Battle Stations: a novel of the Pacific War (Crash Dive Book 3) Read online

  BATTLE STATIONS

  A novel of the Pacific War

  By Craig DiLouie

  BATTLE STATIONS

  A novel of the Pacific War

  ©2016 Craig DiLouie. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or used fictitiously.

  Lyrics from “You're a Grand Old Flag” are by George M. Cohan, which he wrote in 1906 for his stage musical, George Washington, Jr. (public domain). A line in Chapter 5 is quoted from Woman of the Year (1942), produced by Metro-Goldwyn Mayer, under fair-use guidelines. Percy’s first quote in Chapter 10 is an ancient proverb. His second quote is from Inferno, part one of the Divine Comedy written by Dante Alighieri (public domain). Lyrics from “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” are also in the public domain.

  Cover art by Eloise Knapp Design.

  Published by ZING Communications, Inc.

  www.CraigDiLouie.com

  Click here to sign up for Craig’s mailing list and be the first to find out about new episodes in the Crash Dive series! When you sign up, you’ll receive a link to Craig’s interactive submarine adventure, Fire One.

  BATTLE STATIONS

  CHAPTER ONE

  ATTACK TRAINER

  “Start the attack!” Charlie cried. “Up periscope!”

  He swept the horizon for Japanese ships, spotted them. The enemy advanced under his crosshairs.

  What he saw didn’t add up. “Down scope.”

  The officers watched him. Lt. Grayson, assistant approach officer. Lt. Boyd at the plotting table. Lt. Rohm standing at the torpedo data computer, or TDC.

  Shooting a mobile target from a moving submarine involved complex geometry. The crew fed variables such as speed, bearing, and angle on the bow into the TDC. The TDC then produced a torpedo-firing angle. Each time, the problem offered a small margin of error.

  This particular problem would give him almost no margin at all.

  “Well?” Grayson asked him.

  “Ship, bearing two-five-oh. Oh-two-five on the starboard bow. Range, about 12,000 yards. Give him twelve knots. Three escorts screening him. Asashio-class destroyers.”

  The assistant approach officer whistled. “All that protection for one ship? What’s the target, Hirohito’s yacht?”

  Boyd plopped the thick Reference Book of Japanese Merchant Ships on the table. Its pages provided valuable information such as tonnage, height above the waterline, and distance from the waterline to the keel, or draft.

  Charlie flipped the pages and pointed. “I think that’s the ship.”

  A fishing trawler.

  Boyd and Rohm exchanged an amused glance. Grayson’s lips curled into a smirk. “You caught a real high-value target, Harrison.”

  The officers cracked grins. Charlie turned and threw “Quiet Bill” Hutchison, who stood in a corner, a questioning look.

  As usual, the old commander’s placid expression told him nothing.

  “Wait a minute.” Charlie pulled out the reference on Imperial Japanese Navy warships and flipped through it. “Yeah. That’s it there.”

  Kinesaki class, 900 tons. Assigned to resupply operations with the China Area Fleet, it hauled eighty tons of frozen food and sixty tons of fresh water. The freezer mounted on the hull carried fish, which explained why it looked like a trawler.

  Today, it carried something important to the Japanese Empire. Cargo worth three tough DDs to guard it.

  The supply ship lay 200 feet in length, about half as long as the Asashios and two-thirds as long as Sabertooth, Charlie’s last command. Infiltrating the fast-moving escorts to hit such a small target was going to be a hell of a challenge.

  Rohm read the stats. “Bad luck, Harrison. A real doozy.”

  No kidding. Their teacher had thrown him a curveball for his last time in the attack trainer, which simulated submarine combat.

  The men fought in a dummy conning tower with a fixed periscope that piped into a room upstairs. There, operators worked a system of circular discs connected by control cables. Model ships rode these traveling turntables along a course Quiet Bill set up.

  The goal was to approach the target while avoiding detection, fire a straight bow shot, and escape. While a simulation, it felt realistic. As for the stakes, they were very much real.

