Sea of Death

by Richard P. Henrick

  Brown used to be a frequent visitor to the theater and the art museum. That was back in the days when his wife Mary was still alive. A true lover of the arts, Mary had dragged him to many a play and art-show opening. He had genuinely enjoyed these events, which abruptly ceased when cancer took his companion of forty years away from him.

  With Mary’s passing eight months ago, yet another chapter in Brown’s life ended. Before that a thirty-year naval career had come to a close; as had a decade spent working at the Electric Boat division of General Dynamics.

  He was all alone now, with no family to speak of save for a single son who had followed in his father’s footsteps, having just been made XO of a 688class, nuclear-powered attack sub. Since the majority of his close friendships dated from his early Navy days and these men were now scattered throughout the country, Brown filled the void created when his wife died by focusing his energies on his sailboat.

  He’d purchased the craft three years ago, naming it Arcturus, for the giant, first-magnitude fixed star in the constellation Bootes. He’d done this before retiring from Electric Boat and before their move to Longboat Key, Florida.

  Mary had been an avid sailor, and together they’d turned the boat into a second home. Designed and built for cruising, Arcturus was relatively small at twenty feet, though its wide beam created a remarkable amount of space below. Two quarter berths doubled as seats for the dinette. When not in use, the table slid aft under the cockpit. There was a gimbaled kerosene stove to port and a chart table and ice box oppo site. The starboard quarter berth was also the seat for the navigation station, with a hanging locker, double bunk, and head forward. The trim was mahogany, the deck fittings bronze, with a skylight just aft of the mast, over the main cabin.

  Arcturus was a joy to sail in open waters, and for the first couple of years they’d spent many an enjoyable hour exploring the scenic coast of Florida. Their longest trip together had been around the Straits of Florida to Nassau. They had been in the process of planning a cruise into the Caribbean Sea when Mary had first fallen ill. She’d passed away six months later, never again to set foot on the Arcturus.

  Asea gull cried out harshly overhead, and Bill Brown glanced upward into the cloudless, powdery blue sky. The warm sun felt good on his ruggedly handsome face and firm, bare chest. He finished off his coffee and picked up a battered corncob pipe, which he packed with tobacco and lit with a well-used Zippo lighter. The familiar, rich scent of rum-soaked burley met his nostrils, and Brown returned his line of sight to the sea before him.

  He followed a leaping pod of dolphins past a channel marker and turned Arcturus into the wind as a Boeing 727 roared overhead, having just taken off from the nearby Sarasota-Bradenton airport. The sail momentarily luffed, and Brown began tacking on a zigzag course to the west. Longboat Key now lay before him. This was where his bayside condo was located, directly overlooking the pier where Arcturus was docked.

  In another week, he planned to sail into the open waters of the Gulf and turn south for the Fort Jefferson National Monument on the Dry Tortugas. Afterward, he would stop off at Key West and spend several days on Big Pine Key as the guest of Pete Frystak, a retired Navy buddy who ran a small resort there. The cruise would encompass some five hundred miles and would take several weeks to complete.

  This voyage was to be his first extended sail without Mary. The pain of her untimely loss had hurt him deeply, and for an entire month after her burial, he’d visited her gravesite daily.

  At first he’d resisted the urgings of his son to leave Longboat, if only for a couple of days. It proved to be time itself that eventually healed the great wound caused by Mary’s death. Gradually he’d readjusted his lifestyle, finding new purpose within the cramped confines of his sailboat.

  Ever thankful for this unlikely savior. Brown found himself looking forward to the long voyage he would soon be undertaking. Confident that Arcturus could meet any challenge the sea might have in store, he redirected his attention back to his present course. He was halfway across the bay, tacking to windward, with his destination. Longboat Key, clearly visible on the western horizon. The warm wind hit him full in the face, and he did his best to keep his sails from luffing.

  With Victory at Sea still blaring from the tape player, he shifted the well-chewed bit of his pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other. The channel remained free of other surface traffic, and Brown figured he could be safely home in time for lunch.

