“Dear God, make this son of a bitchin’ thing come out nice and easy.”
The wrench turned slowly and then more slowly and Brannon felt the sudden weight of the exploder on his hands.
“Stud’s free,” Flanagan said. “Hold everything just so until I put the lifting tools in.”
“Never mind,” Brannon gasped. “It’s coming out!” His neck swelled with effort as he slowly lowered his arms and the exploder slid out of the warhead. Nelson, on his knees beside Brannon, leaned over and gently put his hands under the edges of the exploder and took its weight. He swiveled sideways and let the exploder down onto his thighs and drew a deep breath.
“Son of a bitch, that’s the first time I ever seen one of those bastards come out like that!” He rested the weight of the exploder on his legs and then slid it downward and lifted it gently to the deck. He peered into the exploder.
“The son of a bitch is armed, all the way!” he said in an awed voice.
“Hold it steady,” Flanagan said. Very cautiously he put his hand into the interior of the exploder and began to turn the gear that extended the fulminate of mercury cartridge out of its safety chamber. Working slowly and patiently he turned the worm gear backward until the dangerous explosive charge was safely housed in its safety chamber. He sat back on his heels and took a deep breath as Nelson quickly unscrewed the safety chamber from its base and took it out of the exploder. He gave the small, heavy safety chamber to Lieutenant Lee.
“I think this would be safer in the magazine, sir,” he said. “Safe enough the way it is but we’ve got no stowage for it back here.”
Brannon looked at Flanagan and smiled. “We make a hell of a good team, the three of us, Chief.”
“We had one thing going for us, Captain, the luck of the Irish. Like Fred said, that’s the first exploder I ever saw that came out easy.” He reached upward and grabbed the handle on the inner door of a torpedo tube and hauled himself to his feet. He turned to Nelson.
“You’d better unstrap that fish and roll it over so the exudate will stop dripping. Might try sealing the split with some Tacki-wax. If that stuff will seal exhaust valves in the fish against sea pressure it should seal a crack in the warhead. Then get this damned room in some sort of shape.”
In the Wardroom Mike Brannon relaxed over a cup of coffee. He looked at John Olsen.
“Hairy experience, John.”
“Wasn’t any fun watching you,” Olsen said. “I kept telling myself that I might as well be back there as up forward. If that thing blew, the whole ship was going to blow.”
“Yup,” Brannon said. “Now let’s figure out what we’re going to do with this prisoner, how we’re going to handle him.”
“He seems like a fairly decent sort of guy,” Olsen said. “Doc said his English is very good.”
“It’d have to be good if he got a masters in engineering from Stanford,” Brannon said. He paused and chewed at his lower lip. “I know that the Geneva Convention says we aren’t suppose to ask him any questions, other than his name and that sort of thing. But if he’d volunteer some information, that might be a help to Fremantle.” He motioned to Mahaffey in the galley.
“Please go forward and tell Petreshock that I’d like to see the prisoner.”
Petreshock brought the prisoner into the Wardroom. Brannon noted with approval that someone had given the man a pair of dungaree trousers and a shirt and that his feet were shod in submarine sandals. The prisoner stepped inside the Wardroom and bowed deeply from the waist.
“Sit down, Mr. Yamati,” Brannon said. Pete Mahaffey slid a cup of coffee in front of the Japanese, who looked upward and then started to get out of his chair. Petreshock pushed him back down.
“This is for me?” the Japanese asked. “I thank you for your kindness.”
“Until we get back to port you’ll eat the same food we all eat,” Brannon said. “On a submarine in our Navy the officers and men eat the same food. You may have all you want. You may have coffee whenever you want it if there is someone to bring it to you. You can take a shower twice a week, as we all do. You will not be physically mistreated. You will be handcuffed, one hand, to a bunk rail when you sleep or to a torpedo skid when you are sitting. I don’t think that is unreasonable.”
“It is most generous of you.” The prisoner took a long drink of the coffee. “The coffee is excellent, sir.”
“Do you smoke?” Olsen asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Olsen slid a packet of cigarets across the Wardroom table. The prisoner took a cigaret and lit it from a box of small wooden matches given to him by Petreshock.
“I’d like to talk to you a bit, Mr. Yamati,” Brannon said. “Your ship, as the life ring showed, was the Takasaki, an oil tanker. You said she displaced ten thousand tons.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You were bound where?”
“Tokyo, sir.”
“Going a little bit out of your way, weren’t you?” Olsen said. He slid the cigarets back to the Japanese. “Keep them, I have more. You could have saved a lot of sea miles going up the west coast of the Philippines.”
“Your submarines, sir,” the prisoner said. “The west coast of the Philippines is not too dangerous for us, but farther north it is very dangerous.”
“Are you married?” Brannon said. “I’m not prying into your personal business, sir. But if you’re married we can ask the Red Cross or the Swiss to notify your wife that you are a prisoner of war and safe.”
“I am married, sir,” the Japanese said. He bowed his head and then raised it. “My wife lives in San Francisco. She is an American girl I met in college. I have a son, sir. I have never seen him. If it is possible to inform her I would do anything I can for you.”
Olsen slid a piece of paper and a pencil across the table. “Write her full name and address,” he said. “She’ll know you’re well and safe within seventy-two hours.” The Japanese unashamedly wiped moisture from his eyes.
“She has not heard from me since the war began,” he said. “I had one letter telling me of the birth of our son. Nothing else. I do not know how to thank you, sir.”
“Just behave yourself until we get back to Australia,” Olsen said. The prisoner rose and bowed to Mike Brannon and to John Olsen. Petreshock took him back to the Forward Torpedo Room and sat him in a canvas chair. The prisoner extended his left arm along a torpedo skid and Petreshock handcuffed him to the skid. He reached upward and opened a small locker and took out several packs of cigarets.
“I’m trying to quit smoking,” the torpedoman said. “You can have these. More if you need them. Can’t give you any matches, but the man on watch will give you a light.” The prisoner got to his feet and bowed and sat down.
Brannon’s contact report was transmitted that night. It included the conversation with the prisoner. When the report reached Admiral Christie he called a staff meeting.
“I just don’t believe what that Jap prisoner said.” Sam Rivers, the Operations Officer, thumped the table with his thick index finger. “We know those tankers are heading for Truk. The ship watchers on Borneo and on Celebes have told us so!”
“That’s what we think we know,” Christie said slowly. “We should know about those tankers. There’s two of them still going in that convoy with three destroyers. We should know about them in a few days. We know from Brannon’s report the base course they were on approaching the eastern end of Celebes. We know what course they’d take to Truk. And we have seven submarines between the Islands and Truk, waiting for them. One of those submarines should pick them up in a couple of days.”