The Iceman_A Novel Page 8

  “Firing five. Firing six.”

  They waited for the hot straight and normal report from sonar.

  “Circular run, circular run!” the sonarman shouted.

  Malachi didn’t hesitate. He didn’t need to know which fish had gone crazy, only that they had to get down before it ran a 360-degree circle and destroyed them.

  “Flood negative,” he ordered, in a voice they could hear down in the control room. “Twenty-degree down-bubble, full power!”

  The boat pitched over and began to accelerate.

  “Time to intercept is thirty-five seconds,” the TDC operator announced, still focused on the job at hand even with an errant torpedo circling back at them. One torpedo had malfunctioned; the other should still be heading for its target. Malachi was busy doing geometry in his head. The errant fish would execute a wide circle at the ordered depth. If the boat did nothing, it might hit them. If the boat jumped out of that circle and plunged beneath it, the fish would run over the top of them and keep running in a circle until it ran out of fuel. Thank God he’d disabled the magnetic exploders, because that device might sense the scrambling submarine’s hull and go off anyway.

  Another reason to never use the magnetic exploder, Malachi thought. And he realized, he hadn’t lined the boat up on the firing bearing as he usually did, to prevent this very thing from happening. He waited for the sound of high-speed screwbeats, hoping they’d be deep enough not to hear them.

  “Mark predicted impact.”

  Nothing. What the hell, Malachi thought. That was a perfect track. He looked at the depth gauge: 230 feet and rotating rapidly.

  “Catch her, XO,” he shouted down the hatch.

  “Catch her, aye,” the XO shouted back up the conning tower ladder. “Just like last time.”

  Malachi grinned. That little stunt of driving under the cruiser they’d just torpedoed had been good training after all. Then they heard the torpedo, a high whining noise signaling death approaching at almost 50 knots.

  Above them. Definitely above them. A collective sigh of relief spread around the conning tower as the Doppler rose and then fell sharply. The crazy torpedo ran off into the dark to make another try.

  “Leveling at two eighty,” the XO reported. You hope, Malachi thought, as he watched the depth gauge sink to 300.

  “Get back to periscope depth, speed three, once that fish quits running,” Malachi ordered.

  “Conn, Sonar: unidentified noises on the firing bearing. And that crazy fish is coming back. High up-Doppler.”

  “We’re at three hundred feet, Sound. It’s okay.”

  “Okay, aye, sir,” the sonarman said, but he didn’t sound all that assured. The creaking and cracking of the hull probably wasn’t helping.

  “Plot: continue the TDC track on that contact,” Malachi ordered. He could have crash-dived and then kept going.” In fact, he thought he could be down here with us, and for the same reason: evading a torpedo. He wondered if he should rig for silent running. Could the Japs go down to this depth? “OOD, pass the word: quiet in the boat. There may be another sub down here with us.”

  This was a different command from “rig for silent running,” where machinery was turned off. It also alerted the sonar gang to begin a different search program. “Where’s the layer?” Malachi asked. “Layer at two hundred forty feet, Captain,” Sound reported. “Six-degree gradient.”

  The errant torpedo was coming back around one last time. Malachi wondered what the Jap sub skipper would make of a torpedo circling him in the darkness. First one had come right at him, then a second one was howling around like a hungry if blind banshee. They listened as the wild fish ran over the top of them and then went down-Doppler before finally exploding some distance away. With that problem out of the way, he still had to decide what to do.

  He could go up to 240 feet and probe above the layer to see if he could hear the other sub. But what if he could? He couldn’t fire at it because he had no idea of the target’s track, and besides, the Mark 14 wasn’t designed to operate at this depth. And, finally, he could end up colliding with the other boat as they both played an underwater version of blind-man’s bluff.

  He was at that point overcome by a sudden urge to get out of there, to disengage from this enemy contact and this whole weird situation before it got out of control.

  “Make your depth two hundred sixty feet, XO,” he ordered. “Come to course two three zero, speed five knots. We’re leaving.”

  “Leaving, aye, Captain,” the XO responded. Malachi ignored what sounded like muted cheers from the control room below, and gratefully lit up a cancer stick.

