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  “Tell me about it,” Ken asked.

  Malone grinned. “There’s no way to tell you about it. If you’ve never been through it you can’t understand how it feels. It’s like nothing else in the world.”

  “Bad?”

  “Not good. But I came in here, Lieutenant, sir, to say that luncheon is now being served. Chow down, in other words.” Ken folded the chart and papers and put them back into the envelope before climbing down. As Malone stood aside to let him out, he asked, “Where’s the mess hall?”

  “The mess hall? If you mean where do we eat, we eat where we play acey-deucy, shoot the breeze, navigate, operate, caulk off, study, read, listen to the radio, and where one of my many bosses, the communicator, sleeps. The wardroom.” As they walked down the narrow corridor, Ken said, “My name is Ken. What’s yours?”

  Malone laughed. “It’s Patrick Ignatius MacGonigle Malone, Jr. But most people call me Pat if they’re friendly.”

  “OK, Pat. Now what’s your job on the boat?”

  “Me? Well, being junior officer aboard, I get all the dirty details no one else wants. Officially I’m the Assistant Communications and Sound Officer. I’m also Assistant to the Assistant Approach Officer, the Assistant Engineering Officer, the Assistant Diving Officer, the Assistant Gunnery and Torpedo Officer. I am also Mess Treasurer without assistant, and acey-deucy player without peer.”

  When they got to the wardroom two other officers were already there. Malone introduced Ken to Lieutenant (j.g.) Silas Mount and to Lieutenant Philip Carney. “Si is the First Lieutenant of the Boat as well as Gunnery and Torpedo Officer,” Malone told him, “and Phil Carney is the Exec and Assistant Approach Officer.”

  “And Navigator,” Carney said, “unless, of course, Pat, you’d like to navigate this trip?”

  Ken squeezed around the table and sat down between Silas Mount and Malone. “I’m afraid I’ve cluttered up your cabin, Mr. Mount,” Ken told him. “I’ve got a lot of diving gear stowed in there.”

  “Forget it, Ken,” Mount said pleasantly. “Nothing can be worse than the mere fact of having to live in the same boat with Malone.”

  “Hear, hear,” Malone said.

  “By the way,” Mount went on, “which bunk did Malone give you?”

  “The top one,” Ken told him.

  Mount raised his voice so the officers coming in could hear. “Outrageous! Did you hear that, gentlemen? Ensign Malone has had the audacity to assign a lieutenant (j.g.) to the top bunk. Absolutely unwarranted assumption of authority.”

  Malone spoke quietly to Ken. “Pay no attention to him, Ken. As you know, being an ensign is merely a constant battle for mere survival, that’s all.”

  Ken, who had come into the Navy as a j.g., said nothing.

  As the food was brought in by a steward, the officers spent their spare time, when not eating, in ribbing Malone.

  Ken, after the reception Stevenson had given him, began to feel better. With these officers there was a spirit of comradeship and of genuine friendship. Through all the ribbing you could tell that they all liked Malone—and liked each other. Ken wondered how Stevenson fitted in with them?

  For a moment he studied Silas Mount, his other roommate. Mount was a thin-faced man of about twenty-four. His hair was jet black, his eyes a dark blue, and his whole expression was sensitive, intelligent. With a flowing black tie he could pose as a poet.

  Philip Carney, on the other hand, had a strong, alert, quiet face. Ken noticed that, at every different sound in the submarine, Carney would stop eating or talking and listen. He seemed to be always conscious of what was happening in the boat.

  Stevenson didn’t come down off the bridge until the others had almost finished lunch. As he came in they stood up as well as they could and waited until he sat down.

  Carney, the Executive Officer, asked, “How’s it going, Skipper?”

  Stevenson ignored him and said, to Ken, “Where is the op plan, Mr. Braden?”

  “In my cabin, sir.”

  Stevenson stopped helping himself, the spoon halfway to his plate. For a moment he stared across the small table at Ken and then said coldly, “Go and get it.”

  Ken had a hard time getting over the other officers’ legs. In the cabin he stood for a moment looking down at the floor. His hands had started shaking and his stomach felt gone.

