Grant Blackwood
End of Enemies
This book is dedicated to the one who was always there. Thanks for not only believing in me, but also for always finding a way to keep me going.
Prologue
Stonefish was one day north of the Volcano Islands when Captain Hugh Carpen paged his new executive officer to the conning tower. Having only been aboard a week, Ensign William Myers was still adjusting to life aboard the sub, so it was ten minutes before he appeared, breathless and flustered, in the con. Carpen waved him over to the chart table.
“Sorry, Skipper. I got turned around. You wouldn’t think that—”
“Don’t worry about it. Takes some getting used to.”
“Yes, sir.”
“New orders, Billy.” Carpen tapped the chart. “That’s our first way point. I’ll give out the rest when we get there. Till then, it stays between you and me.”
Myers peered at the chart. “Jesus, Skipper, that’s—”
“Yep. Listen, rumors are going to start. I expect you to keep ’em under control. I don’t like keeping the boys in the dark, but that’s the deal.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Two more things. Put the word out: We’re bypassing all targets this patrol. Log ’em, run a firing plan, but steer clear of them. Second, our guest—”
“The fella in forward torp?”
“Right. He’ll be staying there for the duration. From now on, it’s off-limits to everyone. That means everyone, got it?”
Myers simply nodded. As XO, it was his job to make the skipper’s word law, but Myers felt far out of his depth. Less than a week aboard Stonefish and here he was, headed into God knew what. But then again, he consoled himself, this is what he signed up for, wasn’t it? “Yes, sir,” he said.
Two days later, Carpen gathered Stonefish’s officers in the wardroom. Taped to one of the tables was a square of butcher paper; beneath it Myers could see the outline of a chart. Though he knew what was hidden there, thinking of it filled his belly with butterflies.
Once the doors were locked, Carpen began. “Gentlemen, it’s time to let the cat out of the bag. While I can’t give you the why of our mission, I can give you the where.” Carpen ripped off the butcher paper. There were ten seconds of silence.
“Oh, holy Moses,” whispered the weapons officer.
“You got that right, brother,” said another.
Stonefish was fifteen miles off the coast of Shikoku, Japan.
“Four Marine Raiders died getting the details you see on this chart,” Carpen said. “Here’s the deaclass="underline" In two hours we’ll penetrate their antisubmarine nets… right here. Once inside, we’ll navigate by chart and stopwatch through this minefield and, if all goes as planned, slip through undetected. If we manage that, we’ll be about four hundred yards offshore, so make sure to tell your people to keep their voices down.”
There was nervous laughter.
“From there, we’ll head northeast until we reach the mouth of the Inland Sea between Shikoku and Honshu. This is the Japs’ main sortie channel, so we can expect a lot of traffic.”
“How much?” asked Myers.
“Anywhere from four to eight tin cans patrolling the gap.”
“Oh, boy,” the chief engineer muttered.
“Supposing we get that far,” said the weapons officer, “then what?”
“Don’t worry about that,” replied Carpen. “Once we finish what we’ve come to do, we’ll turn south and cut between the opposite shoreline and the minefield. At Tanabe Point… here… we’ll make our exit, go deep, and head home.”
Carpen looked around. “Questions?”
“How long do we have?” asked the navigator.
“From net penetration to the channel, six hours.”
“Mine, port bow, closing,” called the navigator. “They’re thick out there, sir.”
“Time to turn?” asked Carpen.
“Thirty seconds.”
The control room went silent as the time ticked away.
“Mark,” called the navigator.
“Helmsman, left fifteen degrees rudder, make your course zero-two-seven, speed six knots.”
“Zero-two-seven, speed six, aye sir.”
No one moved now, no one spoke. Myers stood beside the chart table, eyes on Carpen. The skipper looked completely at ease, and it made Myers all the more nervous. If either their navigation or a mine’s position were off by so much as a foot… they might hear the metallic scrape of the mine’s horn, and then…
The navigator called: “On track, sir. Mines on both beams, opening.”
“How long until we’re clear?” asked Carpen.
“Fourteen minutes.”
“Mine passing the port beam, Skipper. Last one coming up on starboard bow.”
“Aye,” said Carpen.
“Bottom rising, Skipper. Fifty feet in the past minute. Depth two-fifty.”
“Navigator?”
“Ten seconds to turn… three… two… one… mark!”
“Helm, come left to zero-nine-zero. Planesman, make your depth one hundred. Prepare for PD.”
Stonefish began her ascent to periscope depth. The bottom sloped up to meet her until only fifty feet lay between the seafloor and the keel.
“Depth one-fifty.”
“Up twenty-five,” ordered Carpen.
“Depth one-ten.”
“Up another twenty.”
“Up twenty, aye sir.”
“Coming clear,” called the navigator. “Last mine opening the port quarter.”
“Bottom leveling at ninety feet,” called Sonar.
“Engines all stop,” Carpen ordered. “Diving Officer, give me zero bubble.”
“Zero bubble, aye.” At the control board, the diving officer turned a series of levers controlling the hydraulic manifolds, which in turn displaced Stonefish’s ballast. “Zero bubble, Skipper. Floating like a balloon.”
Stonefish was now hovering some thirty feet from the sand.
“Sonar, Conn,” called Carpen. “We’re at PD, Chief. Got anything?”
“Negative contact, sir.”
“Conn, aye. Up scope.” The periscope ascended from the well, and Carpen caught the handgrips. “Hold. Billy?”
Myers stepped to the opposite eyepiece and pressed his forehead to the plastic. The lens was still submerged. After a few seconds he could distinguish moonlight filtering through the black water. No shadows, no lights…
Carpen called, “Up twelve inches… slow.”
The quartermaster complied. The hydraulics hissed. The tube ascended. The moonlight grew stronger.
“Almost there,” said Carpen. “Up six. Up two… easy… There.”
Myers’ first view of the world in three days was breath-taking. Half awash, the periscope displayed a clear, star sprinkled sky. A thin mist clung to the surface, and through it Myers could see the winking of navigation buoys.
Carpen said, “Okay, here we go, Billy. Look sharp.
Myers focused on the bearing viewer. Arms dangling over the grips, Carpen began duckwalking the scope. The sea skimmed past the lens until the shoreline appeared. The trees and fishing huts stood out clearly under the moon. Myers’s heart pounded. Damn, we’re close….
“Mark on Mugi Point coming up…. Mark.”
“Bearing zero-zero-five,” recited Myers.
The navigator plotted it. “Got it. Match, Skipper. We’re on course.”
As Carpen swung the scope past due west, Myers caught a glimpse of something in the mist, a shadow. “Hold,” he called. “Back, Skipper.”