It was a regular wardroom conference, unchanged from any of the preceding ones except for ComSubPac’s recent message, a copy of which lay on the table. Blunt sat silently puffing on one of his several pipes.
Richardson and Leone had spent considerable time preparing for this conference. “Keith,” said his skipper, “show the commodore that depth-of-water overlay you worked out.” Keith produced a piece of semitransparent tissue from a folder of papers. On the tissue were outlines of some of the islands and mainland sections on the larger map, and a series of carefully printed numbers in what were obviously the water areas. “Here’s where it fits, sir,” said Keith, spreading out the tissue, flattening it carefully. He slid it about until his land-contour lines fitted over those on the chart.
“These figures are the depth of water taken from our own best American chart of the area. They’re given in fathoms, so we converted them to meters. You’ll see, sir, how close the few depths on our chart correlate to the depths the Japs have on theirs. This area being so close to their home base, the Japanese Navy made a very thorough survey, and there’s a lot more data on their chart than we have. But even though they have twenty soundings for our one, every sounding we show agrees with what they have. This means the charts must be accurate. Look what they show for the depth of water around some of these outlying islands.…”
The advocates talked on and on, each in turn picking up his thread of the argument.
“So, we’ve got to go here, Commodore,” Richardson was saying; “the Maikotsu Suido has just got to be on the track of every one of their convoys. It must be practically like highway number one through there. The water is deep for the Yellow Sea, even though it is inside the island chains, and the strong northerly current that’s supposed to be there can be used to our advantage.”
Blunt took the pipe out of his mouth. “One of our best boats was in there a couple of years ago. His patrol report said this was a bad place for submarines to patrol in.” They were the first words he had said for fifteen minutes.
“I know, Commodore. That was the Wahoo, and it was just under two years ago. Dornin took the Trigger in later and said the same thing. They were the only two boats to try this spot. But it doesn’t make sense that an offhand comment, even by two of our best skippers, should prevent anyone else from ever trying this area. Their fish weren’t dependable then, remember. Anyway, if both boats hadn’t used up all their torpedoes and left the area early, they’d probably have been back in there.”
The pipe was back in Blunt’s mouth. His eyes closed wearily, his head nodded. Suddenly he jerked himself upright again. Rich and Keith looked at each other. Inadequate rest was undoubtedly part of his problem.
“We’ll patrol submerged in there for a day or so, Commodore. We could tell the Whitefish to patrol outside and to the north. If we get a chance to stir things up in there, maybe the traffic will shift outside, not knowing there are two submarines, and we’ll be able to give them a one-two punch.”
Blunt’s eyes were almost glassy. He took the pipe out of his mouth again. “Nothing doing! There’s something strange going on aboard this boat, Rich! While you were working out your schemes, I’ve got into something a lot more important. Somebody is sabotaging the hydraulic system, and I’m going to catch him at it. When I do…” he looked significantly down and to the right, at his right hip, patted it with a slow deliberate motion. To his consternation, Richardson realized that under the submarine jacket he had worn all day he had buckled a gun belt, and at that very moment, in the wardroom, was armed with a holstered automatic!
A deep calm settled upon Richardson. He had hoped, by heavily involving Blunt in tactics, to divert his mind from his suspicions. The message from Admiral Small had come at just the right time. The lure of action, the necessity to concentrate upon the orders Blunt would have to give his two remaining submarines, orders which Richardson would frame for him, discuss with him, would push everything else into the background where Richardson intended the hydraulic system henceforth to remain. But obviously the scheme had failed before it had been fairly tried. Something more drastic must be done. Buck’s mention of Blunt’s extraordinary wakefulness had suggested another idea, a second plan which had been discarded in favor of the one he had been acting on. Now the secondary plan must be implemented. He affected not to see the gun, continued the conversation for a few minutes, excused himself temporarily. The headache resulting from the beatings he had taken on the patrol boat was returning, he said, and he needed some help for it. It was not, however, about his headaches that he was talking to the tall pharmacist’s mate a few minutes later.
“Yancy,” he said, “the commodore has driven himself to the point where he’s completely exhausted. Can we give him something to make him sleep for a while?” Immediately thereafter he sought out Buck Williams. As he returned to the wardroom, Williams followed him, said to the exec, “Keith, I’m going to start routining our fish up forward, but first there’s a change we want to make in the procedure. Can you come up there with me for a minute, so I can show it to you?”
When Keith returned, he said shortly, “It’s all right, Skipper. He’s got a good idea, and I told him to go ahead.” He gave Richardson an imperceptible nod.
When the wardroom steward entered a few minutes later with a freshly brewed pot of coffee, Keith accepted only half a cup, announced that he intended to get some sleep for the next day’s work, placed it untouched on the table. Richardson and Blunt took full cups. Rich sipped his only lightly, cradling the warm cup in his hands. His eyes stayed on Blunt as the latter drank his right down.
“That was just the right temperature this time,” Blunt said. “If it weren’t for coffee, none of us could function.” His eyelids grew heavy, his head nodded. He jerked it upright, but again it nodded.… They caught him before his head struck the table. Buck Williams reappeared at the door to the wardroom, and the three officers, plus Yancy who came up from the other direction, quickly laid Blunt in his bunk.
“He was so tired, Captain, the sleeping pill hit him right away, just like I said,” said Yancy.
“How long do you figure he’ll be out?”
“Maybe twelve hours. The sedative will wear off pretty soon, but he’ll sleep until his system wakes him up.”
“He needs a real rest, Yancy. He ought to sleep for at least three days.”
“All we gave him was a sleeping pill, Captain. He’ll wake up in about twelve hours when he has to go to the head, and besides that, he’ll be hungry. If you want me to keep him out for three days, he’ll have to have intravenous feeding, bedpans, the whole thing.”
Blunt was completely relaxed, sleeping peacefully. The tense look about his face had almost magically disappeared. Remorse at the liberty he had taken with his old friend and superior was already troubling Richardson. “No intravenous business,” he said. “Yancy, you watch over him, and you be here when he’s awake. No matter what’s going on on board ship. You got that?”
The pharmacist’s mate nodded.
“When he wakes up, you be sitting right here with something to eat — you tell the cook what to fix up, and be sure you have it ready on time — and tell him he’s got to rest. If he has to go to the head, get him right back in his bunk. He’s so tired, he’ll sleep longer if we give him a chance.”