The priest appeared completely astounded ashe looked up to the heavens and spoke out joyously.
“Glory be! So there is a compassionate God up there after all!”
Three
It was one p.m. by the time the Huey carrying Dr. Miriam Kromer arrived in Bangkok. She immediately transferred to an awaiting Lockheed C-141 StarLifter, for a two-and-a-half-hour flight to dark Air Base in the Philippines. Yet another change of aircraft took place there. This plane washer current means of transport, a propdriven, C-2A Greyhound.
They had been flying due north for almost four hours now, had long ago passed over Taiwan, and were currently somewhere over the East China Sea.
It was a moonless, pitch-black night. From the copilot’s seat, the lexicologist stared out into the inky blackness, dressed in the same dark green flight suit and helmet she had donned that morning back in Thailand. In her lap was a notebook holding the report that she had just completed, concerning her morning’s findings on the southern slopes of Phu Bia.
To the constant drone of the Greyhound’s dual turboprops, she mentally recreated that moment when she’d determined the real source of the socalled yellow rain. Bee defecation had sent her on a wild-goose chase halfway around the world.
Yet even with the proof she had, she knew that several of her associates back at Fort Detrick would stubbornly stick to their belief that the Pathet Lao were waging biological warfare. She would do her best to counter these claims and, of course, to fulfill the promises she had made to Father Goss.
The audible pitch of the airplane’s engines abruptly changed, and Kromer felt an alien pressure on her eardrums. She looked to her left and watched as the pilot pushed down on the steering yoke and inched the dual throttles forward. Assuming that they would be landing shortly, Kromer restlessly stirred.
“You never did say which airport we were bound for,” she remarked.
“I was just waiting for you to ask. Doc,” answered the Greyhound’s pilot, as she scanned the myriad of glowing digital instruments displayed before her.
“If you’ll look down there on the northern horizon, I believe you’ll be able to see the field’s landing lights.”
“I don’t see anything but a wall of black,” observed Kromer, who was peering out the cockpit window.
“Shouldn’t there be some city lights showing down there?”
“Not in the middle of the East China Sea, Doc,” returned the grinning pilot, whose helmet was stenciled It. Jan “Big Mamma” Grodsky.
Kromer absorbed this unexpected response and assumed that she knew what the pilot was referring to upon spotting a postage stamp-sized, rectangularly shaped series of glowing lights far in the distance.
“Do you mean to say that we’re going to be landing on an aircraft carrier?” she asked.
“That’s affirmative. Doc. I take it you’re a carrier virgin.”
“A what?” returned the toxicologist.
The pilot answered while readdressing the throttle.
“A carrier virgin is someone who’s never landed at sea before.”
“That’s me, allright said Kromer, whose stomach tightened at the mere thought of such a thing.
“Well, there’s no need to get your blood pressure up, Doc. Just sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride. If you’d like, just flip that switch on your right armrest and you can listen to our landing instructions.”
Kromer activated the switch, and took in a series of curt, static-free directives from the carrier’s tower.
Most of these instructions made little sense to her.
They seemed to be in some sort of code, and were delivered by a smooth, male voice with a relaxed tone to it.
A carrier landing was definitely something she hadn’t anticipated, and there could be no hiding her nervousness. The mere thought of hurtling out of the black sky, with no sense of altitude or distance, toward a floating target that seemed incredibly small and insignificant, was terrifying. Her pulse quickened, and a thick band of sweat gathered on her forehead.
The lights of the carrier approached more quickly than she had expected, as the voice of the ship’s landing signal’s officer broke from her headphones.
“You’re lookin’ good, Big Mamma. Ride the ball and keep on comin’.”
The cabin shook violently as an intense wind gust triggered a sickening loss of altitude. Lieutenant Grodsky expertly adjusted the throttle, and the Greyhound’s turboprops whined in response.
“I’ve got the orange,” calmly remarked the pilot.
