Silent Sea (The Silent War Book 2) Read online

  “Might be a while, John. I’ve got to write a letter to Captain Hinman’s widow.” He paused and drew a long, shaky breath.

  “I don’t know what to say. I never met her. I knew his first wife — she was killed when they bombed Pearl Harbor. We were at sea on our way to Pearl. When we got to Pearl they told Captain Hinman that his wife was dead.

  “You can imagine how he, how all of us felt. Then, near the end of last year, after we’d got into some trouble for modifying the torpedo exploders, they sent me to take over the Eelfish in New London and they sent him on a bond-selling tour, war bonds.” He fumbled in his shirt pocket for a cigaret and nodded his thanks to Olsen as Olsen extended his cigarets.

  “The Navy assigned a Wave Public Affairs Officer to go with him on the bond-selling tour. He wrote me a lot of letters about that tour. Only thing that made it bearable was the Wave officer. Art said she was a hell of a bright woman and very pretty. Well, it happened, they fell in love and got married. The bond tour ended and he got the Mako back and went to sea. They’d only been together a few weeks.” He looked down at the table.

  “It’s not only a duty, I feel I owe it to him, to her, to write to her. I’m no damn good at this sort of thing, John.” Olsen saw a wetness in Brannon’s eyes.

  “Maybe,” Olsen said in a low voice, “maybe I could sort of draft the letter for you, sir. I didn’t know either of them, but I think I could do it, if it’s okay?”

  Brannon rose, turning his face away from Olsen.

  “I’d be very grateful to you if you did, John. Her name is Joan, Joan Hinman.” He pushed through the green curtains and went aft.

  CHAPTER 5

  In a basement room located behind a supply office in a building on the Naval Base at Pearl Harbor, a man in a worn smoking jacket and scuffed bedroom slippers shuffled across the floor to a desk piled high with charts and papers.

  “How’s it going?” he asked the man behind the desk. The man looked up at him, rubbed his eyes, and yawned, lines of utter weariness etched in his face.

  “It doesn’t go,” he said.

  “You’ll get it,” the man in the smoking jacket said. He shuffled over to a table standing against one wall of the room, and rummaged in a cardboard box and found a sandwich. He unwrapped the food and ate it, staring reflectively at the men who were working at desks in the crowded room.

  The men he commanded were an odd group. Some were officers who the Navy had decided were good enough to be kept on but not good enough, for various and obscure professional reasons, to be promoted to higher rank.

  Others were enlisted men, among them the ship’s band of the U.S.S. California. When that battleship had been holed by Japanese aerial torpedoes and had settled to the bottom in the harbor on December 7, 1941, the ship’s band had, fortunately, escaped injury. But their instruments went down with the ship. Literally unemployable, in the eyes of the Navy, the ship’s band members had been assigned to the basement room to work in what was called the “Combat Intelligence Unit,” a cover name for a top-secret communications group of intelligence experts who were desperately trying to crack the complicated Japanese military codes.

  The members of the California’s band had shrugged and gone to work, guided and instructed by the half-dozen professional code breakers in the basement room. The musicians proved to be adept at cryptanalysis, and some experts were led to believe that there was a subtle connection between the mysteries of cryptology and music.

  The immensity of the task of breaking the Japanese military code was almost beyond human comprehension. The five-digit code was not extraordinarily difficult in itself, it was the refinements the Japanese had introduced that drove cryptanalysts almost to tears.

  Once a message had been encoded in five-digit code groups, that numerical code was then further enciphered. To do this the Japanese had prepared a list of 100,000 five-digit number groups. The Japanese encoder took the encoded message to that list of 100,000 five-digit code groups and picked a place at random on the list. Starting at that place the five-digit numbers in the encoded message were subtracted, group by group, from the numbers on the master list.

  To decode the message the recipient had to know where in the 100,000 group list the encoder had started his subtraction and then perform the reverse mathematics. Without knowledge of the actual list of five-digit number groups in the 100,000-group list a cryptanalyst was faced with a task that might take years to solve — if it could be solved at all.

