by Peter Albano
*
“You mentioned Russians, sir,” Banks said, scanning the screen. “Why, Commander?”
“Because, Ensign Banks, we have ballistic evidence. Twenty millimeter and seven-point-seven ordnance was used against Sparta. We have a dud twenty millimeter and fragments of other projectiles taken from lifeboat wreckage.” “Survivors, Mister Bell?” a lieutenant junior grade asked.
“None, thus far, Lieutenant McHugh. A Lockheed P-Three C ‘Orion’ from Kodiak and the Japanese fishing boat, Ogawa Maru, are on the scene. The American tanker Gilmore is en route. Also, the Coast Guard cutter Hamilton departed San Francisco at 1000 hours yesterday.”
“What about the cutter on station: the Bering Sea Patrol?” McHugh asked.
“The Morganthau. She lost her HH-Fifty-Two off Attu. She’s returning to San Francisco.”
“Mister Bell,” an elderly captain interrupted suddenly. “Let’s get back to the Russians. Can we really pin this on them? And why sink Sparta? She was only a tramp, carrying oil drilling supplies. She had no strategic or tactical value.”
“True, Captain Avery. The scenario we project is the CO of an intelligence vessel — probably an AGI out of Petropavlovsk — went mad and opened up on Sparta,” Bell said, voice softened by respect — respect due the senior officer in the room, Capt. Mason Avery. Gaunt, with gleaming pate, strong features seamed and wrinkled into a thousand fissures, he looked as aged and ageless as a weathered redwood. Veteran of three wars, Avery was known as an expert on Japan and Russia. Every man in the room knew of his brilliance, but would soon discover his arrogance as well.
“But, Commander,” Mason continued, “I understand the seven-point-seven, but twenty millimeter. That’s an unusual bore for an AGI, or any Russian vessel for that matter.” He nodded at the console. “Can the Fourteen Hundred help us here?”
Bell mumbled a command to the cryptologic technician. All eyes were on the screen as the great computer spoke again in its glowing, green vocabulary:
*
AGI. Intelligence, surveillance vessels. 52 in service. Navy manned. Permanent patrol areas: Rota, Spain; Holy Loch, Scotland; Apra Harbor, Guam; Charleston, S.C.; Hawaiian Islands. Observed monitoring missile launches from USS George Washington and USS James Madison. Frequently observed by Allied fleets in Mediterranean and Pacific. Aggressive. Will sail into center of operating formations. Usually equipped with Slim Net, Pop Group and Top Steer surveillance radar. Unarmed except for Balzam class.
*
“Let’s have Balzam class,” Avery snapped.
*
Balzam class AGI. 5,000 tons. Range 10,000. Crew 230. Speed 16 knots. Radar, Slim Net, Pop Group, Top Steer, Head Net A and C, and Top Knot. Armament, one 30 millimeter ADMG-630, 6 barrel Gatling.
*
“Well, that doesn’t fit,” Avery said, staring at the screen before returning to Bell. “You mentioned Petropavlovsk. Why?”
“Because AGIs based at Vladivostok or Sakhalin would’ve been spotted by AWACs or submarine pickets. Whatever hit Sparta was not radar tracked.”
“Long range aircraft,” Banks said. “A Tupolev LRA out of Vladivostok. They buzz ships once in a while. Maybe — ”
The ensign was interrupted by Avery’s laugh. “LRAs? You’ve been flying without oxygen, son,” he said, derisively. “They have their share of flat hatters, all right. But they don’t carry twenty millimeter. Right, Commander?” He nodded to Bell.
“Right, Captain. NORAD reports the usual long range aircraft out of Vladivostok. None have dropped below eight thousand feet,” Bell said with marked deference. “If you wish, sir, we can access the specs.”
“Just the Tupolev Sixteen, Commander. The Sixteen and Twenty-Two are very similar.”
Bell nodded to De Santo. Again the screen lighted:
*
Tupolev (TU) 16. NATO reporting name, Badger. Max level speed at 19,700 feet 535 knots. Service ceiling 40,350 feet. Wing span 108 feet. Length 114 feet. Wheel track 32 feet. Normal TO weight 158,730 pounds. Engines two Mikulin AM-3 turbojet, 19,285 pounds thrust each. Crew 6 or 7. Armament 3 twin mount 23 millimeter NR-23 cannon. Range 4,470 miles.
