Final Patrol by Don Keith

beard on his chin and pondered the fact that, with the impending dawn, they were quickly running out of time.
    They had been trailing this massive convoy for most of the night now, drawing closer bit by bit, but their best cover, the darkness of night, was about to dessert them, replaced by all-revealing sunlight.
    â€œWe better see if we can line up in a hurry if we want to try for a shot before sunrise,” Dempsey said to his officer of the deck, standing at his right elbow. Then he gave the command that old submariners still hear in their sleep: “Battle stations!”
    That sent a shiver up and down the boat as word came that it was time at last to get serious about those tankers and transports out there. Wallowing tankers and massive transport vessels that they could not even see with their eyes yet, just in the relentless metronome sweep of the radar screen.
    Every man raced to his post and quickly got ready to begin firing torpedoes at the enemy vessels they had been chasing all night.
    Dempsey’s staccato order set in motion the complicated maneuvering all submarines had to do to get into a position to fire their torpedoes at a moving target. Much of that intricate alignment could take place while the submarine remained on the surface, able to travel at just better than twenty knots and to see much clearer what the enemy was doing. Human eyes, radar, and sonar could all be used topside. It was always the aim to avoid diving until absolutely necessary. Once they had to submerge to mount an attack, much of that capability, along with the advantage of surface speed and maneuverability, would be lost, and the ships they were chasing would have a better chance to avoid them.
    But as the hint of daylight turned more and more toward full-blown dawn, Dempsey finally ordered the boat to dive, out of sight of anyone who might be on the decks of the vessels they were stalking. Out of view of any radar equipment they or their well-armed escorts may have aboard as well.
    â€œPrepare to dive!” the skipper shouted. Then, punching the button for the klaxon, he yelled, “Dive! Dive! Dive!”
    The lookouts were out of the shears and down the hatch to the control room in a blur, even before the first “Dive!” was out of the skipper’s lips. The OOD followed instantly behind them, using a strong grip on the side handrails to slow his descent, his feet not even touching the rungs of the ladder that led down into the conning tower.
    Then, as the last sound of the dive klaxon echoed up and down the length of his boat, and as the downward angle of the bow confirmed that his order was being obeyed, Captain James Dempsey headed down the hatch himself, the last man off the bridge before it was swallowed up by the sea, just ahead of the first splashes of seawater that rapidly covered the decks. One of the crew pulled the cover closed above him and twisted the lock until the hatch was watertight. Still, a rain of cold water pelted most of the men working in the cramped room. They did not seem to notice the dousing.
    â€œLevel and steady, come to periscope depth, maintain heading zero-seven-zero,” Dempsey ordered. The men manning the dive planes steadied the Cod , keeping her level and just deep enough so the periscope could protrude above the surface of the sea by a scant few feet. High enough to see but low enough to lessen the chance of being seen. The skipper grabbed the handles of the attack periscope and pulled it down from its housing, ignoring the face full of water it brought with it. He wiped his face with his sleeve, snapped down the handles and put his eyes to the eyepieces, circling to look directly toward where the radar said the nearest whalelike tanker should be.
    â€œBring her to two-seven-zero,” he said, loud enough so everyone in the conning tower and in the control room below could hear him. He was swinging their nose farther to the west, to where he now saw the dim outline