Richardson was searching for the escort astern of the last ship, finally saw her gliding along, ghostlike, suspended in the darkness. The destroyer, or destroyer escort, was broadside-to, low in the water, a tiny superstructure forward, the barest suggestion of something aft. Strange how small she looked! The ComSubPac message had said the escorts were Mikuras. This tincan did not by any means look as big as the escorts Eel had already encountered. The blackness of the sea and the sky, the total absence of illumination or any indication of a horizon, the dwarfing comparison with the high-sided troop transports, must have robbed him of his ability to judge size. She was much smaller, indubitably, than the ships which had preceded her. In one way, the smaller she was the more dangerous; for a shallow-draft ship would have less hesitancy in entering shoal water. If she did not fear mud in her engine cooling system, she could nimbly run well inshore of Eel. Such a vessel could attack from any direction she wished, whereas the deep-lying submarine had only one choice open to her: an emergency burst of speed toward the deep sea. On the plus side, it was probable that a small escort would not carry heavy armament.
“I see him,” said Rich. He waited. Apparently no one else could. He kept his binoculars trained on the enemy ship. If her silhouette shortened, it would probably mean that she was changing position again, most probably moving over to the inshore side of the convoy. Were she to do this, her chances of detecting Eel’s disembodied bridge, floating with such agonized quiet, would be greatly increased.
There! The silhouette had shortened. The escort was now presenting a port angle of approximately forty-five degrees. If she turned all the way, to an end-on situation, it must be assumed that she had seen something suspicious and was coming to investigate. Considering the difficulty Richardson had had himself in seeing the escort after the radar told him she was there, he could hardly believe this was possible. She might be pursuing merely a routine zigzag plan, or be crossing over to the other side for some other reason.… A long, careful look convinced Rich that the escort was not turning all the way, had settled on a new course, which, at the moment, gave her somewhere between a thirty-and a forty-five-degree port angle on the bow. She would pass about a thousand yards away.
For the first time Rich spoke loudly. “Men, remember your instructions. No gun is to shoot until I give the order. He’s heading over this way, but he’s not coming right at us, and I don’t think he’s suspicious. If he does see us, I’ll give the word to start shooting as soon as we can see him clearly. Do not shoot until I tell you. And remember, every shot is to go into his bridge!” Rich sensed rather than heard the murmur of agreement from the gun crews.
“I see him!” said one of the men standing forward of the bridge overhang on the platform serving the forward forty-millimeter cannon. He was one of the regular battle lookouts. Now that the gun was completely ready, he was using his binoculars again.
“Good. Keep your eye on him. Everyone else let me know when you see the target.… Buck, tell them down below what’s going on.”
As Buck Williams leaned under the bridge overhang to call the information down the hatch, the other forward lookout spoke up. “I see him too, sir.”
“Follow him with your gun. Do not shoot!” Subconsciously, Rich realized that the possibility of some overly tense sailor opening fire prematurely must constantly be guarded against. He had decided in his own mind not to open fire until there was no longer any doubt Eel had been detected. Initial detection would be followed by a period of curiosity, during which the enemy would continue to approach. Eel had an inestimable advantage, to be exploited to the limit. Not until the range had closed to the point where every shot could virtually be counted on to hit the target would Eel open fire. Once the enemy’s initial attack had been blunted, her bridge knocked out, the rapid-fire guns would be freed to rake the entire hull. Enough holes, even small-sized ones, at the waterline would sink her. Roughly half the rounds loaded in the fifty-caliber belts, the twenty-millimeter cans, and the forty-millimeter racks were armor-piercing. They could be depended upon to penetrate anything a tincan would be likely to carry.
“Range to escort,” one thousand.” Keith’s voice from the conning tower hatch. The escort was now clearly in view just forward of Eel’s port beam. For a few minutes Rich had been wondering whether she might indeed be one of the Mikura-class frigates. In this case, he would again have to revise his estimates as to her size, armament, and draft — upward this time. He could see her clearly now. Her silhouette had broadened. She was nearly broadside-to again. She was a twin of the first escort Eel had sunk, might well be one of the two survivors of that attack. All three had been identical.
The ASW ship was not quite as long as Eel and probably was smaller in displacement. No doubt she was designed to outrun the submarine in a fair chase. She was big enough to carry a heavy gun of some sort, at least one four-inch (the briefing had specified such a gun), plus various rapid-fire weapons of her own. Eel would have to fire first, and effectively, immediately following the moment of surprised recognition to knock her out before she got her own guns going.
It had been about five minutes since the escort had come into view. She still gave no indication she had seen the ungainly silhouette off to her port side. Freed of the hurried pace of the periscope observations, Richardson could look her over carefully. She was a handsome ship, low to the water, her long clean side unbroken by any hint of portholes or other penetrations. Her forecastle was sharply raked, with a rather large square bridge set at least a third of the way aft from the bow. Amidships a single fat smokestack squatted incongruously, its height not quite equal to that of the bridge structure. There was some kind of a gun forward on the forecastle, but it was trained fore and aft, with no sign of anyone preparing it for combat. Abaft the bridge, around the stack and all the way to the square flat stern, was an indistinguishable jumble of top hamper and deck gear. He thought he could distinguish depth charge racks on the very stern, but of this he could not be sure.
Detail after detail stood out. Strange that he could see clearly, and yet there was no indication Eel had been seen. Doubtless the much smaller size of Eel’s silhouette, the fact that it was obscured by the dark hills behind it, that the enemy escort was outlined against the nothingness of the sea and the heavy sky, must be the determining factors. That and the matter of initiative. The Japanese had had no indication there was an enemy submarine waiting outside their harbor, no doubt were still settling down to their sea routine. Eel, on the other hand, had been primed for desperate action for three days, her every sensing capability at maximum alertness. Clearly audible was the gentle slap of waves splashing under the wooden slats of Eel’s main deck. Eel’s ventilation sets had never seemed louder. Her air-conditioning machinery sounded as if all its gears were stripped, and he could hear the rhythmic beat of the compressors. Likewise, he could hear the enemy escort’s engines, diesels from the sound of them, their loud stutter borne in over the water, intensified by the acuteness of his senses.
“Bridge,” said Keith through the hatch, “target is at new CPA, range nine-five-oh, steady course.”
There was still a very real danger that Eel would be seen as the destroyer swept past. Perhaps an after lookout would be more alert than those forward. Nevertheless, the likelihood from now on would diminish. Richardson had been holding his breath for nearly a minute. Three fifty-caliber, two twenty-millimeter and two forty-millimeter guns were still trained on her, were silently following her. They would continue to do so for a few minutes longer, but already the extraordinarily black night was beginning to close around the little ship. In a few minutes she would be swallowed by darkness again. Her outlines were growing hazy. He expelled a second long-held breath. Now she was gone.