  Back in the wardroom with the SCAN envelope he listened as Stevenson said, “From now on, Mr. Braden, the op plan stays in your hands or locked in my desk. Nowhere else.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Ken said, meaning it and knowing that he had been careless.

  When Ken was back in his seat, Stevenson looked at the officers around the table. “All right, gentlemen, here’s the picture. After a refueling stop at Midway, we are going out to the mid-Pacific. I can’t tell you exactly what we’re looking for but, since that is no concern of the boat itself, it doesn’t matter. We’ve got some islands to go to and Mr. Braden, our passenger, will do a little exploring. It seems that Mr. Braden is some sort of underwater expert.

  “As far as the boat is concerned, there’s only one important thing. We must get to the islands and get back. Is that clear, gentlemen?”

  Only the Exec spoke. “Does that mean that if a really good target—a carrier or a battlewagon, say—shows up we’ve got to leave it alone, Skipper?”

  “Exactly,” Stevenson said. “This is not a war patrol. This is a recon patrol. There will be no—repeat, no—hunting for targets.”

  The Exec spoke again. “Suppose were attacked, sir?”

  “We hit the coral and stay there,” Stevenson told him. “What about after the recon, Skipper? Can we hunt then?”

  “We return to Pearl and make our report.”

  The officers were silent for a moment. Disappointment was heavy on them as they finished eating and, one by one, drifted out of the room.

  Chapter 2

  Ken was still studying the op plan when, at a little after four in the afternoon, Malone came into the cabin.

  “How’s it going, Pat?”

  “When I am on watch all goes well, sir. Things only get fouled up when those beastly lieutenants take over the boat. We’ll probably sink before eight bells rings again.”

  Ken sat up in his bunk. “I need some help, Pat. What do you have to do for the next hour or so?”

  “Nothing. We stand watches four on and eight off. What can I do for you?”

  “Well, here’s the picture. I’ve got to get ashore on those islands.”

  “We’ve got a rubber boat,” Malone told him.

  “I’d better not use that. Too easy to see. I’ll have to go under water right up to the beach and then see what cooks.”

  Malone glanced at him. “Swimming?”

  Ken nodded.

  “Alone?”

  Ken nodded again.

  “What about sharks? Barracuda?”

  “Sharks never bothered anybody at the training school and we saw a lot of ’em. Apparently they react differently to men when they’re down under the water with them. I don’t know about barracuda. But most fish don’t seem to pay much attention to you when you’re down there with ’em. It’s only when you break the surface that they react very much.”

  “Oh well, I guess when you see a shark or something you can get out of his way, can’t you?”

  “I won’t be able to see them,” Ken told him.

  “Can’t you see out of that face mask?” Malone asked, surprised.

  “Sure. In the daytime.”

  Malone looked up at him again. “You mean you’re going in that water at night?*9

  “I think so, Pat. I’d be too easy to spot coming in in daylight. And once I’m caught, or even seen, the whole thing blows up.”

  Malone shook his head slowly. “Man, I wouldn’t get in that water at night for anybody in the Navy. I’ve seen some horrible-looking things in this ocean.”

  “I don’t suppose I look particularly pretty to them, either, with all that gear on.
But that’s not the first problem. What worries me is how close to a beach can this boat go? I mean, submerged?”

  “Depends on the Skipper,” Malone told him. “Mush Morton took the Wahoo right into Wewak Harbor.”

  “Distance gets important if there’s lots of it. I can lug a maximum of four hours’ worth of oxygen or air but I can’t lug it far. Even if I could there’s the problem of time. If the boat can’t get in close to the beach I won’t have time to swim ashore, look around, and swim back in one night.”

  “What do you call ‘close’?”

  “I call a mile a long way.”

  “A mile from an enemy coast isn’t a long way to a submarine,” Malone said. “But the whole thing depends on how deep the water is. If we’ve got to go in submerged then well need at the very least sixty feet of water between top and bottom. I don’t think the Skipper’ll want to go into water less than a hundred feet deep unless he absolutely has to.” Ken climbed down from his bunk with the SCAN chart. “Here’re the islands, Pat.”

