Dirk Pitt18-Black Wind

by Cussler, Clive

Ocean. A gray destroyer limped past the sub on its way back to port,

  listing heavily to one side and showing a rash of gaping holes in its

  bridge and decks, the result of a nasty encounter with a pair of U.S.

  Navy Hellcats. On the submarine, several petty officers crowded the

  conning tower to take a final glimpse of their green island nation,

  uncertain as all seamen departing for bat de whether they would return

  home again.

  When the approach to the Pacific became visible to the lookout, Ogawa

  issued the command to dive. A loud bell clanged throughout the

  submarine and sailors scurried to secure the deck and hatches.

  "Submerge to fifteen meters," Ogawa ordered from the bridge.

  Large ballast tanks were flooded with seawater and the diving planes

  tipped forward. With a rush of collapsing water, the I-403's nose

  dipped downward and the entire submarine was quickly gobbled up by the

  murky green sea.

  In the Pacific waters off the Bungo Strait, aggressive American

  submarines lurked in the depths hunting merchant supply ships or armed

  vessels en route from the Kure Navy Base. Submarine-against-submarine

  attacks were not unheard of and Ogawa was not about to make himself

  easy fodder. Entering the Pacific waters, he quickly aimed the I-403

  northeast and away from the bulk of the wartime traffic traveling south

  toward the Philippines.

  As were most subs of its era, the I-403 was powered by diesel and

  electric motors. In daylight hours, the I-403 would operate submerged,

  powered by battery-operated electric motors that pushed the sub along

  at a sluggish 6 knots per hour. Under cover of darkness, the I-403

  would surface and crank up the diesel engines, which propelled the boat

  to better than 18 knots, while recharging the batteries. But the I-403

  was no ordinary submarine. Stretching over 390 feet long, the I-403

  was one of a handful of Sen toku-class submarines, which were the

  largest built in their day. The massive iron vessel displaced over

  5,200 tons and was pushed through the water by four 7,700-horsepower

  diesel engines. The I-403's truly unique feature, however, was the

  vessel's armament of aircraft. The I-403 could carry three Seiran

  float planes which were small converted dive-bombers that could be

  launched from a catapult on the center bow. While traveling at sea,

  the planes were disassembled and stored in a 110-foot-long watertight

  hangar that stretched along the sub's deck. A shortage of aircraft had

  forced Ogawa to give up one of his seaplanes for coastal

  reconnaissance, however, and his vessel now carried just two of the

  Seiran aircraft.

  Once the I-403 had safely entered the Pacific, Ogawa retired to his

  cabin and reread the brief mission orders Horinouchi had given him. The

  succinct commands called for him to sail a northerly route across the

  Pacific, with a refueling stop in the Aleutians. He was to proceed to

  the northwest coast of the United States, where his two aircraft were

  to launch air attacks on the cities of Tacoma, Seattle, Victoria, and

  Vancouver.

  On the face of it, it appeared a futile gesture, thought Ogawa. Japan

  needed her submarines for homeland waters defense rather than

  instigating minuscule attacks with a pair of small aircraft. But there

  was the question of Dr. Tanaka and his unidentified cargo.

  Summoned to Ogawa's cabin, Tanaka bowed gracefully before entering the

  cramped quarters and seating himself at a small wooden table. The

  slightly built scientist bore a shrewish and unsmiling face. A pair of

  vacant black eyes that were magnified by thick glasses augmented his

  sinister appearance.

  Dispensing with formalities, Ogawa pressed immediately for the nature

  of the doctor's presence.

  "Dr. Tanaka, my written orders are to sail this vessel to the west

  coast of North America and launch an airborne attack on four cities.

  There is no mention of your duties or the nature of your cargo. I must

  ask what your role in the mission is."

  "Commander Ogawa, rest assured that my assignment here has been

  authorized at the highest levels," Tanaka replied in a quiet monotone

  voice. "I will be providing technical assistance for the attack

  operation," he continued.

  "This is a warship. I fail to understand how a medical officer will

  assist in a naval strike," Ogawa countered.

  "Commander, I am with the Army Medical School's Epidemic Disease

  Prevention Study Group. We have received materials from a research

  facility in China that have enabled us to develop an effective new

  weapon against the enemy. Your submarine has been chosen as the means

  to launch the weapon for the first time against American forces. I am

  responsible for the security and deployment of the weapon on this

  mission."

  "These 'materials." They will be dropped from my aircraft?"

  "Yes, in special canisters that can be accommodated by your bombers. I

  have already made the necessary arrangements with your aviation

  ordnance crew."

  "And the men on my vessel. Are they in any danger with this weapon

  aboard?"

  "None whatsoever." Tanaka's face was inscrutable as he lied.

