Читать книгу Pacific Standoff (Periscope #1) - Richard Deming - Страница 7

Chapter 4

“Where the hell is the skipper? He’s been gone a whole fucking week!” Torpedoman Mike Antonelli had spent twelve years in parochial school and six years as an alter boy at St. Theresa’s in Baltimore. As soon as he enlisted in the Navy, he’d started developing a vocabulary worthy of a bo’sun’s mate.

Motor Machinist’s Mate Jerry O’Dwyer drained his coffee mug before replying. “Didn’t nobody tell you? His old man just kicked the bucket.”

“So what? When my old man shoved off, the cocksuckers only gave me a weekend pass.”

“Your old man wasn’t an admiral, unless it was in the Italian navy.”

“Hey, at least we got a navy, right? You Micks probably make do with a couple of fucking rowboats full of potatoes.”

O’Dwyer stood up. “Another cup of mud?” he asked. Antonelli shook his head. From the coffee urn O’Dwyer continued, “You hear the one about what they drink in different navies? The Limeys drink rum, the Frogs drink wine, the Krauts like beer, we Americans drink coffee, but the Italians stick to port!” He was joined on the punch line by “Smoky” Stover, the cook, who was in the galley cutting sandwiches.

“Very funny. You guys oughta be on Amateur Hour. The first time I heard that one, I laughed so hard I pissed in my diaper. Anyway, I wish the skipper would get the fuck back here.”

“What’s the rush? They won’t start the war without us.”

“Yeah, Antonelli,” Stover chimed in, “what’s your problem? Aren’t there enough V-girls in New London to keep you happy?”

“Mike here is a real businessman,” said O’Dwyer, deadpan. “Last week, for the price of a Coke, he got a dose of the clap. Who was it, Antonelli, that bobbysoxer with the Veronica Lake hairdo and bazooms out to here?”

“Aw, blow it out your assholes, the both of you. Selma’s a nice girl, she only does it after dark. Not like that floozie you were with the other day. She’s made you a blood-brother to half the fucking fleet. Anyway, that’s all crap. It’s what’s happening on this pigboat that gets me. A couple more days of Mister By-the-Book and I just might take a walk.”

O’Dwyer instinctively glanced around the mess-room to see if the torpedoman had been overheard. “You want to watch that lip of yours,” he said in a lowered voice. “Talk like that can get you in heap big trouble.”

“Screw it. We didn’t have any of this bullshit on my last boat, and we took care of our share of Japs and then some. A fucking torpedo doesn’t go any faster because you dust and polish it every watch. The skipper seems like an okay joe with a lot on the ball, but for all I care, Old Stoneface can disappear up his own asshole. He’s got his head up his ass already.”

A musical chime sounded through the boat and the men in the messroom, who had come off watch only a quarter hour before, got hastily to their feet. “See what I mean?” Antonelli demanded as he dropped his mug in the basin. “Fucking battle stations. You wait—we’ll stand down in half an hour on the nose, then just when you’re ready to dig into a sandwich, he’ll sound the collision alarm. Fucking Mickey Mouse, that’s what it is.” The two men threaded their way aft, through the crew quarters with its triple tiers of bunks and into the forward engine room. O’Dwyer waved casually and stopped next to the control panel of the number two engine, while Antonelli continued across the catwalk to the after hatch, on his way to his battle station in the aft torpedo room. Moments later the command came to rig for depth charge. Cursing, he slammed the heavy hatch and spun the wheel that sealed it, then shut down the ventilating ducts. In other parts of the boat other men were doing the same. In less than twenty seconds the submarine was divided into eight separate watertight compartments.

One of the compartments was the control room. Art Hunt, the exec and acting CO, stood with his back to the periscope housing, his eyes flicking between the depth gauge and the pit log that indicated the boat’s speed through the water. He pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment; the stale air was making his headache worse. “Make turns for three knots,” he ordered. “Hold her at seventy-two feet.”

“Three knots, seventy-two feet, aye, aye.” Dutch, at the diving manifold, continued to manipulate the valves, trying to catch a trim. His task was harder than usual. Far to the north, in the mountains of Vermont and New Hampshire, the spring thaw had begun. The melted snow collected in the Connecticut and Housatonic Rivers and flowed southward, emptying into the enclosed waters of Long Island Sound and diluting them. Manta had been designed to operate in salt water. In this brackish element she acted unpredictably. To make things worse, not all the fresh water had mixed with the salty Sound yet. A layer of it sat on the top, thicker near the mouths of the rivers. When they began their dive, it was this less dense fluid that had filled their ballast tanks, and now the boat was sitting on the boundary between the two layers as if on a floor, without enough negative buoyancy to break through. The diving planes might have helped, but at three knots they had little effect.

