Ocean. A gray destroyer limped past the sub on its way back to port,
listing heavily to one side and showing a rash of gaping holes in its
bridge and decks, the result of a nasty encounter with a pair of U.S.
Navy Hellcats. On the submarine, several petty officers crowded the
conning tower to take a final glimpse of their green island nation,
uncertain as all seamen departing for bat de whether they would return
home again.
When the approach to the Pacific became visible to the lookout, Ogawa
issued the command to dive. A loud bell clanged throughout the
submarine and sailors scurried to secure the deck and hatches.
"Submerge to fifteen meters," Ogawa ordered from the bridge.
Large ballast tanks were flooded with seawater and the diving planes
tipped forward. With a rush of collapsing water, the I-403's nose
dipped downward and the entire submarine was quickly gobbled up by the
murky green sea.
In the Pacific waters off the Bungo Strait, aggressive American
submarines lurked in the depths hunting merchant supply ships or armed
vessels en route from the Kure Navy Base. Submarine-against-submarine
attacks were not unheard of and Ogawa was not about to make himself
easy fodder. Entering the Pacific waters, he quickly aimed the I-403
northeast and away from the bulk of the wartime traffic traveling south
toward the Philippines.
As were most subs of its era, the I-403 was powered by diesel and
electric motors. In daylight hours, the I-403 would operate submerged,
powered by battery-operated electric motors that pushed the sub along
at a sluggish 6 knots per hour. Under cover of darkness, the I-403
would surface and crank up the diesel engines, which propelled the boat
to better than 18 knots, while recharging the batteries. But the I-403
was no ordinary submarine. Stretching over 390 feet long, the I-403
was one of a handful of Sen toku-class submarines, which were the
largest built in their day. The massive iron vessel displaced over
5,200 tons and was pushed through the water by four 7,700-horsepower
diesel engines. The I-403's truly unique feature, however, was the
vessel's armament of aircraft. The I-403 could carry three Seiran
float planes which were small converted dive-bombers that could be
launched from a catapult on the center bow. While traveling at sea,
the planes were disassembled and stored in a 110-foot-long watertight
hangar that stretched along the sub's deck. A shortage of aircraft had
forced Ogawa to give up one of his seaplanes for coastal
reconnaissance, however, and his vessel now carried just two of the
Seiran aircraft.
Once the I-403 had safely entered the Pacific, Ogawa retired to his
cabin and reread the brief mission orders Horinouchi had given him. The
succinct commands called for him to sail a northerly route across the
Pacific, with a refueling stop in the Aleutians. He was to proceed to
the northwest coast of the United States, where his two aircraft were
to launch air attacks on the cities of Tacoma, Seattle, Victoria, and
Vancouver.
On the face of it, it appeared a futile gesture, thought Ogawa. Japan
needed her submarines for homeland waters defense rather than
instigating minuscule attacks with a pair of small aircraft. But there
was the question of Dr. Tanaka and his unidentified cargo.
Summoned to Ogawa's cabin, Tanaka bowed gracefully before entering the
cramped quarters and seating himself at a small wooden table. The
slightly built scientist bore a shrewish and unsmiling face. A pair of
vacant black eyes that were magnified by thick glasses augmented his
sinister appearance.
Dispensing with formalities, Ogawa pressed immediately for the nature
of the doctor's presence.
"Dr. Tanaka, my written orders are to sail this vessel to the west
coast of North America and launch an airborne attack on four cities.
There is no mention of your duties or the nature of your cargo. I must
ask what your role in the mission is."
"Commander Ogawa, rest assured that my assignment here has been
authorized at the highest levels," Tanaka replied in a quiet monotone
voice. "I will be providing technical assistance for the attack
operation," he continued.
"This is a warship. I fail to understand how a medical officer will
assist in a naval strike," Ogawa countered.
"Commander, I am with the Army Medical School's Epidemic Disease
Prevention Study Group. We have received materials from a research
facility in China that have enabled us to develop an effective new
weapon against the enemy. Your submarine has been chosen as the means
to launch the weapon for the first time against American forces. I am
responsible for the security and deployment of the weapon on this
mission."
"These 'materials." They will be dropped from my aircraft?"
"Yes, in special canisters that can be accommodated by your bombers. I
have already made the necessary arrangements with your aviation
ordnance crew."
"And the men on my vessel. Are they in any danger with this weapon
aboard?"
