“Tradition be damned!” Hunt said loudly. “I know the regulations, Mr. Wing, and so do you! I won’t have a crew that looks like a bunch of pirates, and you can pass that along!” He pulled his arm away and started for the ladder. As he did so, a voice called down from the conning tower.
“Conn! Sound contact, bearing 0-3-5 relative.”
Hunt sprang for the ladder, calling, “Periscope depth, damn it! This is a restricted area!” Dutch and the two planesmen snapped into action, putting the recent scene out of their minds. In the conning tower Plum grabbed the spare earphones and listened for a moment to the unmistakable lub-lub-lub of a ship’s propeller. “Bearing’s shifted, sir,” the sonarman said. “0-6-0 now.”
“Get me a range on it,” said Hunt grimly.
“Sixty feet!” came a call from below. The exec started the periscope up, grabbing the shackle as soon as it cleared the well and turning it to the right. After a quick look he checked the handle and his face went pale. The periscope was set for low power, so the ship that filled it must be nearly upon them!
“Sir, range is three hundred yards!”
“Hard right rudder, all ahead emergency! Take her down, fast! Dive, damn you, dive!” The control room erupted in a frenzy of activity, but for the men in the conning tower there was nothing to do but listen to the ever-closer pounding of the screws, audible now without the help of the sonar gear. The slightest touch from one of those huge bronze blades would open the Manta s pressure hull like a tin can. The deck started to slant forward as the boat clawed for safety in the depths. The threatening ship was on the port bow now, and every man stared up in that direction as if he could see through the steel hull. They could hear the ship’s engines now, and the swish of turbulence along her hull. The submarine canted to the right, caught by the underwater wave, and the bow seemed to settle to a lower angle. The noise of the propellers was almost deafening now, and seemed to come from directly overhead. No one in the conning tower dared to breathe, for fear he would miss the first sound of the collision. Then, unbelievably, the noise moved past and began to fade.
A new peril presented itself before they had time to feel relieved at their escape. “Sir, we’re passing 120 feet,” the helmsman called. Alerted by the anxiety in his voice, Hunt recalled the soundings on the chart of these waters. With this much down-angle on the boat, the bow was many feet deeper than the depth gauge indicated. It could smash into the bottom at any moment!
“Full rise!” he screamed. “Blow safety!” His headache had spread from above his nose all the way around his head. It felt like a steel band being tightened bit by bit. He could remember what to do if only it would go away. The roar of the compressed air forcing the water from the safety tank mixed with the roaring in his head, and he clutched at the periscope tube for support as the boat lurched and started to rise.
Lou daCosta’s battle station was at the torpedo data computer, or TDC, against the aft bulkhead of the conning tower. He had watched his superior officer’s reactions to the closely spaced emergencies with mounting concern. Now White, the quartermaster, was trying to catch his eye from his post at the helm. The rudder was still over hard and the motors were going full out. The boat was moving upward on a corkscrew course at an ever steeper angle. Unless corrective action was taken at once, she would broach the surface like a leaping whale. The jar when the bow fell back onto the water would cause unguessable damage and injuries. But he could do nothing; Art was in command.
Was he unwell? He seemed unsteady on his feet. The imploring look on the quartermaster’s face made up Lou’s mind for him. He stepped forward and took Art’s arm. The exec looked at him dazedly. “Art, we’ve got to straighten out and level off. We’re about to broach.”
A spark of understanding came into the other man’s eyes and he opened his mouth, but no words came out.
“Would you like me to take the conn?” The exec blinked but did not reply. That was enough for daCosta. “Rudder amidships,” he snapped. “All ahead one-third. Planesmen, get the up angle off her. Prepare to surface!” He sounded the diving klaxon three times, warning the crew that the boat was about to surface.
White had already corrected the helm and was anxiously studying the depth gauge. They were in for it this time, and no mistake! “Broaching, sir,” he warned, and gripped the wheel tighter. For an instant he had a sensation in the pit of his stomach that reminded him of roller-coaster rides as a kid, then the deck smashed upward under his feet. The bare light bulbs overhead jiggled wildly on their short cords, and two of them shattered, spraying shards of glass on the men sprawled on the deck.
DaCosta was the first to regain his feet. “All compartments report damage,” he snapped. A white-faced sailor wearing a telephone headset spoke briefly and listened intently before reporting, “No major damage sir; minor injuries.”
“Very well. Secure from general quarters. Secure from depth charge. Quartermaster, open the hatch. Lookouts to the bridge!” He was so close behind them going up the ladder that he was nearly kicked in the face. One look around was enough to tell him that, wherever they were, they were far from their assigned operating area. The Connecticut shore, to the north, was either below the horizon or obscured by the haze, but there was land on the port beam, no more than five thousand yards away. He studied it through the binoculars and decided that it must be Plum Island, with Orient Point, the north fork of Long Island, just beyond it. If so, they were a good twelve miles southwest of where they were supposed to be. If an ASW patrol plane spotted them in these waters, it might lead to an unfortunate misunderstanding.
“All ahead two-thirds,” he said into the squawk box. “Course 0-4-0.” The order was acknowledged and the bow began to veer to the right as the boat picked up speed.
Art Hunt clambered to the bridge and looked around. He seemed unaware of the cut on his left cheek. “Where are we, Lou?” DaCosta pointed out the landmarks and explained his conclusions. Hunt nodded. “Very well,” he said, “I have the conn. You can go below.”
DaCosta wanted to argue, but in the end his Navy training was too strong. “Aye, aye, sir,” he said, and climbed down from the bridge. As he passed through the conning tower on his way to the wardroom and a badly needed cup of coffee, White, still at the helm, gave him a look of concern but kept his mouth shut.
Paul Wing was less discreet. He collared Lou in the control room and hissed, “What in hell happened up there?”
“Nothing. We had to dodge a freighter, and then things got sticky for a while. It’s okay now, I guess.”
“Lou, you’re holding out on me!”
For answer he glanced around at the rigid backs of the crewmen. Paul got the point. “Join me for a drink at the club tonight?” he said, elaborately casual.
On the bridge Art was rehearsing the report he would have to submit on today’s exercises. Somehow he was going to have to hide the fact that the few minutes following the near collision were completely blank in his mind. He could get the bare facts from the log, of course, but while that might satisfy the brass, it didn’t satisfy him. One moment he had been maneuvering to avoid that ship, and the next moment the boat surfaced, daCosta was in command, and everyone was evading his eye. Those eggs had tasted funny this morning; could that be it? Just a touch of food poisoning, nothing serious; certainly he was still fit for duty. It might be a long time before he had another opportunity to command a boat, and he was damned if he’d lose it by going on sick list.
The loudspeaker crackled. “Maneuvering to bridge!”
He thumbed the push-to-talk button. “Bridge, aye, aye.”
“Permission to take number three off the line. We’ve got a problem in the timing gear.”
“How bad is it, Charlie?”
“It’s minor for now, but it could lead to big trouble. Something must have been knocked out of alignment by that jolt.”
What jolt? the exec wondered.