  Ogawa didn't believe him, but figured the risk of the American Navy's

  antisubmarine warfare forces were a greater risk to his sub than

  anything carried on board. Ogawa tried to procure what little

  information he could from Tanaka, but the Army doctor volunteered few

  additional facts. Whatever mystery was associated with the weapon, he

  kept close to the vest. There was something ominous about the man,

  Ogawa decided, and it made him uncomfortable. After sharing a quick

  cup of tea, he dismissed the eerie scientist. Sitting silently in his

  cabin, Ogawa cursed the Fleet Command for selecting his vessel for the

  assignment. It was a mission that he didn't want.

  The sporadic ocean traffic of merchant ships and fishing boats soon

  dissipated as the Japanese mainland fell behind the sub's wake and the

  vessel crawled farther north in latitude. For the next twelve days and

  nights, the crew embraced a normal operating schedule as the sub nosed

  northeast, surfacing at night to run at higher speed. The prospect of

  being detected by an Allied plane or ship was more remote in the north

  Pacific, but Ogawa took no chances and ran submerged during all

  daylight hours. Operating under the waves, the bottled-up sub became

  like an oven to the men who drove her. Interior temperatures would

  climb into the nineties from the machinery, while the confined air

  would grow foul to the breath over the hours. Evening darkness was

  eagerly anticipated by each crewman, knowing the sub would finally

  surface, open its hatches, and vent cold, fresh sea air into the dank

  interior.

  Naval authority on submarines was notably relaxed, even in the Japanese

  Navy, and operations on the I-403 were no different. Officers and

  enlisted crew mixed easily, sharing the same meals and suffering the

  same miseries aboard the cramped vessel. The I-403 had survived depth

  charge attacks on three differen
t occasions and the near-death

  experiences had bonded the crew tightly together. They were survivors

  in a deadly game of cat and mouse and felt the I-403 was a lucky ship

  that could defy the enemy.

  On the fourteenth night, the I-403 surfaced near the Aleutian island of

  Amchitka and quickly found the supply ship Morioka anchored in a small

  cove. Ogawa gently brought his vessel alongside the surface ship and

  mooring lines were tossed across. As diesel fuel was pumped into the

  submarine's reservoir tanks, crewmen on each vessel bantered back and

  forth in the freezing cold.

  "Aren't you a little cramped in that anchovy tin?" asked a bundled

  yeoman at the ship's rail.

  "No, we've got plenty of room for our canned fruit, chestnuts, and

  sake!" yelled back a submariner, boastful of the superior food the

  undersea services were provided.

  The refueling operation was completed in less than three hours. One of

  the submarine's crewmen, diagnosed as suffering an acute bout of

  appendicitis, was transferred to the ship for medical attention. After

  rewarding the supply ship crew with a box of hard candies, the I-403

  cast off on an eastward tack toward North America. The skies gradually

  turned black and the gray-green ocean waters frothed with spray as the

  I-403 found herself sailing into the teeth of an early winter storm.

  The sub was tossed violently for three nights as waves flooded across

  the low deck and crashed into the conning tower as the sub attempted to

  recharge its batteries. A lookout was nearly washed overboard into the

  icy seas on one occasion, and many of the experienced crew succumbed to

  bouts of seasickness. Strong westerly winds aided the voyage, however,

  pushing the sub briskly through the swells and quickening its trek

  east.

  Gradually, the winds began to ease and the seas flattened. Ogawa was

  pleased to find his vessel had survived Mother Nature's buffeting with

  no damage. The battered crew regained their sea legs and their

  fighting morale as the seas stabilized and the submarine neared the

  enemy's homeland.

  "Captain, I have a final plot to the coast," Seiji Kakishita remarked

  as he unrolled a chart of the northeast Pacific Ocean in front of

  Ogawa. The I-403's navigator had ceased shaving, like many crewmen

  upon leaving port, and sported a straggly tuft of hair from his chin

  that created a cartoonish look about him.

  "What is our present position?" Ogawa inquired as he studied the

  map.

  "Right here," Kakishita replied as he pointed to a spot on the map with

  a pair of dividers. "Approximately two hundred kilometers west of

  Vancouver Island. We have two more hours of darkness for surface

  running, which will bring us to within 150 kilometers of land by

  daybreak on our current heading."

  Ogawa studied the chart intently for a few moments before speaking.

  "We are too far north. I wish to launch the attack from a point

  central to the four targets in order to minimize flight time. Bring us

  south and we'll approach the coastline here," he said, stubbing his

  finger at the map. Beneath his fingertip lay the northwest tip of

  Washington State, an angular peak of land that jutted into the Pacific

  Ocean like the snout of a hungry dog. Just to the north lay the Strait

  of Juan de Fuca, which created a natural border channel with British

  Columbia and was the main thoroughfare for maritime traffic from

  Vancouver and Seattle into the Pacific Ocean.

