"South Station, this is White Shadow. Arranging rendezvous in two days to evacuate your wounded. Should we bring you all out? Bill, it's your call."
Beaman looked through squinted eyes at the six shapeless lumps coldly lined up at the edge of the small clearing, like dirty laundry or so much garbage. He tried not to see Alvarez, Smith, O'Brien or the others. They were gone. The SEALs had never in their history left one of their own lying on the battlefield. These brave young men would soon go home for the last time. Even if there was any chance his answer to Bethea’s question might have been different a few minutes before, he had no doubt now.
This might be a war they had little chance of winning, but it was one they had to fight.
"White Shadow, we're staying. Get my wounded and dead out. You find the security leak. We'd like permission to continue the mission and kick de Santiago's ass."
He was not at all surprised at the curt, crisp answer that bounced off satellites from thousands of miles away.
“This is White Shadow. Granted. Out.”
Joe Glass slumped down into his chair and took a long slurp of coffee.
"Skipper, everybody’s here except the Eng. He's still head down and ass up in the oxygen generator."
All the chairs around the wardroom table were filled. With only ten seats and fifteen officers aboard Spadefish, even the cramped standing room area was filled. The doors at both ends of the room were shut. Large red signs were posted on the outside: "No entry. Classified brief in progress."
Ward, seated at the head of the table, put down his own coffee cup and cleared his throat.
"Gentlemen, as soon as the Eng gets the oxygen generator fixed, we get underway. If you aren't fully ready right now, you're behind the curve." He picked up a thin brown book that lay on the Naugahyde tabletop. "I've been reading through the war patrol log from the old Spadefish. If you haven't read it, I suggest you do."
"Gonna be a test?" Stan Guhl wisecracked.
Ward chuckled.
"Maybe just for you Weps. And if you don't pass, I'll give you to the Eng for upgrading."
The large New Yorker feigned horror.
"No Skipper, please. Have mercy. Not the Engineer. Anything but the Eng. He'll make me stand watch back aft."
Earl Beasly punched the Weps in the ribs.
"You think you can even find Maneuvering if you had to. Been a long time since you been back there."
Glass looked over the table at the two department heads with a fatherly indulgence.
"OK, you two and the Eng do remind me of the Three Stooges."
Beasly proudly patted his receding hairline.
"I wanna be Curly."
Ward lost his smile and raised his hand.
"Okay, enough. Let's get back to business. What I was trying to say before these two clowns interrupted me was we have a proud tradition to uphold. First the old World War II Spadefish and now ours. This will be last patrol by a Spadefish. I want it to be a good one." Pointing over at Beasly, he continued. "Okay, Nav. You can brief the underway and transit."
Beasly stood and pulled the cover off a large chart taped to the outboard bulkhead. The chart covered the eastern Pacific Ocean. A green line stretched from San Diego down the coast of Mexico, past Central America, to a box drawn off the coast of Colombia.
"This is our track. Pretty simple. We had planned a seven-knot PIM."
PIM, or Planned Intended Movement, an acronym that only a Navy planner could invent, was the average speed of advance they needed to make. Since submarines routinely operated independently and couldn't communicate continuously, they were given exclusive use of a box of water. No other submarines or any kind of underwater operation was allowed inside the box. The boat could be anywhere in the box, but had to be on the surface if they somehow found themselves outside it. The box moved forward at PIM speed along the expected track the submarine would follow if they were progressing to some predefined operations area.
“You said, ‘had planned?’” Ward asked pointedly.
"The change in the Op-ord we got this morning jumps that to twenty knots. I say again…twenty knots. That means we'll have to haul ass to stay up." The Operational Order, the “Op-ord,” was the detailed instructions that told them the route to take to get to Colombia and what to do when they got there. "With a twenty-four hour broadcast schedule, we'll be doing a flank bell most of the way just to keep up and stay in the PIM box."
Ward studied the chart for a second.