*
“Well,” Captain Avery said, eyes moving across the screen and then to Ensign Banks, “that eliminates the Tupolev.”
Banks narrowed his eyes. “Gentlemen,” he said unperturbed. “What about a fast nuclear sub or high speed surface vessel. At thirty knots, a ship could be over a thousand miles south of the sinking by now, out of our search parameters.”
“We won’t need the Fourteen Hundred for this one,” Bell said, raising his hand to the technician and glancing at a pad on his podium. “As you know, every major Soviet unit is tracked by NATO, NORAD, and satellite with hard-sited Fourteen Hundreds in Denver and Washington continuously updating target command data to missiles afloat, submerged, and in silos. Before this briefing began, De Santo got a read-out.” He studied the pad. “As for subs, the nuclear SSN, ALFA class can do forty knots, it’s true. But our sensors find only two in the Pacific: one off San Diego and the other stationed four hundred miles east of Tokyo. There is one SSBN, Delta One, two hundred miles north of Wake. She’s their new nine thousand tonner that carries twelve SS-N-eight SLBM MIRV missiles with four thousand mile ranges. But she’s obviously out of our picture. Eight Whiskeys are scattered from the Pacific Coast to the Indian Ocean. They’re slow and out of our picture, too.” He raised his eyes. “Now for surface ships.” He tapped the podium. “It’s true we don’t track every single vessel on the surface of the Earth. But an armed ship capable of high speeds would be highly unusual and certainly in Microvac’s RAM.”
“RAM?” Banks said.
“Sorry. I meant, ‘random access memory.’” The ensign nodded. Bell gestured to the console. “I appreciate your suggestions. But I’m afraid subs and surface ships don’t wash.”
“Well said,” Mason Avery commented. “When can we expect a report from ballistics?”
“Anytime, Captain. I hope before this meeting is over.”
Almost as if summoned by Bell’s words, Brent Ross entered by the room’s single door, walked up the center aisle, handed Bell a slip of paper, and seated himself in the front row, watching his commanding officer scan the document.
The commander’s eyes widened, jaw tightened, a new scarlet hue to his cheeks. “I — I — ” He choked for a moment, seemingly paralyzed by whatever his eyes found.
Captain Avery rose. “Craig, Craig,” he said, alarmed.
“Ah — yes, yes, Captain. Uh — this information-surprising, very surprising — ”
“For God’s sake, Craig,” Avery interrupted.
“Yes, sir,” Bell managed, voice firming. “Ballistics reports the ordnance under question Japanese.” He paused, interrupted by the sudden uproar of more than a score of excited voices. His eyes moved to the expressionless Ross and back to the document.
Raising his hands, Bell restored order, continuing, “All fragments of seven-point-seven and the single dud twenty millimeter date to 1941 or earlier. Gentlemen, Sparta was sunk by World War II ammunition.” Another uproar. “Please, gentlemen,” the commander shouted. The noise subsided. Turning to De Santo, Bell said thickly, “Clear the screen.” The technician nodded. In a moment, the screen was dark. Craig faced the audience, saying, “It’s time for suggestions.”
Ideas were shouted from the audience. As fast as they were suggested, they were flashed on the screen. Soon, “Pirates,” “Russians disguising their attack,” “Sparta's competitors,” “Conservationists,” and “Madmen,” glowed across the front of the room. Everyone seemed to be talking at once.
Staring at the screen, Brent Ross blocked out the noise, concentrating on the words. “They’re all mad,” he said to himself. “Just as crazy as Zeros.” He rose, facing Commander Bell, shouting over the uproar, “My Zeros aren’t any crazier than these.” He gestured at the screen. “I’d like to add them.”
The commander nodded, silenci
ng the crowd. “Gentlemen,” Bell said, “my aide, Ensign Brent Ross is Ted ‘Trigger’ Ross’ son. Trigger was in command when Sparta vanished.” The audience hushed. “He — uh, has a theory.” He nodded to Brent.
All eyes were on Brent as he addressed his commanding officer. “Thank you, Commander Bell.” And then he turned to De Santo. “Chris, please give us, ‘Japanese Zero aircraft.’” A murmur rippled as the screen lighted with new words. There was no laughter.
“Ensign,” Captain Avery said. “I know your father well. We were shipmates on the Big E for most of’42. But you — you … ”
“Please, sir,” Brent said. “You must understand, there was a Mayday.”
