Battle Stations: a novel of the Pacific War (Crash Dive Book 3) Page 4

  Built by the Electric Boat Company, the Gato-class submarine was 311 feet long and twenty-seven feet wide at the beam. Six forward tubes, four aft with a complement of twenty-five tubes. Four diesel engines drove her at a top speed of twenty-knots on the surface, four electric motors at up to nine knots while submerged. She could dive to 300 feet and range 11,000 miles or seventy-five days. While surfaced, she displaced more than 1,500 tons of water.

  The Navy Yard had completely repaired and refitted her. Instantly visible was the streamlined superstructure, which allowed her to sail with a lower silhouette.

  With her new upgrades, Sandtiger was one of the most deadly war machines ever built for sea. True, she was no match for destroyers designed to hunt and kill submarines. Her neutral buoyancy promised a swift sinking if shot or ramming holed her. She had surprise on her side, however. She could travel deep into enemy territory, deliver a sudden and vicious attack.

  The submarine’s horizontal surfaces were black, her vertical surfaces gray. Even with a fresh paint job, her scars were plainly visible. Sandtiger was a junkyard dog mauled by too many fights. She’d given far worse than she’d taken, though. Ten sinkings in the last three patrols alone. More than 30,000 tons of Japanese steel and engineering sent to the bottom.

  The proud submarine’s battle flag streamed from the clothesline stretching from the bow to the periscope supports. It displayed a grinning shark wearing a sailor’s hat. That and ten patches, one for each enemy ship sunk in combat. Beneath, the Jolly Roger fluttered in the breeze. Sandtiger was a buccaneering ship.

  The dungareed pirates swarmed the deck, making her ready for sea. Trucks pumped water and diesel into the tanks. Shirtless men hauled boxes of food down the hatch like a train of worker ants. A crane lowered a torpedo into the forward weapons hatch. Charlie hurried across the gangplank with his sea bag.

  Percy tossed him with a lazy wave. “Welcome aboard, Harrison.” He called out to a passing sailor, “Hey, Shorty! Stow the exec’s bag.”

  Charlie looked around. “Tell me we’re on schedule.”

  “You’ll be able to take her out on time.”

  He checked in with the quartermaster and the chiefs, who had the loading well in hand. The men knew what they were doing. He hustled from one spot to the next, listening and learning more than leading. Within several hours, the last of the ship’s stores went down the hatch.

  Percy whistled to get his attention. “Look lively. Captain’s coming.”

  Captain Moreau ambled along the pier with his hands in his pockets. He took in every detail of the submarine with a single glance. Seemingly satisfied, he came aboard.

  Charlie presented himself and saluted. “Welcome aboard, Captain. The loadout is complete. All hands present. Shore power and phone cabling are disconnected.”

  Moreau gave him a quick once-over. “I hope you gave more than you got.”

  “Yes, sir,” Charlie said.

  “Have the men fall in at quarters.”

  Charlie bawled out the order. The crew mustered on deck abaft of the bridge. They stood at parade rest in the warm afternoon air, fifty-four enlisted men plus the officers. On Sandtiger’s port side, Warmouth fired her engines, belching smoke from the exhaust vents. She blasted her foghorn as she backed away from the pier. Her crew waved back at a crowd of well-wishers while a Navy band sent them off.

  The captain inspected Percy’s brash face. The communications officer smirked back at him with a busted lip.

  “How’d your gal do?”

  “She sank a freighter, Captain. I think I’m in love.”

  “She do dat to your face after, or were you in the exec’s dust-up?”

  “I had the exec’s back, Skipper.”

  “All right, Jerry. As long as you saved some for the Japs.”

  The captain continued his inspection. He paused in front of Nixon. The engineering officer offered him a nervous smile.

  “Uh-huh,” Moreau muttered. “This guy.”

  Then he stopped again in front of the next officer, who stood with his sea bag resting on the deck next to him.

  Charlie caught his breath. Jack Liebold stared back at him with wide, watery eyes. Charlie and Liebold had served together on Sabertooth.

  The captain chuckled. “Won him in a poker game last night.” He mounted to the bridge, Charlie following. “We lost twenty hands to new construction, replaced with greenhorns. They’re yours. Teach their hands to war.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  Moreau handed him a book. “Time to start their education. Read it out loud to the men.”

