Sea of Death

by Richard P. Henrick

  They had long ago lost sight of the rest of the team, but Warlock seemed content to amble on at a moderate, relaxing pace. This was fine with Miriam, whose feet were beginning to hurt from the new combat boots she was wearing.

  The distant crash of cascading water first signaled the obstacle that soon blocked their route. It was in a clearing beside this rain-swollen stream that the other SEALs were waiting.

  Old Dog had removed his pack and was propped up against a fallen tree trunk digging into an MRE.

  Cajun and Traveler were also in the process of lightening their loads as the two stragglers arrived.

  “I don’t suppose there’s a convenient bridge nearby?” Warlock’s gaze was fixed on the swiftly moving waters of the stream.

  “If ya’ll don’t want to get wet, I could scout upstream, around that bend yonder,” offered Cajun.

  “Do it,” instructed Warlock.

  “But don’t waste anytime tracking possums. We’ve got at least another five miles to go, and I want to get back while the chow’s still hot.”

  Cajun tied a brown bandana around his forehead, then silently disappeared into the surrounding woods. Miriam followed Warlock’s lead, and sat down against the tree trunk beside Old Dog. She was genuinely surprised when Traveler approached and humbly addressed her.

  “I meant no disrespect back there. Doc. It’s just that we haven’t had leave in over a month. And you are quite an interesting and attractive lady.”

  “Apology accepted,” replied Kromer sincerely.

  Traveler seemed almost likable ashe continued.

  “You know, I don’t ever remember bringing an outsider along on one of our ops. I sure hope it doesn’t get hairy.”

  “It makes no sense to me,” said Old Dog, who talked while chewing on a mouthful of dehydrated peaches.

  “No offense, ma’am, but they had no business assignin’ you to us like they did. We’re a fine-honed fightin’ team that cats together, sleeps together, and, when necessary, kills together. You’ll only end up getting’ in the way.”

  The shrill blast of a whistle sounded in the near distance, and Warlock anxiously stood.

  “Sounds like our resident coon hunter has found something. Mount ‘em up, ladies!”

  They found Cajun a quarter of a mile upstream, beside a fallen tree trunk that conveniently crossed the raging waters.

  “It ain’t the Lake Pontchartrain causeway, but it will get us across just the same,” said the bayou born point man.

  Warlock seemed to be in a hurry ashe beckoned them forward.

  “Let’s go for it, ladies.”

  With the grace of a tightrope walker, Cajun crossed over, with Traveler following close behind.

  As Miriam prepared to give it a try. Warlock expressed his concern.

  “Can you handle it. Doc?”

  The toxicologist flashed him a thumbs-up.

  “No problem. Back in school, I used to compete in gymnastics, and after taking on a balance beam, this should be a snap.”

  “As you most likely know, the trick is to concentrate on a point straight ahead and not to look down,” advised Warlock. He noted that Old Dog didn’t seem to be in any hurry to follow in his teammate’s footsteps.

  “What’s the matter, big guy? You look a little pale.”

  Old Dog responded, though his glance remained locked on the swiftly moving waters.

  “It’s nothin’ but some bad peaches, Warlock. You guys go ahead, and I’ll bring up the rear.”

  With Warlock’s assistance, Miriam climbed up onto the fallen-log bridge and began crossing over.

  She was careful to walk in as straight aline as possible, with her arms extended for balance. Two-thirds of the way across, she encountered a slippery section of loose bark, and for a fraction of a second, she lost her balance. Fortunately, her forward momentum carried her past this obstacle and into the arms of Traveler.

  Warlock crossed without incident, and this left only Old Dog on the opposite bank.

  “Come on, big guy. Time’s a-wasting!” shouted Warlock, ashe joined the others on the sandy shoreline.

  Old Dog waved and tentatively climbed up onto the fallen trunk. Miriam could tell that he was going to have problems the moment he took his first cautious step forward. His big body was too tense, and his huge combat boots were practically as wide as the walkable surface of the log.