  It was ashe reached out for his thermos to refill his mug, that a bright orange and white Coast Guard helicopter swooped low overhead. Brown looked on with surprise as this vehicle turned and initiated yet another low-level pass, this time halting in midair and hovering directly above him. The deep clatter of the chopper’s spinning rotors rose to an almost deafening intensity as a helmeted figure emerged from the open hatchway, megaphone in hand.

  “Commander Bill Brown?” cried out an amplified female voice.

  Brown waved in recognition and ducked into the forward cabin. Seconds later, he returned with his own megaphone.

  “How can I help you?” he questioned.

  “Commander,” replied the helmeted ensign, “we’ve got an emergency call for you. Do you have a telephone on board?”

  “I’m afraid not,” returned the retired veteran.

  “May I ask who’s on the line?”

  “It’s Vice Admiral Henry Walker, sir.”

  This revelation caused Brown to mutter to himself.

  “What in hell does ole’ Henry want, the date of the Cubera’s next reunion?”

  “Commander Brown,” added the voice from above.

  “If you’ll just follow us to dry land, we’ll patch you through via the chopper’s comm line.”

  His curiosity now fully aroused, Brown beckoned that he understood and watched as the helicopter turned to the cast and sped off toward the distant shoreline. Since he had been headed in the opposite direction, he was forced to engage the rudder, and all too soon the Arcturus was running with the gusting wind at its back.

  He made landfall at the Ringling Mansion pier. The young Coast Guard ensign was waiting for him there.

  After helping him secure the Arcturus, she led him on foot to the helicopter that had landed in the broad clearing beside the mansion.

  The pilot offered Brown the private use of his cockpit and showed him how to operate the chin-mounted radio transmitter. After putting on a pair of headphones, Brown sat down in the deserted cockpit and listened as a burst of static was replaced by a familiar, scratchy male voice.

  “Hello, Bill. Are you there?”

  “I’m here allright Henry,” replied Brown.

  “Good,” said the Director of Naval Intelligence.

  “I hope this call out of the blue hasn’t inconvenienced you any.”

  “Actually, you caught me in the midst of a sail.”

  “So I understand. Bill. Please bear with me, and I’ll have you back on that beautiful bay of yours before you know it.”

  “Are you calling from Washington?” asked Brown.

  “Believe it or not, I’m speaking to you from the FQ of the USS Enterprise, off the coast of Okinawa on the East China Sea. I know it’s been much too long since we last talked, but I’ve got a problem out here that I could sure use your help solving.”

  “I’m flattered. Henry. Since I retired and Mary passed away, I’ve got nothing but spare time on my hands. So how can I be of assistance?”

  Walker got right to the point.

  “How would you like an all-expense-paid trip to Okinawa?”

  Momentarily caught off guard by this offer. Brown hesitated a second before responding.

  “I don’t suppose it would help for me to ask what this is all about.”

  “All I can tell you. Bill, is that it indirectly involves a little incident that we shared in the Barents Sea back in ‘fifty-eight.”

  This cryptic remark hit home, and Brown anxiously sat forward.

  “I hear you.
Henry. When do you need me?”

  “There’s a MAC flight leaving Homestead tonight at twenty-one hundred hours your time. Can you make it?”

  Brown looked at his watch and saw that he had just over nine hours to pack and complete the short flight south to Homestead Air Force Base.

  “I’m on my way. Henry,” he said without a second thought.

  “God bless you. Bill. I knew I could count on you.

  Now there’s only one more thing. Are you still in touch with Pete Frystak?”

  “As a matter of fact, I talked to Pete just yesterday,” answered Brown.

  “I was planning to sail down to Big Pine Key and visit him and Kathy sometime next week.”

  “I’m sorry to disrupt your plans,” replied Henry Walker.

  “But there just happens to be an extraseat on that MAC flight with Pete’s name on it. Is he available?”

  “You know Pete, Henry. He never did like the idea of retiring from the Navy in the first place. And besides, he could use a break from that resort of his before the season starts up again. If you’d like, I’ll give him a call and ask him along myself.”

