Richardson had never approached this close to enemy ships without being able to see at least some outline of their shapes, no matter how dark it was. The absence of light this night, however, was profound. At range 3,000 yards, even though he was looking right at them, exactly on the bearings both sonar and radar were giving him, before his eyes was only fathomless blackness, a dull, porous, velvet curtain he could not pierce. Strange that he could make out the loom of land on the starboard quarter, extending forward to the starboard beam, and yet could not see the ships to seaward! Somehow he had got an indication of them as they passed out the harbor entrance, but up ahead, where the sea stretched black to join the black night and the black sky, there was not even a hint of shadowy discontinuity which might outline a ship less than a mile and a half away! Almost continuously, he tried his old trick, looking above and below where he judged the horizon to be.
Wait. There was something, something lighter than the darkness. It was bigger than he expected, and, surprisingly, elevated well above where he had thought the horizon was. Suddenly he could see it, a huge shadowy shape, dark gray sides looming a faint, ghostly white, moving ponderously and irresistibly across Eel’s bow from starboard to port.
“Bridge, range two thousand five hundred. Leading ship should be dead ahead. Whitefish has our second message.” That was Keith calling quietly up from the conning tower.
“I see them, Keith. Angle on the bow is about forty-five port.”
“That’s the way it looks on plot, Bridge. Three ships in column. We’re tracking them at nine knots, and their closest point of approach to us will be about a mile, broad on our port bow.”
Now Rich could see the second ship in column, following in the wake of the first — and in a moment, the third. Having started up the coast, no doubt they would continue following the line of the Shantung Peninsula, in the shallowest water possible, until daybreak. Then they would turn directly across the Yellow Sea in a high speed zigzag run to gain the shelter of the shallow water on the Korean side. Once the convoy had passed, Eel would follow from astern and radio to Whitefish the vital particulars of enemy position, course, and speed, which would permit her sister submarine to submerge ahead of the convoy’s daylight track.
Already two such messages, consisting of only a single letter each, had been sent. The chance of their interception by the enemy ships was remote. But it would be necessary to be sparing of messages, even extremely short ones.
“Leading ship at closest point of approach, Bridge. Range at CPA, two-one-double-oh, beginning to open.”
The three ships were now clearly visible. Great, silent, crowded giants, grinding forward on the silent sea. In a moment more he could hear them as well as see them, for in the quiet on Eel’s bridge the calm water carried their machinery noise distinctly to his ears. Big ships, but single-screw, he thought. He could hear their propellers thunking steadily, their machinery clanking, an air blower shrieking with a dry bearing. In the second ship, someone was beating on something with a hammer. The sound of metal on metal must be projected directly through the ship’s structure into the sea surrounding it. The steady, systematic pounding was occasionally interrupted for brief intervals as the man first plied his hammer, then paused, probably to inspect his work, then resumed hammering again. Perhaps the ship had a blacksmith’s shop, but more likely, mused Richardson, someone was repairing something by the time-honored sledgehammer method.
“Second ship at CPA, Bridge,” from Keith. “Formation is still the same, but the rear escort is moving over a little, and dropping aft.”
“Bridge, aye,” said Richardson in a low, carrying tone. Probably he could have used a normal tone of voice — no doubt the Japanese crews a mile away were doing so — but the stillness of night and the quietness that enveloped the Eel held their own requirements, even if only psychological. “Keep a careful watch on him. We’re manned and ready for surface action up here if he becomes suspicious.” He need have said nothing, of course. Keith did not need to be told to do or not to do anything about that astern escort. Rich had merely accommodated a compulsive requirement of his own. It was indicative of his own nervousness. He must take a grip on himself, not permit his own inner tension to show through.
The need to lie to quietly was an onerous one. Everyone in the ship would rather be underway, even on the surface — best of all, submerged clear of the shallow water. Lying still, partly submerged on the mud flats, hiding in the sea and yet so horribly exposed, produced a feeling of helplessness, of vulnerability. Yet it had all been argued out, thought through, explained carefully to the entire ship’s company. Clearly it made sense, in this instance, to behave contrary to the normal submarine pattern. Eel was taking maximum advantage of all passive alertness equipment. Her sound heads were rigged out (with instructions for instant raising if any orders were given to the motors); her radar detector was continuously manned; all her radio receivers (except the one tuned to the wolfpack frequency) were being constantly tuned throughout their ranges to pick up any nearby transmissions. Her search radar, which normally did emit a signal, was being operated intermittently, its transmitter keyed only at sporadic intervals for quick sweeps, its receiver continuously watched for signs of any other radar interference.
Were danger to threaten, Eel could get underway instantly, silently, on her main motors and battery. At the maximum discharge rate, once her main ballast tanks were blown fully dry, she could reach a speed of eighteen knots, though only for a very short time. But the ship would be running in eerie quiet, with no plume of diesel exhaust to assist pursuit, no thunder of main engines drifting over the quiet waters, which, by their sudden cessation, might betray the moment of dive. A dive would be ridiculously simple once adequate depth of water was reached, for there would be no engines to stop, no main induction to shut, no switching from generators to battery. All that was necessary was to open the main vents, shut the bridge hatch, and drive her bodily under.
She could even make a respectable speed in the flooded-down condition. Nothing like eighteen knots, of course. But it would be necessary to keep bow planes and stern planes manned, and Al Dugan would have to give careful attention to the diving station; for in this condition Eel had practically no buoyancy at all and would submerge without warning upon the slightest wrong movement of the planes.
“Third ship is nearing CPA, Bridge. Still twenty-one hundred yards. Leading two ships are opening out. Range to leading ship three thousand. The rear escort has moved over and is now dead astern of the third ship.”
This could spell trouble. Eel’s purpose was to trail the convoy from astern. Detection by one of the escorts would of course ruin this scheme. Far worse, detection would subject Eel to a surface attack in a spot where she could not submerge. Enemy gunfire would spell disaster. Or one of the escorts, lighter and far more maneuverable than the half-submerged submarine, might try to ram. Its sharp bow would easily cut through superstructure, ballast tank, and pressure hull to transform Eel forever into a sunken, rusting, mud-filled hulk, slowly disappearing into the aeons-old estuarial flats of an ageless shore.