“Five.. four … three.. two …”
A thunderous rumble drowned out Hubley’s voice and Mackerel's deck rocked as the shock wave from the enriched torpex reached them. The crew recognized the sound of a torpedo detonation and cheers emanated from all compartments.
Another detonation followed. Followed by another. Then another. The crew below accompanied each successive detonation with more cheers. They waited several more seconds for the last two torpedoes to hit, but no detonations ever came.
Tremain and Cazanavette exchanged glances. In all, they had four confirmed hits. It was questionable whether four torpedoes would be enough to do the job, but they had done all that they could.
“Sir, I’m picking up some steam noises from Kurita’s direction,” Salisbury reported. “Maybe we hit one of their boiler rooms.”
Tremain forced a smile, but said nothing. It would take more than a ruptured boiler to sink a ship the size of the Kurita. The battleship had several boiler rooms. Losing one would only slow her down.
Tremain struggled to banish any more thoughts of the Kurita from his mind. He now had more pressing matters. He had to shift his focus to Mackerel’s survival and escape. The enemy destroyers would soon be converging on their position.
“High-speed screws are everywhere, sir,” Salisbury reported, as if to confirm his deduction. “Active sonar is saturating the water.”
Mackerel passed through two hundred feet rapidly. She was still going down fast, and Tremain began to grow concerned that Olander did not have a handle on the depth control.
As she passed two hundred thirty feet, water began to trickle down the periscope barrels. The near miss from the destroyer’s shells had damaged the periscope seals, and now the increased sea pressure had blown them inward. The trickles quickly turned into small streams as Mackerel went deeper and the pressure increased more.
Cazanavette shined a flashlight up at the periscope seals. “This is only going to get worse, Captain.”
Tremain nodded. “Get someone working on it, XO.” Moments later the periscope assistant and another sailor began attempting to seal the scope barrels with rubber gaskets. Tremain watched their efforts with bleak hope that they could do anything to stop the leaks. Leaks from scope gaskets usually needed to be repaired pierside.
“Destroyers are close now, Captain,” Salisbury reported. “At least four.”
Tremain could hear the sonar beams probing the water. The destroyers would know exactly where to look. The destroyer that spotted them had probably already placed a dye marker on the spot where Mackerel's periscope had been sighted. Now all of the sub killers would converge on that spot.
“Passing three hundred feet sir,” Olander called up the hatch.
“Take her to four hundred feet,” Tremain called back. “Helm, left full rudder. Steady on course, three five zero.” The destroyers would not expect him to turn up the channel. They would expect him to head for the open sea. Either way, it did not matter, and Tremain knew it. The destroyers could move much faster and would cover every inch of the channel until they found him.
“Depth charges splashes, sir!” Salisbury announced. “They sound close!”
“Continue the dive!” Tremain shouted. “Take her down to five hundred feet!”
Tremain’s order would take the submarine well below test depth, but he got no argument from any of those around him. They all knew it was their only chance to avoid the depth charges.
Mackerel continued to dive and had just passed four hundred fifty feet when the depth charges exploded. Six distinct explosions blasted the water just outside Mackerel’s thin metal skin and rocked the hull in every direction. Light bulbs shattered. Pieces of cork insulation rained down everywhere. Men were flung across compartments like rag dolls. The hull shook for several seconds and screams and yells could be heard from other compartments well after the shaking had subsided.
Tremain opened his eyes to darkness and disorientation. He instinctively rubbed his head and felt blood underneath his hair. Somehow he knew that he had been thrown into a hydraulic valve on the port side of the conning tower and his head was spinning from the concussion.
He took a few moments in the darkness to regain his faculties and gather his bearings. He could hear running water close by — it sounded like several different streams. Then he smelled the distinctive fishy aroma of seawater. He noticed that he was sitting on the deck and that the running water was soaking his trousers. The cold sensation helped him to come to, but he still was not sure where he was. “XO?” he spoke into the darkness.
A battle lantern clicked on. Then another. One shone its beam onto his face. He heard some agitated voices on the other side of the conning tower.
Then he heard Cazanavette shout, “Mister Olander, take the angle off her! We’re passing five hundred feet!”
An answer came back. “Olander’s knocked out, sir! We’re trying to take the angle off!”
“We’re going down too fast!” Cazanavette’s voice rang out again. “Blow negative! Head for shallower water, Helm, steer course north!”
“Passing five hundred fifty, sir!” another voice said. Tremain thought he heard the hull creaking. He could feel the vibrations through his numb hands. He tried to speak but he could not.
“Blow bow buoyancy!” Cazanavette’s voice instructed. “Blow safety! Blow all main ballast!”
Tremain tried to move, but he still could not see straight. The room was still dark and the few battle lanterns appeared only as a blur to his eyes. He heard the shrill sibilation as high-pressure air expunged water from the ship’s tanks.
“Passing six hundred!” someone yelled.
Tremain then heard something that sounded like bullets ricocheting off metal. Somehow he knew that it was the sound of nuts, bolts, and fasteners impacting the bulkheads at high velocity after being shot out of their over-torqued flanges and valves. The hull shuddered continuously, now. Tremain heard someone near him whispering a prayer.
“Passing six hundred thirty!” a voice yelled.
The number jogged something in Tremain’s groggy mind. He suddenly remembered. It was burned into his memory. He had seen the number on the chart for the last few weeks. It was the depth of the channel.
His memory was instantaneously confirmed as Mackerel slammed into the ocean floor, bow first. Everyone in the conning tower flew forward into a pile near the steering wheel. More shouts and yells came from the other compartments as the deck lurched to one side, then back to the other. Mackerel’s anchored bow acted like a pivot in the sand and the angle quickly diminished until her stern slammed into the seabed with another massive crash, sending more shudders throughout the ship.
Moments later the ship settled. All was quiet, save for the creaking of the over-stressed girders, the moaning of the wounded, and the sound of running water.
Tremain smelled something else in the air now. Even in his groggy condition, he recognized what it was.
It was chlorine gas. The batteries were flooding.
Wright had gone immediately to his battle station in the aft torpedo room when the alarm had sounded. In the same way, Tee had gone to his station in the crew’s mess, which became damage control central during combat. They had separated without another word between them.