Sea Devil
Richard P. Henrick
Equipped with the latest in stealth design and technology, fully armed and virtually invisible to conventional military tracking devices. Sea Devil is the lethal new submarine in a deadly enemy fleet. Under the command of renegade Admiral Igor Starobin, this top secret weapon spearheads a Code One operation to penetrate and destroy the U.S. Navy base at Holy Loch, Scotland, the strategic core of NATO’S defense advantage.
Pentagon special investigator Commander Brad Mackenzie knows that the next secret enemy strike will occur along the unprotected shores of Scotland. At the helm of the super attack sub USS Bowfin, Mackenzie is soon locked in combat with the Sea Devil, chasing shadow signals and sound signatures in a desperate battle that will decide the future of the free world!
Richard P. Henrick
Sea Devil
The real threat to society is not the launching of bombs between the U.S. and the USSR…. The real threat is a terrorist orientated country or group gaining possession of a nuclear bomb. They are not responsible people and have nothing to lose in using it to further their goals.
— Defense expert Dan Mckinnon
Out of Ireland have we come Great hatred, little room Maimed us at the start I carry from my mother’s womb A fanatic heart.
— W. B. Yeats 28 August 1931
Chapter One
Three hours out of Oahu the weather began to deteriorate.
From the jump seat of the specially configured AV-8B Harrier, Commander Brad Mackenzie anxiously scanned the line of dark clouds that seemed to fill the entire southwestern horizon.
“Looks pretty ominous,” broke the gravelly voice of the pilot over the intercom.
“From what the weather boys back at Pearl say, that low-pressure system has all the makings of a full-fledged typhoon. I sure hope it keeps tracking to the north.”
Brad Mackenzie, who was known simply as Mac to his friends and coworkers, could see only the back of the pilot’s head as he responded.
“I was thinking the same thing. Two years ago I rode out a typhoon while I was stationed at Guam. And believe me, it’s not an experience I’d like to repeat.”
“I read you loud and clear. Commander,” returned the pilot.
“Just hang in there a little bit longer. We should be sighting some of the islands of the Ratak Chain shortly. From there on, Kwajalein is practically around the corner.”
A pocket of turbulence shook the Harrier. For a sickening moment the jet plunged downward. The cockpit filled with the throaty roar of the aircraft’s single RollsRoyce vectored-thrust turbofan engine as the pilot fought to regain the altitude they had just lost.
It seemed to take an eternity for them to reach more stable air. Only then did Mac issue the barest sigh of relief. Even under ideal conditions, flying played havoc with his nerves. He was the type of individual who liked to have complete control of a situation. And since he didn’t know how to pilot an aircraft, whenever he was airborne he was forced to put his destiny into someone else’s hands.
Back on terra firma this obsession was particularly noticeable, especially when it came to driving. He could never relax in the passenger seat of an automobile. He thus avoided taxis whenever possible, and did all the driving when it came time for commuting, shopping trips, and the family vacation.
Yet another gust of unsettled air shook the aircraft, and the thirty-six-year-old naval officer’s grip on his hand rest instinctively tightened. Sweat lined his forehead as he guardedly turned to peer out the cockpit in an effort to see how the Harrier was meeting this punishment.
He could barely see the wing, which was mounted into the central portion of the upper fuselage. It was a stubby structure that held a pair of elongated pods slung beneath its length. Stored inside these external drop tanks was the extra fuel that allowed the Harrier to attain this unusually long range.
As he watched the tanks quiver slightly, a familiar voice sounded from the intercom.
“We’ve got land dead ahead of us. Commander. It’s not much, but I’ll stake a week’s pay that we’ve arrived in the Marshalls.”
Mac diverted his gaze in time to see a small, circular shaped island pass down below. He could just make out the protected lagoon of the atoll and its surrounding reef.
“Most likely that was Ailuk Island,” added the pilot.
“If so, that would put us at our rendezvous point in another ten minutes.”
“How’s our fuel situation?” Mac asked.
The pilot answered a bit hesitantly.