  Malone studied the chart and began to shake his head. “The depths aren’t very well marked. See, there’s nothing to show how deep the water is in the lagoon here.”

  “They told me at school that the water inside the lagoon of an atoll is usually deeper than the water close in around the outside of it.”

  “I guess that’s true. The islands are always being built up by coral on the outside and rotting away on the inside,” Malone agreed, still studying the chart. “But, boy, that’s a narrow little slit we’ll have to get through to get inside. If we got into any trouble in there all the Japoons would have to do would be to put a boat right here”—he pointed to the open water between two of the islands—“and let us have it when we tried to get out again. Like shooting fish in a barrel.” Looking across the chart at the bearded ensign, Ken asked, “Do you think Stevenson would go in through there?”

  Malone glanced at the open doorway and said in a whisper, “Always call him ‘Skipper,’ Ken, or ‘Captain.’ ”

  Ken nodded. “Thanks. Well, would he?”

  “It’s not impossible, Ken,” Malone said slowly, “but, man, oh, man, it would take a real cool character to do it.”

  “I don’t see any other way,” Ken said at last. “We’ll have to go inside the lagoon.”

  “The Skipper’ll do it,” Malone reminded him.

  “If he won’t I don’t see how I can get ashore. Surf is hard to handle even on a sandy beach. Breaking over a coral reef is sort of rough on you.”

  “How much do those tanks and all that gear weigh?”

  “Nothing—when you’re under the water. But plenty when you’re trying to walk out of surf.”

  Malone got up and inspected his beard in the mirror. “I’m beginning to think that I’ve made a little mistake, Ken, boy. From what the Skipper said in the wardroom I figured this was going to be a joy ride. A no-dive trip out and back, with nothing coming down around our ears. Now I’ve got this little old feeling that I’m wrong.”

  “Maybe the Japs haven’t got a thing on this atoll. Maybe we’ll slip in and slip out without any trouble at all.”

  “Maybe,” Malone said. “But I’ve got this little old feeling. Right here …” He let his knees wobble together.

  Ken laughed and then said seriously, “Problem number two: how do I get in and get out of this boat?”

  “Submerged or on the surface?”

  “Submerged.”

  “That’s fairly simple. Go out the escape hatch.”

  “How would I get back in again?”

  “Same way.”

  “Now,” Ken said, “problem three—”

  “For a lieutenant, boy, you sure got problems,” Malone said. “What’s this one?”

  “How do I find this boat under the water?”

  Malone pulled at his beard. “How well can you see under water?”

  “At night? Not at all. And all of this has got to be done at night.”

  Malone sighed. He got the chart down off Ken’s bunk and studied it. “There wouldn’t be much current inside the lagoon,” he decided. “So maybe we wouldn’t drift far from where you left us.”

  “Can’t you just let a sub go down to the bottom and rest there?”

  “The answer is yes. But there aren’t any skippers who’ll do it on purpose. Especially on coral. You can do a lot of damage to the valves and even the props. Also, it’s deep in that lagoon—maybe three or four hundred feet. How would you get down there—if we could?”

  “I can go down three hundred—if I have to,” Ken told him.

  Malone put the chart back and plucked at his beard. “How well can you hear under water?”

  “When I stop breathing I can hear as well as or better than I can in the open air.”

  “I think that’s the only answer. We could hang the boat just under the water and try to keep her in one spot. Then, if the sound of the motors and things isn’t enough, we could signal in some way—maybe whang on the hull with a hammer?”

  “I should be able to hear that. We ought to give this whole plan a dry run pretty soon and work the bugs out of it.”

  Malone started to say something when a messenger told him the Exec wanted to see him.

  “Some weighty problem that needs an ensign,” Malone said, going out.

