Mako raced after the ship closest to it, a long, lean shark coursing after its prey. The range closed and Mako turned to deliver the death blow to the target.
“You can shoot, Bridge!”
“Fire five!”
Captain Hinman felt the slight jolt under his feet as the fist of compressed air hurled the torpedo out of the tube. At 700 yards the torpedo run to the target would be less than 30 seconds.
“Torpedo is running hot, straight and normal,” Nate Cohen’s voice floated up to the bridge. “Torpedo has run through the target bearing! It’s still running!”
“You’ve got a solution, Bridge!”
“Fire six!”
Hinman watched, counting down slowly. The target was trying to zigzag but it had insufficient speed to make the maneuver effective.
“Torpedo is running through the target bearing!” Cohen called out. “It’s still running!”
“Bridge!” Sirocco’s voice was loud in the night. “Suggest the fish are running underneath the target!”
“Bring me around for a set-up on the after tubes!” Hinman yelled down the hatch. “Set torpedoes at zero depth! Repeat, zero feet depth!”
Mako heeled over as the rudder was put hard right and Hinman waited for Sirocco to tell him the torpedo problem was solved. “You can shoot, Bridge!”
“Fire seven!”
He watched from the side of the bridge, straining to see the torpedo as it ran. There was no sign.
“Torpedo is running through the target bearing,” Cohen’s voice was faint. “It’s still running!”
“Close the outer tube doors!” Hinman snapped into the bridge microphone. “Plot! Bring me around so my port side is parallel to the target. I want six hundred yards range. Stand by to go to Battle Surface as soon as the outer doors are closed!” He heard Sirocco’s rapid orders to Bob Edge on the TDC and to the helmsman and the rush of feet passed the word to stand by for a battle surface action. Mako swung in a wide arc and began racing up a course parallel to the ship he had fired three torpedoes at and failed to hit.
“Battle Stations Surface!” Hinman yelled and stood to one side in the small bridge as the gun crews climbed out of the hatch and climbed down the side of the Conning Tower, racing to the two big deck guns.
“Range is now six zero zero yards, sir,” Sirocco called out “Deck guns manned! Breeches open! Standing by to load, Bridge!” Dusty Rhodes’ voice was loud from the deck. “Fifty calibers manned and loaded and locked!”
“Load deck guns!” Hinman shouted. “Pointers, set sights for range of six zero zero yards! I want to hull this bastard, gunners!”
“Ready fore and aft on deck, Bridge!”
“Commence firing!”
The forward 5.25-inch deck gun roared first and Hinman saw a gout of water soar skyward, short of the target. The after gun bellowed and another spurt of water went up, also short of the target. The second round from each gun would reach farther as the gun barrels heated up and the powder in the shells burned faster. The forward gun roared again and Hinman saw a bright red burst on the side of the target ship.
“Now pound that bastard!” he yelled as the after gun roared.
“Bridge!” Grabnas’ voice from the port lookout stand was almost lost in the roar of the deck guns. “Bridge! I can see a lot of people and looks like trucks on the deck of the ship!”
“Machine gunners open fire! Sweep the ship’s decks!”
Behind him on the cigaret deck the twin 20-mm guns began to pound viciously and Hinman watched the tracers reach out across the water, arcing lazily, tiny balls of fire that found the target ship and then probed upward on the hull and began to sweep across the target’s deck, a molten scythe of death. Below him on the deck the 50-caliber machine guns, mounted on special stanchions, were pounding the target’s bridge structure. There was a sudden burst of bright fire from the target’s main deck as the 20-mm shells found the gas tank on a truck and blew it up. There was a cheer from the forward deck gun as a sudden gout of white steam rose in the moonlight and the bright red flames of an explosion within the ship’s midsection.
“Cease fire!” Hinman yelled. “I think we got his boiler rooms! He’s sinking, he’s sinking! Plot! Put me on the next target!”
“Bridge!” Rhodes’ voice from the deck was sharp. “Bridge, we need more ammunition on deck. Request below-decks ammunition party begin supply.”
“Very well, Chief,” Hinman passed the order down to the Conning Tower. “Damned good shooting, gunners, damped good!” Mako was turning, picking up speed, running down the second ship.
“Same setup!” Hinman yelled down the hatch. “Six hundred yards is a good range!” He looked at the target ship, now off his port bow. Down below him on the forward gun he heard the angry voice of Officers’ Cook, Thomas T. Thompson.
“Chief, I’m the first loader on this damned gun and ain’t no one else gonna be the first loader so leave me alone!” He listened, wondering what Thompson could be arguing about with Dusty Rhodes. The two men were good friends and Rhodes was not one to tolerate an argument in a Battle Stations situation or any other situation. He started to lean over the bridge rail and stopped as he heard Sirocco’s voice.
“On range now, sir!”
“Commence firing!” Hinman yelled. Both deck guns roared in unison. Hinman could feel the excitement mounting in him, the crazy feeling that time had run backward and that he was on the deck of a frigate with all sails set and the guns roaring out in broadsides and then crashing back against their restraining tackle. He could hear, somewhere in his mind, the yells of the sailors and the cries of the gunners as they sponged out their gun barrels, the yells of the gun captains as they pulled the guns back into position in the ports and then the long, rolling broadsides. This was the traditional way of warfare on the high seas, with guns roaring and the smell of cordite sharp in the nose, the yells of the gunners as they served their weapons.
“Good shot!” He screamed as he saw bright orange burst at the target’s water line. He saw the lazy tracers of the machine guns reaching for the target, searching out the windows of the ship’s bridge, sweeping across the decks. And then he saw other tracers arcing toward him, heard the clang of bullets striking metal around him and he realized that the target, hopelessly out gunned, was shooting back at him.
“Get that machine gun on that ship!” he yelled at Dick Smalley on the 20-mm guns. He watched as Smalley’s tracers walked in at the source of the other tracers and then steadied and hammered on the other gun station.
“Target is down by the bow!” Dusty Rhodes’ bellow could be easily heard above the roar of the deck guns.
“Cease fire!” Hinman yelled. “A case of beer to the gun that puts him under. Commence slow fire!” The forward gun barked and Hinman saw a burst of fire near the water line of the target’s bow. The after deck gun bellowed and there was a burst of flame at the target’s exposed hull aft and then a muffled explosion and the ship jerked sideways and broke in two.
“After gun gets the beer!” Hinman yelled. “Plot, where in the hell has that third ship gone to?” He turned to climb up in the periscope shears and stopped as he saw the dark rivulets running down the mottled camouflage paint of the periscope shears. His eyes followed the dark streams upward and he saw Grabnas hanging like a limp rag doll over the pipe railing of his lookout stand.
“Doc to the bridge!” Hinman yelled. He scrambled upward to Grabnas, lifting the man’s limp upper body, and as Grabnas started to slide out of the lookout stand, Hinman heard Major Struthers’ voice below him.