  “I’d appreciate that. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more, but that will have to wait until you get out here. Until then, take care of yourself and have a safe flight.”

  With this, the line went dead and Bill Brown removed his headphones and thoughtfully gazed out the cockpit window. In the near distance, the billowing jib of the docked Arcturus caught his eye, and he took a second to contemplate the strange conversation he had just concluded.

  His relationship with Henry Walker went back almost thirty-five years. Back in 1958 Walker had been assigned to the USS Cubera as Brown’s XO. In the years that followed, they’d become close friends, with Walker eventually going on to his own command and much more. His attainment of flag rank was a great achievement. Brown’s respect for Walker ran deep, and there was no doubt in the retired veteran’s mind that something extremely serious had prompted his old friend’s unusual request. Anxious to find out what this great mystery was all about. Brown got on with the task of contacting Pete Frystak, yet another shipmate from the past, and passing on Henry Walker’s invitation.

  Pete and Kathy Frystak had purchased the Blue Conch five years ago, upon Pete’s retirement from the US Navy. For the close-knit couple, the place was a dream come true. They had fallen in love with the Florida Keys when Pete had been assigned to the Key West Naval Station. Twenty-five years later, they had scrimped and saved to get enough cash for a substantial down payment on a three-acre resort property put up for sale by its elderly proprietor.

  The place was situated on Big Pine Key, halfway between Marathon and Key West. It occupied an elongated strip of white sand beach overlooking the sparkling blue waters of the Atlantic Ocean. A dozen gabled-roofed cottages were interspersed amongst the palm trees. Each had two bedrooms, two baths, a full kitchen, and a screened-in porch that offered an unobstructed view of the sea.

  Originally built half a century ago, the Blue Conch resort had ridden out many a tropical storm and its fair share of full-fledged hurricanes. As was the case with any beachfront property, the elements had taken their toll on the resort’s manmade structures. Over the years, a conscientious maintenance program had kept each of the cottages habitable. Yet, as it was with a classic car, it took a lot of effort on the Frystaks’ part to keep the property properly maintained.

  While Kathy concentrated on supervising the housekeeping staff and running the office, her husband was in charge of all repairs. Pete’s current project was to put anew tile roof on each cottage. He’d initiated this major renovation with the assistance of his two full-time Cuban maintenance men.

  As the last of the winter season’s guests packed up and returned to their homes in the north, Pete and his crew went to work on the first of the roofs. The old tiles were removed, along with the thick felt underneath.

  When it was determined that the plywood sheathing was warped and buckled, Pete decided to remove it also and start from scratch.

  A truckload of four-by-eight foot plywood panels was brought in from Miami. Pete made certain they were dry and well seasoned, so they wouldn’t warp due to the Key’s everchanging weather conditions. This sheathing was then nailed directly to the rafters.

  The fifty-eight-year-old retired veteran worked right alongside his crew. He had never been afraid of hard physical labor, and instead thought of it as mere exercise.

  As a result, his stomach was still firm and his muscles were tight, like those of aman half his age.

  Once the sheathing was in place, anew layer of felt was installed. This water-resistant, thirty-pound membrane was made from wood fibers and recycled paper that had been saturated with asphalt oil. The flat, orange roofing tiles were then laid atop it and nailed directly into the plywood sheathing. Though expensive, such an outer covering was fireproof and extremely durable. Barring a direct hit by a hurricane, it would last half a century.

  The three men had just finished installing their first roof. Proud of this accomplishment, they tackled the next cottage like old pros, and had the job done in half the time the first one had taken. If the weather cooperated, Pete hoped to finish the entire project in four more weeks. This would allow the resort to be fully operational by the time the first families began arriving for the summer.

  As was his habit, Pete was up at the crack of dawn.

  He began his morning with a three-mile jog on the beach. The sky was clear, and it promised to be another perfect day for working outdoors. He returned home to shave and shower, then joined his wife on the porch for a breakfast of grapefruit, prunes, cereal, a bran muffin, and coffee.