  Tomorrow, Charlie graduated from Prospective Executive Officer School. With more candidates than boats, some got detailed, some didn’t.

  He shot another glance at Quiet Bill. The commander’s eyes seemed to smile at him.

  Grayson: “What do you want to do, Harrison?”

  “Battle stations, torpedo. We’re going to sink the bastard.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  NEEDLE AND THREAD

  The shortened periscope protruded only far enough to offer a view level with the floor. The model ships advanced steadily across the metal sea.

  “Supply ship,” Charlie said. “Bearing, mark!”

  Grayson called out the reading from the bearing ring on the shaft on the other side of the periscope. Rohm fed the number into the TDC.

  “Range, give him 11,000 yards.”

  He brought down the periscope. If a commander kept the scope up longer than seven seconds, the operators threw a blanket over it to let him know the Japanese spotted him. Then they gleefully stomped the steel floor to produce thunderous depth charges or airplane bombs.

  After a few minutes, he scoped the escorts and repeated the exercise.

  The model ships started on one side of the room and stopped at the far side. He knew they headed west by southwest. What he didn’t know was whether they’d maintain this direction and for how long. The targets might zig any time.

  Maybe they wouldn’t zig at all.

  Charlie needed to figure their base course. That required frequent periscope checks. He decided to maintain his own course a bit longer. He had time.

  “Come left?” Grayson prompted.

  “Steady as you go,” Charlie said.

  When Grayson took his turn as commander, he bounded after the enemy like a puppy. Sometimes, it worked, but not always. The room overhead represented 200 square miles of open sea. A skipper had to creep within 2,000 yards to hit his target with any accuracy.

  Charlie’s submarine traveled at a top speed of nine knots. A pace the boat could only keep up for an hour, as it drained her batteries.

  Up scope. He called out bearings and ranges.

  The supply ship had zigged to the southeast, now bearing 137° True.

  The destroyers continued to circle it in their defensive pattern, but he was mainly concerned with the Kinesaki. The supply ship would tell him the group’s base course.

  One more zig would do it. Then he’d maneuver into a firing position and shoot, assuming the Japanese maintained their course.

  Itching to help, Grayson suggested, “We could nudge northwest.”

  He might be right.

  These exercises simulated the pressures of command. The commander, meanwhile, brought his own personal pressures. Grayson, with his movie-star good looks and New England navy family, needed to prove himself.

  Charlie felt a similar need. He’d only served in two war patrols and had gotten fast-tracked. He had plenty to prove.

  Lt. Commander JR Kane had taught him patience, however. Kane viewed undersea combat as a game of chess. You had to wait for the right move.

  “Steady on zero,” he said.

  On the next periscope check, the Kinesaki veered again.

  “I’ve got a base course,” Boyd announced in his drawling South C
arolina accent. He laughed. “I’ll be damned.”

  Charlie joined him at the plotting table. “What’s funny?”

  “They’re coming right at us. The target will cross our bow right about here. We really don’t have to do anything except hold course.”

  The officers leaned on the table and studied the plot.

  “The distance to the track is 3,000 yards.” Boyd tapped the plot with his pencil. “We shoot our fish here at a thousand yards. Like shootin’ a barn.”

  Not quite so easy with a target that small, but Charlie took his point.

  Quiet Bill was testing his nerve. He knew Charlie’s record and had him figured as a gung-ho buccaneer with more bravery than brains. Wanted to teach him sometimes, restraint won battles as much as daring.

  “It’s a perfect setup,” Boyd said.

  The lines and angles in Charlie’s mind dissolved as he wiped the slate clean to visualize the attack. The supply ship approached along a base course of 195 degrees. Zigged southwest just in time to offer the submarine a near ninety-degree angle on the bow. A beautiful setup.

  He’d fire three torpedoes, just to be sure.

  He had to be careful not to expose too much of a broadside profile during the attack. The feather the periscope made in the water became more visible. The submarine also became easier to detect by an alert Japanese sonarman.

