“Five minutes since we speeded up. Five and a half since the zig!” Williams was reading the timer built into his computer face.
“All ahead one-third,” said Blunt.
Perhaps the bad moment was over. Rich felt like cheering. “When we get down below three knots,” he said, “recommend a quick check of the target and escort, then search all around for aircraft. It’s just possible they’ll have that patrol plane up here for when the ship rounds the point.”
Blunt was looking at him. It was the first time he had done so for several minutes, since before Rich had changed the helm order. His mouth formed words, but for a moment nothing came out. Finally he spoke. “What should the target bear?”
Again there was that feeling of unreality. There had definitely been a slight hesitation in Blunt’s voice. Yet his question was eminently logical. It was what an approach officer should be asking, except that Buck Williams, at the TDC, or Keith Leone, backing him up, were those most likely to have the information at their fingertips. Furthermore, Blunt himself had just been looking at the instrument.
Richardson, simply because there was not room for more at the face of the TDC, had been standing one rank back. “About one-three-five relative,” he said. From where he stood he could not read the numbers on the dials, but from their relative positions this would be not far off. “We’re coming up on the firing bearing, Captain. We can hurry it up and shoot with a left gyro angle on a sharp track; but the longer we wait, now, the nearer it will be to a straight stern shot on a ninety track.”
Blunt nodded thoughtfully. His face also was beaded with sweat. His bushy brows veiled the deep gray eyes.
“Seven minutes since the zig. Speed three knots.” Buck, reading his TDC.
Time to put up the periscope. For a dreadful second Rich thought he might have to initiate the action as before, felt flooded with relief when Blunt gave the order.
The periscope technique was perfection. Blunt rose with the base of the tube, stopped it a foot short of full extension, took a quick range and bearing of the target, then dropped it until its base was slightly below the top of the periscope well. He remained squatting before it for a few seconds, in the meantime directing the ship’s depth increased by another foot, then motioned for the instrument to be raised again. This time he allowed it to go to its full elevation, swiftly spun through two complete circuits — the second time Rich, watching closely, could see that he had turned the motorcycle-type control handle so that he was searching the sky — he suddenly stopped spinning the periscope. “Plane!” he said. “Bearing, mark!”
“One-seven-five,” read Rich from the azimuth circle through which the periscope tube passed out the top of the conning tower. “Two-two-five true,” said Keith, swiftly converting by adding the submarine’s course to the relative bearing.
“He’s well clear for now,” growled Blunt as the periscope descended. “Looks like a patrol plane, all right, coming up from the south. He’s still pretty distant. It will all be over by the time he can get here.”
“Open outer doors?” asked Keith, once more going through his check-off card.
“Open the outer doors aft!” said Blunt. “What’s the gyro angle now? How long before he comes on to a straight stern shot?”
“What’s the escort doing, Captain?” Richardson’s question was interrupted by a loud report from Stafford. “Echo-ranging has speeded up!” In a bound, Richardson was alongside the sonarman, looking at his dials. He put on the spare earphones, listened intently for a long quarter minute. Then he rose, replaced the earphones, was back alongside Blunt. “The escort’s almost dead astern, Captain,” he said seriously, “and he’s speeded up his pinging. He may have become suspicious. He’s pinging right up our wake — I’m sure he can’t be getting a good echo!”
“Gyros left twenty. Decreasing. Seventy starboard track. Range, twelve hundred!” Buck’s concentration on the information showing on the TDC was reflected in his staccato report. “Correct solution light aft,” more quietly reported Keith. “About one minute until the gyro angles are zero.”
“Target bearing one-four-eight!” shouted Stafford. “Moving right, fast! Escort on one-eight-four, shifted to short scale! I think he has contact on us!”
Damn Stafford anyway! Why did he have to pick exactly this instant to become excited? Richardson swore to himself, forgetting that Stafford spoke loudly because of his earphones, and was doing his duty. Only the approach officer — certainly not the sonarman — could accurately evaluate the immediate significance of this information.
“Tubes seven, eight and nine ready aft,” reported Quin. “Outer doors are open, depth set fifteen feet.”
Keith was whispering something into his ear. “We’ve not yet finished the rig for depth charge,” he was saying. Richardson was grateful to him for having had the good sense not to add this item to the plethora of information and reports Blunt was receiving. “Do it quietly, by phone,” he answered.
Blunt was standing with hands at his side, head bent forward, eyes staring at the floor. Afterward Rich would recall this moment as the moment of truth, the decisive one of the entire patrol, the instant of time which, ever after, in his mind was the watershed between the past and what was to come. “Recommend final bearing and shoot, Captain,” Rich said. “Gyros are approaching ten left. Range is twelve hundred.”
Blunt raised his head, stared at Rich. “Very well,” he said. Again, there was that hint of hesitation. “Up periscope!” The incisive manner of less than a minute past was gone. His hand was at his temples again. He did not stoop to ride the ’scope out of the well, merely stood before it, let it rise to him.
“Should bear one-six-six,” read Buck from the TDC. Rich twisted the periscope around to the bearing, at the same time noted that, in accordance with Blunt’s long habit, he had left the previous range observation still cranked in on the periscope’s range finder. Hardly anyone bothered to crank the observed range off the stadimeter after using the ’scope. This took time, required the periscope to stay up a trifle longer. The experienced approach officer was not bothered by the resulting split image at near ranges; in fact, it provided an instant visual reference as to whether the target was farther or nearer, even before the range was taken, and it made it easier and quicker to measure the range when desired. The procedure was part of Blunt’s periscope technique which Richardson had adopted and in his turn had passed on to Jim Bledsoe, Keith, Buck and Al.
What was unusual was Blunt’s reaction when he put his eyes to the rubber guards. “Dammit, Richardson, who’s been fooling with the ’scope? Someone’s got the wrong range on it!”
The range on the stadimeter was what Blunt had put on it last time the ’scope was up. No one else could have reached it in the bottom of the periscope well. It was off, but only because the range had lessened. Moreover, it must be very nearly correct, even though a minute or so had passed. With the target nearly broadside to, the range could not have changed much. On a ninety track — torpedoes due to strike at ninety degrees on the target’s beam — it didn’t matter anyway. Cautiously, Rich turned the range wheel, reduced the range another hundred yards. This ought to bring the tip of the target’s mast about back to her waterline.
“Neh-mind… I’ll do it.” It was the first time Rich had ever heard Blunt slur his words in this way. “Range, mark!” The range dial at the base of the periscope opposite the eyepiece had not moved.
“Eleven hundred,” snapped Rich instinctively, reading the numbers opposite the pointer.