“Unverified,” Bell injected, hastily.
“True, sir. My idea is based on a hunch and the message of one December. I’ll admit I discarded the concept as foolish until now — until the discovery of Japanese World War II ammunition.” He leaned close to De Santo’s ear. In a moment, “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! Zeros, Zeros, Zeros — we’re under attack” was on the screen.
The men were stunned. Captain Avery leaped to his feet, shouting, “Are you inferring that’s a World War II Flash Red?”
“Why not, Captain? Why not?” the ensign answered, holding his ground.
“Because it’s crazy, that’s why.”
“It’s as good as any of the others,” the ensign retorted hotly.
“But it’s not! Who originated the message?” Avery demanded, turning to Bell, red faced.
“We don’t know,” Bell answered.
“Don’t know?”
Bell spoke quickly, describing the history of the transmission while Ross clenched his fists and ground his teeth.
“Then it sounds like a phony — a prank,” Avery snapped.
“Yes,” Bell answered. “But it’s interesting to note, when sunk, Sparta was bearing zero, zero, zero from Hall Island while Saint Lawrence Island, directly north, bore zero, zero, zero from Sparta. All of you know — ” he nodded to the audience — “it’s SOP to give position top priority in a Mayday.”
“Then, it could have been a position report,” the captain mused, rubbing his chin. “But on the other hand, you, Ensign — ” his eyes found Brent — “assume Mitsubishis.”
Brent knew he must remain cool, maintain his composure. Massing all of his tact, he said, “Respectfully, sir — not assume; suggest as a possibility — nothing more. But you know, Captain, my father fought them, knew them, would recognize them. And the Zero did mount seven-point-seven and twenty millimeter.”
Silence as curious eyes studied the young officer. Then Avery said, grimly. “Yes, young man. I’ve known your father for decades. What you say is true. He would know them — recognize them. And they used those weapons. But on the other hand — ” his voice rose — “a suggestion predicated on a scrap of message of unknown origin — old ammunition which is still abundant and could have been fired from tens of thousands or, perhaps, hundreds of thousands of existing weapons, that Mitsubishi A6M2s could be found in the middle of the Bering Sea in 1983?” He slapped his forehead. “No! I understand your concern — we’re all concerned. But, no! This is a strange one, weird and puzzling. But I can’t buy your theory. There just isn’t enough hardware.” And, gesturing to Craig Bell, he went on. “I suggest we investigate the other possibilities, Commander. They’re crazy enough.”
A low chuckle swept the tension from the room. For a moment, Brent Ross stood motionless and expressionless, mouth dry, stomach empty and sick. Then he found his seat slowly.
“Commander,” McHugh said, rising. Bell nodded. “We know pirates have operated in the south China Sea, the Java Sea, the Celebes. Why not pirates here?” He gestured at the chart. “May I, Commander?” he asked. Bell gave an affirmative nod. The lieutenant walked to the chart, grasped the pointer, and stabbed the tip at Manchuria. “We all know there were massive Japanese military operations here during World War II.”
“Right,” Bell said. “The Japs called it Manchuko.”
“Try this scenario,” McHugh said. “Why not a pirate operation based somewhere on the Kamchatka Peninsula — using old Jap ordnance captured in Asia, high speed boat or boats.”
“Well, that’s better than starting from zero.” Avery smirked.
The pun filled the room with laughter. Tight lipped, Brent rose. “Commander Bell,” he said. “May I return to my duties?”
Bell nodded, smiling enigmatically.
*
“They shot me down, Pam. They shot me down,” Brent Ross said, moving the Datsun 280ZX through the gears and pointing the low-slung sports car northward on Thorndyke Avenue away from the naval station at Terminal 91 and toward Nickerson Street and Bill’s Gills and Swill.
Turning her head slowly, Pamela Ward eyed the driver, feeling both compassion and excitement. She had known many men, but not one had ever aroused her the way this intelligent yet immensely physical man could. He was young — perhaps six years her junior — yet he had the intensity and perceptiveness of a man much older. She had never dated a man younger than herself, but here she was, bound for dinner, finding herself as excited as a sixteen-year-old savoring her first prom. She looked at the gearshift, enveloped by his hand — a huge fist with a thick wrist covered with hair. Feeling a tremor, she turned her head, knowing she wanted that hand on her. But the set of his jaw, the concern in his voice cooled like a splash of water, dampened her spirits. He needed help.
