“Wright!” Cazanavette said. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? I don’t know who you think you are, Mister.”
Wright started to speak but Cazanavette interrupted.
“Let me tell you what you are. You’re nothing, nothing but a young immature ensign. How can we maintain discipline among the crew when the officers behave in such a reprehensible and despicable manner? You may consider yourself on report for this, Mister Wright. When we get back to Pearl, we’ll discuss your future in the navy, if you have any.” Cazanavette paused, then glared at Turner. “That goes for you too, Mister Turner. I don’t care who the hell your father is, this ship has only one captain, and you’re going to shut up and do your fucking job from here on out. Is that clear?”
Wright had never seen Cazanavette so angry. The XO had been up for thirty hours and was in no mood to be trifled with. Wright wanted to expose Tee and tell Cazanavette all that he had learned about the man, but he feared that the XO would only dismiss it in light of his outburst.
“Nobody says anything about this and that’s an order,” Cazanavette continued in a lower tone. “I want to keep this from the crew for the sake of their morale, and for the sake of this mission.” He eyed Wright squarely. “And I want nothing but full compliance and diligence from you. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Wright said.
“All right,” Cazanavette said, looking at each one of them in turn. “Let’s all get some sleep then.”
The officers filed out of the room and into their staterooms. Across from the wardroom, Tremain lay in his darkened stateroom, wide awake. He had heard every word. The scuffle between Wright and Turner had not bothered him. He had seen officers go at it before in stressful situations. It happened.
He was impressed with the way Cazanavette had handled the situation, but he knew that it had not been easy for him. Every submarine executive officer reached a point in his career where he ceased to be just one of the officers and where he became their leader. That was when he was ready for his own boat.
Cazanavette was ready, Tremain thought.
Mackerel spent the next day submerged to allow the crew to unwind from the morning’s action. Periodic periscope searches confirmed that the fog had not dissipated. Instead of a dark blue haze, they now had a light gray haze to contend with. The fog could be a blessing, but it could also be a curse. While it did hide the periscope from any aircraft that might be circling overhead, it also blocked their own view of the channel and of the Kurita, if she ever came out. All detections would have to be made by radar or sonar, and the identity of those contacts could not be confirmed with the fog as thick as it was.
At noon, the sonar picked up a trio of screws that were quickly identified as patrol craft. They cruised up and down the channel at various speeds, presumably searching for their missing patrol boat. Tremain prayed that they would not find any wreckage or bodies or any other trace that the boat had met with a violent end. With luck, they would conclude that the boat had run onto some rocks and had disappeared without a trace. Tremain was certain that they would not immediately assume an American submarine had sunk her, because submarines very seldom attacked such small vessels.
“Still hold those patrol boats, sonar?” Tremain asked as he climbed into the conning tower. He had just finished four hours of broken sleep and a coffee lunch. It was now Cazanavette’s turn to get some sleep.
“Yes, sir.” The sonar man nodded. “All three of them are still nosing around.”
Salisbury and Wright were the watch officers. Wright tried to avoid eye contact with Tremain, embarrassed that the XO might have told him about his scuffle with Tee. Tremain gave no indication that he knew about it.
“Still foggy?” Tremain asked.
“Yes, sir, just as bad as before,” Salisbury answered from the periscope. “We can’t see a thing beyond a few yards.”
“Let’s come up to radar depth, Mr. Salisbury. I want to get a good picture of what’s around us.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
Salisbury shouted a few orders down to the control room and Mackerel eased up to forty-five feet, exposing the SJ radar mast.
A sailor came to the conning tower to man the radar panel and immediately began the start-up procedure. He flicked on the power, turned a few dials, and the radar started to warm up. After several minutes he turned the knob that would rotate the dish, but nothing happened. The radar beam remained focused on the same bearing and would not move. He powered down, then conducted the start-up procedure again. Still, the radar would not rotate.
“Problems?” Tremain asked.
“Yes, sir. I can’t seem to rotate the radar at all. I am radiating, but only down one bearing.”
“Did you check the hydraulic lineup?”
The sailor leaned over and checked the hydraulic supply and return valves and the small pressure gauge beside them. “Yes, sir. Hydraulics is cut in. We have pressure. Something must be fouling it topside.”
Tremain instinctively knew what was wrong, but he ordered the ship to the surface to be sure. Once surfaced, he and Salisbury climbed into the shears and inspected the metal shroud around the radar shaft. As Tremain suspected, several rounds from the Japanese machine gun had penetrated the shroud. The metal had been warped and dented just enough so that no tolerance existed between the shroud and the radar shaft. The radar was physically stuck in one position and could not rotate. It was damage they would not be able to repair at sea. Mackerel was now essentially without a radar.
Tremain inwardly cursed as he ordered the ship submerged again. Things were not going well. First the fog, then the patrol boat, and now no radar. Without radar to pierce through the fog, they would never be able to find the battleship. Sure, they would be able to hear her as she passed by, but her noise would be combined with the churning screws of her escorts, and virtually indistinguishable. They could never be certain of what they were shooting at. It would be pure blind luck if they sank the Kurita—that is, if she ever came out. Everything seemed to be against them. For the first time since they had left Pearl, Tremain thought about calling off the mission.
Tremain noticed Stillsen, leaning over the chart desk. He had been pushing himself hard. Tremain could not remember the last time he had seen the man sleep.
“Why don’t you go get some sleep, Dave. You need some, too, you know.”
Stillsen looked up at him. His eyes had bags under them and he had not shaved for two days.
“I guess so, Captain,” he muttered.
Before Stillsen reached the ladder, Tremain stopped him. “I didn’t get the chance to commend you for detecting that patrol boat last night, Dave. Your sharp eye may have saved the ship. Good work.”
Stillsen smiled, the hatchet now obviously buried between them. “Glad I could help, sir.”
Stillsen would do all right when he took over the Mackerel, Tremain thought. He had learned a lot. The thought gave him brief comfort, when faced with the knowledge that the mission was turning out to be a complete failure. Mackerel had nothing to show for her troubles but one dead crewman in the freezer and a five-hundred-ton patrol boat on the bottom of Kii Suido.
Admiral Giles would not be pleased. He would certainly ensure that Tremain’s career stalled out and he might even have Ireland relieved of command. Tremain didn’t want that to happen to the old bastard, but he could not worry about it now. Part of him wanted the mission to end — to call it quits right now and go back home to Judy.