  His crew had already taken off in the truck for Miami, to pick up some supplies, so Pete went to work on the third roof alone. Since they had already removed the old sheathing, he spent the rest of the morning installing new sheets of plywood on the rafters. He did so with the help of a well-used claw hammer and two-inch common nails, which he drove into the vertical edges of each panel six-inches apart.

  The sun climbed high into a cloudless blue sky, and Pete’s bare chest was all too soon covered with sweat.

  Kathy had applied sun block to his face and exposed back, and instead of burning, his skin was tanned a deep bronze. He only stopped to take an occasional sip from his water bottle and renew his supply of nails. It was during one of these brief breaks that he spotted Kathy approaching from the direction of their cottage.

  Supposing she was on her way to announce lunch, he took a second to wipe his forehead with the back of his arm.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve come over here to lend me a hand,” the retired submariner called from the angled side of the gabled roof.

  Kathy looked up, shading her eyes from the harsh sunlight.

  “I’m afraid not, Pete. Bill Brown’s on the phone for you. He says it’s urgent.”

  The veteran’s tone turned serious.

  “You don’t say. Is the skipper feeling allright

  “He sounds okay to me, Pete.”

  “I hope he hasn’t gotten cold feet and is going to cancel his visit,” said Pete ashe began climbing down off the roof.

  “He needs to get out of Longboat, to get back into the swing of things.”

  “That’s easy enough for you to say,” offered Kathy, who held the ladder while her husband returned to terra firma.

  “Considering that Mary’s been gone less than nine months now, I’d say he’s doing remarkably well.”

  Pete unhooked his tool belt and wiped his compact torso dry with a terry-cloth towel.

  “You don’t know the skipper like I do, Kath. He needs to quit feeling sorry for himself and return to the real world. And the only way he’s going to do that is by being around other people and getting his mind off his loss.”

  “I still think we shouldn’t rush things, Pete. When he’s ready, we’ll be right here, waiting for him.”

  Pete responded while leading the w
ay back to their cottage.

  “Sometimes a guy needs a little push from his friends to get back on track, and that’s just what I plan to give him. Hell, the skipper always took the time to give me plenty of good advice when we sailed together on the Cubera. Now it’s time for me to return the favor.”

  Kathy could only shrug her shoulders asher headstrong husband continued on to the screened-in porch attached to the backside of their cottage. A telephone lay on the redwood picnic table there, and while Pete picked up the receiver, she went indoors to get him a glass of lemonade. From the kitchen, a screened window looked directly onto the porch, so her husband’s conversation was clearly audible.

  “I understand. Skipper. Listen, if you’re in, so am I. Kath is just going to have to learn to accept it … I read you loud and clear. Skipper. See you tonight at Homestead at eighteen-hundred hours.”

  She looked on asher husband hung up the handset and thoughtfully redirected his gaze to the nearby ocean. Completely forgetting the lemonade, she charged out onto the porch.

  “May I ask just what it is I’m going to have to learn to accept, Pete?”

  There was a distant, serious look in her husband’s eyes ashe turned his gaze away from the sea.

  “Honey, I’d love to share it with you. But all I can say is the skipper needs me for a week or so. So can you help me throw some things together? Because the way things look, we’ll be leaving for Japan — tonight.”

  Chief Stanley Roth’s final assignment for the US Navy was as an instructor at the Basic Enlisted Man’s Submarine School at New London, Connecticut.

  Thirty-five years ago, at the tender age of twenty-two, Roth had attended this very same institution. Along rewarding career had followed, most of which he’d spent beneath the seas as a submariner.

  As Roth faced retirement, this last duty station was a fitting place for him to put his life into some sort of perspective. He had never found the time to marry or start a family, preferring instead to dedicate himself totally to his duty. In many ways by not having children, he’d been able to escape the rapid advancing of the years. He still saw himself as a young man, filled with vision, energy, and purpose. Yet this illusion collapsed the day the Navy announced his forced retirement and sent him to New London to count the days left until he would be a civilian again.