  Kakishita hurriedly plotted a new route on the map and recalculated the

  distances. "Sir, I compute that we can arrive at a position fifteen

  kilometers offshore from the point marked "Cape Alava' in twenty-two

  hours."

  "Excellent, Kakishita," Ogawa replied smugly as he eyed a nearby

  chronograph. "That will allow us plenty of time to commence the attack

  before dawn." The timing was right. Ogawa wished to spend as little

  time as possible in high-traffic areas where they might be spotted

  before launching the strike. Things seemed to be falling into place,

  he thought. With a little luck, they might just be on their way home

  from a successful mission in just over twenty-four hours.

  A buzz of activity overtook the I-403 after it surfaced again that

  evening as preparations were made to launch the aerial strike.

  Mechanics pulled out the fuselage, wings, and pontoons of the aircraft

  and began piecing the parts together like some giant toy model. Seamen

  rigged the hydraulic catapult and carefully tested the device by which

  the planes would be launched. The pilots attentively studied

  topographic

  maps of the region, plotting their course to the drop zones and back.

  And the ordnance men, under the cautious direction of Dr. Tanaka,

  configured the bomb racks of the Seiran bombers to hold the twelve

  silver canisters still stored in the forward torpedo room.

  By three in the morning, the I-403 had crept quietly to its staging

  point off the Washington coast. A light drizzle was falling and the

  six lookouts Ogawa had stationed on deck strained to peer through the

  murky darkness for signs of other vessels. Ogawa himself paced the

  open bridge nervously in anxious wait to see the aircraft off, so that

  he could hide his submarine under the protection of the rolling seas.

  Another hour had ticked by when a hurried squat man in a grease-stained

  jumpsuit approached Ogawa tentatively.

  "Sir, sorry to report we are having troubles with the aircraft."

  "What is the problem at this late hour?" Ogawa countered, clearly

  annoyed.

  "Aircraft number one has been found to have a faulty magneto. We must

  replace it with a spare for the motor to operate. Aircraft number two

  has a damaged elevator, apparently due to shifting that occurred during

  the storm. This we can repair also."

  "And how long will it require to complete both repairs?"

  The mechanic looked skyward for a moment, contemplating his response.

  "Approximately one hour for the repairs, sir, plus another twenty

  minutes to load the ordnance from belowdecks."

  Ogawa nodded grimly. "Proceed with all haste."

  One hour turned into two and still the planes were not ready. Ogawa's

  impatience grew as he noticed gray streaks in the eastern sky,

  signaling the approaching dawn. The drizzling rain had stopped and was

  replaced by a light fog that enveloped the sub, cutting visibility to

  less than a third of a mile. Sitting ducks, perhaps, but at least

  ducks in a blind, Ogawa thought.

  Then the stillness of the morning air was shattered as a cry from the

  sound-detection operator belowdecks pierced the air.

  "Captain, I have an echo!"

  "I've got you this time, Big Brother!" Steve Schauer yelled into the

  radio transmitter with a grin, then pushed a pair of throttles to their

  stops. Alongside him in the fishing trawler's cramped cabin, two

  teenage crewmen, exhausted and reeking of dead fish, looked at each

  other and rolled their eyes. Schauer ignored their looks as he lightly

  fingered the wooden wheel of the plodding fishing boa
t and began

  whistling an old drinking tune.

  A pair of fortyish siblings with youth in their veins, Steve and Doug

  Schauer had spent their lives fishing the waters in and around Puget

  Sound. With skill and hard work, they had thrown all their earnings

  into ever-larger fishing boats until they traded up for a matched pair

  of fifty-foot wooden hull trawlers. Working as a team, they

  successfully fished the Washington and Vancouver shorelines with an

  uncanny ability to sniff out large schools of halibut. After a

  three-day excursion, with their holds full of fish and their coolers

  empty of beer, the brothers would race each other back to port like a

  pair of kids on roller skates.

  "It ain't over till the paint scratches the dock," Doug's voice

  crackled over the radio. After a particularly good haul during the

  1941 season, the brothers had splurged on two-way radios for their

  boats. Though intended to help each other coordinate the catches, the

  brothers spent most of their time on the airwaves goading each other

  instead.

  As Schauer's boat chugged along at its top speed of 12 knots, the skies

  lightened from black to gray and a spotlight beam shining on the water

  ahead of the bow gradually lost its illuminating effect. Ahead, in the

  mist, Schauer saw the faint outline of a large black object lying low

  in the water. A second later, a small orange flash emanated from the

  object's center for a brief instant.

  "Is that a whale off the starboard bow?" The words had barely escaped

  his lips when a shrieking whistle creased past the cabin, followed by a

  volcanic explosion that erupted in the water off the port beam,

  showering the trawler in a downpour of seawater.