  Two hours later they surfaced to get a last charge into the battery before daylight. The fleet broadcast informed them that their attack on the crippled cruiser had been acknowledged at Pearl. Ops sent back a report on the encounter with the Jap sub, noting they had two torpedoes and fifteen percent fuel left. Just before they went down for the day they received a message to return to Perth.

  NINE

  Two weeks later Malachi found himself cooling his heels in the admiral’s office in downtown Perth. Their homecoming had been anticlimactic since they’d arrived at two in the morning alongside the tender. Even at that hour, their first duty had been to refuel the boat, fill up the potable water tanks, and begin taking on torpedoes. Food, mail, and spare parts would arrive today. He’d brought his captain’s log, which contained daily summaries, and, where appropriate, details of his attacks in his own hand. In each instance, he’d left out the details of his torpedo settings, although he suspected he’d be questioned about that eventually. He had put in the extreme depths at which he’d operated.

  There were two yeomen in the office, this time, both female. One was young and pretty, the other a chief petty officer whose no-nonsense expression matched her mannish frame. The young one had brought him a coffee, and then gone back to clacking away on her shiny new Underwood typewriter. The chief busied herself with reading reports and then filing them in folders for the admiral’s perusal. He could hear voices in the inner office, but it didn’t sound like an argument. The chief must have read his mind.

  “That’s the morning staff meeting, Captain,” she said. “They’ll be done shortly.”

  He nodded and closed his eyes. The transit back had been uneventful, with not a single ship sighting. It had given the crew time to rest, make repairs on troublesome equipment, and generally unwind from the patrol. They’d get liberty here in Perth, for which they would need their rest. He’d conducted some training sessions with the officers, including spontaneous crash dives and some more hours spent running at decks awash. They’d transited on the surface the entire way back once they cleared the Solomons. It had been somewhat surreal: a world war was going on all around them, but the ocean had been empty.

  The door to the inner office opened and the chief of staff, Captain Collins, waved him in. He found the admiral standing, with his aide next to him, and the staff officers, all nine of them, standing in two ranks. The admiral gave him a big grin and a hearty handshake.

  “Welcome back, Captain, and congratulations on an excellent patrol. A heavy cruiser, two destroyers, a seven-thousand-ton transport, and a frigate. That’s pretty damned good for a first patrol. Please come to attention.”

  The admiral then pinned a Navy Cross on Malachi’s shirt and shook his hand again. The staffies broke ranks and each of them shook his hand before filing out of the office. The admiral pointed to a chair, and then he and the chief of staff took seats. The latter began reading Malachi’s daily logs.

  “How’s the boat?” the admiral asked, lighting up a cigarette and inviting Malachi to do the same.

  Malachi was still trying to absorb being decorated with the nation’s second highest medal. “The boat, sir? She’s fine. We’re refueled and rearmed, and we expect fresh provisions today. We’ve got the usual weeps and leaks, but nothing major.”

  “And you’re already refueled and rearmed?”

&nbs
p; “Yes, sir. The tender wasn’t thrilled with handling torpedoes at three in the morning, but, well, remember Cavite.”

  “Yes, indeed, you did exactly the right thing. I’ll speak to Bill Worth; he’s CO of Otus.”

  The chief of staff let out a low whistle. “You went under that cruiser after you torpedoed him?” he asked, sounding a little incredulous.

  “We did,” Malachi said. “The escorts were heavy on our side, and they’d probably guessed from which direction the fish came. Slipping under the cruiser put us on the unengaged side, so to speak. In fact, they ran off depth-charging the area where we’d been.”

  “How deep did you go?” the chief of staff asked.

  “Two fifty,” Malachi said. “We did a twenty-degree down-bubble at full power, then leveled out and came back up to periscope depth on the other side. The XO had the dive.”

  The chief of staff and the admiral looked at each other. “That’s pretty deep at twenty degrees,” the admiral said.

  “I’ve had her down to three fifty, Admiral,” Malachi said. “She’s brand new.”

