Sea of Death

by Richard P. Henrick

  Bill Brown was momentarily lost in thought ashe spotted several yard workers gathered behind the Bokken’s sail, loading a collection of loose repair gear into a trio of wheelbarrows. Henry Walker also noticed this group and commented.

  “Once that bunch completes the final cleanup, she’ll be all yours. Bill.”

  “I certainly agree that the yard had done a damn fine job,” said Brown.

  Walker grunted.

  “Just be around to tell me that after you complete your first test dive.”

  “You mean our first and only.” Brown halted beside the Bokken’s gangway.

  “I hate to bring this up again, but are you absolutely firm on getting us out of here in twelve more hours? It sure would be nice to spend a full day at sea, testing out those systems first.”

  “I realize that, Bill. But it’s imperative that you arrive at Takara at approximately the same time the Bokken was originally expected. And as far as we can tell, that’s dusk tomorrow evening. You’re just going to have to do all your tests while on the way to the island.”

  “That’s asking an awful lot of this young crew, Henry. Just when they’ll begin to get the feel of the boat, we’ll be leading them into harm’s way.”

  Walker’s response was tinged with frustration.

  “There’s nothing I can do about that. Bill. I’m relying on you, Pete, and Stanley to get them through. I just wish I could go along with you. But as it looks now, I’ll be off for the Enterprise right after our final briefing.”

  Brown sensed the tenseness of his reply and lightened his own tone.

  “Henry, you’ve done a hell of a fine job clearing away all the red tape and putting this whole thing together.”

  “I couldn’t have done it without your able assistance, Commander Brown. Now just do me one big favor: bring everyone back home safely, including yourself. And I promise you I’ll never miss another reunion again.”

  Bill Brown’s face broke into a smile.

  “Admiral Walker, you just made yourself a deal!”

  Fifteen

  Yoko Noguchi’s day off had been eagerly anticipated.

  For the past six days, her work schedule had been a hectic one, with exhausting twelve-hour shifts not uncommon. She had planned to spend the day doing her laundry and catching up with the minor personal chores she had neglected, until the message arrived ordering her back to the laboratory. Her first impulse had been to ignore it. She deserved a day of rest, but to prove her loyalty, she didn’t dare not respond to this unexpected call to duty.

  She made the most of her walk over to the lab building. Spring was in the air, and the blossoming cherry trees that lined the sidewalk were proof that it had arrived. This would have been a perfect day to take a hike into the surrounding mountains, and Yoko somewhat reluctantly took a last fond look at the powdery blue sky before proceeding indoors.

  She was met by an unusual flurry of activity. It appeared that she had not been the only one called in, for the tiled corridor was crowded with scurrying lab technicians. All of the Biohazard Level Four laboratories were occupied, including the one that had been reserved for her personal use.

  Yoke’s dour-faced superior was waiting for her at his desk. Well into middle age, he had a personality as flat as his sense of humor, and the only thing he seemed to live for was his work. Barely lifting his eyes from the computer’s monitor screen, he ordered her to get to work at once on a greatly expanded batch of the new, genetically altered anthrax toxin.

  The amount he wanted produced was over a thousand times greater than the earlier lot, and Yoko was dying to ask what need they could possibly have for it. Somehow she managed to summon the self-control to hold her tongue, and after meekly nodding in acquiescence, she was surprised when her superior conveyed yet another directive. Once the toxin had been prepared, she was to oversee its loading into an unspecified number of specially designed, portable, aerosol cannisters, and was to inform him the second this process was completed.

  Yoke’s pulse quickened as she silently made her way over to the dressing room. It was obvious that such an enormous amount of anthrax could have only one use. Her thoughts returned to her extended conversation with Dr. Yukio Ishii. He had mentioned his sincere interest in biological warfare, and there could be no ignoring the direction of his political beliefs.

  And there washer recent tour of one of the submarines to consider. When she had initially joined the company, she’d been told that Ishii Industries had two such vessels, identical to each other. Both submarines were supposed to be involved in the firm’s undersea mining ventures and Yoko had kept this in mind as she’d made her tour of the Katana. Strangely enough, she’d found it lacked a bottoms canning sonar unit. Such equipment would be absolutely vital for locating submerged mineral deposits.