  However, the use of such a massive list of master code groups raised the possibility of garbles and mistakes. The Japanese recognized this and decided to use only number groups from the master code list that were divisible by three. This reduced mistakes, but it soon gave the American cryptanalysts in the small basement room a surprise tool — which they used to good effect.

  A further complication for the cryptanalysts arose immediately. Japanese is written, mainly, in Chinese characters called kanji, but Japanese can also be written in a phonetic form called kana. One form of kana used Roman letters, but another form had its own code to represent the more than fifty symbols of the phonetic system.

  The cadre of men in the secret basement room had started their work prior to the attack on Pearl Harbor. They were hampered in that work by a distaste for all forms of intelligence operations that was shared by most ranking U.S. military leaders.

  That attitude had a precedent: In 1929 the then-Secretary of State, Henry L. Stimson, had refused to fund the State Department’s code-breaking intelligence operation with the remark, “Gentlemen don’t read each other’s mail.”

  The work that had been done by the State Department’s “Black Chamber” was divided between the Army and the Navy. By 1941 the two military services, in a rare display of cooperation, had joined their code-breaking resources and had become efficient enough to be able to intercept and decode Japanese diplomatic messages and deliver them to the State Department and the White House before the Japanese diplomats in Washington received those same decoded messages. Too often the remarkable successes in breaking Japanese diplomatic codes were ignored, too often such messages were delayed in reaching people who had authority to initiate action. Morale among the code breakers went down.

  Most of the men in the basement room in the Pearl Harbor Naval Base worked a minimum 84-hour week. Some, notably the handful of professional cryptanalysts who formed the backbone of the Combat Intelligence Unit, worked even longer hours. The boundaries of rank and rate were ignored once the men were in the room. The weary man in the red smoking jacket and bedroom slippers commanded the group not only by virtue of his commission as a full Commander of the United States Navy but also because of his intelligence, his knowledge of the Japanese language, and his vast knowledge of Japanese ship movements. Everyone in the group shared one consuming interest: to crack the Japanese military codes, to get one part of the codes broken so that they could go on to reading more and more of the codes. They literally lived in the basement room, eating sandwiches and soup brought in from the Navy galley on the base. More often than not they slept on cots in the basement room, unwilling to leave the room, unable to physically leave the nagging probabilities of this group of numbers or that group.

  As time went on some success in reading portions of the Japanese military code was achieved. But with this success came a danger: If information about Japanese ship movements gleaned from the code breaking were to be widely disseminated it was certain the Japanese would realize their codes had been broken and would change them. That possibility brought a paralysis of fear to the code breakers.

  They moved cautiously to prevent the Japanese from learning that their codes had been broken. Information of vital interest to the planners of the Pacific war was given out guardedly, in many cases, “sanitized” so its origin could never be revealed. The burden of these decisions weighed heavily on the cryptanalysts. In the end it was the endless work of this group, their utter devotion to their jobs, that was the linchpin on whi
ch the success of the Pacific war turned.

  In Fremantle Mike Brannon sat in a wicker chair facing Admiral Christie and his staff. The chair creaked under his solid weight as he shifted position. The Admiral looked up from a folder on the table in front of him.

  “Mike,” he said slowly, “it’s time we took you and the other submarine Captains into confidence, the deepest, the most secret confidence we can emphasize.

  “From time to time we have been getting reports from our intelligence people in Pearl Harbor about Japanese ship movements. These reports have turned out to be amazingly accurate. These intelligence reports are called Ultra Codes, and they are so damned secret that not very many people have even seen them.

  “You and other submarine Captains will be getting Ultra intelligence when you’re on war patrol. But we’ve got to be awfully careful that we don’t give away what our people in Pearl have accomplished. So Washington intelligence people have suggested a system, a code within a code.