  In the unforgiving attack trainer, such sloppiness typically resulted in a loss. To make it that far and lose promised heartbreak.

  His last time in the attack trainer, he wanted to do it right.

  A thought nagged until it caught him. He met Grayson’s eye.

  The man’s mouth dropped open. “Ah. Yes. We should do another—”

  The perfect setup had distracted Charlie from the primary threat, the DDs. They circled the supply ship in a different pattern. He hadn’t made enough observations to complete the picture.

  “Up scope!” he barked.

  He swung the periscope across the escorts while Grayson rapidly called out bearings. After a few minutes, he repeated the exercise. The ships looked a lot bigger now.

  Boyd: “I’ve got a pattern.”

  “Target base course?” Charlie said.

  “Holding steady. But our perfect setup ain’t perfect.”

  He returned to the plotting table, where Boyd sketched out the probable future locations of the destroyers.

  Where Charlie hoped to shoot, one of the Asashios would be almost right on top of him. A beautiful way to get detected and rammed. He wiped the sheen of sweat from his upper lip. He could beat himself up later.

  “We might shift course and increase speed,” Grayson offered. “The target is approaching at one-nine-five. We could come right five, ten degrees.”

  The idea made sense. The distance to the track would lengthen, but they’d reach the target at a time when the escorts were farther afield.

  “Which is it?” Charlie asked the officers. “Five or ten? What’s the optimal location to reach the target?”

  Boyd rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know. I don’t see it.”

  Grayson growled, “Let me see. I’ll figure it out.”

  While his officers argued over their meager options, Charlie stepped back from the table and closed his eyes. In his mind, his submarine approached ships moving southwest by southwest in an elegant pattern.

  The way Quiet Bill had set up the escorts to hug the target made Charlie glad the man was on his side. He studied the plot for an opening.

  He might get a shot off without detection, but he had to thread the needle. Each sweep of the destroyers offered little windows of opportunity.

  And one big one, he realized, though it presented an even bigger gamble.

  “What about a long-range shot?” Grayson asked the men.

  Rohm rubbed his jaw. “Maybe. I don’t know. Target that small?”

  “What are you thinkin’, Harrison?” Boyd drawled.

  “Keep her so,” Charlie said. Maintain her present heading.

  Grayson sighed. “You must be joking.”

  “Nope.”

  Boyd said, “Didn’t you know? Ol’ Harrison here don’t have a joking bone in his body, Gray.”

  The men chuckled.

  Grayson: “What’s the plan?”

  “When they’re almost on top of us, we go deep,” Charlie explained. “After they pass over, we rise to periscope depth and fire three shots up the target’s skirt. The one place the DDs aren’t guarding is directly behind the Kinesaki.”

  Rohm nodded. “Then we pull the plug and head out, balls to the wall.”

  “Right.” Charlie glanced at Quiet Bill, whose mouth twitched into a brief smile.

  “Your idea isn’t terrible,” Grayson said. “But our fish have to hit a bulls-eye.”

  The torpedoes had to fire at the ship’s receding stern, a target just thirty feet wide. Grayson was right. Bulls-eye or nothing.

  It was also their best shot. “Come left to three-five-zero. Time since last look?”

  “Six minutes,” Rohm told him.

  “Up scope. Observation.”

  Bearing, range, angle on the bow. Rohm turned knobs on the TDC.

  The tension built as the approach party worked as a team to execute their plan. Periscope checks to confirm or tune the variables fed into the TDC. Minor course adjustments. Charlie forgot it was just a game. His training took over as he went through the precise and grinding routine that built toward the catharsis of attack.

  He looked around the dummy conning tower and imagined it jammed with pipes, valves, and gauges. The smell of diesel oil. Monstrous engines pulsing.

  “Rig to dive,” he said. “Up scope. Final observation.”

  The model ships crawled across the sea. Very large now.