“So I see, darling’,” returned the LSO’s satiny voice.
“Keep it clean, dearest…. Right up!”
This rollercoaster ride at two-hundred knots continued without pause, and as the flight deck rapidly approached, Kromer fought to control her rising nausea. They appeared to be traveling much too fast.
Yet the voice of the LSO was strangely reassuring.
“Grab the deck. Big Mamma. You’re just about home!”
Seconds later, the Greyhound slammed down onto the deck with a gut-wrenching bang. Even with the restraining harness pulled tight around her, Kromer found herself roughly jolted forward as the aircraft’s tail hook grabbed the second deck cable and screeched to an abrupt halt.
“That’s a hell of away to make a living. Lieutenant,” managed Kromer between grateful breaths of relief.
“It’s all just a day’s pay for me. Doc,” replied the pilot.
“Anytime you’re ready for a lift home, just give me a call. There’re no frequent flier miles, but we certainly aim to please.”
“I’ll remember that,” said Kromer, who couldn’t begin to imagine what a carrier takeoff would belike
With shaky legs, the lexicologist exited the C-2A onboard delivery aircraft and followed a Marine corporal into the ship’s immense, box-shaped island.
They climbed downward, deep into the bowels of the carrier. After circumventing a virtual maze of ladders and passageways, Kromer found herself entering a doorway marked with a familiar red cross and labeled Infirmary.
“You must be Dr. Kromer.” The greeting was made by the alert black orderly who had been waiting for her beside the reception desk.
“You’re expected in the physician’s lounge. If you’ll just follow me.”
The orderly led her past a spacious, spotlessly clean clinic. Several patients were waiting there, including the recent victim of a nasty burn to his right forearm. Adjoining the clinic was a brightly lit surgical theater. Several gowned individuals were propping for an operation, and Kromer marveled that their equipment equaled that of the most modern landbased hospital.
At the end of the tiled corridor was a closed door guarded by an armed Marine sentry. With Kroner’s approach, the Marine saluted, then smartly pivoted to knock on the door and open it. Kromer left her escort behind at this point and entered a large, cheerfully decorated room smelling of freshly brewed coffee. Similar to that of any major hospital, the lounge sported an assortment of comfortable furniture and a fully stocked buffet table.
There was no one else present, except for the two khaki-suited officers seated atone of the tables, sipping coffee and sorting through a stack of photographs.
Both of them stood upon her entrance. It was the tallest of these men, a dignified, crewcut gentleman with a square jaw and piercing, steel-gray eyes, who initiated the introductions.
“Welcome aboard the Enterprise, Dr. Kromer. I’m Captain Webster. And this is my senior medical officer, Commander Philip Jackman.”
“That’s Phil to you. Doctor,” offered the slightly built commander.
“Now how about helping yourself to some food and drink. I understand you put in your fair share of miles getting here.”
Though Kromer had not eaten since lunch, her fatigue and the alien roll of the ship kept her appetite to a minimum.
“Some black coffee would sure be appreciated,” she said, fighting back the urge to yawn.
“You’ve got it,” returned th
e likable commander.
While he went over to pour her a cup, Kromer’s glance settled on the photographs visible on the table. Captain Webster was quick to note her interest.
“Go ahead and have a look if you’d like. And please, have aseat.”
Kromer sat down at the table and picked up the stack of eight-by-ten-inch, black and white photographs.
The first of these showed six naked male corpses, laid out on the bare concrete floor of what appeared to be a makeshift morgue. Each of the victims were middle-aged Orientals. A closeup displayed a series of circular black lesions, one to three centimeters in diameter, dotting the face and neck of one of the bodies. The other photographed corpses showed similar marks, and Kromer thoughtfully vented her curiosity.
“When were these photographs taken?”
“About two hours ago,” answered the captain.
“They were snapped in the gymnasium of Okinawa’s Naha upper school. That’s where this morgue has been set up.”
Kromer responded while the carrier’s senior medical officer arrived with her coffee.
