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. “Very well, permission granted. If we head for the barn now, maybe your boys can get it fixed before tomorrow morning.”
He turned the selector to speak to the control room. “Come around to course”—he squinted down at the bridge compass; the dirty glass made it very hard to read—“course 0-1-2. We’re going home.”
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