Mannon made no immediate reply. Hamilton’s theory was a little too trite for his liking. And it involved a hell of a lot of supposition. But whether the skipper was right or wrong there was no disputing the fact that, on the balance of probabilities, the man who had tortured Chai Chen to death was the captain of the destroyer now anchored off the island. Any other explanation would be stretching the long arm of coincidence a trifle too far.
‘You’re probably right, sir,’ he agreed reluctantly.
At that precise moment Hamilton was not particularly interested whether Mannon agreed or not. He wanted revenge. And no one was going to stop him from carrying out his self-appointed task. He picked up the telephone to the bow compartment.
‘Is everything ready, Number Four?’
‘Bow Compartment, aye, aye, sir,’ Villiers reported. ‘Doors open and tubes flooded up. Standing by.’
‘Well, keep your fingers crossed that we don’t miss. They’re our last four torpedoes and it looks as if our reserves have already gone up in smoke.’ He cradled the phone on its hook and nodded to Bushby. ‘Up periscope!’
He found the enemy destroyer almost immediately. The dark grey warship with its strangely cranked funnels and knuckled bow was lying broadside on to the submarine in an almost perfect attack position. Hamilton felt a sudden surge of adrenalin pump into his bloodstream as he recognized the sleek silhouette. It was Suma. The man he was hunting was Aritsu!
Hamilton controlled his excitement and mechanically wiped the damp sweat of his hands on his trousers. The range was down to eight hundred yards. This time he had no need for the back-up support of the Attack Team – with a stationary target course and speed were irrelevant and there were no problems of deflection or aim off. All that counted was the accuracy of his eye and steady nerves. Moving to the attack ’scope he ordered it to be raised and carefully brought the anchored destroyer into the center of the graticule sights.
‘Stand by to fire. Fire One… Fire Two… Fire Three… Fire Four…’
A slight increase in air pressure inside the control room indicated that the tubes had been fired and the four green warning lights on the for’ard bulkhead display glowed brightly in confirmation. Glover bent over his box of tricks as he listened for the sound of the whirring propellers.
‘Torpedoes running, sir!’
‘Hard a’port, helmsman! Stand by to surface. Close up for gun action… surface!’
‘Up helm ’planes! Close vents and blow main ballast!’
Although Mannon rapped out the routine commands with disciplined obedience, he was puzzled by Hamilton’s decision to surface. Most submarine commanders dived deep immediately after a torpedo attack in anticipation of the enemy’s counter-action. And if the skipper had miscalculated, it seemed foolish to invite a fight on the surface when the odds would be all against the submarine. Perhaps Hamilton had allowed his excitement to override his natural caution.
The muffled clang of the vents being slammed shut coincided with the shrill scream of high-pressure air as the ballast tanks were blown clear. Acting on his own initiative, Mannon decided to increase speed so that the submarine would make a more difficult target when she emerged on the surface.
‘Group up◦– full ahead both motors!’ He glanced at the dials and saw that the bows were rising too sluggishly.
‘Blow Q!’
‘Ten feet, sir!’
‘Stand by for gun action!’
‘Come on, lads,’ Morgan urged the gun crew. ‘Up you go!’
Hamilton had just unclipped the upper hatch and thrown back the heavy steel cover, when the blast of the explosion nearly hurled him from the ladder. He hung on grimly, as a vivid flash lit the sky and a thunderous roar deafened his ears. A second detonation followed a moment later and then a third. Pulling himself up through the narrow opening he hurried to the starboard side of the bridge.
The dying echoes of the three thunderous explosions were still reverberating back from the sheer north face of Taichee Rock and the screaming protests of the gulls disturbed from their nests added to the confusion. Suma had been struck fair and square amidships and the second torpedo had broken the destroyer in half. The stern section was already sinking beneath the surface and, as he stared at the awful spectacle, Hamilton saw the bows tilt upwards, hang suspended for a few seconds, and then slide back beneath the sea with a sibilant hiss of quenched white-hot steel. Wreckage and bodies bobbed aimlessly in the water and a cloud of steam hung wraith-like above the surface to mark Suma’s grave.
‘Machine guns to the bridge! Reduce to half-speed!’
MacIntyre and Davidson came up through the hatch clutching their cumbersome Lewis guns and Hamilton sent them to their battle-stations in the port and starboard wings. Then, raising his binoculars, he searched the floating wreckage for survivors. But the torpedoes had done their deadly work almost too efficiently. Suma had gone down in less than half a minute and those members of the crew who survived the first torpedo had died in the water, their ribs smashed and their lungs ruptured by the pressure wave radiating outwards from the second explosion.
‘Boat approaching on port side!’
Hamilton swung round to focus his glasses on a small rowing cutter emerging from the entrance to the lagoon. The sailors on shore had obviously heard the noise of the explosions and were hurrying to the scene in search of survivors.
‘Target red-eight-zero!’ Hamilton shouted to Morgan. ‘Open fire!’
Rapier’s deck gun traversed to port and the layer’s arms pumped like pistons as he reversed the elevation wheel to depress the barrel. The loader slammed the first shell into the breech, closed the block, and pulled down the locking lever.
‘Loaded and ready Chief!’
But Morgan hesitated. Pitching steeply as its bows met the swell of the sea beyond the sheltered waters of the lagoon, the cutter thrust forward as its crew strained on their oars. The boat was less than five hundred yards off the submarine’s port beam and the Welshman’s keen eyes could make out every detail.
‘They’re not armed, sir,’ he shouted up to Hamilton.
Rapier’s captain examined the cutter through his binoculars. There were four men at the oars and the fifth, a petty officer, was at the tiller. Hamilton studied him closely and saw the holstered pistol at his hip.
‘They’re carrying guns, Mister Morgan. Open fire!’
Years of discipline had destroyed Morgan’s initiative. He knew that the men in the cutter were carrying only side-arms. They posed no threat to the submarine and intent on the task of finding survivors, they wen; showing no hostility towards Rapier. He knew too that in his present mood for revenge Hamilton would not rest until every single member of Suma’s crew was dead. But he had been given an order by a superior officer and it was not for him to question it. He turned back to the men working the deck gun.
‘Fire!… Reload!’
The first shell fell short by twenty yards and exploded harmlessly in the sea ahead of the cutter. Morgan saw the petty officer glance at the splash of the bursting shell and then concentrate his attention on the steering again. Ignoring the threat of Rapier’s gun the oarsmen continued to row steadily towards the spot where Suma had gone down.
‘Up ten… fire! Reload!’
The shell exploded with a blinding flash as it struck the starboard gunwale of the cutter. Jagged splinters of red-hot steel scythed through the men bending over the oars and simultaneously, the tiny boat disintegrated. Only the petty officer survived and, as he bobbed to the surface some twenty yards astern, two ugly triangular dorsal fins darted through the water. Hamilton lowered his glasses and leaned his elbows on the conning tower rails as the sea around the struggling man was suddenly ripped into a frenzy of boiling foam. The petty officer let out a single despairing shriek as he vanished from sight and a circle of bright red blood rose to the surface….