  “But her test depth is three hundred, is it not?”

  “Yes, sir. I wanted the crew to gain confidence that she’s a deep diver against the time when we need to be really deep. I wanted them to hear what it sounds like, and also to force any potential leaks to show themselves. Three fifty is pushing it; three hundred is no longer a big deal in Firefish.”

  The admiral frowned and then blew out a long breath. “I think three hundred is a big deal, Captain,” he said softly. “You have little margin for errors or sudden damage at that depth.”

  “Yes, sir, I know,” Malachi said, wondering if the admiral wanted his medal back. “But the thermal layers I’ve been seeing are below two hundred where we’ve been operating. Those layers—”

  “I know, I know,” the admiral interrupted. “We have three other fleet boats operating out here on this side of Australia. I don’t believe any of them have been routinely challenging three hundred feet. I need to think about this.”

  The chief of staff, who was sitting just behind the admiral’s sight line, gave Malachi a warning look, as in “don’t argue.” Malachi tried changing the subject.

  “I have a question, Admiral,” he said. “How do we know that those ships I shot at actually went down?”

  The admiral glanced back at his chief of staff for a second. “We don’t,” he replied. “But Naval Intelligence back in Pearl apparently does. They confirmed all the sinkings. I must simply presume we have spies where we need them. How many torpedoes did you expend?”

  “We can carry twenty-four. We had nineteen onboard. We expended seventeen in all.”

  “And you brought home an impressive good bag. Let me warn you, though, if you shoot that many torpedoes and don’t bring home a good bag, that will be problematical. We still are facing critical shortages of fish, and your next patrol you’ll have even fewer. Okay, for right now, you’ll be in for two weeks; make the best of it with the tender. Congratulations again on a fine patrol.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Malachi said.

  The chief of staff followed him out and then buttonholed him the corridor outside the executive suite. “One more question,” he said. “I noted that you did not write down torpedo settings in your daily log. Does that mean what I think that means?”

  Malachi hesitated, but then decided he might as well draw the line. “Yes, sir, it does. I disabled all the magnetic exploders, fired nothing running deeper than ten feet, and all set for high speed and contact.”

  The chief of staff just stared at him. “You do know the admiral’s policy on that, right?”

  Malachi stared right back. “I do, but I was stationed at Newport when those things were being developed, and I know they were never tested against a moving target, or in the Southern Hemisphere where we are now. The earth’s magnetic field is not homogeneous. Firefish had to calibrate her magnetic compass every day on the transit down here from Pearl. They don’t work, and they’ll never work. The Brits and supposedly even the Germans have already shit-canned theirs, if it’s any comfort.”

  “Those are decisions way above your pay grade, Captain,” the chief of staff retorted.

  “Undoubtedly, Chief of Staff, but I’m not alone in my opinion about the magnetic exploder, if what I heard in Pearl was any indication.”

  “From whom?”

  “COs of boats that tried to use them.”

  “And yet Admiral English requires that they be used.”

  “I understand that ComSubPac sets the policy, sir, but he doesn’t go out into Indian Country like we do.”

  The chief of staff’s face hardened. “Admiral Britten’s going to read your logs. He reads them all. Then he’s going to ask. Better think long and hard about how you’ll answer. You tell him you refuse to use the magnetics, you’ll find yourself on the beach.”

  Malachi looked down at the floor for a moment. “I had a boss once,” he said, finally. “He told me never to ask an official question if I couldn’t stand all the possible answers. I had to think about that before I understood it. Can you recommend a good hotel in this town?”

  The chief of staff opened his mouth to rebut that but then closed it. “We have the top three floors of the Benbow Hotel reserved exclusively for skippers,” he said, finally. “It’s a small hotel, but pretty nice. Ask the chief yeoman to get you set up, and think hard about what I said.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Malachi replied.

  That evening he found himself on the rooftop of the Benbow in downtown Perth, enjoying a cold beer while watching another three-striper who was apparently intent on getting himself blind drunk at another table. The bar was manned by two delectable bartenders dressed in shorts and midriff-tied blouses. He sipped on his beer and blew blue smoke into a sea breeze that was stirring the evening air. After what had happened between him and his father a long time ago, he wasn’t much of a boozer. In Australia, that probably would be classified as a bit peculiar.