“Shot you down, Brent?”
“Yes! Yes!” He gripped the wheel with both hands, white knuckles showing even in the dim light. Tensely, he described the meeting, the ballistic evidence, and his rejection.
“Bullets and shells,” she said, horrified. “I didn’t know.” And then, her voice softening, “Any trace of survivors?”
“No,” he muttered. “There’s a Japanese fishing boat on the scene and an American freighter out of Bristol Bay is on its way.”
“The Coast Guard? The Bering Sea Patrol?” He shrugged. “The Morganthau lost her chopper off Attu yesterday. She’s headed back to Frisco. They’re replacing her with the Hamilton. It’ll take time. It’s cold — very, very cold.”
She shuddered. “But it’s possible survivors were picked up. There are native fishing boats, maybe Russians.”
He nodded. “Maybe, Pam.”
“And Brent, aircraft must be searching.”
“A Lockheed P-Three C from Kodiak found the wreckage. They’re still on it — squaring out from a point midway between Saint Lawrence and Hall Islands.”
“And the helicopter from the Hamilton will help. And, Brent, I hear the weather’s good for the Bering Sea.”
“That’s right,” he said, thoughtfully. “This has been a strange winter — a warm year. Actually, the weather in the Bering Sea area has been more than unusual, it’s been weird.”
“Weird?”
“Yes. The Aleutians have been consistent: foul and icy. But the Bering Sea has almost been balmy — for that region. I mean, the summer was the warmest on record and the winter mild and calm.”
“Then a good search can be made.”
“Yes,” he said, spirits lifting. “They should be able to make a good search.” For a long moment only the hum of the engine and the rumble of steel-belted tires on concrete could be heard. And then he said, almost to himself, “They just wouldn’t listen. Commander Bell and Captain Avery think I’m psycho. They’re all confused. Some think it’s an AGI out of Petropavlovsk and others suspect pirates out of some secret anchorage on the Kamchatka coast using captured Jap ammo.” He slapped his forehead.
“Petropavlovsk? Pirates? Where in the world is Petropavlovsk?”
“It’s a small port near the tip of the Kamchatka Peninsula. The Russkies have been dredging it. Avery and Bell actually think a five-thousand-ton AGI could be based there.” He snorted. “Fat chance.”
“You proposed your theory?”
“Yes.”
“And they laughed at you.”<
br />
“Of course.”
Again, only the sounds of the car. And then, slowly, “Brent, could your Zeros really do all that?”
“You’re making fun of me.”
“No!”
He took a hand from the wheel, tapped his chin with a clenched fist. “I did some research right after the meeting.” She nodded. He continued, “The Zero was an extraordinary aircraft: maneuverable, capable of 330 knots, and with high firepower. In the early Forties, there wasn’t a single aircraft anywhere on earth that could dogfight it. It swept the skies clean. In fact, on its first combat mission over Chungking in August of 1940, not a single Chinese plane survived. The Zeros shot every Ilyushin and P-Forty out of the sky.”
“Ilyushins and P-Forties?”
“Yes. Most Chinese aircraft were flown by Russians and Americans — good pilots. The Americans were Chenault’s AVG.”
“AVG. You must mean the Flying Tigers.”
“Right. AVG stood for ‘American Volunteer Group.’ Real pros. But not even they could dogfight Zeros.” He pounded the gearshift gently. “But the important thing is range. With auxiliary tanks, the Zero could carry over two hundred gallons of gas. That isn’t much by today’s military standards but with its small 925-horsepower Sakae at two thousand rpm and on a lean mixture, it could fly at 120 knots for over ten hours. Depending on the wind, its range was over eleven hundred miles.”
“Oh, Brent. I’m trying.”
“I know, Pam. It does sound preposterous — but, so is Petropavlovsk, and pirates, and twenty millimeter shells.” And then suddenly, “It’s crazy — crazy, Pam. Am I insane?”
“No. No, Brent.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “Please, Brent — you’re intelligent and you’ve thought it out, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Their base, Brent. Where?”
“The Chukchi Peninsula — easy range to the site of the sinking.”
“The Chukchi Peninsula? Sorry, Brent, I’m a cryptographer. You’ve been in areas I just don’t know.”
He nodded. “It juts out from Siberia into the Bering Sea.”