  He glanced at the cover. The Articles of the Government of the Navy. He cracked it open and read, “The Navy of the United States shall be governed by the following articles. Article 1. The commanders of all fleets, squadrons, naval stations, and vessels belonging to the Navy are required to show in themselves a good example of virtue, honor, patriotism, and subordination.”

  “Skip ahead to Article 4. Just the underlined parts.”

  “Aye, aye.” He flipped the page and belted out, “Article 4! The punishment of death … may be inflicted upon any person who … in time of battle, displays cowardice, negligence, or disaffection, or withdraws from or keeps out of danger to which he should expose himself … or does not, upon signal for battle, use his utmost exertions to join in battle … or does not do his utmost to overtake and capture or destroy any vessel which it is his duty to encounter.”

  On Sandtiger’s starboard side, Redhorse backed from the pier, puffing clouds of white smoke like a giant cigar. Her foghorn blared.

  Moreau said, “That’s enough for now.”

  The crew stood at respectful attention. They were afraid of the enemy. The captain wanted them to be terrified of him.

  Charlie dismissed the men, who rushed to stations. The engines rumbled to life. “Stand by to single up! Take in the gangway!” He roared the commands even as his mind scrambled over the checklist needed to get the boat underway. He was XO now. Everything he did and said needed to convey total confidence.

  Charlie turned to the captain. “Engines have full loading. We’re ready to get underway, sir.”

  “Very well. Take us out on time.”

  “Single up! Take in 2 and 3! Take in 4! Take the strain on 1!” The lines slithered onto the deck. “Take in 1!”

  The foghorn blasted. Potential energy surged through the boat as the diesels pulsed. Charlie felt the hum in his chest. Sandtiger’s power flowed through him.

  Percy blew a whistle, which signaled the sailors to lower and remove the colors. Charlie backed Sandtiger into the bay, underway at last.

  “Helm, all ahead two-thirds,” he ordered with a fierce and sudden joy. “Right twenty degrees rudder.”

  “Aye, aye, Exec,” came the reply over the bridge intercom.

  The great fleet submarine churned the water in pursuit of Redhorse, which steamed down Mare Island Strait. Well-wishers waved final goodbyes from the pier as the band’s rendition of “Anchors Aweigh” faded.

  Percy waved in the other direction at the departing submarines. “Bye, Trombly!”

  One of the lookouts let out a wolf-whistle. A solitary figure ran along the pier, shouting across the distance. Charlie smiled as he recognized Evie dressed in her gray factory overalls. She stopped at the edge and stood on tiptoes, waving her scarf over her head.

  He’d been right. Even in grimy overalls, she was a looker.

  “Isn’t that your girl, Harrison?” Percy asked him. “I mean, sort of your girl?”

  “She is,” he replied. “Sort of.”

  “Well, go on, boy,” Moreau said. “You know what to do.”

  Charlie waved back until she shrank from view. Sandtiger rounded Mare Island and entered San Pablo Bay.

  The captain said, “Now put her out of your mind. We got work to do.”

  Charlie’s expression flipped back to professional sullen. “Aye, Captain.”

  “I got an exec who lusts for yellow bloo
d and a torpedo officer who can do the same hoodoo to my fish he did to Sabertooth’s. Can’t wait to sink some Japs.”

  He was starting to like Captain Moreau. “Any word on the mission, sir? Last night, you said ComSubPac had something big planned for us.”

  “He surely does, Charlie. Redhorse, Warmouth, and us, we’re gonna be a wolf pack. We’re gonna tear Tojo a new asshole.”

  Naval Station Pearl Harbor, Oahu, July 21, 1943.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE MISSION

  Landfall.

  Oahu, pretty as a postcard.

  Standing on the bridge, Charlie scanned ahead with his binoculars.

  Warmouth and Redhorse remained in the column lead, trailing smoke in the warm, humid air. The PC boat arrived on time, flashing recognition signals.

  Paced by its escort, the wolf pack steamed along the bright coastline. To starboard, Honolulu sprawled under lush tropical mountains.