“I’m not going to b.s. you, sir, but the way it looks, we should just make it. I figured that it would take all four external tanks to get us here. Fortunately, we had a tailwind for most of the trip, though this turbulence that we’ve just encountered could make things interesting.”
Mac spoke up while watching yet another minuscule coral atoll pass below.
“At least we can always land this baby on one of those islands if our fuel state gets critical.
That would sure as hell be better than dropping into the drink.”
As the Harrier shuddered in the grasp of another pocket of rough air, the pilot replied, “Don’t worry, sir.
As long as that storm keeps its distance, I’ll get you safely to your destination. Besides, I’ve got a date back in Honolulu tomorrow night with this Thai chick who’s really a looker. I sure as hell wouldn’t want to stand her up.”
Again the airplane shook violently. This was followed by an abrupt drop in altitude that caused a nauseating knot to form in Mac’s stomach. Instead of pulling the Harrier out of this unexpected dive, the pilot allowed it to drop a full 10,000 feet before leveling out. This put them only a few thousand feet from the ocean’s surface.
Their forward velocity was much more noticeable at this height. The surging blue waters of the South Pacific passed in a blur as Mac’s gaze returned to the horizon, where black storm clouds continued to gather.
Less than five hours before, the mere idea of a visit to such a remote corner of the globe had been unimaginable.
In fact, Mac was still at his condo on the North Shore of Oahu, sipping his morning coffee, when the fated call arrived that was to send him rushing off on his current assignment.
Marsha was seated beside him on the porch when the telephone began ringing. His wife intuitively sensed that whoever was calling would be the bearer of bad news, and when Admiral Long himself somberly greeted Mac, he knew that her guess had been correct.
Mac had only just returned from a three-week stay at the Mare Island Naval Station outside San Francisco.
He had a week’s leave due him and was planning to take his family on a driving tour of the big island of Hawaii.
All he needed to do was type up a report detailing his stay on Mare Island before this much anticipated leave was to begin.
If things had gone as scheduled, the report would be just about completed by now. Unfortunately his superiors had other plans for him.
The call sent him packing for the Marine Corps Air Station at Kaneohe Bay. Here he was met by Admiral Long and given a rushed briefing. Though the details were sparse, Mac knew the admiral had no choice but to send for him. For if the marks found on the seafloor outside Kwajalein indeed proved to be manmade, his long trip would certainly be justified.
With his gaze still locked on the cloud-filled horizon, Mac contemplated the implications of his mission.
Though he hated to have to disappoint his family once again, he found himself with no alternative. As project manager, it was his duty to personally inspect each suspected sighting as soon as they were reported. Only in such a way could the pieces of the puzzle that had taken him over a year to gather together be finally assembled.
“Harri
er one-zulu-alpha, this is Iwo Jima control. We have you on radar lock. How do you copy? Over.”
A static-filled voice emanated from the intercom.
With his thoughts abruptly brought back, Mac listened as the Harrier pilot answered.
“Iwo Jima control, this is one-zulu-alpha. You’re a bit fuzzy, but we copy that. Over.”
“Roger, one-zulu-alpha. You’re free to begin your approach. You’ll find us on bearing two-six-zero, on the other edge of that squall line in front of you, approximately three-five nautical miles distant.”
Mac peered out the cockpit just as the first raindrops began pelting the plexiglass. Seconds later they were completely enveloped in a shroud of thick gray clouds.
The fuselage began to vibrate, while outside a blinding bolt of lightning cut through the black heavens. This was accompanied by an ear-shattering boom of thunder that all but swallowed the straining whine of the Harrier’s engine.
“Hold on. Commander,” offered the pilot.
“I’m afraid it’s going to be a bit on the rough side. It shouldn’t last long, though.”
Mac’s gut tightened as the airplane smacked into the most unstable air yet encountered. The entire fuselage began to quiver madly and shake with such a violent intensity that he didn’t know how the plane could stay in one piece. He began mentally recreating his hurried instructions in the workings of the Harrier’s ejection system, all the while placing his right hand on the side mounted console where the eject trigger was located.
