Ghosts of Bungo Suido (2013) Read online

  “XO, take the conn,” Gar said. “I need a sandwich. Have the crew stand easy on station, but let ’em know we’ll be back at it in about a half hour.”

  He went forward to the tiny wardroom, where he took ten minutes to have a sandwich and a mug of coffee. The wardroom had a single table and room for six men at a time. There was a green bench on either side of the table in place of chairs. He put his mug into a dish drawer and then went to his cabin to flop for a few minutes. He needed to relax, and he also needed the crew to see that he was relaxed. What’s the Old Man doing? He’s taking a nap. Oh, okay, it must be safe, for the moment, anyway.

  Thirty minutes later they called him, and he returned to the conning tower. Lieutenant Ray Gibson, the ops officer, announced, “Captain’s in Conn,” as Gar’s head cleared the hatch. Gibson was no more than five-seven in his dress shoes. He wore oversized spectacles that made him look a lot like an owl. Given that and his last name, his nickname just had to be Hoot.

  Gar asked Hoot what he had for him. Gibson recited the tactical solution, their course, depth, and speed, and where they were plotting the two tankers.

  “Where’s that second escort?”

  “No data, Cap’n,” Gibson said. “Nobody’s echo ranging, either.”

  The exec shook his head. “Two tin cans, neither one of them echo ranging? That make any sense?”

  “No, sir,” Gibson said, “but there it is. Sound hasn’t heard the first ping.”

  The exec eased through the crowd of people so that he could talk directly to the soundman. “Can you tune that thing, Popeye?”

  “Have to take the whole system offline, XO,” Popeye Waller said. He was the ship’s senior sonar tech. “And you know what can happen then.”

  What could happen was that the sometimes-balky sonar system wouldn’t come back up, and then they’d be in trouble. No sonar, no ears. The passive side of the sonar was preset into the frequency range of Japanese navy sonars. The exec wondered aloud if the Japs had changed freq.

  “If he were pinging, couldn’t we just hear it through the hull?” he asked.

  Popeye, who’d pushed back his headphones, rubbed his ears. “If he were pinging directional, right at us, yes, we’d probably hear that. But if he’s in omni mode, the same layer that’s protecting us would deflect most of that energy.”

  “And if they’ve changed freq?”

  “Then we’d never hear it until he was right on us and throwing bad shit in the water,” Popeye said. He turned around in his seat. “You think they’ve switched?”

  “It’s possible,” the exec said. “We never heard the first one either, and he was right on top.”

  “Okay,” Gar said. “Enough. We’ll loiter here for a little while longer, then go up and take a look. For the moment, though, I want to stay quiet until we know that second escort isn’t hunting.”

  He was hoping the second escort was busy picking up survivors from the other destroyer. With their own speed limited to 3 knots, the convoy, going 9 knots faster than they were, was getting farther and farther away from them. He couldn’t risk depleting the battery with another 8-knot sprint, so at some point he’d have to get up on the surface and on the diesels and chase down the convoy. They had to be damned sure they didn’t surface into the loving arms of a vengeful Jap destroyer.

  He wished he could close the hatch to the control room. All that hot, stinking air was doing what hot air always does: rise. Popeye had put his headphones back on and was steering the external sound heads around in a careful sector search. Nobody spoke. Everyone waited. The plotting team continued to update the tactical plot on the target convoy using dead-reckoning techniques, but they all knew it was only an estimate. They just had to wait it out. Gar told the exec to go below and start people back to their General Quarters stations.

  After another half hour went by, he again asked Popeye what he was hearing.

  “Ain’t heard a peep, Cap’n,” Popeye said. “Right now, it’s just biologics and white noise.”

  “Well, that won’t do,” Gar said. “I really need to know where that second tin can is, and also what happened to the first one.”

  The exec had come back up into the conning tower. “By definition,” he said, “the first one’s right where you torpedoed him. He’s either gone down, or he’s a floating wreck. Two thousand plus yards, that way. Everyone’s back at GQ, sir.”

