“Buck,” he said, “take a look over here on the starboard bow, just to the left of that point of land!” The point of land to which he referred was nearly invisible — it was the near side of the entrance to the bay — but for three days of periscope observation close in, and night surface operations closer yet, it had been one of their principal points of reference.
“I’m looking at it, Captain,” said Williams. “What do you see?”
“Don’t know. Nothing, maybe.”
“Me too. It’s awful dark over there.” Abruptly Williams thrust his head beneath the bridge overhang, extended it over the hatch to the conning tower. He spoke in a low, carrying tone, suited to the muted situation into which they had placed themselves. “Radar, take a real good check at the harbor entrance. Do you see anything moving?”
Close in to land, the shore return or “grass” on both radar scopes generally blotted out any pips on the land side, though not to seaward. It was this fact which alone made possible Eel’s otherwise untenable position, and indeed had caused that position to be selected. During three nights of experimentation, Rogers had discovered, however, that by beaming the radar parallel to the coast and greatly reducing his receiver gain it was possible he might get some impression of a large object once it cleared the shore. He was already operating in this mode, concentrating of course on the Tsingtao harbor entrance. But it was far from a precise thing, and it would be easy to miss something.
“Radar, aye aye,” came Rogers’ voice. A few moments later he sang out again, “I think I see something there. Might be a ship. Range about four thousand. Looks like two ships.”
“Do you see anything, Buck?”
“No, sir. What do you see?”
“I think I can see something. It’s all so dark. The point seemed a little bit longer all of a sudden. Now it’s shorter again — there it is again.”
“Yes, I see it too, now. It must be ships.”
“That makes three I’ve seen. Ask radar what they’re getting.”
Williams had no opportunity to ask the question, for suddenly Rogers’ voice came up through the conning tower hatch, “Bridge, radar has three big ships and two little ones. Looks like they’re moving out of harbor.”
“Shall I call the crew to battle stations, Skipper?”
“Affirmative, but don’t use the general alarm. Pass the word by telephone.” This had already been prescribed, but it would not hurt to reemphasize the instruction. “Gun crews stand by in the control room and crew’s dinette.” Williams leaned over the hatch and gave the orders.
“Tell radio to send the first of those messages to the Whitefish.” The first of a set of prearranged messages in Keith’s wolfpack code, only a single letter in length, would alert the other submarine to the fact that ships were leaving the harbor. Later, depending upon which way they went, one of the others would be sent. Whitefish’s radio operator would answer by exactly repeating the signal he had heard.
“Bridge!” Rogers’ voice, pitched higher, betraying some of his tension and excitement. “Bridge, radar has three ships and two escorts. Range is decreasing. I think they’ve started to head this way, sir!”
“What’s the range?” bellowed Buck, forgetting the injunction for quietness.
“Four thousand! But I’ve got a column of ships on the PPI ’scope now, and the range to the leading one is getting less!”
“I’m in the conning tower, Bridge.” Keith’s voice. “It looks like they’re coming out, all right. Whitey has the alert message. Three big ships in column. The lead one has turned to his left and is coming up the coast, just as we figured.”
“What are the escorts doing?”
“Can’t tell yet. One is out ahead, but it looks like he’s favoring the seaward side. The other one, we can’t tell at all. The convoy looks like three real big ships!”
The message had said two divisions of the Kwantung Army, and had specified three troop transports. Its information was right on the mark.
“Buck, get your gun crews up here on the bridge; I’ll take over the deck. Have them load and train out, but nobody is to open fire until I give the word.”
“Aye aye, sir — you don’t need a turn-over do you, Captain?”
“No. I have all the dope.”
Rich fixed his binoculars in the direction where he knew the ships should be. Nothing. The dark shadows of the blacked-out ships must be there, but the total absence of any light whatever, the lowering overcast so common to this area, the lack of any moon or star illumination, all combined to create a stygian emptiness that the human eye could not pierce. He had, as a matter of fact, figured on exactly this. It was part of his plan, for it would be even harder to see Eel’s much reduced silhouette, particularly since lookouts from any surface ship would be many feet higher above the water and would have to look down into the dark sea. The only danger lay in the possibility that one of the escorts might elect to run inshore of the convoy and thus, by mischance, blunder upon the flooded-down submarine. Indeed, the escort would probably draw much less water than Eel required in her nearly submerged condition. This, too, had been considered. Merchant ships would not dare move so close in to shore as to suck mud into their condensers and cooling-water lines. They would require probably a minimum of fifteen feet of water under their keels, whereas Eel, with all machinery stopped, ready to move on the battery, would need no large water intake and could afford to be in water so shallow that her keel nearly touched. The enemy convoy should pass by at least a mile to seaward.
The four lookouts on the bridge and the one who had just gone below had been selected for their night vision and steadiness under stress, and specially trained to handle the forty-millimeter cannon at either end of the bridge. Augmented by six more men who came up from below, they quietly busied themselves with getting the guns ready.
“If we have to shoot, it will be port side first, Buck.” If it came to a gun action, Richardson intended to begin it on opposite courses, so that the enemy would have to turn completely around in the shallows to pursue the submarine. In the meantime, Eel would have a start in the run to deep water.
“Bridge, range three thousand. Three ships in column on a northeasterly course. Passing up the coast. Our plot shows them two miles off the beach. Both escorts have taken station on their seaward flank. They’re real big ships, Bridge!”
That was Keith, standing under the conning tower hatch, speaking quietly up into the blackness above him. A dim red glow suffused his strained features as he stood framed in the hatch opening. Richardson had not remembered noticing strain on him before, although it was clear that the war had burned something out of him as it had of everyone. He wondered whether he also showed strain, surmised that he probably did.
There was virtually no wind. As usual, the sea was almost glassy smooth, its placidity accentuated by the shallow water effect. The land smell, once pungent, was now no longer noticeable. Eel’s position had not changed. Perhaps the wind had shifted. The most likely explanation, however, was simply that they had become accustomed to the odor. Besides, the heightened pulse and increased flow of adrenalin associated with the approach of danger would concentrate perceptions in a different direction.
Had Eel a salvo of torpedoes remaining in her tubes, her torpedomen would be making them ready at this very moment. This would have also required a totally different plan of action, for torpedoes almost invariably went deep before reaching their running depth. They would strike bottom if fired from Eel’s present position. The torpedo situation, in fact, had been the determining argument in getting Blunt’s approval to place Whitefish offshore, in deeper water, and Eel inshore in the shallows. Even so, Whitey Everett would be uneasy at the limited depth of water available to him.