“Helmsman, Bridge,” Hardy called into the voice tube. “Take us hard to starboard, Quartermaster. Lay us on our beam.”
Land steadied himself as the ship veered sharply to starboard and hoved over. That was as close to a ninety-degree course change as he had ever experienced.
“All right, Number One,” Hardy said. “Both engines full ahead emergency. Make smoke from the engines and the smoke generators.”
“Yes, sir.” Land passed the information on. “Sir…?”
“We’re preparing a stage, Number One,” Hardy said in response. “We’ll have the curtain ready in no time for Prometheus. It will be her last performance, God rest her soul.”
Cole arrived at number-one torpedo station to see the last of the debris cleared away. Baird and two other seamen, including Blessing, were struggling to get the hose connections securely tightened to the compressed-air tanks on the port side.
“Is the old man trying to stand the poor girl on her head, sir?” Baird said. “I almost fell ass over teakettle off the bleeding ship.”
“He’s trying to keep us alive,” Cole said. “What do we have?”
“Three here and three on Number Two. We can get old Number One loaded again from the torpedo shed, but it’ll take just over ten minutes to do it, sir. The bloody supply party’s got me stores for Number Two blocked, so she gets one shot at it.”
“We’ve got to get to those stores,” Cole said.
“They can’t throw that mess over the side, sir,” Engleman said. “Afraid they’ll foul the propellers and rudder.”
“Wouldn’t that be lovely?” Baird said. “Here it is then, sir. Engleman’s got the stores and hoist. Blessing’s got the compressed-air tanks and I’ll take the cockpit. I can crank her into position in twenty-two seconds. You stand by to pitch in wherever you’re needed, sir.”
“Okay.”
“When we fire off this lot, sir, Blessing and I go to Number Two and you and Engleman load us again.”
“Got a taste of power, have you, Torps?” Engleman said sourly. “Ordering an officer about. Even if he is only a Yank.”
“You just do what Torps tells you,” Baird said, “or you’ll be right after those MK IXs.”
Kadow noticed the maneuvers first. “The two remaining destroyers are changing course. Crossing our bow.” He adjusted the focus. “They’re making smoke.”
“The cruiser’s trying to get away from us, Kadow,” Mahlberg said confidently. “Our guns surely dealt her a hard blow.”
“Radar confirms it, sir,” a Kapitanleutnant said. “The British cruiser is moving away at high speed. Hydrophone can’t read anything because of the gunfire and constant movement of the other ships.”
“Well,” Mahlberg said, tossing a glance of satisfaction to Kadow, “send a message to Oberkommando der Kriegsmarine, ‘Defeated Prince of Wales escort. Sank one destroyer. Damaged a cruiser and two destroyers.’ No, make that, ‘heavily damaged a cruiser and two destroyers. Proceeding to engage Prince of Wales.’ Sign it, Mahlberg.”
“Those two British destroyers will pass close to one another just off our port bow,” Kadow said, still tracking them through his binoculars.
“Get me Frey,” Mahlberg ordered. An Oberbootsmann handed him the telephone. “Frey? What are you going to do about those destroyers? I am pleased that you are tracking them. However, I would be more pleased if they were destroyed. Don’t worry about the cruiser, we shall sink her on the way to Prince of Wales.”
Cole and the other members of number-one torpedo station helped Engleman hoist the ready torpedoes into position at the edge of the torpedo shack. It was dangerous having them exposed on deck, but the shack walls offered so little protection from the splinters of the High Explosive shells that it seemed ridiculous to consider any location on Firedancer less dangerous than another.
Firedancer bore heavily into the waves, running at top speed. Spray whipped over her foc’sle and fell like ice-cold rain as far back as her forward tunnel. Cole could feel the ship throb with excitement, her engines beating a mad rhythm that vibrated throughout the ship. Black, oily smoke poured from her stacks, creating a vast dark cloud that hung close to the surface of the ocean.
He and the others took hold of the thick lines fed through the squealing pulleys and eased the sleeping torpedoes up from the depths of the little destroyer. They did it by count and Cole felt the strain on his shoulders and in his arms as Baird cursed them on.
“Get them up,” Baird shouted. “Get them in place where I can get to them, you lubbers.” He looked at Cole apologetically. “Present company excluded, sir.”
All Cole could do was smile in return. His arms burned and his back hurt and for once in his life he had no glib response.
“All right,” Engleman called. “Tie them off and get to your stations.” There might have been more for him to say, perhaps something stirring and meaningful, but more likely profane, when they heard the shells.
The men scrambled to their stations when the shells began landing around them. There was the roar of the raging sea as it sent columns high above Firedancer. Splinters shot through the air, slicing through cables, cutting through deck housing, and ricocheting with wild screams across the water. Finally came the malevolent hiss as the water descended with serpentlike satisfaction back into its home.
Cole found himself on the deck — he didn’t remember how he got there, but as he looked around he was glad to see that none of the number-one torpedo station crew was injured. Blessing was game enough to give him a thumbs-up, even if his hand was trembling so violently he had to hold it still with the other hand.
The ship’s whistle screamed twice, its high-pitched wail piercing Cole’s heart. Train the tubes to starboard. He waited for the telltale rumble as the gears rotated the PR MK II mount into position. But he heard nothing.
“Mr. Cole? Mr. Cole, sir?” It was Baird.
Cole scrambled over the edge of the mount and ran along the edge of the tube to the cockpit. Baird was out of his seat, straining to turn the training wheel.
“Of all of the bloody times for this pile of shit to let me down,” Baird said. “Take the other handle, sir. Take the other handle. I’ll crank clockwise, you crank counterclockwise. We’ve got to hurry or we won’t have a shot. Put your back into it, sir.”
Cole leaned against the handle that was attached to the training wheel. It wouldn’t budge. The gears were jammed. He locked his feet against the restraining bands on the tube, gripped the handle, and using his body weight, pushed against the frozen wheel.
It moved, slowly, each movement a protesting jerk.
“That’s it! That’s it,” Baird said. “Put your back into it, sir.”
Another salvo of enemy shells straddled Firedancer, drenching the vessel with tons of water and soaking everyone topside. Cole’s foot slipped and he fell unevenly, banging his chin on the cockpit spray shield. He tasted blood as he repositioned his foot and continued to crank. His eyes stung from the coarse smoke that whipped past them and a stream of tears rolled down both cheeks. The muscles of his arms burned in protest and his hands began to cramp on the handle.
Somehow the noise of the exploding shells and the force of the torrents of water assaulting Firedancer and her crew drove all feeling from Cole’s body. He was numb and removed from everything except turning the training wheel. They were making progress, the blunt snouts of the tubes nearly extended over the side of the vessel.