  “For example: You might get a message telling you to leave one end of your patrol area and go to the other end and cruise on such and such a course on such and such a day. That part of the message will contain a separate code within a code, and when you decipher it — you’ll be given the code books before you go to sea — you’ll learn that you will proceed to a different part of the area on a different day and patrol on a different course. The information about what targets you can expect will be in yet another code, which we’re sure the Japs haven’t begun to crack. But if they crack the standard code we use to direct submarines and learn that you’re supposed to go to, let’s say, the east end of your patrol area — when you’re really going to the west end as per the code within a code — then if you sink the targets the Ultra people sent you the Japs will think that their ships got nailed by some submarine that just happened to be passing through that area.

  “In short, we can’t take a chance of letting the Jap know we can read his codes. We have to assume that the Jap can read some of our codes, but we’re awfully damned sure he can’t read out top-secret codes. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Brannon said. “It’s an operation of, well, misdirection as far as the Japanese are concerned, sir.”

  “Exactly,” the Admiral said. “And that leads me to point number two. In order for this thing to work your navigator has to know where your ship is every hour of the day and night. I’m not saying this applies to you, Mike, but there’s too much slack, too much sloppiness out there on war patrol. Sun sights aren’t taken by periscope every day at noon. Star sights are taken every three or four nights, not every night. That sort of thing has to stop. You have to know where you are every moment, we have to know. If a valuable target is coming we have to know which submarine is in the best position to intercept. When Captain Mealey was sent to intercept the battleship en route to Truk — that was an Ultra operation by the way — we knew exactly where the Mako was because Captain Mealey runs a damned taut ship.” The Admiral stood up.

  “I don’t want to keep you from your R and R, Mike. My aides will be in touch with you when you go back to your ship. Our intelligence people will brief you fully on the new codes we’ll be using.”

  Brannon left the Bend of the Road compound in the car the Admiral’s aide had provided for him. He grinned to himself as he settled back in the car seat. If the code breakers in Pearl could send him targets he’d be happy. Maybe with this new system there would be less aimless cruising in the hope that an enemy ship would come by.

  The bus loaded with Eelfish volunteers for a day’s hunting and barbecue pulled up at a rambling group of buildings in the flat desert country that Australians call the Outback, ninety miles east of Perth. A burly Australian rancher held a gate open, and the bus rolled through and stopped. Chief Flanagan got out of the bus and walked up to the rancher, who was closing the gate.

  “I’m Chief Flanagan of the Eelfish, sir,” he said.

  “Jim Biggs, here,” the Aussie said. He stuck out a work-hardened hand. “Welcome to you and your people.”

  “I’ll line up my people,” Flanagan said. “Then you can talk to all of them at once, Mr. Biggs.” He turned and growled out orders and the twenty men who had volunteered for the day’s outing shuffled into two ragged lines.

  “This is our host, Mr. Biggs,” Flanagan said. He turned to the Aussie. “All yours, sir.”

  “Too right,” the Australian said. “Well now, chaps. Not to stand on ceremony or things like that. But a few words of warning.

  “This is what we call the Outback. Mainly desert. Very little water, very damned little. Most places there’s no water at all. Nearest water from here is about eighteen miles. So you don’t leave the ranch without two water bottles hanging from the saddle.

  “You’ll hunt in parties of five men, two parties out at one time. Each party will be under one of my trackers.” He turned and indicated two small, very black men who were standing to one side.

  “Joe and Pete are abos,” Biggs said. “Abo is our way of saying aborigine for short. Some people call them Stone Age men, and I guess the tribes that live far out in the Outback are Stone Age people.

  “Joe and Pete are men of great dignity. Great ability. They can see farther with their naked eye than you can with a pair of bloody binoculars. They can smell water two feet under the sand where you can see nothing but dry sand. They can live all their lives on raw lizards, ants and bugs, and grubs that would turn your bloody stomachs. And mine.

  “The point I make, chaps, is that these are good men. Far better men than I am in their own way. If either of them is mistreated or made fun of you’ll have to answer to me and, I’d guess, your cobber here, the Chief. Now, one other thing, you’ll be on horseback. Any of you ever rode before?”