  And the Katana had not been outfitted with a single articulated manipulator armor an ROV (Remotely Operated Vehicle). This meant there would be no way to obtain amineral sample, except at minimal depth where a diver could safely operate.

  And the Katana had been taking on a variety of stores while docked. This most likely meant that she would be joining her sister ship at sea. Such a vessel would bethe perfect clandestine-delivery system for the anthrax-tainted cannisters Yoko had just been ordered to fill. Since the effective shelf life of this toxin could be measured in mere days, she knew the time to act was now.

  Doing her best to move as inconspicuously as possible, she quietly slipped back out of the lab building.

  The warm spring air greeted her like an old friend, and she knew that she would be able to get in today’s hike in the mountains after all.

  On that very same morning, in the cool, calm waters approximately one hundred and sixty-five miles due south of Takara Island, a surfaced submarine pointed its V-shaped bow northward. The rugged mountains of Okinawa’s northern shoreline lay well astern of this vessel, and the narrow tunnel from which it had emerged had long since sealed itself.

  Three men were crowded into the navigational control station set atop the sub’s open sail. Each one utilized binoculars to intently scan the waters immediately before them.

  “It drops off quickly now,” observed Bill Brown, his white hair fluttering in the crisp sea breeze.

  “We should be clear to dive soon.”

  More concerned with any surface contacts that might inadvertently be made in these waters, Chris Slaughter queried the seaman who stood to his left.

  “How’s it look, Mr. Morales?”

  Ray Morales answered without bothering to lower his binoculars.

  “The sea’s all ours. Captain.”

  As soon as these words were spoken, the bridge intercom barked with a burst of static. This was followed by a firm, amplified voice.

  “Captain, Dr. Kromer requests permission to join you topside.”

  Slaughter bent over and spoke into the intercom.

  “Send her up.”

  A good thirty seconds later, Miriam Kromer climbed out of the access trunk cut into the floor of the sail, her long, red hair tied back in a ponytail.

  She inhaled a deep lungful of fresh sea air, then looked up to scan the partly cloudy sky.

  “It’s agorgeous morning for a cruise, gentlemen,” she gratefully observed.

  A moderate-sized swell struck them abeam, and as the Bokken rocked from side to side, the toxicologist was forced to hurriedly reach for the bulkhead to steady herself.

  “That it is. Doc,” replied Bill Brown, whose own balance did not falter.

  “Have you got your sea legs yet?”

  Kromer shook her head that she hadn’t.

  “I took some Dramamine earlier just to be on the safe side.

  And now I’m glad I did. For such a calm-looking sea, it sure feels rough.”

  “Don’t forget that you’re sailing on a vessel without a stabilizing keel,” explained Bill Brown.

  “The ride should smooth out once we submerge.”

  Once again Kromer was forced
to steady herself when a swell rocked the Bokken and she was amazed to find her three associates totally unaffected by this unsteady motion.

  “And when will that be?” she impatiently questioned.

  Chris Slaughter seemed to ignore this query ashe spoke into the intercom.

  “Conn, this is bridge.

  What’s the sounding?”

  “We’re just approaching the fifty-fathom curve, Captain,” replied an amplified voice.

  Again Slaughter addressed his remarks into the intercom.

  “Conn, increase speed to two-thirds. Come right ten degrees, to course zero-two-five.”

  “Zero-two-five it is at two-third speed. Captain,” repeated the Conn.

  With a minimum of fanfare, Slaughter backed away from the intercom speaker and almost casually remarked, “Doc, Bill, you’d better get below.”

  “Then we’ll be submerging now?” asked Kromer.

  “That’s affirmative. Doc,” said Slaughter with a bit more emotion.

  “It’s showtime!”

  The toxicologist took a last fond look at the morning sky before meeting the kind gaze of Bill Brown.

  “Now’s when it gets interesting,” said Brown with a wink.