  Two times he lost his balance and almost fell into the roaring stream. But he managed to stay upright, and Miriam actually thought he might make it all the way across until he hit the slippery part of the log. This time his frantic efforts to remain standing were in vain, and he tumbled off the trunk to land headfirst in a relatively shallow portion of the stream only a few yards from where his shocked teammates stood.

  Without a second’s hesitation, Miriam jumped off the bank to assist him. Oblivious to the icy current that incessantly pulled at her, numbing her legs, she fought her way over to the fallen commando, whose head remained under water. She needed all of her strength to turn him over, and was greeted by a fit of coughing as Old Dog snapped back into consciousness and attempted to clear his lungs of the water he had swallowed.

  By this time, the other SEALs had arrived, and with their help, the big Texan was able to sit up and eventually to stand. The water barely covered his shins, and he appeared more embarrassed than anything else ashe looked his redheaded savior in the eye and voiced his gratitude.

  “Thanks, Doc. As far as I’m concerned, it’s not so bad havin’ you around after all. I guess this means welcome to the team!”

  Eleven

  Bill Brown snapped awake from a sound sleep and, for a confusing moment, forgot where he was.

  As an amplified pa announcement blared in the distance he reoriented himself. Groggily, he reached up and switched on the small overhead reading light that was mounted on the bulkhead above his head.

  This illuminated the cramped stateroom that the Hawkbill’s XO had so graciously surrendered for his use during the refitting.

  Before sitting up, the veteran took a moment to allow his thoughts to clear. The long flight from Florida had exhausted him, yet he had been too excited to sleep until he’d gotten a look at Alpha Base.

  The spirited reunion with his ex-shipmates, his walk through of the Bokken, and Henry Walker’s fascinating briefing, at which time he’d met the other participants in the mission, had followed.

  It had been Pete Frystak who had finally suggested that they try to get some shuteye. Brown had resisted at first, but had soon found himself yawning and struggling to keep his eyes open. The Hawkbill’s alert XO, noting his fatigued condition, had practically begged Brown to take his stateroom and get some rest.

  A quick check of his watch showed Bill that he had been out agood four hours. This was much longer than he had planned to sleep, and he stiffly sat up, intending to get on with the work that lay before them.

  Brown hadn’t slept on a submarine for well over twenty years. The tight spaces, the sounds, the rich scent of machine oil that permeated the air sure hadn’t changed, and he made his way over to the washbasin, with only his aching joints as evidence of the years’ passing.

  He felt much better after brushing his teeth and shaving. He even had something of an appetite ashe pulled on his well-worn khaki trousers, tucked in his faded denim workshirt, and without bothering to put on socks, slipped into a pair of comfortable rubber-soled boat shoes. Only after he’d pocketed his corncob pipe, tobacco pouch, and lighter did he continue on to the nearby wardroom.

  Seated there, sipping on a glass of milk, was a young officer who seemed to be totally immersed in the large chart spread out on the table before him.

  Before Brown could introduce himself, aportly, crewcut newcomer wearing a stained apron entered the wardroom from the opposite hatchway. He carried a platter of sandwich fixings, which he placed on the table before walking over to personally greet Bill.

  “Ah, you must be Commander Brown. It’s an honor to m
ake your acquaintance, sir. I’m Petty Officer First Class Howard Mallot, the chief cook and bottle washer around here.”

  This introduction caught the attention of the seated officer, who looked up as Mallot continued.

  “I understand from Vice Admiral Walker that you used to be his CO back in the days of the diesel-electrics.

  Perhaps you knew my father, Chief Bomar Mallot. He was the head of the galley aboard the Pickerel.”

  “The Pickerel was a fine submarine, Mr. Mallot.”

  Brown couldn’t help but eye the platter of food.

  “I toured her several times, though I don’t believe I ever met your father.”

  Howard Mallot wasn’t the type who missed much, and he was aware that the white-haired veteran had missed dinner.

  “Please help yourself to some chow, Commander.

  I brought out some freshly sliced turkey, whole wheat bread, low-fat swiss cheese, and a variety of condiments.”