“When I was initially briefed in Bangkok this morning, I had no idea that this epidemic had gotten so out of hand.”
“I’m afraid this is only the tip of the iceberg,” said Commander Jackman ashe heavily seated himself opposite the toxicologist.
“Altogether, there have been twenty-seven other fatalities, all displaying similar manifestations. The hospitals in Naha are currently packed with hundreds of scared patients showing all the preliminary symptoms, which initially mimic a severe viral infection. If the disease continues on its present course and we remain unable to treat it, the casualties could reach catastrophic proportions — and we could be faced with one of the worst epidemics of this century.”
“Any idea as to what we’re up against here. Doctor?” asked Captain Webster.
Kromer studied a closeup of the circular, black lesions.
“It could be plague, or even anthrax for that matter. To find out for certain, I need a fully equipped toxicology laboratory and plenty of tissue samples.”
The carrier’s commanding officer consented without a moment’s hesitation.
“As of this moment, the ship’s lab is at your disposal. I’m certain you’ll find its facilities more than adequate. As for those samples, since we’re currently off the northern coast of Okinawa, we could have you in Naha to collect them yourself within the hour.”
The telephone began ringing. Webster reached out for the handset located beside his armrest and spoke into the transmitter.
“Captain, here … I hear you, Red. I’m on my way.”
Webster appeared momentarily lost in thought ashe hung up the handset and stood.
“I’ll be in the CIC if you need me, Phil. And Dr. Kromer, if there’s anything I can do for you, just holler.”
Without further explanation, he turned and exited.
Upon his departure, the atmosphere inside the lounge seemed to lighten. Commander Jackman took along drink from his mug and caught his guest’s tired gaze.
“By the way, I’d like to personally welcome you aboard the Enterprise. Command speaks most highly of you. We’re very fortunate to have you on our team.”
“I just hope I won’t let you down. Commander,” said Kromer as she gratefully sipped her coffee.
“Hey, that’s Phil to you,” shot back the personable medical officer.
“I wish there was time for you to get some shuteye, but men, women, and children are dying from this epidemic as we speak. So I’d better see about getting you immediate transport to Naha.
And we’ll have to get you fitted into a biohazard containment suit.”
Miriam Kromer nodded in consent and diverted her gaze back to the top photograph. The black lesions displayed were the sole visible clues to the mysterious, deadly disease whose diagnosis, treatment, and eventual elimination was now her number one priority.
Captain Steven Webster strode into Combat Information Center on the Enterprise like he owned the place. This large, equipment-packed compartment was the nerve center of the ship. It washere that the voluminous data gathered by the carrier task force’s various defensive sensors was integrated, the objective being to protect the Enterprise from attack.
A pair of elevated command chairs was placed in the center of the CIC. Seated in one, before an immense, digitally lit perspex screen, was Commander Samuel “Red” Rayburn, the Enterprise’s executive officer. Though he had gone prematurely bald soon after graduating from the Naval Academy, the XO had a full, rust-colored mustache that he kept impeccably groomed. Thus the source of his nickname.
* * *
Red had flown a Grumman A-6 Intruder during Viet Nam, and had over 3,000 flight hours and 600 carrier-arrested landings to his name. Always one who got right down to the guts of a matter. Red spoke up as Captain Webster climbed into the vacant seat beside him.
“It was a Seahawk off the Bunker Hill that first tagged the bogey with dipping sonar a little over ten minutes ago.”
Webster absorbed this curt report while studying the navigational chart displayed on the large, clear plastic screen that hung before them. In a matter of seconds, the captain was able to determine the exact location of the Enterprise, along with the assorted frigates, destroyers, cruisers, and support vessels comprising the carrier battle group. Webster paid particular attention to a single flashing red star located on the extreme northern sector of the chart.
This was the last known position of their socalled bogey.
“Where’s the Hawkbill?” he questioned.
“At last report, they were patrolling due west of us,” answered the
XO.
