“Range to escort one-four-five-oh, Bridge, opening. No change in course.”
Richardson again twice clicked the bearing buzzer built into the handle of the port TBT. This would let Keith know that he had heard and acknowledged the report. He would, however, keep his gun crews on the alert for a few minutes longer, for insurance.…
“Range to leading ship four-six-five-oh, Bridge. Plot still shows him on the same course. The near escort is now at two thousand yards, still going away. He’s drawn up abeam of the last ship in column.”
The danger had not materialized. Suddenly, unaccountably, Richardson almost wished it had. Nothing could have withstood the surprise fusillade of automatic fire Eel had been ready to lay upon her — he caught himself up short. Was this after all so very different from the fate he had dealt Bungo Pete? Or was it the old death wish in another guise? There was an ebbing of feeling within him, a wearying. The adrenalin flow was dissipating, and with it his sense of mission and combat. A deep yawn forced his jaws agape. Sleep would be delicious.
But there was work yet to be done. He moved to the bridge microphone, pressed the button. “Keith,” he said, “give me a course and speed to trail. I’d like to stay about seven thousand yards astern of the last ship, but close enough to have a good radar return on all of them.”
Dawn was breaking. About an hour previously, Eel had slowed nearly to a halt to permit the convoy to gain distance. Two more messages had been sent to Whitey Everett in the Whitefish. Now it was approaching the time for the critically important message. Everyone expected the convoy would make a radical course change at dawn and head at maximum speed on a southeasterly course, but it was still possible that the ships would instead continue along the coast of the Shantung Peninsula to its farthest extremity or even around it, ultimately to turn left into the Gulf of Po Hai. Eel must inform Whitefish just as soon as the evidence was clear.
Two special messages had been made up in anticipation of the two possible situations. One, a single long dash, would indicate that the convoy was continuing to hug the coast. The second consisted of a short dash followed by the wolfpack letter code for course and speed.
Richardson had been on the bridge all night and had begun to realize how cold it could be in the northern reaches of the Yellow Sea in early winter. He had taken the precaution of once again ordering Keith to get some sleep. It would be important for Keith to be well rested for the daylight pursuit anticipated. Blunt, of course, he could not control, but Blunt was not concerned with Eel’s proper functioning. Since the attack on the freighter north of the Maikotsu Suido, Blunt had changed. He made no further reference to sabotage of the hydraulic system and was no longer taciturn. He had become, if anything, at times loquacious. He slept frequently. Except for sporadic interest, as in the discussion preliminary to the present operation, he took no further part in what went on about him. With occasional exceptions which had to be anticipated and handled carefully, for the past several days he had acquiesced in whatever instructions were given, in his name, to the other submarine under his command.
Eel had dropped so far astern that, with growing daylight, the only thing visible of the convoy was a faint cloud of smoke beyond the horizon. She had at the same time moved off the track to starboard in order to gain distance away from the land. The Japanese as well as the Chinese might be employing coast watchers, and it would be well to have sufficient water for diving in case of attack from the air.
Now, within a few minutes, would be time for the convoy to change course, if it was intending to. The blackness of night had long since turned to a gray haze, and this, too, was burning off. The sun, not yet over the horizon, would burst in full splendor upon the scene in about half an hour. Richardson was mentally prepared for the report, when it came: “Bridge, radar reports convoy has changed course to the right.”
“Very well, Conn,” responded Richardson, pushing the bridge microphone button. “Can you give me a course? Is there any indication of increased speed?”
“Not yet, sir. Plot and TDC are working on it.” He wished Keith were coordinating radar, TDC, and plot, but determined that he would not call him. The others surely should be able to operate the various components satisfactorily. But Richardson need not have worried. The next report from the conning tower was in Keith’s voice. He had evidently left word to be called when the situation changed.
“Bridge, conn. Target has increased speed. Plot and TDC are tracking him on course one-three-oh, speed thirteen. All three ships have changed course to the right in a column movement. The last one is just completing her turn now.”
“Good work, Keith,” said Richardson on the speaker. “Are you sure enough of your information to send the message to Whitefish?”
“Affirmative, Skipper. Got it ready to go.”
“Send it as soon as you can. Let me know when you get a receipt.”
The bridge speaker blared again with Keith’s voice in a slightly different timbre. He was speaking from the radio room. “Message sent and receipted for by Whitefish, Bridge,” he said.
A moment later Keith stood beside him on the bridge. “That’s about it, Skipper,” he said. “The last radar fix we had on Whitey shows him dead ahead of the convoy about twelve miles out. There should be some action over there in less than an hour.”
“Do we still have radar contact on them?”
“Yes, sure. Why?”
“Because… I don’t think we ought to dive yet. We’d better stay up as long as we can and see what happens.”
“We might get spotted and driven down by a plane. Besides, you’ve been up all night, and all day before that. You rate some rest, Skipper.”
“Sleep can wait. If a plane spots us, that might help Whitefish by drawing those two escorts in our direction. What I’m really thinking about, though, is that we’ve got to keep those three transports from getting to Okinawa. After Whitey attacks, they’ll scatter — and it will be up to us to put him back in contact for a second attack.”
“That is, if he’ll try a surface end-around with planes up there,” observed Keith, uneasily.
The sun, driving up over the horizon, transmitted little warmth to the frigid group bundled up on Eel’s bridge, but it did have the effect of burning off the night’s overcast and producing a clear blue sky. The visibility in all directions was phenomenal, totally the reverse of the situation of only a few hours before. Fully surfaced, Eel now plowed along easily in the moderate sea associated with deeper water. With enough depth for diving beneath her keel, the more familiar circumstances induced a feeling of comfort among her entire complement, only slightly lessened by the fact that any aircraft patrol worthy of the name could pick her up by sight alone at a distance of many miles. But unless the plane were flying extremely close to the water, Eel would sight it also in plenty of time to dive. She would not again be caught by any tricks with the plane’s radar transmitter power.