  “Don’t mind if I do, Chief,” said Bill Brown.

  “I’m famished!”

  “How about some coffee?” asked Mallot.

  Brown answered while bending over to prepare a sandwich.

  “By all means. Chief. I take it black and Navy strong.”

  As Mallot left to fulfill this request. Brown sat down beside the wardroom’s other occupant.

  “Good evening, sir,” said the young officer softly.

  “I’m Lieutenant Rich Laycob, the Hawkbill’s navigator.”

  “Pleased to meet you. Lieutenant,” replied Brown, before taking a bite of his turkey sandwich.

  The sub’s chief cook returned with a couple of mugs and a thermos of steaming coffee, and Bill Brown made certain to pass on his compliments.

  “This turkey’s excellent, Mr. Mallot.”

  “Thank-you, sir. Too bad you missed all the trimmings that went with it at dinner.”

  Brown poured himself some coffee and responded.

  “To tell you the truth, I was so beat I didn’t even know I missed a meal, until now.”

  “Well, there’s more if you’re still hungry,” said Mallot, who addressed his next remarks to both seated figures.

  “You know, I just returned from a tour of that Chinese-made pigboat, and whoever designed that galley sure didn’t give much thought to the cooks. There’s hardly any workspace, and the equipment is positively ancient.”

  “Did she have any food left on board?” asked Rich Laycob.

  “The only item in the pantry that wasn’t spoiled was rice, and plenty of it,” answered Mallot.

  “I counted ten fifty-pound sacks.”

  “I seriously doubt if even our hungriest chow-hounds would go through that much during this mission,” observed the navigator.

  Mallot nodded in agreement.

  “Captain Slaughter wants me to take along only what we need for this cruise. Even with this trip’s short duration, it’s still going to be a challenge. So I plan a full dress rehearsal meal in three more days.”

  “What’s on the menu?” questioned Brown ashe polished off the rest of his sandwich.

  Mallot smiled.

  “I’ve decided this cruise should have a Japanese theme.”

  “Just count me out when it comes to the sushi,” said Brown, who looked up as the Hawkbill’s commanding officer strode into the wardroom.

  Chris Slaughter addressed his initial remarks to the chef.

  “Chief, it looks like the gang over on the Bokken could use some more mid-rats. Can you handle it?”

  “I’ll get on it at once, sir,” returned Mallot, who made it a point to readdress the veteran subman before leaving.

  “See you later. Commander Brown.”

  Mallot exited, and Slaughter poured himself some coffee and remained standing.

  “Sounds like you’ve got quite a cook there,” said Bill Brown between sips from his own mug.

  “He’s one of the best in the fleet.” Slaughter patted his stomach.

  “In fact, his food’s so good the only battle this crew’s been involved in is the battle of the bulge.”

  “If this bay we’re being sent to is as tight as it appears, then I’m afraid that’s going to change real quick. Captain,” countered the somber-faced navigator.

  “I’ve been going over these charts, and there certainly doesn’t seem to be much room in there for us to work in.”

  With mugs in hand. Bill Brown and Chris Slaughter gathered around the seated navigator, who pointed to the mushroom-shaped bay visible on the topmost chart and continued.

  “The inlet itself is less than a quarter-mile wide.

  The channel there appears deep enough, though that’s where the first hydrophones will be positioned.”

  “And the CAPTORS?” quizzed Slaughter.

  Rich Laycob pointed to the bay’s center.

  “The mines will probably be moored here, in a half-moon pattern designed to protect the inner shoreline.”

  Bill Brown used the scarred stem of his pipe to highlight the inlet, and he casually expressed his opinion.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised to find some mines blocking the entrance to the bay itself, along with a few other surprises like an old-fashioned sub net.”

  “I don’t know about the sub net,” said Slaughter.

  “But as long as the Bokken’s signature is locked within the mine-field’s computerized memory, I don’t feel the CAPTORs are our main concern. That is delivering the SEAL team safely. Lieutenant Laycob, how would you handle the dropoff?”

