Then to Oregon at the other end of the conning tower, "All ahead, flank!" and to Tom, "One hundred feet!"
At flank speed the Electrician's Mates poured everything the battery could give into the motors and the whole frame of the ship trembled with the added power. You could feel her accelerate like a living thing as she drove forward. She couldn't last long, not over a half-hour more at this speed.
This was all we could do-our maximum effort. But in- decision still gripped me. What if Vixen zigged. even farther away? What if we used up the whole battery in a fruitless chase? We might very well do this, all to no purpose. The dials on the TDC gave no comfort, either, for they now showed Walrus and Vixen running on parallel courses about five thou- sand yards apart. This could go on indefinitely, or until our battery gave out. If we turned toward the "enemy," Vixen would swiftly pass ahead, never once having come close to torpedo range, and we would be left with a hopeless stern chase. The only thing to do was to keep going and hope the next zig of the target would be in our direction.
The timer ticked off another minute and I bent over Hugh Adams' plotting sheet, shooting a fleeting look at old Blunt is I did so, hardly hoping for a suggestion and finding none in his customarily grim visage. Hugh's chart contained a paucity of information; merely the location of the two ships and lines showing their respective movements. I studied it carefully.
Somewhere in the back of my mind a forgotten idea was stirring.
I tried to wrest it from Hugh's plot without success. A look at the TDC, nearly blocked by Jim and Keith's shoulders.
Nothing unusual there. Back to the chart.
"What was the initial bearing of the target when we dived?"
I asked Hugh.
He silently indicated a lightly penciled line near the right- hand edge of the paper. "This is about what it was, sir. I had to work backward a little after we figured out which way he was going "Is this north?" I indicated the head of the paper.
Adams nodded.
Still the idea wouldn't come, and then suddenly it there, full grown. I looked for the Squadron Commander;- he was studying the dials and instruments alongside Oregon; our helmsman.
"Rubinoffski," I muttered under my breath, "where's the area chart?"
The Quartermaster reached under Adams' desk and pulled out a rolled up navigational chart of Long Island Sound.
"Didn't I see something about net-testing operations?" I asked him.
"Yes sir." Rubinoffski's tapering forefinger indicated a freshly inked line about one inch long on the chart.
Another observation was due. "All ahead, one third." The singing note changed as the boat began to slow down.
"Hugh!" I said, pointing to the net-testing area on Rubinoffski's chart, "transfer this line to your plotting sheet.
Also draw in the location of Little Gull Island, the mid-channel Whistle buoy, and that danger buoy we received notice of last week."
I went back to the TDC and drew Jim aside to give him a few last-minute instructions. Jim was, among other things, in charge of our firing check-off list pasted in the overhead of the conning tower. We had so far accomplished only two of the half-dozen or so items listed thereon.
Walrus slowed and at the same time neared the newly ordered depth for the next periscope look. I had told Tom to bring her only to sixty-three feet-a foot deeper than the previous observation. This meant that with the periscope fully extended, only three and a half feet of it would project above the surface of the water. It was desirable to have less and less periscope visible, of course, during the latter stages of an approach.
The speed was just on three knots as the periscope came up.
I grasped the handles, started going around with it before it had stopped its upward motion, completed a full circle before it was fully raised.
"Down scope," and the periscope dropped away. I turned to the TDC. "Angle on the bow, point one hundred. Stand by for an observation.'
Keith pursed his lips, turned the target course knob slightly.
Jim, fiddling with the Is-Was, looked unhappy.
Hugh Adams in his corner was still busy, and Captain Blunt was watching gravely.
I motioned with my thumbs for the periscope. It slithered up into my hands.
"Bearing-Mark! Range-Mark! Down scope.
Jim held up a stop watch with a sidelong approving look for me to see as I turned toward him. It indicated seven and a half seconds-the time the periscope had been out of water.
As soon as Keith had finished setting in Rubinoffski's readings I gave him the angle on the bow. "No change," I said.
Adams stepped back from his table and I crowded over be- side him.
My hunch had been correct. The danger buoy, the whistle buoy, the net emplacement, and Little Gull Island all lay approximately in a row athwart our target's course. He had to come toward us. He could not go through them, and there was no other way for him to turn.
"We'll be shooting in a few minutes. Make the tubes ready forward, Jim," I said.
Jim motioned to Quin. "Tubes forward, flood tubes. Set depth thirty feet. Speed high." He reached up with the pencil marked off an item on big check-off list.
"Right full rudder," I told Oregon.
I could see the Squadron Commander lean forward taking it all in with a confused frown. This time he was going to get some of big own medicine.
Keith looked up at me puzzled. "Did you say angle on the bow was port one hundred?"
"A little more if anything. Give him one-oh-five, port."
With a look of disbelief Keith made the adjustment.
"What's the course to head for him?" I asked.
Keith reached up with his finger to aid in measuring the angle. Jim beat him to it from the Is-Wag. "Two-two-six!"
"Two-two-eight." Keith's answer differed slightly from Jim's.
I raised my voice for Oregon to hear. "Steady on course one-nine-zero!" This would lead the target by a few degrees as he came toward us.
Nearly a minute passed. I was aware of a worried frown on the Commodore's face from where he stood between the periscope hoist motors.
"Steady on one-nine-zero, sir!" from Oregon.
I motioned for the periscope, took another look. Range and bearing were fed into the TDC. "No change on angle on the bow," I said. I caught Captain Blunt's increasingly puzzled expression; Keith also glanced at me uneasily. I would have informed Jim and Keith but could not; catching old Joe Blunt by surprise just once was too good to risk losing. I could see him itching to question me, and finally it was too much for hint to stand.
"Good God, Rich! What in hell are you trying to do?"
"Nothing special, sir." A look of bland innocence. "We are getting near the firing point and I'm getting ready to fire our salvo."
"Tubes forward flooded. Depth set thirty feet. Speed high," from Quin.
Jim made another check on the overhead, as I nodded to him.
"Open the outer doors forward," he said.
Quin repeated the command over the telephone.
Captain Blunt seemed about to leap out from between the periscope motors.
"What did you say the angle on the bow was?" he growled.
"Port one-one-five, sir."
"Range?"
"About four thousand."
"Richardson, if you're playing games with me."
"No, sir," I said as blandly as I could, "we will probably be shooting in around three minutes on this course."
The puzzled look increased on Blunt's face. He was famed for his uncanny ability to retain the picture of a submarine approach and do practically all the calculations in his head without mechanical assistance. He had, of course, missed my low-voiced interchange with Hugh.
"Observation!" I rapped out, motioning with my thumbs to Rubinoffski to start the scope up as I squatted before it.
"Be ready to stop it short," I told him. He nodded. The periscope handles hit my outstretched hands. I snapped them down. Rubinoffski put the scope on the target bearing, different now because of our course change.