J. E. MacDonnell - 096

  J E MacDonnell - 096 - Execute!

  CHAPTER ONE

  MOON over Mindanao. A fat yellow moon sailing slowly down to its rest in the west. A lovely moon, like you see in the travel posters, luring you up into the tropics. Still diffusing plenty of light, making of the sea a glinting silvery field. Making the destroyer's grey upperworks frosted silver. Plain as hell.

  "Blast that bloody moon," muttered Lieutenant-Commander Benson.

  In its light he could clearly see the mountainous edge of Mindanao's eastern seaboard, and unpleasantly in his mind was the awareness that while he could see, he could be seen.

  "Repeat, sir?" said the navigating officer quickly.

  Benson moved one hand slightly in denial. Pilot relaxed -insofar as a navigating officer could with his ship hunting a submarine. Pilot kept his eyes occasionally on the compass and his ears constantly on the asdic speaker.

  Benson moved to the chart table and laid his forearms across its top. There are some captains who are detested by their men. This type of officer is either naturally bitchy, or else unsure of himself. Sailors can with great accuracy detect both faults. Benson was one of the most universally liked captains in the Service.

  He was rather a chubby fellow-liking food and eschewing all forms of exercise other than that unavoidably inflicted upon him by a destroyer's lively movements in a seaway. As for his face, it was most pleasant and genial. You liked him at once, and first impressions were proven correct.

  He was a casual sort of fellow; not in dress, like a somewhat careless captain presently based and restfully asleep far away in Darwin, but in his attitude to worry and danger. Perhaps unflappable would describe him more correctly. He also happened to know his job. But then his ship Witch, a modern Fleet destroyer of almost 2000 tons, was a unit of Captain Peter Bentley's flotilla, and that should be enough to indicate Benson's professional competence.

  He was young by normal standards, twenty-eight, but abnormally aged and matured by responsibility, experience and the harsh game in which he had been engaged for the past four years. Right now, at three in the morning, he was feeling tired. Stiff, too, from hours of sitting on the damned stool in the corner, whose top was made of bare hard wood. He left the chart table and wandered over to the binnacle.

  Sure of himself, Benson yawned in company, and then he said:

  "What d'you think, old boy?"

  Professionally, Pilot was stamped from that same mould which had produced so many of his kind, but one aspect of his character had not, and never would, change. He was aged twenty-five, and he had the lugubriousness of an arthritic man of seventy.

  "Dunno, sir."

  Benson's mouth twisted. The day you got Pilot's real feelings with your first question would be an occasion for wonder, or else he was direly ill. With nothing better to do, Benson persisted.

  "Oh, come on. Surely to God you've been thinking of other things than your damned courses and soundings and reefs?"

  "Well, as a matter of fact..."

  Benson waited. The signal yeoman, with nothing at all to do, waited. Pilot looked at the compass, then raised his gaunt face and looked into the heavens.

  "The suspense is killing me," said Benson.

  "Sorry, sir, I was just thinking..."

  "What, for the love of Mike?"

  "That we're wasting our time."

  Benson had come to this conclusion half an hour ago. He said:

  "What makes you think that?"

  "Three things."

  After a moment's silence Benson said, "Let's have `em, then, in order of preference."

  "Yes, sir. First, we were the only ship in the flotilla to gain a contact. Second, it was a weak, fuzzy contact.

  Third," Pilot said, shaking his head despondently, "I don't think it was a submarine at all."

  All without a pause... Benson looked at him admiringly before saying:

  "By George, Pilot, I believe you're right."

  "Thank you, sir,", said Pilot mournfully.

  Benson rubbed his hands together. "Right. What's the flotilla's estimated position?"

  On this subject Benson expected, and got, a quick answer.

  "Bearing southeast of us, sir, seventy-five miles."

  Benson checked his watch. Almost three hours on the hunt-it was easy to make up his mind.

  "Let's get back to Big Brother. Starb'd thirty, put her on-course to rejoin, increase to..."

  Two things interrupted Benson's orders. One was much louder than the other, yet it was the softer sound which claimed his attention more tightly; just then, at least.

  "Captain, sir!" yelled the yeoman abruptly, and the asdic speaker gave forth its metallic peep of contact.

  "Belay those orders!" Benson said, "steady as you go. What's the strife, yeoman?"

  "There was a bright yellow flash on the port beam, sir. I think it was..."

  Now the yeoman was interrupted. There came the tearing hiss of parted air and involuntarily they all ducked and from the sea a hundred yards to starboard a single column rose tall and white in the moonlight.

  Sighting shot, Benson thought, then his mind became a moil of more important thoughts. The ping-peep of the asdic set was clear. They had a submarine and there was no doubt they had her definitely. Just as definite was the fact that a Jap shore gun, if not a battery, had them.

