On and on, on and on, straining every nerve, Archerfish pursues her quarry. The carrier is tracked at 20 knots. Archerfish can do no more than 19 or possibly a shade better. But the carrier is zigzagging. If Archerfish can detect his base course and parallel that, disregarding the zigs, she may be able to overtake him in spite of the disparity in speeds. But this is tricky, too, because on a zig toward Archerfish, the target group might approach close enough for one of the flank escorts to sight the laboring submarine. Conversely, a zig away might lead them out of radar range, where a course change would result in Archerfish’s pursuing in the wrong direction. So Archerfish cannot blindly charge ahead, but must conform to maneuvers of the target; she cannot lose him, nor can she let him get too close. With these considerations, resisting every move which might tend to increase the distance she must run, Archerfish doggedly sets about making an end around. Theoretically, it is possible to get around a target going faster than you are. It is possible, but mighty damn hard to do!
One hour before midnight the target group zigs toward, not enough to give Archerfish an opportunity to dive and attack on this leg, but sufficiently so that one of the flanking escorts approaches perilously near the submarine—6000 yards. Determined to take every conceivable, practicable chance to avoid being forced to submerge prematurely, the skipper orders all bridge personnel below, except for Lieutenant (j.g.) John Andrews, the Officer of the Deck. If Archerfish receives gunfire on the bridge, there will be only himself and Andrews up there to worry about.
But the escort ignores the submarine, and Joe Enright calls his lookouts back to the bridge.
At midnight the carrier force makes another big zig, to the west. Archerfish had expected that he was probably headed for somewhere in the Pacific, and therefore had chosen the left or southern flank of the convoy to trail from. A change of base course in the most probable direction, to the south, she hoped would drop the whole outfit into her hands. But such was not to be. The zig to the west puts the submarine even further out in right field, but doggedly she digs in and continues the chase.
For two and a half hours the pursuit goes on. Racing to crawl up the left flank of the task group, Archerfish finds that her top speed is just barely allowing her to pull ahead. But there is obviously no chance of attaining a firing position before dawn. Regretfully, the skipper composes another message.
URGENT — FOR COMSUBPAC AND SUBS IN AREA X TARGET COURSE 275 SPEED 20 X AM TRAILING LEFT FLANK X DO NOT EXPECT TO REACH FIRING POSITION BY DAWN X CONTINUING CHASE.
The answer is prompt, ARCHERFISH FROM COMSUBPAC X KEEP AFTER HIM JOE X ALL SUBMARINES IN THE FORCE ARE PULLING FOR YOU AND ARE BACKING YOU UP.
They are keeping a sleepless vigil at the operations office of ComSubPac, fortified by much coffee and Coca-Cola. But their encouraging message is never received by Archerfish.
For at 0300 the sands run out for Shinano. Base course is changed again, this time to nearly due south, and incredulously Archerfish finds herself almost dead ahead of the target. Fate picks up her dice and stows them away.
“Right full rudder!” The submarine changes course rapidly, heeling to port as she does so. At last Archerfish heads for the enemy.
Ah-oooh — gah! Ah — oooh-gah! The diving alarm seems more piercing than usual. “Dive! Dive!” “Flood negative! Flood safety!” “Battle stations submerged!” A few men dash through the ship to their battle stations, but most are already there.
“Hatch secured, sir!”
“Shut the induction!”
“Green board, sir!”
“Bleed air in the boat!” “Eight degrees down bubble!” “Easy on the bow planes!” “Blow negative!” “All ahead one third!” “Fifty-five feet!” Expertly each man does his job, and Archerfish smoothly slips beneath the waves. Radar gets a final range as the antenna goes under water: 11,700 yards, closing fast.
“Up periscope!” The long, shiny tube hums out of the periscope well. Squatting on his haunches before it, hands poised to catch the handles the moment they emerge, Enright resembles an ageless devotee of some obscure occult religion. Perspiration stands out unnoticed on his forehead, his face is immobile, his eyes staring. You would say he is in a trance, and in a trance he is, for his eyes do not see the crowded darkened conning tower around him. His eyes and mind already are on the surface of the ocean, watching the enemy task group as it comes closer — and closer.…
Finally the periscope handles appear. Capturing and unfolding them with both hands, the skipper applies his right eye to the eyepiece and swiftly rises with the periscope to a standing position. He has become so accustomed to this procedure that he is entirely unconscious that he has performed quite a neat little stunt — for from the moment the periscope eyepiece appeared out of the periscope well he has been looking through it, has risen to a standing position with it, and has stopped rising smoothly as the eyepiece reached its upper limit. He slowly rotates the periscope from side to side, searching through the faint pre-dawn light.
“Down periscope! Target not yet in sight. What range do you have on the TDC?”
Since it still lacks more than an hour until dawn, the conning tower and control room are still darkened in order to make it possible to see through the periscope. The radar has been secured, and only the faint red glow of the TDC dial lights, the torpedo ready lights, and the sound gear dial lights are permitted. Dave Bunting consults the TDC range dial. “Range, eight oh double oh, Captain. Bearing two nine five.”
“Up periscope! Put me on two nine five!” The Captain snaps the command to his exec, “Bobo” Bobczynski, now functioning as Assistant Approach Officer. As the periscope comes up, the latter places his hands beside the Captain’s on the handles and swings the ’scope until the etched hairline stands at 295. The skipper looks long and hard, and infinitesimally rotates the periscope from one side to the other.
Throughout the ship the men are waiting for the answer to their unspoken questions: “Have we dived in the right place?” “Have we really outguessed him?” “Does the Captain see the target?”
Finally, in a low voice which hardly expresses conviction, and which certainly is far from showing the relief he feels, the Captain speaks. “I see him.”
The word flies through the ship. Men look at one another and smile, some a little shakily, but most, a tight-lipped grin of relief and pride. “We have him in the periscope!”