  Chief Pharmacist’s Mate Wharton stepped out of the line. “Some of us have ridden before, Mr. Biggs. But we have a real Apache Indian with us and he said he’d show us how it’s done.” Wharton smiled.

  “An American Indian?” Biggs said. “Never seen one of those gentlemen. Will you step out, sir, and introduce yourself?

  “Charlie Two Blankets,” the Apache said, stepping out of the line. “I think some of our tribal trackers could go up against your people. Any time.”

  “In your country, yes,” Biggs said. “Out here, no. It’s different, y’see, like our cricket and your baseball.”

  “Charlie Two Blankets is the greatest bronco-busting rider in the Navy, Mr. Biggs,” Chief Wharton said. He was smiling at the Australian. “If you’ve got any horses that need breaking ol’ Charlie is the man to break them for you. At least that’s what he tells us.”

  The Australian looked at him, the sun lines around his eyes crinkling as he smiled.

  “Well, yes, chaps. I do have a horse that none of my Abo people can handle. Bucks like a mad thing if you get near the beast. Maybe Mr. Two Blankets would have a go at breaking him.” He turned to Flanagan. “If you’d allow it, sir?”

  “It’s up to Charlie, I guess,” Flanagan said.

  “Go on, Indian,” Wharton jeered. “Let’s see you do your stuff on the man’s wild horse.” Charlie Two Blankets shrugged.

  “Show me the animal,” he said.

  Biggs led the way toward a large corral. Walking beside Flanagan he dropped his voice to just above a whisper.

  “Served my time in our Army, First World War,” he said. “I know what that handsome chap’s up to, egging on the Indian man. Hope the Indian can ride. Do you know?”

  Flanagan shook his head.

  The horse in the corral looked wild. It threw its head back and snorted loudly, its eyes rolling, as the group of men neared the corral. Charlie Two Blankets eyed the animal for a moment and then stooped down and undid the laces of his shoes and kicked them off. He took off his socks and placed a sock carefully in each shoe. Then he stripped off his dungaree shirt and trousers and walked up to the corral bars in his shorts. He vaulted over the top rail, dropped down in the dust of the corral, an
d walked toward the horse.

  “Be careful, cobber!” the Australian called out. “That beast is dangerous!”

  The Apache trotted toward the horse, making a sound deep in his throat. The horse laid back its ears and charged across the corral at the man. The Apache feinted to his left, and as the horse veered the Indian pivoted and took two running steps, and his hands shot out and grabbed the horse’s mane. In one smooth, sinuous movement, aided by the horse’s quick burst of speed, the Apache was on the horse’s back. He raised his voice in a high, wailing cry, and the horse bucked violently, rearing high on its hind legs, shaking itself from side to side to dislodge the man on its back. The horse neighed in a high scream, and the Apache answered with his own scream. The horse bucked, gyrating wildly, coming down with all four hooves hitting the ground, twisting and bucking across the corral in high jumps. The Apache clung to the horse’s back, his hands clenched in the mane, his powerful legs locked against the horse’s barrel.

  “God, he’s a burr, that one!” Biggs said. The horse went upward, twisting. When the horse came down the Apache reached forward with his right hand, bending low over the horse’s neck, and grabbed the horse’s right ear. He pulled the head back savagely, and then with his bare heel he kicked the horse again and again in the side of its head. Then he leaned forward and bit the horse’s ear. The horse screamed, ran a few steps forward, and then stood, its sides heaving. The Indian sat very still on the animal, and then he leaned forward and began crooning in a low hum into the horse’s ear. He rapped the sides of the horse with his bare heels, and the animal trotted a few steps and then stopped. The Apache leaned forward over the horse’s neck and crooned again, softly. He tapped the sides of the horse gently with his feet and the animal raised its head and then trotted docilely around the perimeter of the corral. Charlie Two Blankets slid off the animal’s back and walked around to its head and stroked the long smooth muzzle, crooning gently as he did so.