"Listen, guys. This means you have to get to the front of the box and stay there. Don't fool around chasing contacts or clearing baffles. Just run south and run damned fast."
Ward read the query on each man’s face. They were being sent somewhere in one hell of a hurry. And they wouldn’t be running that fast for another drill. To a man, the officers of Spadefish leaned forward to listen intently to the rest of the brief.
Juan de Santiago watched as sweating loyalists loaded the huge trucks. It was all going together so well. First, the power plant had unexpectedly been shipped to them. Then Dura solved the additive problem they had with the cocaine processing. There had been the successful ambush of the Americanos.
De Santiago had taken special satisfaction in the latter event. It had taken him back to his own combat roots. It might have been him down there on his stomach in the jungle mud swapping gunfire with the enemy. He knew his mission was much greater now. He must oversee a crusade both holy and vast, one whose import grew even greater each day.
God was looking over his shoulder, giving His blessing to the cause. They would soon defeat the American devils. It almost seemed foreordained. He had no doubt the decimated American soldiers would be airlifted out to regroup and attempt their mission again some other time, after his fields had long since been harvested. Yes, they would leave this sacred land because God had ordained it and because they were soldiers of the modern time. He was certain that there was among today’s soldiers a noticeable lack of a will to fight and die for their countries. He had no reason to suspect these troops would be any different now that they had felt his scorpion-like stinger.
They were only soft Americans, after all.
Except maybe for the one wild-eyed one, the one who had charged across the stream like a mad man. He certainly wouldn’t remain behind by himself.
He would be back, though. Of that de Santiago was sure. He was confident he would know about it and would be ready to welcome him properly.
Phillipe Zurko nudged the leader and pointed to the operation that was proceeding before them.
The first of the ten-foot diameter, thirty-foot long sections swung gently from the cables as the giant crane lifted it high into the air and toward where the first truck waited. The crane rotated through a short arc to bring the cylinder directly over the cradle built on the bed of the transport. The crane operator expertly lowered the cylinder until it touched down on the cradle. The special heavy transport's suspension groaned as it spread out the fifty-ton load over the sixteen trailer wheels.
De Santiago turned to Zurko.
"You have done well, my friend."
Zurko nodded in response to his leader’s praise but there was still a furrow of worry on his brow.
"Gracias, but I will feel better when el Zibrus is assembled and under water, swimming north, El Jefe. We never know how much of our plan may have been compromised by this El Falcone. "
De Santiago patted his friend on the back.
"You are always too pessimistic. All will go well. God ordains it. I have a plan for El Falcone as well. It will not be long in coming.” De Santiago’s mind seemed to shift gears. “Now, tell me, how long will assembly of the submarine take once we reach the sea?"
"El Capitan Sergiovski says it will take one week, no more. The freighter has already been finished and awaits us."
"Excellent! Very good!"
The leader’s grin filled his face. He looked for all the world like a hungry man about to partake in a sumptuous banque
t.
"Maneuvering, Bridge. Have the Engineer pick up the JA phone."
Stan Guhl replaced the 7MC microphone into the clip on the bridge box. He and Ward were alone on the bridge. Line handlers stood ready to take in the lines that held Spadefish tied securely to the pier. The tugboat Cherry Two was lashed to Spadefish's outboard side ready to tow her out into the channel. Ward saw Captain Sorensen climbing off the big tug and aboard Spadefish. Underway was scheduled for less than a half hour away but there was a major snag.
Guhl handed Ward the JA handset.
"Skipper, the Eng is on the line."
Ward took the handset and placed it to his ear.
"Eng, how is the oxygen generator coming."
Dave Kuhn was exhausted, the strain heavy in his voice. He and his team of experts had been working on the complex oxygen-making machine for forty-eight straight hours. Wryly called the “Bomb,” the oxygen generator was simple in concept. All it did was take water and pass a direct current through it. Hydrogen bubbled up at the anode and oxygen at the cathode. Then, the oxygen was gathered up for storage and use and the hydrogen was pumped overboard.