  The navigator took his time answering.

  “Because of the limited depth of the bay, our best bet is to drop them off just after dusk, approximately five hundred yards offshore. That will give them at least ten hours of darkness to row to land, do their dirty work, and return to the dropoff point for pickup.”

  Once more Bill Brown utilized the stem of his pipe as a pointer.

  “It looks like there’s a river running into the eastern part of the bay. Encountering that fresh water could play havoc with our trim and cause an unnecessary breach. So how about using the western portion as our dropoff point? Besides, the beach there appears to have cover extending all the way down to the waterline.”

  “Looks good to me,” said Slaughter.

  “If this chart’s accurate, the SEALs should only have a hike of a mile or so before they reach the first security perimeter. Meanwhile, we’re going to be experiencing the hardest part of this whole operation, which will be waiting for the SEALs to return.”

  “Time does have a strange way of slowing down in those situations,” observed Bill Brown.

  “But I’m sure we’ll have our hands full. Don’t forget, those hydrophones are going to pick us up the moment we penetrate that inlet. They’re going to have a hell of a time figuring out where we disappeared to and why we never made it to the pier.”

  “That’s why it’s imperative that those SEALs get in and out of there in the shortest amount of time possible,” added Slaughter.

  Bill Brown sat back and looked up at Slaughter.

  “Having Dr. Kromer along should help.”

  The Hawkbill’s CO returned his glance.

  “That woman sure is something special to volunteer for an operation such as this one.”

  “Scuttlebutt has it that Henry Walker conned her into it,” said Brown.

  Slaughter grinned slyly.

  “It seems that the admiral didn’t do a bad job enlisting your services cither.”

  This remark caused a broad smile to light up the veteran’s tanned face. He took along sip of coffee before voicing himself.

  “Even when Henry was my diving officer on the Cubera, he had an irresistible way of asking for something. It was as if he took it for granted that his request would be met, and he only posed the question as a mere formality.”

  “Earlier today, when the admiral explained this mission’s command structure, he asked you if it was okay to have me as the sole CO of the Bokken. Was this one of
those questions that he already had the answer to?” questioned Slaughter.

  “Hell, yes!” replied Bill Brown.

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way, and Henry damn well knows it. And besides, I’m getting too old to assume full responsibility for a complex operation like this one. I’m going along merely as a consultant, to oversee operations and to provide input only when I deem it necessary to the successful completion of this mission.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, Commander Brown,” said Slaughter, “you’ll still bethe senior officer aboard.”

  “That’s all well and fine, my friend,” replied the veteran submariner.

  “But don’t forget that as of today, in the eyes of the world, you’re officially a civilian.

  So why not start out by calling me Bill?”

  “Bill, it is,” repeated Slaughter, who liked the honest chemistry that was developing between them.

  Brown felt likewise and, after polishing off his coffee, turned his attention back to the top chart.

  “In all likelihood, it’s going to be hell to pay to get out of that bay with our feet dry. But we’ll face that problem as it comes. Right now, we’ve got to focus on getting that commando team safely ashore, so they can blow that biological warfare lab to kingdom come. Because the one thing you can bet the farm on is that the maniac responsible for all this isn’t going to stop with just Kadena and Sasebo.

  Yokosuka and our Tokyo bases will be next. And then it will be on to Guam, Honolulu, and, before you know it, the US mainland itself!”

  Dr. Yukio Ishii pulled up to the entrance of the dormitory at nine a.m. sharp. He’d no sooner put the solar-powered golf cart into neutral, than the front door to the building swung open, and Yoko Noguchi emerged into the sunlight and headed straight down the brick walkway that led to the road.

  This was the first time he had seen the young scientist without her laboratory garb on, and he was most impressed with the naturalness of her beauty.

  She had a schoolgirl innocence, that was emphasized by her short bangs, big dark eyes, and knee-length, white silk skirt. Ishii waved in greeting, but did not bother to get out of the cart as she continued down the walkway toward him.