  He should alter course to confuse the next salvo, but if he swung the ship violently then he might lose that all-important asdic contact. There was a submarine, and that meant it had in all probability sighted the flotilla, and that meant it could surface and put a squadron of bombers on to Bentley's ships shortly after first light. There was one way to nullify that nastiness-providing a magazine, and the ship, wasn't blown to pieces in the process. Benson compromised.

  "Starb'd fifteen," he ordered. "Sound action."

  Already at a fair clip, Witch started to swing almost at once to the right. This would take her over toward that first fall of shot, and thus away from the downward correction of the gunners ashore.

  "Warn the asdic team we're under fire from ashore. I'm taking avoiding action but I don't want that contact lost."

  Ladders rattled. Feet in heavy boots thumped urgently along the decks. Orders were shouted. Her three twin 4.7inch mountings swung toward the dark and distant line of shore. It winked at them a bright yellow eye. One eye.

  A less unflappable captain would have cursed that blasted gun which had joined the game at the worst possible moment. Benson simply listened to his asdic set and waited for the fall of shot. He said:

  "Have you got a bearing on the gun, Pilot?"

  No procrastination now. "Yessir! It's emplaced on Pusan Point, range six miles."

  "Very well. Log that position when you get a chance."

  This time they barely heard the shell's rush. Plainly they heard its crumping burst about fifty yards to port, between Witch and the shore. The course alteration had thrown the Japs off. Benson had decided to maintain his present course, a move which the enemy should not be expecting, when quick feet halted beside him and a quick voice said:

  "What's the target, sir?"

  Mr. Lasenby, Gunner, was Bentley's gunnery-control officer, but then Lasenby was the flotilla gunner, a position of considerable eminence for a one-stripper, and thus he had been given the vital job of controlling Wind Rode's shooting from the director. Witch carried only a torpedo-gunner, and her director officer was a young lieutenant.

  "Shore gun, Donovan," Benson said, "on Pusan Point, just abaft the port beam. Maybe it's a battery. Range six miles. I want it smothered."

  "Aye aye, sir!"

  Donovan went like a monkey up the ladder to the director. Before he got inside the controlling steel box Benson's conjecture was
proved right. No one on the bridge could count the flashes, they were too close together, but every man saw the four ugly, beautifully symmetrical columns jet skyward from the port quarter.

  "Port ten," ordered Benson, keeping his ear on the asdic speaker, and another voice said:

  "Ship closed-up for action, sir."

  "Very well, Number One."

  That wasn't bad, Benson thought-two thirds of the ship's company asleep and she had closed-up in double-quick time. Down below men would have heard the thump of those explosions transmitted through her thin skin...

  Then the night seemed to explode in a flare of yellow light and the ship jerked as her six big guns bellowed their challenge. Across the sea toward Mindanao fled a diminishing whine. The sound of despatch faded and was replaced a few seconds later by the red splashes of arrival.

  Before the shore battery could fire again Witch's main armament loosed another broadside. That was good, but Benson was not surprised. His guns were quick-firing semiautomatics, and power-rammed, and trained and elevated by hydraulic pumps; it was unlikely the shore battery had anything like those refinements, and certainly no artillery had the muzzle velocity of naval guns. Just the same, it did not take high velocity for any shell to penetrate Witch's quarter-inch thin side...

  Benson put that nasty reflection aside and concentrated on his main job. It was not only the most important of his ship's two tasks, but once he finished it he could put on rudder and speed and get to hell clear of the shore guns.

  The shore spat yellow at them and a second later Witch showed her own teeth. But most of Benson's attention was on the glittering sea to starboard whence came the sound-reflecting bearing of his main enemy, and on the swing of his bow toward that point.

  He heard the whoof of explosions, and someone call, "Only three spouts, sir, we must've knocked out one of their guns," and in the next second he heard another voice which stiffened him.

  "Torpedo approaching, bearing three-five-five!" Almost due north. "Hard-a-starb'd!"

  The coxswain acknowledged, then the bridge was silent. Waiting. The two mountings on the forepart loaded with clanging thuds and fired, but the bridge was silent. The bow was past north heading for west, the gyro compass clicking fast, the lubber's line which was the ship's head swinging with smooth urgency beneath the unmoving figures and letters on the compass card. Then the yeoman croaked:

  "Torpedo track in sight, fine on the port bow, drawing aft."

  It was the last two words which held the real significance. Witch was moving ahead across the torpedo's line of advance at the same time as she was heaving her stern clear. Even before the torpedo drew level Benson knew they were safe.

  Safe from that torpedo. The Jap might try another shot, right down her throat. Benson could see the smooth track plainly in the moonlight. The submarine was almost dead ahead. Obviously she knew her hunter was under separate attack-either from a periscope sighting of those flashes ashore or because her hydrophones had picked up the sounds of exploding shells. It seemed almost certain she would try another torpedo shot. "Midships, steer north."