  “Come and get it,” he murmured. “Down scope. Dive, dive, dive! Take us down to 200 feet.”

  “Final depth, 200 feet,” Grayson reported.

  “Time until next zig?”

  “Five minutes.”

  Charlie nodded. Plenty of time. “Rig for silent running.”

  “All compartments rigged for silent running. We’re in the crucible.”

  Boyd smiled and shook his head at Grayson’s choice of words. Rohm threw an anxious glance at the ceiling. The Japanese ships were now passing overhead. Charlie imagined the churn of propellers, whoosh whoosh whoosh. Sweat trickled down his spine and soaked through his service khakis.

  “Target is Kinesaki-class supply ship,” he said. “We’ll fire three torpedoes at his stern from a thousand yards. Aft torpedo, make ready the stern tubes.”

  “Stern tubes ready!”

  “Order of tubes is one, two, three. High speed, depth four feet.”

  Grayson looked up from his stopwatch. “They’re past us, Harrison.”

  “Very well. Planes, periscope depth.”

  “Depth, sixty-five feet.”

  “Up scope.” He swiveled the periscope. “All clear. No aircraft.” He settled the reticle on his target. “Gotcha.”

  “What do you see?” Grayson said from the other side of the periscope.

  “I’m looking right at his stern. Aft torpedo, stand by. Final bearing, mark!”

  “Two-one-zero!”

  “Range, mark!”

  “Nine hundred yards!”

  “Angle on the bow, zero! Speed, twelve knots!”

  “Set!” Rohm cried from the TDC. “Shoot anytime!”

  “Fire torpedoes!” Charlie ordered.

  Rohm pressed the firing plunger. “Firing one! First shot is on the way!” He counted seconds. “Firing two! Firing three!”

  “Down scope! Take her down to 300 feet, all ahead full!”

  “Torpedoes running hot, straight, and normal.” Rohm squinted at Quiet Bill and muttered, “At least, I hope so. Estimate sixty seconds to impact.”

  As Rohm counted down, Charlie gazed hopefully at his teacher.

  Quiet Bill smiled. “Boom.”

  CHAP
TER THREE

  JUDGE AND JURY

  Japanese resistance on Guadalcanal ended in February, and American forces had swept to New Georgia, continuing an island-hopping strategy they hoped would take them to Japan. Navy pilots bombed a convoy of troop transports at the Battle of the Bismarck Sea in March. P38 fighters shot down a bomber plane carrying Admiral Yamamoto, the architect of the Pearl Harbor attack, in April. American forces recaptured the Aleutian Islands in May.

  While Charlie attended PXO School in Connecticut, he’d missed it all.

  In Europe, the German Sixth Army surrendered at Stalingrad. The Afrika Korps retreated to Tunisia. The Allies were close to securing North Africa, exposing southern France, Italy, and the Balkans to invasion.

  The tide was turning, and Charlie itched to get back in the fight. Which explained his galloping pulse as he made his way to the commander’s office.

  Lt. Commander Bill Hutchison had requested to see him. This being wartime, boards didn’t convene to qualify exec candidates. It was all up to Quiet Bill’s judgment. With a single word, he could yank Charlie out of the boats forever.

  He reported to the young ensign sitting behind a desk in the reception room. “Lt. Charles Harrison, reporting to the commander as ordered.”

  The ensign took in his hangdog face with a smirk. He tilted his head toward Quiet Bill’s closed door. “You’re late, Mr. Harrison. The commander’s sore.”

  Charlie checked his watch. “I thought I was early. It’s not yet 1500.”

  The smirk disappeared. “Ah, I see. So you’re the one.”

  “The one what?”

  “Each class, the commander picks one of the guys and gives him the wrong time for a meeting. Then he chews him up and spits him out.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “He transferred one poor bastard off submarines. Tread careful in there.”

  Charlie digested this bleak news. “I will. Thanks.”

  “Digby!” Quiet Bill shouted through his office door. “For Chrissakes, leave Harrison alone and send him in.”