  “Good. I’m getting a bad feeling about that other escort, XO. We’re blind down here. What’s he doing and where the hell is he?”

  Pah-pah-pah-pah.

  “You asked,” the exec said softly.

  Popeye clamped his headphones to his head and worked the sound-head controls. “No clear bearing, Cap’n. The layer’s got us. But he has to be close.”

  “Right full rudder, all ahead Bendix,” Gar ordered. “Control, make your depth four hundred feet, fifteen-degree down bubble.”

  The exec dropped into the control room as the Dragonfish heeled to port in her tight right turn, the bow tilting down dramatically.

  Pah-pah-pah-pah.

  The destroyer was close enough that they could distinguish a clear up Doppler, which meant this one was inbound with murder on his mind. They were all having to hold on as the planes bit into the Dragon’s lunge for the safety of deep water. Then Gar remembered that spiraling wasn’t the fastest way to achieve depth. He ordered the helmsman to meet her.

  “Steadying on one niner zero,” the helmsman called as he whirled the small wheel, his voice exhibiting some Doppler of its own.

  Now the destroyer’s screwbeats were close enough and loud enough to penetrate even the protective thermoclines, those invisible acoustic barriers formed by two layers of water at different temperatures.

  Gar knew that everybody in the boat was screaming the same mental exhortation in his mind: Go, Dragon, go. The destroyer’s propeller sounds were now just a steady thrashing of the water as he passed overhead.

  “Pass the word to stand by for depth charges,” the exec said.

  No shit, replied the silent mental chorus.

  Then they all heard it: a loud click as the first hydrostatic fuse fired.

  A huge blast hammered them, followed by another and then another. A choking cloud of dust, humidity haze, and bits of cork insulation rained down. The Jap was right on the bearing, Gar thought, but their fast dive had saved them. The depth charges were going off at about two fifty, far enough above them to keep the Dragon from being imploded. Two more blasts, off to starboard. Still shallow, thank God. Gar found himself rubbing his magic charm, a chief petty officer’s collar insignia he kept on his key chain.

  “Passing through four hundred feet,” the diving officer called. Gar’s arms were rigid against the ladder rails behind the periscope well. Passing through? They’d gone down too fast, and now the boat was below ordered depth. Recover? Or keep going? Keep going.

  “Ease your down bubble to five degrees, and make your depth five hundred feet,” he ordered. “Left standard rudder.”

  The boat heeled back the other way as she executed the sudden spiral back to the left. Four more depth charges went off in succession, each one hammering the sub’s hull in an ear-squeezing bang. He’s setting them deeper now, Gar thought. The boat’s steel hull was creaking and groaning, literally changing shape at these extreme depths, where even a small leak could sink them.

  He looked over at the battery discharge meters. “All ahead Bendix” was slang for max power, regardless of what was left in the batteries, but those damned batteries kept score. They had maybe fifteen more minutes before the lights would go out.

  Four more depth charges exploded, but this time, they were some distance away. He looked at the battery meters again.

  Hell with this, he thought. I’m gonna go get this guy.

  “Slow to four knots and come to periscope depth,” he ordered, visibly shocking everyone in the conning tower. “Make ready tubes nine and ten.”

  The Dragon trembled as the
y came off full battery power to something more manageable and began the climb back to periscope depth, right through that protective thermocline layer that had not kept them safe this time. Why had they not detected pinging? This second destroyer had come right to them as if following a homing beacon.

  Pah-pah-pah-pah. Slower now, as the tin can up above repositioned somewhere behind them for another run.

  “Got him on zero seven five,” Popeye called. “Down Doppler.”

  “Passing three hundred feet.”

  “Level straight to sixty feet,” Gar said. No more fine-tuning. He was going to get up there, take a look, and take a shot. Right now this guy thought he was in charge. We’ll see about that. They waited as the sub came up, tipping back and forth a bit as the diving officer fought to keep her in trim.

  “Sixty feet, aye,” called the diving officer.