  Another commander in khakis showed up, waved at the girls behind the bar, who immediately set to work fixing him a drink. He glanced over at the solitary drunk in the making, shook his head, and came over to where Malachi was sitting. He was tall and athletic-looking, with a full, black beard.

  “Reed Burlington,” he said, offering his hand. “Sea Lion.”

  “Malachi Stormes,” Malachi replied. “Firefish.

  “Oh, yeah, the new guy,” Burlington replied. “Been hearing about you down on the waterfront. Bagged a heavy cruiser and you like to go deep.”

  “Grapevine’s alive and well, I take it,” Malachi said. One of the girls arrived and presented Burlington with a fruity concoction that reeked of rum and had tiny Aussie and American flags on skewers sticking out of a pineapple slice on top.

  “Oh, hell, yeah. We’re all professional gossipers. You came from the LantFleet?”

  “I did, sort of. I had an S-boat, one of the antiques we sent over to Scotland to help the Royal Navy with their Nazi problem. Had one good day over there, and got Firefish as my reward.”

  “Ri-i-ght,” Burlington said. “You got the three U-boats in the minefield. Love to hear that tale.”

  A sound of breaking glass came from the table across the room. The other skipper had dropped his glass on the concrete floor.

  “That’s Pogue White,” Burlington said softly. “Class of ’twenty-five. Going to be relieved for being too cautious on patrol. Guy from ’twenty-nine got his boat.”

  “I’d guess the heavy boozing didn’t just start with that,” Malachi said as he watched White swaying in his chair while one of the girls swept up the glass after bringing him a new one.

  “You’d guess right,” Burlington said. “But a lot of us skippers hit the booze pretty hard when we get in. I think that’s why the admiral makes all the COs get a room here. You wanna get boiled, the staff here will help you out and pour you in your rack if they have to.”

  “One of thos
e two?”

  Burlington laughed like a pirate. “Perth’s chock full of gorgeous women, and they all seem to like Americans. The Aussie men prefer drinking beer with their ‘mites’ to spending time with their ‘Sheilas.’ Thanks be to God. Welcome to bachelor Paradise.”

  “May not be here long,” Malachi said. “Got into it with the chief of staff today. On the matter of the Mark fourteen magnetic exploders.”

  “Oh, no,” Burlington said with mock horror. “The dreaded torpedo issue. Lemme guess: you deactivated all your magnetics.”

  “And set all fish for ten feet regardless of the target except for one sub I shot at. I spent three years at the Torpedo Station, a lot of it on the Mark fourteen torpedo. Know its inner workings and hidden mechanisms pretty well.”

  “Compared to the Mark ten it’s a piece of shit,” Burlington declared. “There’s something you should know: if you have problems with the Mark fourteen, they’re all of your making, and none of their lordships’ at the Bureau of Naval Ordnance. Just so you know.”

  “So I was told in Pearl by every CO and prospective CO back there. They said ComSubPac apparently agrees with BuOrd.”

  “Admiral English is Old Navy. Bugles from the top hampers. Port your helm, if you please, Helmsman. Properly suspicious of newfangled gadgetry, like radar or air-conditioning in submarines, because when he was in the fleet, by God…”

  Malachi smiled. “So was everybody in charge on Pearl Harbor day,” he said. “Old Navy. And then, dead navy.”

  Burlington lifted the two little flags out of his glass and ceremoniously put one behind each ear. A moment later he had a fresh drink, which the impish bartender delivered with a flirtatious smile. Burlington lifted his glass in appreciation. “A four-devil mai tai: white rum, cherry-vanilla puree, Amaretto, Cointreau, and fruit juices. Topped with a dark rum float. Wonderful. You ought to try one. Makes chiefs of staff evaporate before your very eyes.”

  “Not much of a drinker,” Malachi admitted. “No head for alcohol. One beer is about it. After that, headache city.”