  Instinct urged Benson to pile on more speed: to get on top of his enemy more quickly, to swing faster from what she might loose. Experience kept him from giving the order; he had to have unimpeded operation of the asdic set, and the frictional rush of high speed would deny him that Experience paid off.

  "Contact bearing right ahead, moving left to right, range 1800 yards." "Classification?"

  "Classified submarine." ,..

  Benson's tone was a little tighter than usual when he said:

  "Stand-by depth charge attack." Moments passed. The first tense moments of an attack which keep men on a taut pitch of alertness. The guns were firing, the sea was spouting, but apart from the first lieutenant, who was the gunnery officer, the bridge team was not interested. They had seen the evidence of their enemy, they knew he was somewhere beneath them less than a mile distant, and all the time the asdic speaker was giving triumphant tongue.

  Its voice was a mewl of sound compared to the guns' bellowing, but still its message came strong and clear. Benson's face was cast in its normal mould of half-quizzical composure, but his guts were rioting with exultation. He should get this Jap.

  Benson gave his orders to the depth-charge crews.

  A few more seconds of waiting and then the destroyer shook. The sea astern climbed to the sky in a multiple mound.

  The submarine was wholly surrounded by water. Her line of advance on a turn was shorter than a surface ship's, she could turn much more quickly. And, as well, she could rise or sink to further confuse the attacker's aim.

  The mound flung itself apart in shooting sprays of white and every eye on Witch's bridge glared back to sight the black hull breaking surface.

  They sighted nothing but frothing foam. The destroyer's discharged fury was spectacular, and barren of result. Benson listened, and heard only the regular ping of transmission. He knew he had missed her.

  "Starb'd thirty," he snapped, and brought her round.

  He swung to the right. The submarine coming toward him had done the same. Hunter and hunted were diverging away from each other at a combined speed of almost 25 knots.

  Perhaps because he was fighting two enemies at once, the fates were kind to Benson that night. A salvo from ashore landed so close off his box that the whole ship shivered with the underwater punch.

  "The bastards have the range," Pilot muttered, and his worried tone found echo in all their minds.

  "Midships," Benson ordered, "port thirty."

  This would take his ship in toward the coast, but it should also take her in under the enemy's next salvo. And it happened to take her in toward something else. "Number One," Benson said, "Are the guns in rapid broadsides?"

  A question like that was needless, it served to indicate his mental tension. But the first lieutenant was feeling anything but composed himself, and he answered with literal formality:

  "Yes, sir. They've been in rapid broadsides after the first sighting rounds."

  "Then..."

  The six guns belched, drowning Benson's voice. Their thunder shivered to silence.

  Then tell them to try and step up the loading rate. I want that bloody battery smooth..."

  Again he was interrupted, if not smothered. The returning peep was higher in pitch than the transmitting ping, a short sharp metallic note that cut across Benson's voice like a knife. His eyes swung to the bearing repeat, and in instant decision his voice ordered:

  "Port twenty! Stand-by depth charge attack!"

  The order was passed. Shadows moved about the throwers on the quarterdeck. Benson's attention remained on the bearing repeat, and he saw from the needle that Witch was nosing directly down the bearing of the target.

  "Midships! Steady as you go!"

  A minute passed. Two. In that time the guns fired again and again, but Benson barely heard their roar and deliberately he ignored the returning salvoes. Like a dive-bomber pilot, he was committed to his run, regardless of what was coming his way in return.

  Now the echoing peep came more quickly, as the excitement rose in Benson's guts.

  "Port thrower, starb'd thrower, rails!"

  This ship was an escort destroyer. She was specifically designed to track and find and kill submarines. Now her quarterdeck showed what it was fitted for.

  The whoofs of exploding cordite charges were musical and flat, not loud. And the canisters they flung entered the water on either side of her wake with only small splashes. But the size of the depth charges was out of all proportion to their disruptive capabilities. They sank down, and the ship moved on. Benson waited, unconsciously tense. He had waited like this many times before, but now his feeling was excitement and anticipation, not apprehension. It was a grisly game, but this time he felt he had played it perfectly.

  He had ordered a deeper setting, so that he was not surprised when the sea merely heaved up in a wide, swelling mound which did not break into spray. B
ut there was no doubt of the force of the eruptions so far down. The ship displaced nearly two thousand tons, and every inch of her shook under the blast.

  She shook, too, under another blast, but Benson was uninterested in his own gunfire. He was staring astern... and there on the creaming white of the moonlit sea he saw it. Black and ominous as hell was that surfacing scum, rising from the deep water to spread darkly befouling across the sea's shining face.

  The very enclosure of the sea which before had saved the submarine in its quick turn away, now had ruptured her open in the crushing clench of a giant fist.

  A voice trying to be calm, not quite succeeding, came from the asdic cabinet.