Bottom line: Zurko paid the bills. Paid them very handsomely. So Novstad did as he was told and tried not to let any of the Colombians hear him complain, even if he usually did it in Swedish.
Six months here was more than any civilized Scandinavian should have to endure. The hotel was repulsive. There was not a decent restaurant in town. The women were all dark and dirty and mostly unenthusiastic. There was no reasonable aquavit for a thousand miles. He licked his thick lips, imagining how good a swallow would taste right now.
The shipyard was even worse. The stone dry-dock had to be at least a century old. The grimy wooden buildings were that ancient, too. The place was more suited to lashing together nineteenth century fishing boats than to doing anything like this project.
The work was completed on schedule and it was masterfully accomplished. What had been a compartmentalized main cargo hold still looked the same, but in only a few minutes it could be transformed into one large open space. The three bulkheads that were once watertight lateral dividers, built to prevent any flooding that might occur in one compartment from spreading to adjacent ones, were now only clipped to the hull.
Novstad didn't worry about the loss of the three lateral strength members. By his calculations, it was only a ten-percent reduction in effectiveness. This old tub could still handle the Pacific in anything short of a typhoon.
The most interesting modification was not visible until the bulkheads were removed. Then the entire bottom of the Helena K became two gigantic doors, opening to the ocean below.
Novstad was proud of his work and anxious to see it in actual use, to watch how it fit into the ingenious scheme the rebel leader had concocted. That would come soon enough. He was supremely confident it would all work flawlessly. He felt a sense of disappointment, knowing how risk-free this whole venture would be, unlike most of the clandestine missions with which he had been associated in the past. Oh, well, it was time he was treated to a carefree cruise for a change.
They had quite a distance to steam, bobbing empty and high in the water. He flicked the butt of his cigarette over the side and turned to his first officer.
"It's time. Get the ship underway," he said impatiently.
"Yes, sir," the first officer answered then spoke into the radio headset he wore. "Cast off all lines."
The disembodied glowing cigarettes on the pier started moving slowly toward the Helena K. Men walked into the radiance of the pier lights and moved to the bollards. The lines arcing down from the main deck to the pier went slack. Novstad's crew pulled the lines aboard, more than ready themselves to put this place off their stern.
The Helena K was freed from the bonds of land, ready to return to the sea.
The first officer reached over to the central control console. He flipped a pair of switches labeled "Fore Thruster" and "Aft Thruster." Huge fan-like propellers at the front and rear ends of the ship pushed her smoothly away from the pier. The diesel main engines then drove the screw to back the Helena K into the tiny harbor’s shipway.
The rust-streaked merchant ship turned and disappeared into the night. She would soon be on the ocean, steaming as fast as she could manage, headed just north of west.
Bill Beaman held on for dear life to the strap above the truck’s window and gritted his teeth so hard he was sure they would crack. The rickety old rattletrap careened madly down the rutted, muddy mountain road, on the verge of being out of control. The peasant driver held to the whipping steering wheel with white knuckled determination, his nose almost touching its spokes, his eyes wide in sheer terror. The acrid smell of white-hot brake material wafted up through the rusted out holes in the floorboards, the laboring engine balked and backfired in protest. Beaman glanced out the side window and looked straight down into the abyss alongside this skinny trail that masqueraded as a roadway.
No doubt about it. Death was scant inches away.
The dirt-stained peasant jacket and floppy campaign hat Beaman had stolen from the truck’s guard stank of body odor and tobacco smoke. Neither article of clothing had been washed in years, if ever. This disguise was less than perfect. It still might pass a very casual examination or retain the element of surprise long enough to serve his purpose. There had been no test so far. They had not met any returning trucks. The fuel stops were strategically placed. They were unmanned tanks hidden in the underbrush alongside the road.
Cantrell, bouncing around in the bed of the truck, stood and yelled through the broken-out rear window.
"Skipper, do we have to go so fast?"