Like an out-of-control roller coaster, the aircraft plunged downward. Held in place by his shoulder harness, Mac found himself possessed by nausea, and he was thankful that earlier he had passed on the pilot’s offer to share a box lunch.
A resonant crack of lightning split the heavens, and for one chilling moment the entire cockpit seemed to be aglow with a pulsating iridescence.
“It’s St. Elmo’s fire!” cried the excited pilot.
Though he hadn’t been a practicing Catholic since high school, Mac began silently mouthing a frantic Hail Mary. With his left hand he reached up to touch the silver crucifix that still hung from his neck. The cross had been given to him by his grandfather, who surrendered it on his deathbed at the ripe old age of eighty seven.
The plane canted hard on its right side. As another lightning bolt lit up the cockpit, Mac wondered if he’d have the nerve to eject in such a storm if so ordered.
The fourteen-year naval veteran never learned the answer to this disturbing question; the Harrier broke out of the squall line as suddenly as it had entered it.
A sunlit, bright blue sky greeted them. Wiping the sweat from his soaked brow, Mac peered out the plexiglass canopy and spotted a large vessel serenely floating on the blue waters below. Though the ship looked much like an aircraft carrier, Mac knew it was properly classified as an amphibious assault ship; its primary mission was to carry helicopters.
“Harrier one-zulu-alpha,” broke a voice from the intercom.
“This is Iwo Jima control. We have you on visual.
You are clear to land at station number three.”
As the pilot verified these instructions and initiated the landing sequence, Mac’s thoughts returned to his last visit aboard this very same vessel over eighteen months ago. Mac had been working at the Naval Ocean System Command’s laboratory on St. Thomas in the Virgin Islands when the Iwo Jima made port in Charlotte Amalie. While he was in the midst of a routine tour of the ship, it was learned that an F/A-18A Hornet belonging to the aircraft carrier Coral Sea had gone down in the waters north of St. Croix. Since Mac’s expertise was in the field of marine salvage, he was ordered to remain on board the Iwo Jima as it immediately set sail for the crash site.
An exciting week’s worth of work followed. Mac was glad to get out of the stuffy laboratory and enjoyed his brief excursion into the Caribbean Sea. Yet before he knew it, the Hornet was located and pulled from the clear blue depths. This signaled the end of his temporary sea duty, and the last he saw of the Iwo Jima was from the flight deck of a Bell Huey helicopter as he was being whisked back to St. Thomas.
He couldn’t help but be pleasantly surprised when Admiral Long mentioned the name of the ship that Mac was to be flown out to this afternoon. Though this was a long way from the Caribbean, it was a sort of homecoming all the same.
A throaty roar filled the cockpit as the pilot adjusted the Harrier’s vectored-thrust engine. The plane had all but stopped its forward movement, and was hovering over the forward flight deck. The banshee-like whine of the engine further increased to an almost deafening crescendo as the AV-8B began gradually losing altitude.
The Harrier landed with a bare jolt. As the engine was switched off, the relief from the persistent roar was immediately noticeable.
“I told you I’d get you here in one piece, Commander,” boasted the pilot lightly.
“That you did,” replied Mac, who managed a relieved grin as the plexiglass canopy was removed. The scent of warm salt air met his nostrils as he added, “Thanks for the lift. Enjoy your date tomorrow night.”
“I certainly will, Commander,” replied the pilot.
“And good luck to you, sir.”
An alert seaman on a portable ladder appeared at Mac’s side and helped him out of his harness. After removing his helmet, Mac stood and gratefully stretched his cramped limbs. He wasted no time exiting the tight confines of the Harrier and climbing down to the deck below. Here he was met by a khaki-clad officer with a tanned face, bright blue, inquisitive eyes, and a full blond moustache.
“Welcome aboard,” shouted Commander William Hunley, the ship’s executive officer.
Mac accepted the XO’s firm handshake.
“It’s good to be back. Is Captain Exman still the CO here?”
