Run Silent, Run Deep. Edward L. Beach

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СКАЧАТЬ “Stand by!”

      Quin picked up his telephone microphone for the first time in minutes. “Stand by forward,” he said. “Gyro spindle out?” The answer seemed to satisfy him, for his report, rendered almost instantly, was simply, “Standing by forward, sir!”

      Keith’s eyes were riveted on the hairline on the forward edge of the periscope barrel, where it went through the azimuth ring. Only Jim could see the vertical cross hair in the periscope field of view, but the thin line etched on the barrel of the instrument indicated the direction he was looking. When that line matched the predetermined firing bearing for the torpedo—three-four-five in this instance, or fifteen degrees on our port bow—the torpedo would be fired. The moment was a tense one. A lot more than most of us realized depended on it; how much, only I could have told.

      Jim had lost his temporary disappointment. He now carefully kept trained on the target, slowly rotating the periscope to keep up with it. With the slow, precise movement of a watch, the two marks closed together. You could hear men breathing in the compartment. Keith’s mouth hung partly open. His eyes elevated, right hand holding the pickle, he waited.

      “Bearing, three-four-five! FIRE!” Keith let this one out with a bellow, as though he personally could shout the torpedo out the tube.

      “FIRE!” shouted Quin into the telephone, a split second behind. There was a rumble from somewhere forward, and a hiss of air. S-16 quivered as her hull took up the jolt. In the immediate stillness I thought I could hear the whine of propellers starting.

      All thought of continuing with the fictitious salvo was forgotten as Jim watched the progress of his torpedo through the periscope. I wanted to crowd up to him, take a look myself—decided not to.

      Jim suddenly spoke. “He’s seen the torpedo. There goes the flag hoist.”

      The instructions for torpedo exercises called for the target to hoist a flag signal upon sighting a torpedo or its wake. This the Falcon had evidently done, thus signifying that she would assume the responsibility for retrieving our fish. The rules, however, did not permit Falcon to deviate from her course or otherwise attempt evasion until after the torpedo had crossed. She would later report her best estimate of where it intersected her track. A perfect shot would be signaled as M.O.T., or Middle of Target.

      Jim still stared fascinatedly through the periscope. “Looks good! Looks perfect! I’ll hit him right in the M.O.T.! He’s sunk, as sure as God made little green apples!”

      I could sympathize with Jim’s exuberance. I had felt the same way after my qualification approach and in fact still did whenever I had a chance to shoot a torpedo.

      “There! It’s crossed the track. It’s a hit! Right under the M.O.T.!” Recollecting himself, Jim barked, “Secure from battle stations! Stand by to surface!”

      This was Tom’s cue to swing into action. He gave several low-voiced rapid orders, then turned to Jim and announced: “Ship is ready to surface, sir!”

      Jim reached forward to the vicinity of the ladder to the conning tower, grasped the diving alarm handle and jerked it three times. Three raucous blasts resounded through the boat.

      “Blow safety!” ordered Tom. Air whistled into the tanks, was shut off at his signal. The bow planesman at Tom’s direction ran his bow plane up to the “full rise” position. S-16 tilted slightly up by the bow and the depth-gauge needles began to drop.

      At the first note of the surface alarm Rubinoffski swung his lanky legs up the ladder into the conning tower. Larto turned his rheostats, increased the speed of the motors. An intermittent, low-pitched hiss of air—back aft in the engine room they were turning over the engines, clearing any water out. Jim was going around and around with the periscope, at last.

      “Eye-ports awash!” The call came down from Rubinoffski. You could feel the surge toward the surface suddenly stop as S-16 broached. The little glass portholes in the conning tower, other than our periscopes the only means of seeing out of the ship, let a stream of light into the tiny compartment as they popped out of the water. The reflected rays danced in the open hatch and glittered on the steel rungs of the ladder below.

      Jim left the periscope, motioning to Keith to lower it, and leaped for the ladder, climbing rapidly up. Surfacing is not quite as critical an evolution as diving, but during the period that the boat is barely awash all hands must stand fast to their stations. Only the skipper and the Quartermaster go to the bridge, and the ship remains ready for instant diving.

      “Eighteen feet, sir, holding steady,” Tom Schultz passed the word up the hatch.

      “Crack the hatch!” I could hear Jim’s command to Rubinoffski.

      The Quartermaster grasped the handle of the hatch, turned it rapidly several times. I heard the familiar whistling sound as the slightly increased air pressure in the submarine commenced to vent out.

      “Put the low-pressure pump on the main drain—shut the Kingstons. Line up ballast tanks for pumping!” The routine orders from Tom were a backdrop to the sudden rush of air past me as Jim ordered the bridge hatch flung open. In a moment came the call: “Lookouts to the bridge.”

      The two planesmen, no longer needed at the bow and stern planes, had hastily donned submarine jackets upon surfacing, buttoning them over the binoculars which they had also slung about their necks. Now they raced up the ladder to join Jim.

      In a little more than a minute the submerged routine had been terminated and surface condition established; S-16 plowed through the choppy waters of the Sound along the track which Jim’s torpedo had taken, and as the engines were started, a frozen blast of air poured into the control room from the now-open passage to the bridge. When Jim sent for Keith to take over the bridge watch, I followed him up, the vague feeling of uneasiness which had grown during the previous hour still permeating me.

      The Quartermaster was just receiving the tail end of a semaphore message from Falcon when I arrived topside. “HIT TEN YARDS FORWARD MOT X TORPEDO IN SIGHT BT.”

      Jim was delighted. He slapped Keith on the back. “What do you think of that, hey? I knew that was a hit the minute I let her go! That old Falcon out there is sunk colder than hell. I guess that’s all, hey? I guess that showed the Board—turn her around and head for the barn.”

      Keith seemed as happy over the successful shot as Jim, but at the latter’s last words I could sense his question. It was hard to tell whether Jim meant it as a command or was merely expressing his feelings.

      “Easy, old man,” I said. “The rules don’t let you go back to port until Falcon picks up your fish.”

      “Ah, hell, skipper,” Jim grinned unabashed, “they’re practically alongside of it already. Let’s at least start back.”

      It was true. The Falcon had turned as soon as the torpedo passed under her and had followed its wake. S-16, not having changed course since firing, had been proceeding all this time in the same direction, gradually increasing her speed as her ballast tanks went dry. Up ahead the Falcon still had the two flag hoists signifying “torpedo in sight” at her yardarm, and several ship lengths ahead of her we could see the splashes as the torpedo, its exercise head having blown dry, expended its last few ounces of fuel and air before coming to a stop.

      I knew what Keith was thinking. Our squadron orders required that the Torpedo Officer of the firing СКАЧАТЬ