Martinelli pushed back the tattered canvas top that covered him and the others. He stood beside Cantrell. "I feel the need for speed!" he whooped and laughed wildly. He held onto the rails. The wind whipped at what little there was of his close-cropped hair.
"Easy, my friend. Not so fast, por favor," Beaman yelled at the driver above the noise of the truck’s moaning motor.
The peasant pumped harder on the shuddering brake pedal and downshifted the floor-shift transmission a lower gear. The truck backfired in protest once again but slowed as it bounced around another turn in the mountain road. The way seemed to level out for this stretch. Beaman yelled at the driver once again.
"How much farther?" The driver held up five fingers. "Five hours? Cinco horas?"
Beaman sat back. He relaxed as best he could on this short but smoother section of road. He dozed. He felt the driver shaking him.
"Senor, look!" he said, pointing down the road ahead.
Another truck, belching heavy black smoke into the clear mountain air, was coming into view around a curve a mile farther down. It was heading up the mountain, coming in their direction. Beaman turned and yelled back through the window.
"Guys, we got some more traffic on our little freeway. Lock and load, but get hidden under that tarp. Try to look as much like a load of coca as you can. We’ll try to just drive right on by, but be ready to come up smoking if they smell a rat."
He started to tell Johnston to make sure the guard kept quiet but he saw the SEAL already had his knife at the scared peasant’s throat. Martinelli pulled the tarp back in place as Cantrell yanked back the charging lever on his trusty M60. A round slipped into the chamber and the action sprang forward with a satisfying click.
Turning to the driver, Beaman said, "Just drive past. If I hear anything more than 'Hello', your wife will be a widow. Comprende?" He showed the driver the end of his AK-47’s barrel.
"Si, Senor. Comprendo!"
Beaman slouched low in his seat, trying to look like a Peruvian peasant to the two men in the oncoming truck. He chambered a round in the AK-47 and held it ready.
The two trucks approached each other on the narrow road. There wouldn’t be any room to pass. There was barely room for one of them to get between the boulders on the up side and the sheer drop on the other. The driver next to Beaman slowed his truck a bit more.
The oncoming vehicle was the twin of the one they were riding in. It was battered and beaten, caked with mud. A sun-faded green canvas hid the bed from view. It might hold food and supplies for the workers back at the coca field. The truck could have left on the return journey before news of the landslide reached de Santiago’s people. Or it could be an ambush. There could be a squad of rebel troops hidden underneath, ready to spring at them right here in this tight squeeze where there was no retreat or cover.
Beaman had no way of knowing.
They grew closer. He could see the two people in the cab through the mud-streaked windshield. The driver whipped the steering wheel with both hands, keeping the truck on the road, missing the larger rocks. The passenger sat stoically, as if on a simple Sunday drive, but holding an AK-47 just as Beaman was doing.
Twenty yards to go. The approaching truck labored up the mountain. It eased over to the high side of the road to allow Beaman’s transport to get past on the bluff side. The driver guided the truck's right wheels high up on the slope. He stopped there, leaning precariously, threatening to roll right over an
d block the road entirely. Beaman’s finger twitched on the AK-47’s trigger. The other driver impatiently waved them past.
The space left between the parked truck on the high side of the road and the steep drop on the other side didn't look wide enough for them to be able to pass. Beaman's driver carefully eased over as far as he dared, assuming the truck’s bald tires could get traction in thin air. Beaman took a quick glance out his window. He wished he hadn't. He was looking directly down the steep rocky slope into nothingness. They were far out on the road’s ragged edge. He didn't see any way more than half the right side tires could still be in contact with earth. He caught a quick glimpse of rocks and gravel, knocked loose by the tires, falling away into space.
He blinked hard and turned to scrutinize the men in the other truck. They stared back at him. Beaman felt a trickle of sweat work its way down the back of his neck. The slightest bump would send them over the edge. He avoided eye contact. Not do anything that might tip them off. The guard in the other truck eyed him. Beaman gripped his rifle tighter.