“That he is, Commander. The Captain’s waiting for you up on the bridge. If you’ll just follow me, I’ll escort you up there. How was your flight?”
Mac answered while following the XO across the flight deck.
“It was going pretty smooth until we hit that squall line a couple of minutes ago.”
“We just passed through it ourselves,” added the XO, who was leading them toward the large superstructure located amidships starboard.
“I just hope the main body of the storm stays well to the north of us. Even with a displacement of 18,000 tons, the Iwo Jima is no match for a Pacific typhoon.”
Mac noted the puddles of rainwater that still stained the deck. He was also aware of the rolling motion of the ship beneath him. It was apparent that the sea was much rougher than it had appeared from the air. Massive swells were crashing into the carrier’s hull in irregular sets, making the mere act of walking a challenge.
They ducked through a hatch and began their way up a twisting stairway. Two flights up, the XO turned and led them down an open passageway. This afforded Mac an excellent view of the entire flight deck. He briefly halted and watched as the deck crew swarmed around the Harrier.
The XO noted Mac’s interest and offered a brief explanation.
“From what I understand, that flight from Oahu was just about at the limit of the AV-8B’s range.
Our boys will top off those external fuel tanks and make certain that the Harrier is in shape for the flight back to Kaneohe Bay.”
Mac’s line of sight shifted to the collection of large, banana-shaped, dual-rotor helicopters positioned on the forward a deck. Again the XO provided the commentary.
“Those are Boeing-Vertol CH-46 Sea Knights. If I remember correctly, during your last visit with us, the Marines weren’t embarked. We’re presently carrying an entire battalion landing team of approximately 1,700 men. Those helicopters are utilized as assault transport vehicles that can hold up to 25 equipped troops, or 4,000 pounds of cargo each.”
Mac looked on as the massive hydraulically powered platform set directly opposite the superstructure activated.
A single dark green Sikorsky Sea Stallion soon appeared, having been lifted up
from the ship’s enclosed hangar bay.
“I believe you’ll be most familiar with that particular helicopter before the day is over,” offered the XO.
Before Mac could get the commander to explain what he meant by this, the man turned for the enclosed bridge. Mac took one last look at the chopper that had just arrived from below deck, shrugged his shoulders, then continued forward.
The Iwo Jima’s bridge was the nerve center of the ship while it was at sea. Mac entered the spacious glassed-in compartment and found it bustling with activity.
Most of this action was centered around the plotting table, where the vessel’s commanding officer could be seen hunched over the charts, all the while barking out orders to a nearby lieutenant j.g.
Mac remembered Captain Kenneth Exman well. Back in the Caribbean eighteen months ago, they had hit it off splendidly. The Iwo Jima’s broad-shouldered CO looked fit and vibrant. His baseball cap covered a mop of bristly brown hair, and the captain’s full, rounded jaw and flat nose reminded Mac of his favorite coach back in high school.
It was the XO who informed the captain that their guest had arrived. Without hesitation, he looked up from the chart that he had been immersed in, met Mac’s stare, and smiled.
“Good to see you again, Mac,” he said warmly.
“Has it really been a year and a half?”
Mac walked over and accepted the CO’s firm handshake.
“It’s good to be back, Captain. Believe it or not, I genuinely missed this old lady.”
The CO affectionately patted the nearby bulkhead.
“I know we have plenty to gripe about, but for a thirty year-old vessel, the Iwo Jima can still get the job done.”
“Are you still based out of Norfolk?”
“That we are, Commander. I gather that your next question is what in hell we’re doing out here in the middle of the South Pacific.”
Mac nodded, and the captain continued.
“We’ve been stationed in the Mediterranean all fall. When those Iranian pirates hijacked that Brit oil tanker, we were sent down the Suez Canal and into the Persian Gulf to show the flag. Once the crisis was resolved, Command decided to make our life interesting and send us home the long way. We had just finished a port call in Subic Bay and were on our way to Pearl when we got the word to expect a visitor. I only learned your identity an hour ago.”
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