“We’ve got to run over to the other side of Borneo and do a look-see for Fremantle and then go home,” Olsen said.
“Can you give me an offhand guess about how much farther it is from here to there to Fremantle against how far it is from here to Fremantle?” Gold said.
“About four fifty, five hundred miles farther.”
Gold closed his eyes, thinking. “No sweat, sir. Provided we don’t do any more of that four-engine-make-turns-for-maxspeed stuff. I heard once that Flying Fish, early in the war, had to come home burning lube oil instead of diesel because they ran out of diesel oil. Rather not do that. Gets kind of hairy when you have to start thinking about running the engine-room bilges through the fuel strainers.”
Lieutenant Gold had the periscope watch as the Eelfish slogged its way southward down the west coast of Borneo. He squinted through the lens and picked up the pencil-thin masts of ships almost dead ahead on the horizon, a little before two o’clock in the afternoon watch. Mike Brannon came to the Conning Tower and searched the horizon ahead of the Eelfish.
“You must have eyes like an eagle,” Brannon grumbled. “I can’t see anything out there. You sure?”
“Yes, sir,” Gold said. “May I?” Brannon stepped to one side and Gold took another bearing through the periscope. He stepped back. Brannon looked and saw two tiny lines sticking up above the horizon.
“Damn it, you’re right,” he said. “Sound General Quarters.” Gold punched the button, and the clanging of the alarm sent the crew of Eelfish racing to their Battle Stations. Two minutes later Olsen called up the hatch.
“We’re due west of a place called Kota Kinabula, sir. Chart shows thirty-one fathoms of water, sir.”
“We can risk a fathometer reading. They’re still a long, long way away. Gold has got eyes like I never saw.” He heard the muted ping of the fathometer’s sonar beam lancing down through the water to hit the bottom and return.
“Twenty-eight fathoms under the keel, sir,” Olsen called up the hatch. “Are they close enough to get a bearing, sir?”
“Not yet,” Brannon said. “Another three minutes.” He stood, waiting, his plump face impassive. He bent toward the hatch to the Control Room.
“John, if I remember the chart, there’s deep water to the west, isn’t there?”
“Yes, sir. Plenty of deep water, real deep. We’re a few miles east of the edge of the deep water, sir.”
“Very well,” Brannon said. “We’ll take a look, now.”
“I’ve got two destroyers, moving pretty fast,” Brannon said. “Back of them there’s a pretty big ship, looks like a tanker. There’s some smoke back of that ship. Might be another tin can back there.” He moved the periscope a trifle.
“Mark!”
“Bearing is three four zero,” Brosmer said, and Arbuckle cranked the information into the TDC.
“Range is five thousand yards to the first destroyer,” Brannon said. He watched the ships coming closer.
“Can you give me another bearing and range?” Olsen asked.
Brannon complied, and Olsen called up the hatch.
“They’re making fifteen knots, sir. Closing at the rate of about four hundred fifty yards a minute. Suggest we come left to course one zero zero, sir. If you want to, you can let the tin cans pass and take the tanker, sir.”
“Come left to course one zero zero,” Brannon ordered. “I’ll take the tanker, John. He’s a good big one. He bears… Mark! Range is now four nine zero zero yards on the tanker. Forty-nine hundred yards.”
“We’ll have a solution in six minutes, sir,” Arbuckle said, “assuming a shooting range of under two thousand yards.”
“I think we can live with that,” Brannon said. “As long as his helpers don’t bother us we’ll shoot a spread of three at the tanker.”
“Recommend you make turns for two-thirds speed, sir,” Olsen sang out. “He’s going a little faster than we figured.”
“Very well,” Brannon said. He put his eye to the lens of the periscope.
“Mark! Lead destroyer bears zero four one. Range to the lead destroyer is two eight zero zero. Down periscope.” He looked at his wrist watch and waited, watching the second hand on the watch hitch around the dial twice.
“Up periscope. Stand by. Here he comes. Nice big, fat oil tanker. I’ll give you a bearing on the second destroyer.… Mark! Bearing on that closest destroyer is three five zero. Range is seventeen hundred yards.” He swung the periscope a few degrees to the right.
“Here’s our boy… stand by for a shooting run. Mark!” Brosmer snapped out the bearing.
“Range is fourteen hundred yards… angle on the bow is zero six zero port…”
“Solution, sir!” Arbuckle said.
“Stand by forward…” Brannon’s shoulder muscles were bunching beneath his thin khaki shirt as he watched the heavy tanker move toward him.
“Fire one!” He counted down from six to one.
“Fire two!”
“Fire three!” He swung the periscope, looking at the closest destroyer. He swung the periscope back and saw a gush of flame at the tanker’s midsection, and then the whole of the ship was sheathed in spouting columns of flame.
“Good God! He’s on fire from stem to stern! Right full rudder.” He strained at the periscope, turning it as the Eelfish turned, watching the destroyers.
“Fast screws bearing one eight zero, sir,” Paul Blake called out.
“Close torpedo-tube outer doors,” Brannon snapped. “Take me down to one hundred and fifty feet. Watch the damned depth. We haven’t got that much water under us.”
He stood in the Conning Tower listening to the distant drumming of the destroyers grow louder, the sound penetrating the hull of the submarine.
“They’re coming too fast to hear anything, John,” he called down the hatch. “Give me a fathometer reading. One ping only.”
He waited, and then he heard John Olsen say, “Five fathoms under the keel, sir.” He chewed his lower lip with his upper teeth for a minute.
“I’ve got a third set of fast screws, sir,” Blake said. “Bears zero four zero, sir.” Brannon nodded and looked at the compass repeater.
“Rudder amidships. Rig for depth charge. Rig for silent running. Make turns for dead slow. Plot, give me a position and a heading to deep water.”
“Course to deep water would be two six zero, sir, that’s the closest one. Edge of the shelf is four miles away.”
“Very well,” Brannon said. At one-third speed it would take the Eelfish almost two hours to reach deep water. At dead slow, a lot longer. He jerked his head up as a sharp noise rang through the Conning Tower.
“He’s pinging on us sir.” Blake’s voice was almost apologetic. Brannon nodded and went down the ladder to the Control Room. He looked at the plot.
“We’re going to pay for that tanker,” he said softly. “Not enough water here, damn it. But the target was too good to pass up. So now we pay.”
“For that and I guess for everything that happened in Leyte Gulf,” Olsen said in a mournful voice. Both men’s eyes turned upward to the Conning Tower hatch as Paul Blake’s voice sounded.
“Two sets of fast screws bearing two seven zero and two eight zero and picking up speed, sir. This sounds like an attack run!
“Very well,” Brannon said. The thunder of the destroyer screws grew louder, and then the people in the Eelfish heard the sharp, distinctive crack of depth-charge exploder mechanisms going off, to be followed by the thunderous explosions of the depth charges. The Eelfish reeled sideways to port and then rolled back to starboard as light bulbs and gauge glasses throughout the ship broke. Four more depth charges went off, and the submarine twisted, its hull groaning in the vortex of water.