One short burst at the driver and this truck would plunge right over the side before Beaman could even get off a round. No one would survive the crash.
Beaman tensed. His senses were at their keenest state of alert. He honed in on the man with the gun without appearing to do so. He hated being at such a disadvantage. There was no choice. The other truck was hours from getting to where the roadway had fallen away. They should have no reason to suspect this brother truck had had anything to do with it.
The truck inched slowly past.
Beaman ventured to wave a greeting, trying to look friendly as the two cabs came abreast, separated by only inches. An eternity passed. They were past the bed of the parked truck. They were off the lip of the mountain and back in the center of the road. There was no gunfire from behind them.
They had made it.
Beaman stole a look back. The other truck disappeared down the road. He smiled and clapped the driver on the shoulder.
"You did well. You drive like a master."
He grinned when he saw how white the driver’s face was, his lower lip trembling, big tears rolling down each cheek. There was the distinct odor of human excrement in the truck’s cab. Beaman had a frightening thought. One that wiped the smile off his face and made his stomach flip over.
“Amigo, if you were as loyal to Juan de Santiago as some, we would all be dead now,” he told the driver.
The frightened man didn’t answer. The driver could have yelled at his friends, telling them that he carried Americanos. Then he could have steered the truck over the cliff. That would have rather efficiently ended this threat to El Jefe’s cocaine processing plant and, with the witnesses in the other truck watching the whole thing, the man would have been an instant martyr.
Chief Johnston’s face appeared at the rear window.
"Phew, that was close! Hope we don't see another one of those bastards."
Beaman looked back. The smile returned to his face.
"Chief, you don't have any idea what ‘close’ is!"
Commander Jon Ward looked hard at the chart spread out before him. The little "X" showing their location was marked with a time that was only five minutes old.
"Another twenty four hours, Nav?" he asked.
Earl Beasly measured with a pair of dividers the distance between the "X" and the green box that had been drawn on the chart to the southwest.
"Yes, sir. At a twenty-two-knot speed of advance, we'll be in the area by noon tomorrow."
Ward nodded and said, "Good. Looks like we're a little ahead of schedule. Think we have time for the drills the XO planned?"
Beasly smiled.
"Yes, sir. About time we got some of these people qualified to stand watch. Otherwise, the only thing they're good for is to breathe the air."
Ward chuckled. One of the facts of submarine life was qualification. Everyone from the most junior, newly reported seaman to the most senior department head was constantly working on qualifying for the next duty. Fortunately, the drills that had been scheduled for today were simple and wouldn't take much time. The fast pace of this trip had made them cancel most of the hands-on training in favor of getting down south and on station. This drill wouldn't affect that timeline for more than five minutes.
Ward stood and stretched his back. Stan Guhl was leaning against the BPS-15 under-ice sonar console. He was carefully observing Bill Ralston, who was sitting in the Diving Officer chair. Ralston was standing his first watch as Diving Officer Under Instruction (UI), learning the intricacies of making Spadefish behave herself in this unforgiving underwater environment. Doug Lyman stood beside him, quietly discussing emergency procedures. Today's subject was called a “stern planes jam dive;” or what to do if the giant planes at the aft of Spadefish ever stuck in the full dive position, sending the boat plummeting downward out of control.
Guhl relaxed. He had just finished a similar discussion with Chris Durgan, who was getting some instruction of his own, learning the art and science of being the Officer of the Deck. Durgan sat on the high stool in the corner behind the two periscopes, taking a last look at the Casualty Procedures (CPs), trying to commit every comma and semi-colon to memory. Ward glanced over at Guhl.
"You think you’re ready?"
"Yes, sir. We have UI's at Officer of the Deck, Diving Officer, Chief of the Watch, and Engineering Watch Supervisor back aft. I covered the CPs with all of ‘em."