  Then they waited. The TDC team was entering sound bearings and assumed ranges, trying to coax the computer into a firing solution.

  “Bearing zero eight zero, null Doppler. He’s turning.”

  Coming in for another try. Gar hoped he would be set deep this time, while they would be back at sixty feet.

  “Target’s entering our baffles,” Popeye announced.

  Gar closed his eyes for a moment, visualizing the tactical picture. They had no idea of the range to their adversary, but he knew the tin can would steady up as he ran in to make another depth-charge run. That’s when he would become the target.

  “Bearing?”

  “He’s somewhere in the baffles,” Popeye replied, impatiently. As in, I just told you I can’t hear him anymore. “Dead astern.”

  “Passing two hundred feet.”

  He turned to the torpedo data computer team. “Set running depth to ten feet, torpedo gyro to three zero five, shoot nine and ten when ready.”

  Pah-pah-pah-pah-pah-pah. Closing rapidly. The external sonar heads were blinded by the Dragon’s own propeller noises, but the destroyer was close enough now that the whole sub could hear him coming in. Three seconds passed, and then they heard and felt the first fish punch away from the stern tubes, followed a few seconds later by the second.

  “Right standard rudder, make one full circle, then steady on two seven zero, periscope depth, and make ready tubes seven and eight.”

  “Hot, straight, and normal,” Popeye reported.

  “Run time unknown,” said the TDC operator.

  “No kidding?” Gar asked, and everyone grinned for a brief moment. He’d fired blind, but there was a decent chance the destroyer would be coming at them right on that bearing.

  Then came a satisfying blast, followed by a second one. Gar saw the exec wince as the whole boat shook from end to end, then realize those weren’t depth charges. The torpedoes had found their mark. Lucky, lucky, lucky! It sounded like the destroyer was disintegrating right on top of them. Time to stop that turn and get out from under.

  “Steady as you go.”

  “Steadying on—one eight five.”

  “Passing one hundred feet. Coming to periscope depth.”

  “All ahead one-third, turns for three knots.” He waited for a full minute for the speed to come off the boat. “Up scope.”

  A moment later they leveled off, mushing into the surface effect of topside waves as they slowed. Gar straightened up as the scope came up, the lenses still underwater.

  “Passing eighty feet.”

  He held his breath. The scope might be dark, but there was no lack of sound effects. Two torpedoes had torn the approaching destroyer apart. The roar of an exploding boiler filled the conning tower, accompanied by the cacophony of rending steel as the destroyer’s shattered hull collapsed into the mortal embrace of the ever-hungry sea. Thankfully the sounds were coming from astern of them now.

  “Level at periscope depth,” called the diving officer. His voice sounded more than a little bit strained.

  These guys needed to buck up, Gar thought. It was one thing to lie in ambush for a fat merchant ship and blow its bottom out from a mile away. It was quite another to get in close with a Jap destroyer and go a couple of rounds—and then do it again.

  He scrambled around the periscope well, completing a three-sixty quick-look. A steady rumbling noise filled the conning tower as the destroyer sank, her remaining boilers bellowing steam into the cold sea as her bulkheads collapsed in a series of loud bangs. Gar mentally pushed away images of her crew being boiled alive as they were dragged down into the depths.

  Remember Pearl Harbor, you sonsabitches.

  “Okay,” he said. “That’s that. Stand by to surface. Plot, give me a bearing to that first tin can datum. Radar, conduct two short-range sweeps as soon as you can.”

  Everyone in the conning tower seemed to exhale at the same time, and then they all jumped in unison when the sinking destroyer’s depth charges started to go off as he plunged past their set points. The Japs always kept their ashcans armed. Any of the crew who had managed to get overboard alive were now having their insides squeezed up out of their throats.

  Remember Pearl Harbor.

  “Radar reports no contacts within five miles.”

  Got ’em both, he thought. The three-ship convoy must have kept going once their escorts started mixing it up with Dragonfish.