Webster diverted his eyes from the screen and directly met the serious gaze of his second in command.
“Red, if we indeed have an unfriendly submarine out there attempting to penetrate this task force, we’re going to have to rely on Slaughter and his crew to convince her that she has no business here.”
“I hear you loud and clear. Skipper,” returned the XO ashe rolled the clipped end of his mustache.
“I’ll convey the word to the Hawkbill at once.”
* * *
Commander Chris Slaughter and his XO, Lieuten ant Commander Benjamin Kram, initiated their biweekly inspection of their current command in the Hawkbill’s aft engine spaces. Though not the most modern attack sub in the fleet, the USS Hawkbill was a potent underwater platform, capable of holding its own against any adversary. Over two hundred and ninety feet long and displacing well over four thousand tons, the Hawkbill was fitted with an upgraded BQQ-5 sonar suite, anewly installed BQR-23 towed array, and a sophisticated firecontrol system.
Four torpedo tubes angled out beneath the fin, each capable of launching a variety of weapons, including the Mk48 dual-purpose torpedo and the Harpoon antiship missile. One hundred and seven officers and enlisted men made up the crew, many of them having just been born when this sub was originally launched from the San Francisco Naval Shipyard back in the early seventies.
The air washeavy with the wax-like scent of warm polyethylene as the boat’s two senior officers headed forward after completing their inspection of that portion of the sub fondly known as Hawkbill Power and Light. A single S5W pressurized water-cooled nuclear reactor was located here. This was the heart of the Sturgeon-class vessel’s propulsion system. The heat produced by this device drove a pair of geared steam turbines that powered a single propeller shaft capable of producing a forward speed of well over thirty knots.
Quite satisfied with the performance of the engine-room staff, Chris Slaughter led the way through a thick, steel hatchway. At six feet, two inches, the Hawkbill’s thirty-seven-year-old captain took extra care not to bump his head ashe stepped into the passageway that would take them directly into the galley.
Tall for a submariner. Slaughter nonetheless circumnavigated the cramped spaces of his command with a minimum of bumps and bruises.
The XO barely
had to duck his head ashe climbed through the hatch and sealed it behind him. Benjamin Kram was agood four inches shorter than Slaughter. A native of Redondo Beach, California, the blond-headed XO curiously sniffed the air of the passageway and lightly commented.
“Smells like we’re finally getting some real steaks for chow. Skipper.”
“I concur,” said Slaughter ashe proceeded forward.
“I must admit it will be a welcome relief after a solid week of turkey stew, turkey chow mein, and turkey patties.”
“Chief Mallot tried to explain low cholesterol and the health benefits — of turkey”—Kram remained close on his skipper’s heels—“but unfortunately, he didn’t get through to the crew. Why for awhile there, when he served that turkey loaf last Sunday, I thought we might have a mutiny on our hands.”
“That would sure be one for the papers,” reflected the captain.
“I can see the headlines now. Chow-hound mutineers take over sub. Demand junk food.”
There were wide grins on the officers’ faces as they entered the rather spacious compartment reserved for enlisted men’s meals. A handful of sailors were present, eating at tables covered with red checkered cloths. A rerun of last season’s final Dodger-Mets game played from an elevated video monitor. Slaughter eagerly looked up to check its progress.
“Fernando better start throwing some strikes,” urged Seaman First Class Ray Morales in between bites of steak.
“Otherwise, this game’s history.”
Slaughter noted the portly pitcher’s poor mechanics ashe delivered one ball after the other, then voiced his own opinion.
“Tommy better pull him now. It looks to me like Fernando’s really struggling.”
“Struggling ain’t the word for it. He’s dying out there,” said Morales, who looked over to see where this comment originated. Genuine surprise painted the Hispanic’s face upon viewing the Hawkbill’s commanding officer. He instantly sat up straight.
“I’m sorry. Captain,” he uneasily added.
Sea of Death Page 3