  Kromer tried hard to relax, yet her heart was pumping wildly as she began climbing back down into the access trunk. The familiar confines of the control room soon surrounded her. And just as Bill Brown completed his own descent, the compartment filled with the forceful, amplified voice of Chris Slaughter.

  “Clear the bridge! Dive! Dive!”

  This was followed by two raucous blasts of the diving alarm. Miriam Kromer was barely aware of

  Bill Brown’s hand on her arm ashe guided her over to the diving console. Here the Hawkbill’s blondhaired XO had assumed the role of diving officer.

  He stood alongside McKenzie, who, as chief of the watch, would activate the console’s buttons and toggle switches.

  “Shut the induction, Mac,” instructed Benjamin Kram.

  Mac flipped one of the switches and waited until it flashed red before reporting.

  “Straight board, sir.”

  “Inform Mr. Roth to shut down diesels and to close exhaust and air-intake valves,” ordered Kram.

  This order was relayed to the engine room, and only afterword arrived that it had been successfully carried out did the XO add.

  “Switch over to electric motors.”

  “Hatch secured!” declared a voice from behind.

  This prompted an immediate response from Benjamin Kram.

  “Bleed air into the boat!”

  The control room suddenly filled with aloud whistling roar, and Miriam Kromer’s hands shot up to her cars as an alien pressure began pressing on her eardrums. Quick to note both her concern and discomfort was Bill Brown.

  “Don’t worry. Doc. That pressure you feel is being intentionally pumped into the sub to confirm that she’s watertight. This way we know if we have a hatch or air-induction valve stuck open before we go under.”

  “Pressure’s holding!” reported one of the crew.

  “Open vents!” ordered the XO.

  As Chief McKenzie’s hands flew across a row of toggle switches that turned from red to green, the distant noise of rushing air could be heard. Chris Slaughter had worked his way over to the diving console by this time and calmly took over.

  “I’ve got the dive, Ben. Three degrees down bubble, Mr. Foard. Put your stern planes on full dive.”

  The big helmsman pushed his steering column all the way forward and held it there, and the deck began tilting down by the bow. In the background, the faraway hiss of rushing air continued to sound, along with the muted throb of the Bokken’s twin, batterypowered propellers.

  Miriam Kromer had to hold onto the back of the diving officer’s stool to keep from falling forward.

  There was a certain tension in the air and on the faces of the men who stood beside her.

  “Make your depth sixty-five feet, Mr. Foard,” ordered Chris Slaughter.

  “Sixty-five feet it is. Captain. I show eight knots, on course zero-two-five true.” returned the helmsman, whose eyes never left the instruments that were mounted on the bulkhead before him.

  Ever so slowly, Foard began pulling back on his steering column, and in response, the Bokken began leveling out.

  “The conn’s yours, Ben. Good job everyone,” said Slaughter in atone of almost casual indifference.

  The captain’s coolness didn’t temper the brief flurry of excited chatter that filled the compartment as the rest of the men vented their anxieties.

  The toxicologist appeared puzzled as she scanned the relieved faces of these celebrants, then turned to Bill Brown for an explanation.

  “Is that it? Are we submerged?”

  “That’s it. Doc,” answered the grinning veteran, who continued on with an almost dramatic flair.

  “Be it known to all good sailors of the seven seas, that on this date, Dr. Miriam Kromer was totally submerged beneath the waters of the East China Sea. In consequence of such dunking and her initiation into the mysteries of the deep, she is hereby designated an honorary submariner. Be it therefore proclaimed that she is a true and loyal daughter of the wearers of the dolphins.”

  Back in the Bokken’s engine room, there was no outburst of relieved voices as the sub plunged into the cold, dark depths. Instead, the machinists were anxiously gathered beside the compartment’s forward bulkhead, doing their best to stem the watery flow from a wildly spraying, ruptured ceiling valve.

  “Shouldn’t we inform the captain of this break?”

  questioned one of the younger sailors, who was totally soaked from head to soggy foot.

  Heedless of his own soaking, Stanley Roth answered while doing his best to attack the valve with a wrench.

