conning tower, he found Cazanavette and Stillsen huddled near the radar.
“What is it, XO?” he mumbled.
“Intermittent radar contact, sir. Bearing zero zero eight. The radar operator was showing Commander Stillsen how our radar worked, and the commander noticed a small spike, just visible there above the background noise.”
“The Commander’s got good eyes, sir,” the radar man said. “I would have missed it, completely.”
Tremain glanced at Stillsen and smiled in appreciation. The young lieutenant commander had been doing much better. He had been taking much more of a learning role since their last conversation, and he was actually becoming an accepted member of the ship’s company. Even Tremain did not think Stillsen, taken down a few notches, was that bad an officer.
“What’s the range now?” Tremain asked.
“Six thousand yards, sir,” the radar operator answered and then abruptly pointed at his screen. “There it is again, sir!”
A small spike appeared above the squiggly electronic line running across the display. When the radar beam came around a second time, the spike was no longer there.
“It could be a sampan, sir, traveling across the strait,” Cazanavette offered. “Whatever it is, it’s small and it’s moving slowly.”
Tremain watched the radar screen as the beam swept across the contact’s bearing several more times, but the spike did not reappear.
“Could it be interference?”
“Possibly, sir. The fog and the temperature variations outside could be causing it. It could be a phantom return. The right weather conditions will do that.”
“Anything on sound?” Tremain glanced at Cazanavette.
“Too much traffic up the channel to discern this contact from the distant ones, sir,” Cazanavette said. “The strait is acting like a sound duct, so we’re hearing everything for fifty miles down that bearing.”
Tremain waited several more minutes but the spike did not reappear. It seemed to have vanished.
“I’m going up to the bridge, XO. Stand by down here and keep watching for it.”
“Aye, sir.”
Tremain bolted up the ladder and onto the bridge and waited for his eyes to adjust before he moved over to the railing. Hubley was there, staring into the fog. Dawn was fast approaching, and the first shades of sunlight had turned the fog around them into a deep blue haze.
“Have you heard any noises at all up here, Carl?”
“No, sir. It’s as quiet as a mouse.”
Mackerel was hove to with her bow pointing to the west. Tremain looked into the fog off the starboard beam. Somewhere out there, the phantom contact either existed or it did not exist. Originally, Tremain had wanted to stay on the surface during this day, at least until the fog had cleared. Now he was not so sure. If they were going to be plagued by phantom radar returns it might be better to take her down and listen.
“Wait, sir,” Hubley said, raising one hand. “Hear that?” Tremain bent an ear toward the starboard beam. At first he heard nothing. Then his ear picked up on the foreign noise and he heard it too. It was the low putter of a diesel engine. The noise dissipated in the fog one second, then was clearly audible the next. It sounded close.
“I’d say that’s inside two thousand yards, sir,” Hubley whispered.
The gun crews had obviously heard the noise as well, since Mackerel's long gun barrels all swung in unison toward the starboard beam.
“Hold your fire!” Tremain whispered and the bridge phone talker passed the order to all of the gun stations.
Cazanavette poked his head up the bridge hatch, wisely avoiding the use of the loud speaker. The other ship was definitely close enough to hear it.
“Captain,” he whispered. “We now have him on sonar. Single engine diesel, low revolutions, bearing zero two zero, off the starboard beam.”
Tremain squatted down. “We can’t dive, XO. He’ll hear us for sure. We’re going to have to stick it out and hope he doesn’t see us.”
Cazanavette nodded and disappeared below.
Tremain leaned against the bridge coaming and peered out into the fog. He could see nothing, just a sheet of blue haze. The ship out there could be anything. It could be a trawler, a powered sampan — or worse, it could be a gunboat.