That was the concept anyway. The reality was a little more complicated. To fit enough capacity into the confines of Spadefish's hull, the generator had to operate at very high pressure. At those pressures, hydrogen was dangerously explosive. Pure oxygen would cause just about anything that might ignite to burn vigorously at very high temperatures, even steel.
The electrical control systems were complex and the piping specialized. It was a nightmare to work on.
"Skipper, we've replaced the wall seals in the four bad cells. Cleared up all the grounds. Still getting some carry-over."
Ward could hear the exhaustion and exasperation in the Engineer's words. Kuhn prided himself on always being able to get Spadefish underway on time. It was a very high standard for the tired old boat to maintain and that made Kuhn’s accomplishments even more amazing.
"Eng, what do you think? Going to be able to make it work?"
Kuhn answered without hedging.
"Yes. Eventually. Don't know if it'll be today or next week though. Skipper, the oxygen banks are fully topped off. We wouldn’t need this Rube Goldberg reject for at least a week or more."
As Ward listened to the Engineer's report, Stan Guhl held up the bridge-to-bridge radio and said, "Skipper, Commodore wants to talk to you."
Wonderful timing! Ward thought sarcastically. He told Kuhn he would get back to him and spoke into the radio microphone.
"Spadefish, Ward on line."
The radio crackled.
"Jon, this is Commodore Desseaux. What is your status for underway?"
"Commodore, ready to get underway with the exception of the oxygen generator."
There was a slight pause and Ward could almost imagine the smirk on Desseaux’ face.
"Jon, you know that ‘Regulations’ require that the generator be operational before I can give you permission to get underway."
"But Commodore…"
"No ‘buts,’ Jon. Call me when that thing is making gas."
Ward said, "Yes, sir," but the radio was already dead on the other end.
Underway time was now less than a half hour. They had to make the underway on time. There was simply no option. The transit didn't have any slack in it now. People's lives depended on them getting down to Colombia on time. The whole mission did.
"Mr. Guhl, get the Engineer on the JA again," Ward directed. Ward put down the radio and picked up the JA handset again. "Eng, how’s it coming since two minutes ago?"
"We are bringing it up to minimum amps now,” Kuhn answered. “Still getting carry-over. Hoping it'll dry out. If not, we'll have to tear out the high pressure section and replace the wall seals again."
Ward asked, "Is it making gas?"
"Skipper, we're only at min amps. We can't come up to full pressure until the carry-over stops and we pressure check all the joints. That'll take another three hours."
"Eng, is…it…making…gas?" Ward asked, his words slow and deliberate.
"No sir. I need at least three hours. What about underway? We'll never make thirty minutes."
"Eng, I'll be coming back to talk to you in a minute," Ward snapped.
Stan Guhl looked oddly after the Commander as he disappeared down the long ladder and off the bridge. Now what the hell was the skipper up to?
Ward trotted out of the Control Room and quickly headed aft. Earl Beasly looked up from his charts questioningly. Seeing the skipper in the Control Room during an underway was unusual. And he was in a hurry to get to somewhere.
Ward glanced over at the Nav as he went past and smiled.
"Just heading back to give the Eng a little command training."
Beasly shrugged and went back to his charts.
Ward passed through the tunnel and climbed down to the lower level of the Auxiliary Machinery Room. The Engineer was watching the needles on the generator control as his team carefully checked the incredibly complex piping systems inside the cubicle.
"Eng, is…it…making…gas?"
Kuhn turned around and looked wide-eyed at Ward. His expression was a mixture of frustration and exasperation. He couldn't understand why Ward was being so insistent. Was he rubbing it in that he was taking so long to fix this piece of crap oxygen generator this time?
Now, when the engineer spoke, there was an edge of anger in his voice.
"Skipper, I told you ten minutes ago that it would be at least three hours before this contraption would be able to make oxygen."