  The Royal Hawaiian Hotel. Wakiki Beach. Tiny figures splashed in the surf. Others lounged on the white sand. No doubt, many were submariners on R&R.

  Buy me a drink, sailor?

  A moment of discomfort. Then he smiled as many more memories flooded his mind’s eye. He wondered what Jane was doing right now. He knew she’d returned to duty. Not to the front lines, he hoped. Knowing Jane, though, that’s exactly where she’d want to be.

  He remembered holding her after she’d woken up crying. Jane had survived the Japanese occupation of the Philippines. She had her own bad memories, her own nightmares. Still, she wouldn’t quit fighting. That just wasn’t her.

  Percy raised the colors. Sandtiger’s proud battle flags streamed in the wind.

  Sleek gray destroyers guarded the channel, winding their figure eights. Charlie maneuvered the submarine toward the entrance buoys. A minesweeper chugged past. Planes hummed like hornets overhead, looking for something to sting.

  “Permission to bring her into the harbor, Captain?”

  Moreau leaned on the gunwale. “Yup.”

  During the past week at sea, Moreau delegated almost everything to him. Managing the departments, navigation, acting as diving officer during the morning trim dive. A crash course in running a submarine far more rigorous than the firehose treatment Reynolds and Lewis had given him. No screw-ups so far, thank God.

  He needed to learn everything he could, while making sure the crew learned with him. The new ensigns got the firehose treatment in accordance with the finest traditions of the Navy. The chiefs did the same to the enlisted greenhorns in their charge. Charlie relentlessly drilled the crew as a whole: battle surface, crash dive, fire drill, submerged approach, silent running. By the time Sandtiger reached Hawaii, the boat operated at peak efficiency.

  The captain seemed satisfied. Otherwise, the skipper remained a bit of a mystery, moody and unpredictable. Not difficult, though. Certainly not the tyrant Percy had warned him about.

  “Helm, Bridge,” Charlie said. “Right fifteen degrees rudder. All ahead standard.”

  The rudder dug into the water and turned the boat into the Pearl Harbor Channel. The water gradually calmed until Sandtiger appeared to glide across blue glass, like one of Quiet Bill’s models.

  As always, Pearl buzzed with activity. Dozens of warships lay moored at their berths. Big cranes loomed over the Navy Yard, where workers labored to refit a battle-scarred heavy cruiser and two destroyers in dry dock.

  The Oklahoma still lay where she was sunk. The shattered, listing hulk rested on the harbor bottom. Beyond, Arizona’s funnel protruded above the water. Heartbreaking, seeing them again. Charlie had grown up with these battleships. As a teenager, buying and trading, he’d amassed a collection of Topps Gum U.S. Navy cards. He’d seen them as giants of the sea. Now the giants were dead, and Charlie had grown up to become a giant-killer.

  He piloted the boat across the harbor toward its designated berth at the submarine base, next to a big sea tender. Fuel, water, supply trucks, and a jeep sat parked on the jetty. The crew warped the boat to the pier and laid down the gangplank. Sailors on the dock unloaded mailbags and crates of fresh ice cream and vegetables.

  A group of Navy officers dismounted from the jeep and made their way up the pier to the gangplank. At the sight of the scrambled eggs on the peaked cap of one of the men, Charlie and Percy came to attention and saluted.

  “At ease,” the man said as he came aboard. He extended his hand to Moreau, who enveloped it in one of his big paws. “Good to see you back in action, Gil.”

  “It’s what I do best, sir.”

  “Rickard and Shelby are already on their way to the mission briefing.”

  “Good enough.” Moreau jerked his thumb at Charlie. “Meet my new Number Two, Charlie Harrison. Eats Japs for breakfast. Charlie, meet the boss, Captain Squadron Commander Rich Cooper.”

  “An honor to meet you, sir,” Charlie said.

  “Harrison. Right. ComSubPac mentioned you. Yosai. Hell of a thing.”

  Rear Admiral English died in a plane crash in February. Rear Admiral Lockwood, who commanded the submarines in the Southwest Pacific, became ComSubPac shortly afterward and transferred his offices to Pearl. Charlie had the honor to meet the man twice. Lockwood, in turn, had taken an interest in him.