Ward stepped over to stand beside the stern planesman. Seaman MacNaughton looked up at the skipper and smiled.
Ward reached down and pushed MacNaughton's control column all the way forward and leaned on it. The stern planes angle indicator moved smoothly to thirty-five degrees down. Spadefish's nose immediately and obediently started to drop toward the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.
MacNaughton pulled back on the control column. It wouldn't budge. The sub was at a ten-degree down angle and dropping fast. Sailors leaned back to keep from falling forward with the boat’s angle. MacNaughton reached over and flipped the hydraulic control switch from “Normal” to "Emergency.”
Ward still held the column firmly in the full dive position. Spadefish was now at a twenty-degree down angle. A coffee cup skittered down the deck and shattered noisily when it struck the forward bulkhead.
"Diving Officer, my planes are jammed on full dive!" MacNaughton yelled at Ralston.
"Officer of the Deck, stern planes jammed on full dive! Depth four hundred feet!" Ralston yelled over his shoulder. Spadefish was at a thirty-degree down angle. Everyone held on tightly to anything solid that they could grab to keep from being hurled forward.
Chris Durgan leaped from his seat.
"Jam dive! Jam dive!" he sang.
Hearing the code word, the watchstanders sprang to action. Ralston reached down and flipped the engine-order telegraph to “Back Emergency.” He pushed the button at the side of the telegraph and yelled, "Depth four five zero feet!"
Back in Maneuvering, Scott Frost saw the telegraph needle go to “Back Emergency” and heard the bell ring. The Officer of the Deck wanted to go backwards, and he wanted to do it now! Frost whipped the large chrome ahead-throttle shut and flung the smaller astern-throttle open. Steam flow shot past one hundred percent on its indicator and the reactor power climbed quickly toward one hundred percent as well. The roar of steam and the scream of the giant turbines filled the engine room. The whole ship shook as the massive screw stopped, and then reversed direction, pulling the submarine backwards instead of pushing it forward. As reactor power climbed past ninety percent, Frost shut down a bit on the astern-throttle. The reactor power needle came to rest at exactly one hundred percent.
Ralston yelled, "Depth five hundred feet!"
Doc Marston, attempting to qualify to stand watch as the Chief of the Watch, keyed the 1MC microphone and yelled, "Jam dive! Jam dive!" He put his hands on the emergency blow valves, ready if the Officer of the Deck wanted to go “on the roof” quickly.
Seaman Cortez pulled back on the fairwater planes column, moving them to “Full Rise,” and whipped the rudder back and forth, fish-tailing it in order to further slow Spadefish in her plunge to the bottom.
"Depth five-five-zero feet!"
The sub slowed.
"Depth five-seven-zero feet!" The pit log, measuring the sub's speed through the water, passed through zero, and started to accelerate astern as the boat began to move backward. The down angle started to ease.
Durgan ordered, "All stop. Stand by to hover."
Frost spun the astern-throttles shut. Spadefish coasted to a stop and hung there, with no forward or backward motion, stopped dead still in the warm Pacific waters.
Doc Marston flipped switches that pressurized one of the depth control tanks with high-pressure air and vented the other one. The pressurized tank was kept nearly full of seawater and the vented one nearly empty. Marston could blow water from one tank if Spadefish started to sink or flood a little in if she started to rise. It was all a giant balancing act.
Marston turned to Durgan and reported, "Speed zero, depth five-eight seven feet and sinking. Ready to hover."
"Commence hovering. Depth six hundred feet," Durgan ordered.
Bert Waters ran to the aft bulkhead of the engine room with Chief Bechtold right on his heels. Waters was working to qualify as Engineering Watch Supervisor. Bechtold was his current teacher. Waters grabbed a JA handset and reported, "Ready to take local control of the stern planes with emergency positioning pumps." These pumps bypassed the ship's normal hydraulic system and operated the rudder or stern planes from a small separate system in case all the ship's hydraulic power was lost.
Final Bearing Page 24