Ward looked directly at his engineer and gripped the man’s shoulder.
"Eng, you aren't listening to me. The Commodore told me he won't approve an underway until that thing is making gas. Now, is…it…making…gas?"
The light finally came on for Kuhn. He grinned broadly.
This question his skipper kept asking him over and over was being very carefully phrased. He knew without even looking that the oxygen pressure gauge needle was firmly resting on the “zero” peg. He quickly glanced over to the hydrogen pressure gauge, though. Sure enough, the hydrogen pressure registered just above zero.
Hydrogen was a gas, wasn't it?
"Yes, sir,” he said with an exaggerated nod. “It's making gas alright."
Ward cut him off right there with an upheld palm.
"That's precisely what I wanted to know."
He turned on his heel and scurried back up the ladder before Kuhn could say anything else. He made the long climb back up to the bridge.
Ward grabbed the bridge-to-bridge radio.
"Commodore, this is Spadefish. I’ve just confirmed the oxygen generator is now making gas. Request permission to get underway."
"Jon, confirm please. Did you say it was making gas?"
"Yes, sir. It is making gas."
Desseaux hesitated an instant. Ward held his breath.
"Very well, you have permission to get underway. Good hunting."
Ward turned to Stan Guhl.
"Officer of the Deck, take in all lines. Get the ship underway."
Guhl grinned, answered, "Aye sir," and quickly gave the orders.
Down on the pier, line-handlers lifted the four-inch hawser off the bollards and slipped them into the water. Line-handlers on the main deck pulled the long lines onboard and stowed them in line lockers built into the smooth deck.
As the last line slid off the bollard, the Quartermaster blew a shrill whistle. The in-port ensign was lowered from a staff at the rear of the main deck and the underway colors broken out from a staff on the top of the sail.
The giant screw on Cherry Two churned as it pulled Spadefish away from the pier. Guhl yanked a lever and the huge air horn blasted one long signal, telling the entire world that Spadefish was underway again and happy about it.
The tug effortlessly pulled the boat out into the channel and lined her up, ready to head out to sea.
The harbor pilot, Captain Sorensen, offered W
ard his hand.
"Have a good trip, Captain. I'll see you when you get back."
He climbed down off the bridge and hopped onto the waiting tug.
"Mr. Guhl, let's get out of here,” Jon Ward said. “Ahead standard until everyone is off the main deck, then ahead full."
Spadefish leaped forward, anxious to return to her element once again.
"Aye, sir. Oh, and by the way, Eng wants to talk to you."
Ward took the JA handset.
"What is it Eng?"
"Skipper, the oxygen generator is completely out of commission now,” Kuhn reported. “The wall seals on three cells just blew out. The inner cabinet is full of caustic. At least a week’s worth of work."
"Okay, Eng. Carefully research the problem, take your time and make sure you have all your facts straight. I want the casualty report message ready to send…by noon tomorrow."
Jon Ward gave Stan Guhl a conspiratorial wink and turned to breathe in the fresh, clean sea air that blew in off the vast Pacific.
16
Bill Beaman cautiously raised his head to have a look out over the log he hid behind. The rough mountain trail blazed by the Incas stretched out below him. It cut narrowly into the steep side of the mountain slope. A mere foot to the downhill side, the earth dropped precipitously all the way down to a river, roaring and spraying foam a thousand feet below. A ramshackle truck emerged from the clouds farther up the road. It roared and backfired its way down toward where he lay hidden. He was only a few feet from the uphill side of the road but out of view of its driver and passenger.
This was the third truck to pass his position today. They had all come down the road from the south. Each was fully loaded with something bulky and heavy. The tightly drawn tarpaulins hid the trucks’ burdens from view. Beaman had noticed the driver and passenger in each truck cab. The drivers each had a look of terror on their faces as they struggled to hold the truck’s wheels on the narrow roadway. The passengers were always holding an AK-47 in plain view. That was not abnormal, considering the commerce in which these men were engaged.
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