“I’ve worked out a problem, sir,” Brannon said. His voice was eager. “We can stay on this course until the convoy passes. Then we can cross the convoy’s track astern and swing out beyond them and make flank speed, pull off an end-around and get ahead of them and submerge and make a night periscope attack, take them as they come to us! We can do that even if they increase speed to ten knots. The convoy speed now is seven knots, sir.”
“You’re wrong!” Hinman said bluntly. “Once that Fubuki skipper has made a couple of sweeps up ahead he’s going to have that convoy making every turn in its screws! That’s what I’d do if I were sitting in that Fubuki skipper’s bridge chair and thank God I’m not! Try working out your problem if the convoy makes fourteen knots. We’d never get position ahead of them!”
Brannon stood, silent.
“Go back down to Plot,” Hinman said. “Give me an intercept course and speed to close to six hundred yards on the tanker that’s closest to us. Send the crew to Battle Stations. I’m going to attack on the surface! The first target will be the tanker closest to us. Second target the tanker astern. Third target will be the tanker outboard of us. If we live that long!”
He heard the Battle Stations’ alarm gong ringing and the soft rush of feet below him. Brannon’s voice was tinny over the bridge speaker, reporting that all hands were at Battle Stations. Hinman moved to the bridge speaker and took a deep breath.
“This is the Captain,” he said slowly. “We have three oil tankers up here that are carrying oil to Japan. They are escorted by four destroyers.
“We are going to attack on the surface, go right in among them! That is something no American submarine has ever done, so far as I know. The Germans do it all the time in the Atlantic and we’re as good as the damned Germans!
“I expect the Japanese destroyer captains to respond to our attack. I expect the response to be very heavy. We are going to need every bit of skill we have to drive this attack home and then make our escape. Now let’s go get ‘em!” He heard the sound of cheering coming from below and he smiled grimly to himself and then turned as Mike Brannon’s voice came through the speaker.
“Course to the first target is zero three zero. Repeat. Zero three zero. Speed required to close to six hundred yards is fifteen repeat fifteen knots, Bridge.”
“Very well,” Captain Hinman said. “Come right to zero three zero. Make turns for fifteen knots. Mr. Brannon, turn the Plot over to Mr. Grilley and come to the bridge.” He turned to the Officer of the Deck.
“Mr. Simms,” his voice was loud enough to be heard by all three lookouts above the bridge. “I want each lookout to keep his eyes in his sector only. No matter what happens no lookout is to turn his eyes away from his own sector! There are four destroyers out there and I will not be surprised by one of them coming up on us because a lookout was not doing his duty!” He waited until the OOD had relayed his orders.
“Very well, Mr. Simms. You can go below and stand by to take the dive if we have to dunk. I’ll take the deck.”
He leaned his elbows on the bridge rail and studied the dark bulk of the enemy convoy through his binoculars. No doubt of it, these were tankers and heavily loaded. He heard Mike Brannon come up the hatch.
“Making turns for fifteen knots, Captain,” Brannon said. His voice held an undertone of excitement.
“Very well,” Captain Hinman said. “Take the cigaret deck, Mike. Cover my stern. If you see anything, any danger, any target back there my orders are that you set up with the After TBT and shoot from the after tubes.” He bent down to the bridge speaker.
“Stand by to open tube doors fore and aft,” he said. “I’ll slow down before I give the order so you people in the Forward Room won’t break your back on those Y-wrenches! Set depth on all torpedoes at four feet. Repeat. Four feet!”
Mako rushed onward through the night toward a point on the black water where her course and that of the closest oil tanker would cross. Captain Hinman stood quietly, his mind sorting out the factors of the battle that was about to begin.
The torpedoes had to run 425 yards before the tiny propeller in each warhead would arm the exploder for action. If he began firing at his first target at 600 yards he could shoot two fish at that target and then swing right and shoot two more at the tanker trailing behind. If he got hits on both ships he could increase speed and head between the two ships for a set-up on the third ship.
What would the enemy destroyers be doing while all that was going on? He tried to put himself in the place of the other ship captains. The Fubuki, once alerted by hits on the tankers or by radio, would come rushing back to its charges. But that would take some time. The two destroyers on the far side of the convoy were another matter. Their captains would face a problem: should they interpose themselves between the attacking submarine and their charges? It would be a difficult decision to make and the two destroyer captains could be expected to delay a few minutes until they had made a decision. He needed those few minutes.
“Depth set four feet all torpedoes,” the bridge speaker said.
“Very well,” Hinman said. He went back to his problem. The captain of the destroyer guarding the stern of the convoy faced no problems at all. He could attack as soon as he saw the Mako. That would be Mike’s problem if he were still occupied with the oil tankers. The speaker rasped.
“You will have a firing solution in five minutes, sir, allowing for time to slow down and open the tube outer doors.”
“Very well,” Hinman said. “Control Room: All stop on all engines. Open tube outer doors both rooms. Resume speed as soon as the doors in the Forward Room are open. Give me a countdown from fifteen seconds to firing solution.”
He stood, his elbows braced on the bridge rail, his binoculars at his eyes, studying the first target. The deck under him shuddered slightly as the Mako resumed speed, her bow wave crisp and clean in the starlight.
“All tube doors open, Bridge. Torpedo depth set four feet!”
“Very well.” Captain Hinman marveled; it was a wonder some lynx-eyed lookout on one of the Jap ships hadn’t seen Mako’s bow wave by now. He felt that somehow he was detached, a spectator in a drama that he had dreamed. Lieut. Don Grilley’s voice came up the hatch.
“Fifteen seconds to a shooting solution, sir.”
“Very well.” Hinman stood, legs braced against the Mako’s plunging movement, his eyes glued to his binoculars.
“All hands! Keep a sharp lookout! Here we go!”
“Ten seconds!” the metallic voice in the speaker said. “Nine… eight… seven… six… five… four… three… two… one…”
“Fire one!”
Captain Hinman’s voice was a sharp bark.
“Right five degrees rudder!” He felt the thumping shock in his legs as the 3,000-pound torpedo hurtled out of Number One tube, driven by a giant fist of compressed air, its steam engines screaming into life as it passed through the torpedo tube. He counted to himself methodically.
“Fire two!
“Right fifteen degrees rudder! More speed, Control, give me more speed! Stand by… stand by…
“Fire three! Give me more speed, God damn it!
“Fire four!”
A booming roar echoed over the ocean as a torpedo slammed home into the waist of the first tanker. A giant sheet of flame erupted and towered high into the dark night as the second torpedo blew the stern of the tanker apart with a smashing roar.
“Two hits on the first target!” Hinman screamed into the bridge microphone. “Meet your helm right there, damn it! Give me ten degrees left rudder!” His voice was drowned out in another booming roar as the second tanker exploded in fire.