  “You call this a break, son? Why, it’s only a small fracture. No need to bother the captain. We’ll handle it ourselves.”

  Much to the veteran’s dismay, his grip on the valve unexpectedly slipped, and a virtual torrent of water knocked him to the slippery deck on his rear. Quick to replace him with their tools were Senior Machinist Bob Marchetto and Seaman Orlovick. Ignoring the spraying water, they efficiently cut off the overhead flow by turning off the valves located on each side of the break. As the leak slowed to a virtual drip, they collectively gazed down at their fallen coworker, expressions of pride and satisfaction painting their faces.

  “What in the hell are you grease monkeys gawking at?” shouted Stanley.

  “Find me a dry towel. And get some mops in here and cleanup this mess before one of you goofballs slips and breaks his goddamn neck!”

  A scene of a much calmer nature was unfolding in the sub’s forward torpedo room. Not long after the diving alarm rang out and the Bokken’s bow angled down beneath the sea’s surface, Pete Frystak initiated a comprehensive inspection of the compartment’s six torpedo tubes. He did so with the assistance of Ensign Adie Avila, who currently had his head and upper torso tucked inside the tight confines of tube number six. Frystak waited close-by, and appeared genuinely concerned as his young assistant pulled himself out of the twenty-one-inch tube.

  “How’s she look, Adie?” questioned the veteran.

  Adie answered while switching off his flashlight.

  “As far as I can tell, it’s bone dry in there, Pete.”

  The veteran’s relief was most noticeable.

  “That’s great news, son. We can give those yard workers back at Alpha Base an A plus for quality control.

  Except for that small leak in the outer seal of number two, they’re as good as new.”

  “I don’t suppose the captain is going to let us take a test shot,” remarked Adie.

  Frystak looked the young sailor right in the eyes and answered him.

  “That’s the way it appears, Adie.

  Which means we’re going to have to do it right the first time or spend all of eternity trying to figure out where the hell we went wrong.”


  “Do you think it will actually come to firing a torpedo?”

  quizzed the neophyte torpedoman.

  Pete Frystak replied ashe walked over to the nearby weapons pallet and carefully patted one of the shiny green, M-57 antiship torpedoes on its blunt nose.

  “That’s what these fish are here for. And that’s why they took us along.”

  The torpedo pallet filled the majority of the compartment’s interior space. It had mattresses spread out on its top, and was currently home for the members of Seal Team Three.

  “Okay, ladies, get set for the sixty-second drill,” said Traveler, who was one of the four commandoes currently sprawled out there.

  Pete Frystak and his assistant had to stand on the steel edge of the pallet’s lower frame in order to see what the SEALs were up to. Apparently they had just field-stripped their weapons, and as Traveler spotted the two onlookers, he casually addressed them.

  “Greetings, gents. Ever see a sixty-second drill before?”

  “I don’t believe we have,” replied Pete Frystak, who was amazed at the amount of hardware spread out on the mattress before him.

  “That looks to be quite an arsenal,” he added.

  “What are you outfitted with?”

  Traveler was the first to answer.

  “I’ve got one of the new improved, gas-operated M-16A2 assault rifles.

  It’s got a thirty-round clip that spews out 5.56mm rounds to an effective range of about five hundred and fifty yards.”

  “The parts spread out before me belong to a 5.56mm Colt Commando,” offered Warlock.

  “This baby’s got a shorter barrel than the M-16, and because of the reduced muzzle velocity, is designed for use at closer ranges.”

  “That’s certainly not the case with this honey,” said Cajun, ashe lovingly stroked the loose polygonbored black barrel of his weapon.

  “This here’s a Heckler and Koch PSG1 sniper rifle. I’ve shot a lot of weapons in my time, but this one takes the cake.

  Any target within eight hundred yards you can consider eliminated. She fires a 7.62mm cartridge, that’s carried in a twenty-round magazine, and is topped by a state-of-the-art Hensoldt six by forty-two scope with LED-enhanced manual reticle. Boy oh boy, could I have some fun with this little lady down in the swamps.”