  Cooper regarded Charlie wearing a quizzical expression. He was a veteran submariner, trained according to pre-war doctrine. Because of that doctrine, the submarines had done little damage so far in the war. Lockwood had begun weeding out complacent commanders and replacing them with a new breed of young, aggressive skippers.

  The new fighting captains such as Moreau, Rickard, and Shelby were racking up big wins. The results spoke for themselves. Still, veterans like Cooper probably wondered if men like Moreau and Charlie were right in the head.

  Maybe Cooper was like Rusty, who defined a hero as a hothead who hadn’t yet learned about his mortality. A hothead who got lucky but whose luck would one day run out in accordance with the laws of probability.

  Cooper introduced one of his officers. “This is Sam Dougherty, E&R officer.” Engineering and repair. “He’ll make sure your tanks are topped up and help you out with anything else you need. You three boats have top priority. These other men here are inspectors.”

  As XO, Charlie reviewed readiness reports from department heads. He had a list of repairs ready to give Dougherty.

  “Hand over your weep list and let Nixon run with it, Charlie,” Moreau said. “You’re coming with me to the mission briefing.”

  Percy took over as officer of the deck watch. The captain and Charlie climbed into the back of the jeep, which sped off across the jetty. Drab buildings flashed by, headquarters, maintenance, and barracks among groves of waving palm trees.

  “The Marines are slogging it out on New Georgia,” Cooper said over his shoulder. “ComSubPac wants us to do our part and step up our game. Take the fight right to them.”

  “Dat’s why we’re here,” Moreau said.

  “He’s cooked up an operation that’s right up your alley, Gil.”

  The jeep braked in front of a headquarters building.

  “Hang tight,” Cooper told the driver. “I’ll have these men on their way back to their boat in an hour or two.”

  Inside, the lobby branched off into offices, a typing pool filled with young women, and a large conference room. Rickard and Shelby were already in the conference room with their execs, helping themselves to coffee and donuts.

  “Now we can start,” Shelby said with his crooked grin. “The maniacs are all here. So what’s the word?”

  Charlie exchanged curt nods with the other execs and sat at the table. Moreau went to a nearby urn and poured himself a mug of coffee. One of the admiral’s aides passed out thick envelopes marked TOP SECRET to the captains. These envelopes contained their operations orders from ComSubPac.

  OPERATION PAYBACK, Charlie read on the envelope.

  “Gentlemen, welcome,” Cooper said. “Today, we’re going to launch one of the boldest missions th
e submarine force has ever undertaken. Your task force is going where no American submarine has gone before.”

  The men perked up at that.

  “Your destination.” Cooper pulled down a giant map of the Pacific Theater over the wall. He swatted a stretch of blue with his pointer. “AREA ONE.”

  Charlie stifled a gasp. He sat up straight in his chair.

  The wolf pack was bound for the Sea of Japan.

  Area of operations. The Sea of Japan.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  HIROHITO’S BATHTUB

  The Sea of Japan. Cooper paused to let that sink in.

  Surrounded by the Japanese islands to the east and mainland Asia and the Korean peninsula to the west, the Sea of Japan covered more than 350,000 square miles of open water.

  The submariners called it the emperor’s private lake. Hirohito’s bathtub.

  With five straits leading in and out, it was easily defendable. Ships could safely transport troops and war materiel to China and return with food and raw materials. Planes, coastal batteries, ships, and sea mines made it impossible to penetrate.

  Until now.

  Shelby broke the silence. “What’s the mission, exactly?”

  “Sink Japanese shipping and go on starving the beast. We’re going to open another front, hit them where they live, and tie up IJN attention and resources.” IJN, the Imperial Japanese Navy. “By deploying a coordinated attack group, we’ll hit them hard. Send a message. Show the Japs that nowhere is safe. Nowhere on Earth, not even their own backyard.”

  “They’ll be all over us the minute we sink a ship,” Rickard said.

  “It’s the Doolittle Raid all over again,” Shelby wondered.

  “This is a lightning raid,” Cooper clarified. “Sink everything you can in four days. Then get out before the Japs mobilize their defenses. You’ll have to make every hour count.”

  Shelby whistled. “No kidding.”

  Rickard: “Any intel on how much shipping is running through AREA ONE?”