  Alone again, Ken went on studying the op plan. There was among the papers a thin booklet which described the islands. The greatest height above sea level was on Midnight Island and was only twelve feet. As the chart showed, there was a fringing reef on the seaward side of all the islands and this reef extended out for almost a mile. The vegetation consisted mostly of coconut trees, pandanus, breadfruit, and a low scrub. The soil was sandy, the climate tropical, with the temperature usually in the eighties.

  The islands had been, until they were overrun by the Japanese in 1941, under British administration. The people were Micronesian, with slanted, Malay-type eyes, dark brown skin. They were smaller than Polynesians. Although they had a language of their own they usually spoke English, and it was assumed that they were still friendly to America and Britain, although there was no information about how the Japanese had treated them since taking over. They lived on fish, a root called tannia, coconuts, an occasional pig, and breadfruit. They were fair seamen but could not compare with the Polynesians.

  They were, Ken read, a peaceful, lazy people without much ambition, who lived in open, thatched houses with thin leaf walls.

  The population prior to 1941 on this atoll was 298 people.

  Ken put all the papers back in the SCAN package and stretched out on his bunk. Trying to plan his movements when they reached the atoll brought him up against a blank wall. There was nothing he could work out until he knew whether Stevenson would go into the lagoon.

  As he was lying there a gong rang somewhere in the boat. Ken jerked upright.

  Then the fights went out.

  He scrambled down out of the bunk in the darkness, but before he got to the floor, the fights came on again.

  Only now instead of being bright and white they were a ghostly red.

  Ken, scared, stepped out into the corridor and stopped a passing sailor. “What’s the trouble? What’s going on?”

  “Why, nothing, Lieutenant,” the sailor said.

  “Why the gong? Why all this red light?”

  “Night adaptation, Lieutenant,” the sailor said, going on down the corridor.

  Chapter 3

  Ken was still standing in the corridor when his other roommate, Silas Mount, came along. Ken followed him back into the cabin.

  “I guess I’m stupid, but what’s the red light for?”

  “Night adaptation, Ken,” Mount told him, getting ready to brush his teeth. “It’s dark now.”

  “What’s dark?”

  Silas looked over his shoulder at him. “The night, Ken. The sky.”

  “Oh,” Ken said, feeling foolish. Then he laughed. “You know, I haven’t been on deck since I came
aboard. I’d forgotten all about day and night.”

  “Neither have I. And about the only way you can tell is when we rig for red. Then it’s night outside. We do that so that if we have to go topside to man the guns or stand watch our eyes will already be adjusted to the darkness by this red light. We’ll be able to see right away.”

  Ken sat down on Si’s bunk. “What do you do aboard ship?” he asked as Mount finished cleaning his teeth.

  “Oh, I’m the fish, firecracker, and dirty-detail officer. I try to make these torpedoes of ours run straight and go off when they’re supposed to, and I look after the deck and machine guns. Officially, I guess I’m the Gunnery and Torpedo Officer and the First Lieutenant.”

  “Sounds like quite a job.”

  “It isn’t bad. Pat Malone’s the one with the tough one. He’s assistant something to just about everybody and Mess Treasurer, too, so he gets all the gripes.”

  The steward stuck his head into the cabin. “Lieutenant Braden, the Skipper says he wants you right now”

  Ken grabbed the SCAN envelope. Now, he thought, I can get the answer to that question. Now I can really start planning this thing. It made him feel good—as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

  He knocked, and Stevenson told him to come in. Ken drew the curtain as Stevenson swiveled around in the chair and held out his hand. Ken gave him the SCAN envelope.

  “Where’s your op plan, Mr. Braden?”

  “Sir, I can’t make any plans until I find out whether or not you’ll take the boat into the lagoon at the atoll.”

  “It seems to me that I told you to have a written op plan ready by twenty hundred, Mr. Braden. It is now twenty hundred.”

  Ken felt helpless; felt as though he were tangled up in some sort of invisible web. “Sir, I can’t make a plan without knowing what you will do. Don’t you think, sir, that if we work on this thing together we’ll do a lot better?”

  “Mr. Braden, my job is to run my submarine. Your job is to find that code. Those are separate and distinct operations. I will take you where you want to go. After that, it’s up to you. Is that clear?”