  “One radar sweep, long range,”

  He could hear a commotion below as the bridge crew assembled down in the control room. The chief of the boat was coaxing the planesmen, who were having trouble maintaining a level depth with everybody moving around in the boat. The radar mast motors whined as it slid up to full height to improve their radar picture.

  “Conn, radar: one contact, zero six five, twenty-one thousand yards.”

  “Surface,” he said.

  The Klaxon sounded. “Surface, surface. Lookouts to the bridge.”

  There was a mad scramble down in the control room as the diving officer operated the ballast tank levers while Cob monitored the angle on the boat. The people in the conning tower had to flatten themselves against the bulkheads to admit the lookouts and the officer of the deck. Their ears popped as the first lookout opened the hatch. Everyone welcomed the cold, fresh air, even when it sprayed some seawater into the conning tower.

  “XO, take the conn. Put three diesels on the line, and one for the can. Head to intercept that radar contact.”

  * * *

  Gar remained in Control until the surface watch had been established and the boat’s ballast tanks trimmed for surface running. He told the diving officer to make sure the negative tank remained full. If the Dragon had to submerge fast, the extra weight in the negative buoyancy tank would help get her under quickly. Satisfied, he nodded at the exec and went forward.

  No radar contacts within 5 miles meant that both tin cans had been sunk, so now it was time to get back to the business at hand. They weren’t necessarily home free, though. There was always the possibility that those destroyers had sent off a distress call to the Japanese air bases on Luzon. The intel people back in Pearl had reported that the Japs had some of their new, radar-equipped night bombers in the region. Plus, there was that third, intermittent radar contact they’d seen in the convoy. It could be one of those new patrol frigates the Japs had begun using. One-third the size of a destroyer, but lethal nonetheless.

  There was another ear-squeezing pressure wave as the diesels were lit off. If the air in the boat were unusually foul, the crew would crack all the watertight doors in the boat. Then the engine room crew would start the diesels with compressed air and let them take suction within the boat through the open bridge hatch for a few seconds before opening the main induction valve topside. This would quickly suck all the accumulated gases out of the boat, replacing it with air coming in from the conning tower hatch. It also created a momentary tornado in the control room, where any pieces of paper not nailed down began to fly around.

  Once the diesels were on the line and warmed up, the exec would order flank speed, about 20 knots. Gar calculated the pu
rsuit time: The convoy had been making between 10 and 12 knots, so their overtaking speed was only about 10 knots. An hour or so, then, and they’d go back to their sanguinary work.

  The word came down from the bridge to secure from battle stations. This meant that all the watertight compartment hatches could be fully opened, and Gar could make a quick inspection tour. Three of the ship’s main diesels were feeding the propulsion motors; the fourth was recharging the starving batteries. He checked the hydrogen meters in the forward battery to make sure the heavy charge wasn’t building up explosive gases. Then he grabbed another cup of coffee as he passed by the wardroom, where three of the junior officers were talking excitedly about the destroyers and the skipper’s “amazing” torpedo work.

  Gar knew better. That last shot had been a Hail Mary if ever there’d been one—firing two fish on a sound bearing from depth meant that the fish had had to launch, turn, stabilize their gyros, climb, and then stabilize again at ordered depth in under a minute before colliding with the destroyer’s onrushing bow. Amazing, yes, but amazing luck, not amazing skill. He asked himself again why they hadn’t detected pinging. This news would really interest Pearl. The Japs had been slow to realize that the American submarine force was becoming a much bigger threat to Japan’s survival than the big American battle fleets. They were starting to improve their sonars, depth charges, and use of radar. Their torpedoes had always been the best in the world, unlike what the American submariners had struggled to deal with for the first two years.

  He held on to the bulkheads now as he progressed forward; the boat was encountering the deep swell that was always present in the Luzon Strait. At flank speed, she pitched up and down in what felt like slow motion. Some of the guys he walked past already looked a little queasy. Being submerged a lot of the time, submariners were often lacking in the sea legs department.