“I said seventy-two feet, Mr. Wing! Come on, get the lead out of your pants!”

The young ensign flushed, while the crewmen looked away with instinctive tact. He knew that the men were having difficulty with this dive, though he didn’t know the reason, and he had learned to trust their experience and competence. Barking at them wouldn’t help at all. He passed a handkerchief across his forehead. Why was the exec keeping the boat buttoned up? It was important to practice rigging for depth charge, of course, but to stay rigged for half an hour made no sense. He saw with relief that Hunt was making for the ladder to the conning tower. He would do his job a lot better without the exec breathing down his neck.

Art Hunt was trying to remember the plan he had drafted the night before for today’s exercises. How long since he had last checked their position with the periscope? He started toward the ladder and noticed that their depth had crept up to almost sixty-eight feet. Goddammit, why couldn’t the planesmen do their job properly? Were they goofing off just to make him look bad? He stood between them and scrutinized their faces. They glanced over, then ignored him, concentrating on the dials.

“Chief!”

“Sir?” Dutch looked around, puzzled by the venom in the exec’s tone.

“This man’s on report! He is unshaven and slovenly!”

“Aye, aye, sir,” the chief replied tonelessly. The other men in the compartment looked up in surprise, then looked away. Tommy Outerbridge, the bow planesman, felt sick with humiliation. He had three war patrols under his belt already, but until three months before he had never needed a razor. He had taken a lot of ribbing about his baby-soft complexion and was absurdly proud of the light-brown fuzz that was starting to appear on his cheeks.

Paul took Art’s arm and led him to the rear of the control room. “Sir,” he said in an undertone, “don’t you think you’re being a little harsh? Outerbridge is a good seaman, and he’s only one of a dozen or more who have already started growing beards. You know the tradition, after all.”

“Tradition be damned!” Hunt said loudly. “I know the regulations, Mr. Wing, and so do you! I won’t have a crew that looks like a bunch of pirates, and you can pass that along!” He pulled his arm away and started for the ladder. As he did so, a voice called down from the conning tower.

“Conn! Sound contact, bearing 0-3-5 relative.”

Hunt sprang for the ladder, calling, “Periscope depth, damn it! This is a restricted area!” Dutch and the two planesmen snapped into action, putting the recent scene out of their minds. In the conning tower Plum grabbed the spare earphones and listened for a moment to the unmistakable lub-lub-lub of a ship’s propeller. “Bearing’s shifted, sir,” the sonarman said. “0-6-0 now.”

“Get me a range on it,” said Hunt grimly.

“Sixty feet!” came a call from below. The exec started the periscope up, grabbing the shackle as soon as it cleared the well and turning it to the right. After a quick look he checked the handle and his face went pale. The periscope was set for low power, so the ship that filled it must be nearly upon them!

“Sir, range is three hundred yards!”

“Hard right rudder, all ahead emergency! Take her down, fast! Dive, damn you, dive!” The control room erupted in a frenzy of activity, but for the men in the conning tower there was nothing to do but listen to the ever-closer pounding of the screws, audible now without the help of the sonar gear. The slightest touch from one of those huge bronze blades would open the Manta s pressure hull like a tin can. The deck started to slant forward as the boat clawed for safety in the depths. The threatening ship was on the port bow now, and every man stared up in that direction as if he could see through the steel hull. They could hear the ship’s engines now, and the swish of turbulence along her hull. The submarine canted to the right, caught by the underwater wave, and the bow seemed to settle to a lower angle. The noise of the propellers was almost deafening now, and seemed to come from directly overhead. No one in the conning tower dared to breathe, for fear he would miss the first sound of the collision. Then, unbelievably, the noise moved past and began to fade.

A new peril presented itself before they had time to feel relieved at their escape. “Sir, we’re passing 120 feet,” the helmsman called. Alerted by the anxiety in his voice, Hunt recalled the soundings on the chart of these waters. With this much down-angle on the boat, the bow was many feet deeper than the depth gauge indicated. It could smash into the bottom at any moment!

“Full rise!” he screamed. “Blow safety!” His headache had spread from above his nose all the way around his head. It felt like a steel band being tightened bit by bit. He could remember what to do if only it would go away. The roar of the compressed air forcing the water from the safety tank mixed with the roaring in his head, and he clutched at the periscope tube for support as the boat lurched and started to rise.

