“I can see the water line clearly. That was a good masthead height reading. Did you get it, Keith?”
“Got it,” said Keith. “Eighty-five feet. That’s a good-sized ship.”
“Yes, she’s a beauty,” agreed Richardson. “No zig yet. Angle on the bow was starboard twenty-five.”
“How does twenty-seven look, Skipper?” said Buck. “That puts him on course three-four-five, using seventeen knots.”
“That looks fine, use twenty-seven. How long since the last zig, Buck?”
Keith answered him, “Six minutes, Skipper.”
“All right, we’ll shift to the attack periscope. Control,” said Richardson, “make your depth six-four feet! That will give us three feet of the attack periscope exposed,” said Rich in an altered tone, addressing the members of the attack party.
“What’s the weather like topside?” asked Blunt. It was a legitimate question. Richardson should have described the weather conditions earlier.
“Weather calm, clear, small waves about one or two feet in height, just enough to make our periscope hard to see. No whitecaps, however. The plane is on the far beam of the convoy. As we get closer I plan to come down at least one more foot.” He turned to Keith.
“Have we completed our check-off?” he asked. Richardson would have said more, but was interrupted by the wolfpack commander.
“How do you know those new two-stack ships can’t be making more than seventeen knots, Rich?” Blunt asked. “We have lots of merchant ships that can make at least twenty.”
“Damn few of the older one-stackers can even make seventeen, so that’s tops for this outfit,” Richardson answered swiftly. Keith’s look told him that his exec had caught his flash of irritation, quickly masked. By contrast with the previous one, this was not a legitimate question. Later, perhaps, during a postmortem over coffee in the wardroom. Not now, with the moment of attack nearly at hand. There had been a tinge of querulousness in Blunt’s voice. Standing under the closed bridge hatch, Blunt’s eyes were glittering in the deep shadows under the bushy eyebrows. Still holding to the lanyard, he leaned forward, supporting himself on it, projecting himself toward the periscopes.
“You said we’re close to land. What is our position? Why wasn’t I informed when we got this close in?” Blunt’s voice had risen perceptibly. His bearing communicated anger. His face was flushed, his jaw hung slack, emphasizing the wattles under his chin.
“Check-off list is completed, sir,” said Keith, breaking in. “We’re ready to shoot bow and stern, except for opening outer doors.” Keith had seen the same signs as Richardson, was loyally trying to stave off a bad situation.
“We’re expecting a zig,” said Richardson, taking Keith’s cue and addressing his words to the fire control party. “We’ll hold the outer doors closed for a bit more. The less time the fish are flooded in the tubes, the better they’ll run. As soon as the enemy zigs, we’ll complete preparations and be shooting almost immediately.”
“Goddammit, Richardson, answer me! What have you been up to while I’ve been asleep?” Blunt was shouting now. His voice filled the conning tower.
“How long since the last look?” asked Richardson. His self-control was slipping. He must not show it. Even now, if he could somehow bring this extraordinary situation under control, Eel’s crew might not fully understand the true circumstance. In the aftermath of a successful attack, the sudden contretemps in the conning tower might be relegated to one of those strange discussions between superior officers which no one could pretend to understand. But further interference on the part of Blunt could not be borne. Within minutes, two or three at the most, Eel would be firing nine of her ten loaded torpedoes. Her concealment would be shattered the moment the first torpedoes found their target. She would then instantly become the hunted instead of the hunter. He would need every capability at his command to regain the initiative, to escape the sonar searchers in the four escorts — maddened because of their failure to detect Eel previously, now certain of her presence in the immediate vicinity.
Keith was looking at him intently. The thought in his mind was leaping at him from the wide, staring eyes.
“Richardson, I’ll not be ignored like this!” The squadron commander had left his perch on the step under the hatch, was crowding past the astounded Scott, bumping Stafford’s back where he still maintained his sonar vigil according to the most recent orders. Keith waited no longer, turned, crowded through the group in the opposite direction, and bolted through the still-open hatch leading to the control room.
“Two minutes since last look!” Williams, automatically picking up for the absent Leone. No doubt Buck had taken it all in, just the way Keith had, was trying to be of assistance. Not only with Captain Blunt, but also to keep the approach in hand. Blunt was standing alongside Rich. His eyes were glaring, his breath coming in short, noisy, low-pitched whistles through his partly open mouth.
The charade must be played out. At least, keep him occupied until Keith and Yancy returned. “Commodore, would you like a quick look?” With his thumb, Richardson motioned to Scott. The periscope began its ascent. Stooping — that gave him something to do for a few seconds — Rich grasped the handles. He swung the ’scope around toward Blunt, with his free hand propelled him toward it much as he might one of Eel’s own officers, and ranged himself in Keith’s position on its back side. Blunt could not prevent the intuitive, habitual move of hooking his right elbow around one handle, placing his left hand upon the other, affixing his eye to the rubber guard.
“Around this way, sir,” muttered Richardson, waiting only long enough to be sure Blunt was firmly attached in the familiar position to the periscope. “This should be the bearing of the leading ship.”
“Bearing, mark!” said Blunt, twitching the periscope barrel a fraction of a degree. Relief flooded through Richardson. The tone of voice and the action were those of the Blunt of old. “Range, mark!” Blunt had dropped his right hand to the range knob, was turning it.
“Four-nine-double-oh!” read Richardson, matching the just-determined enemy masthead height against the periscope range dial. Williams looked up suddenly from the TDC, jerked his head around toward the periscope. His hand flew to the range input crank of the computer, but the look on his face was one of puzzled inquiry. Clearly, the range just called out by Richardson did not agree with that generated by the Torpedo Data Computer. Rich shook his head. With relief, Buck dropped the range crank, reached to the face of the TDC, pointed to the target-bearing dial, nodded his head vigorously. Good for Buck! The bearing, at least, was right on.
“Angle on the bow, starboard twenty-five!” said Blunt. Again Buck nodded. Blunt’s observation as to the attitude of the leading ship was approximately the same as that predicted by the TDC. A quick-thinking young man, that Buckley Williams. The ’scope had been up ten seconds. Now to get it down. How to cause Blunt to order it down. Leaving it up unnecessarily was not only anathema to submariners; it was, under the circumstances, dangerous. All Blunt’s submarine instincts should cause him to lower it, now that a routine observation had been completed. Three more seconds passed. There was a control lever in parallel with the one Scott and Quin had been using, secreted in the dark overhead alongside the periscope — the one used by the OOD during routine submerged patrolling when there was no battle stations personnel to do it for him. Blunt showed no sign as yet of giving up his view through the instrument. Rich pulled the handle gently toward him. The periscope began to descend ever so slightly. Blunt would feel the slow movement; perhaps the thought would communicate itself to him.…