Lou daCosta’s battle station was at the torpedo data computer, or TDC, against the aft bulkhead of the conning tower. He had watched his superior officer’s reactions to the closely spaced emergencies with mounting concern. Now White, the quartermaster, was trying to catch his eye from his post at the helm. The rudder was still over hard and the motors were going full out. The boat was moving upward on a corkscrew course at an ever steeper angle. Unless corrective action was taken at once, she would broach the surface like a leaping whale. The jar when the bow fell back onto the water would cause unguessable damage and injuries. But he could do nothing; Art was in command.

Was he unwell? He seemed unsteady on his feet. The imploring look on the quartermaster’s face made up Lou’s mind for him. He stepped forward and took Art’s arm. The exec looked at him dazedly. “Art, we’ve got to straighten out and level off. We’re about to broach.”

A spark of understanding came into the other man’s eyes and he opened his mouth, but no words came out.

“Would you like me to take the conn?” The exec blinked but did not reply. That was enough for daCosta. “Rudder amidships,” he snapped. “All ahead one-third. Planesmen, get the up angle off her. Prepare to surface!” He sounded the diving klaxon three times, warning the crew that the boat was about to surface.

White had already corrected the helm and was anxiously studying the depth gauge. They were in for it this time, and no mistake! “Broaching, sir,” he warned, and gripped the wheel tighter. For an instant he had a sensation in the pit of his stomach that reminded him of roller-coaster rides as a kid, then the deck smashed upward under his feet. The bare light bulbs overhead jiggled wildly on their short cords, and two of them shattered, spraying shards of glass on the men sprawled on the deck.

DaCosta was the first to regain his feet. “All compartments report damage,” he snapped. A white-faced sailor wearing a telephone headset spoke briefly and listened intently before reporting, “No major damage sir; minor injuries.”

“Very well. Secure from general quarters. Secure from depth charge. Quartermaster, open the hatch. Lookouts to the bridge!” He was so close behind them going up the ladder that he was nearly kicked in the face. One look around was enough to tell him that, wherever they were, they were far from their assigned operating area. The Connecticut shore, to the north, was either below the horizon or obscured by the haze, but there was land on the port beam, no more than five thousand yards away. He studied it through the binoculars and decided that it must be Plum Island, with Orient Point, the north fork of Long Island, just beyond it. If so, they were a good twelve miles southwest of where they were supposed to be. If an ASW patrol plane spotted them in these waters, it might lead to an unfortunate misunderstanding.

“All ahead two-thirds,” he said into the squawk box. “Course 0-4-0.” The order was acknowledged and the bow began to veer to the right as the boat picked up speed.

Art Hunt clambered to the bridge and looked around. He seemed unaware of the cut on his left cheek. “Where are we, Lou?” DaCosta pointed out the landmarks and explained his conclusions. Hunt nodded. “Very well,” he said, “I have the conn. You can go below.”

DaCosta wanted to argue, but in the end his Navy training was too strong. “Aye, aye, sir,” he said, and climbed down from the bridge. As he passed through the conning tower on his way to the wardroom and a badly needed cup of coffee, White, still at the helm, gave him a look of concern but kept his mouth shut.

Paul Wing was less discreet. He collared Lou in the control room and hissed, “What in hell happened up there?”

“Nothing. We had to dodge a freighter, and then things got sticky for a while. It’s okay now, I guess.”

“Lou, you’re holding out on me!”

For answer he glanced around at the rigid backs of the crewmen. Paul got the point. “Join me for a drink at the club tonight?” he said, elaborately casual.

On the bridge Art was rehearsing the report he would have to submit on today’s exercises. Somehow he was going to have to hide the fact that the few minutes following the near collision were completely blank in his mind. He could get the bare facts from the log, of course, but while that might satisfy the brass, it didn’t satisfy him. One moment he had been maneuvering to avoid that ship, and the next moment the boat surfaced, daCosta was in command, and everyone was evading his eye. Those eggs had tasted funny this morning; could that be it? Just a touch of food poisoning, nothing serious; certainly he was still fit for duty. It might be a long time before he had another opportunity to command a boat, and he was damned if he’d lose it by going on sick list.

The loudspeaker crackled. “Maneuvering to bridge!”

He thumbed the push-to-talk button. “Bridge, aye, aye.”

“Permission to take number three off the line. We’ve got a problem in the timing gear.”

“How bad is it, Charlie?”

“It’s minor for now, but it could lead to big trouble. Something must have been knocked out of alignment by that jolt.”

What jolt? the exec wondered. “Very well, permission granted. If we head for the barn now, maybe your boys can get it fixed before tomorrow morning.”

He turned the selector to speak to the control room. “Come around to course”—he squinted down at the bridge compass; the dirty glass made it very hard to read—“course 0-1-2. We’re going home.”