"None whatsoever." Tanaka's face was inscrutable as he lied.
Ogawa didn't believe him, but figured the risk of the American Navy's
antisubmarine warfare forces were a greater risk to his sub than
anything carried on board. Ogawa tried to procure what little
information he could from Tanaka, but the Army doctor volunteered few
additional facts. Whatever mystery was associated with the weapon, he
kept close to the vest. There was something ominous about the man,
Ogawa decided, and it made him uncomfortable. After sharing a quick
cup of tea, he dismissed the eerie scientist. Sitting silently in his
cabin, Ogawa cursed the Fleet Command for selecting his vessel for the
assignment. It was a mission that he didn't want.
The sporadic ocean traffic of merchant ships and fishing boats soon
dissipated as the Japanese mainland fell behind the sub's wake and the
vessel crawled farther north in latitude. For the next twelve days and
nights, the crew embraced a normal operating schedule as the sub nosed
northeast, surfacing at night to run at higher speed. The prospect of
being detected by an Allied plane or ship was more remote in the north
Pacific, but Ogawa took no chances and ran submerged during all
daylight hours. Operating under the waves, the bottled-up sub became
like an oven to the men who drove her. Interior temperatures would
climb into the nineties from the machinery, while the confined air
would grow foul to the breath over the hours. Evening darkness was
eagerly anticipated by each crewman, knowing the sub would finally
surface, open its hatches, and vent cold, fresh sea air into the dank
interior.
Naval authority on submarines was notably relaxed, even in the Japanese
Navy, and operations on the I-403 were no different. Officers and
enlisted crew mixed easily, sharing the same meals and suffering the
same miseries aboard the cramped vessel. The I-403 had survived depth
charge attacks on three differen
t occasions and the near-death
experiences had bonded the crew tightly together. They were survivors
in a deadly game of cat and mouse and felt the I-403 was a lucky ship
that could defy the enemy.
On the fourteenth night, the I-403 surfaced near the Aleutian island of
Amchitka and quickly found the supply ship Morioka anchored in a small
cove. Ogawa gently brought his vessel alongside the surface ship and
mooring lines were tossed across. As diesel fuel was pumped into the
submarine's reservoir tanks, crewmen on each vessel bantered back and
forth in the freezing cold.
"Aren't you a little cramped in that anchovy tin?" asked a bundled
yeoman at the ship's rail.
"No, we've got plenty of room for our canned fruit, chestnuts, and
sake!" yelled back a submariner, boastful of the superior food the
undersea services were provided.
The refueling operation was completed in less than three hours. One of
the submarine's crewmen, diagnosed as suffering an acute bout of
appendicitis, was transferred to the ship for medical attention. After
rewarding the supply ship crew with a box of hard candies, the I-403
cast off on an eastward tack toward North America. The skies gradually
turned black and the gray-green ocean waters frothed with spray as the
I-403 found herself sailing into the teeth of an early winter storm.
The sub was tossed violently for three nights as waves flooded across
the low deck and crashed into the conning tower as the sub attempted to
recharge its batteries. A lookout was nearly washed overboard into the
icy seas on one occasion, and many of the experienced crew succumbed to
bouts of seasickness. Strong westerly winds aided the voyage, however,
pushing the sub briskly through the swells and quickening its trek
east.
Gradually, the winds began to ease and the seas flattened. Ogawa was
pleased to find his vessel had survived Mother Nature's buffeting with
no damage. The battered crew regained their sea legs and their
fighting morale as the seas stabilized and the submarine neared the
enemy's homeland.
"Captain, I have a final plot to the coast," Seiji Kakishita remarked
as he unrolled a chart of the northeast Pacific Ocean in front of
Ogawa. The I-403's navigator had ceased shaving, like many crewmen
upon leaving port, and sported a straggly tuft of hair from his chin
that created a cartoonish look about him.
"What is our present position?" Ogawa inquired as he studied the
map.
"Right here," Kakishita replied as he pointed to a spot on the map with
a pair of dividers. "Approximately two hundred kilometers west of
Vancouver Island. We have two more hours of darkness for surface
running, which will bring us to within 150 kilometers of land by
daybreak on our current heading."
Ogawa studied the chart intently for a few moments before speaking.
"We are too far north. I wish to launch the attack from a point
central to the four targets in order to minimize flight time. Bring us
south and we'll approach the coastline here," he said, stubbing his
finger at the map. Beneath his fingertip lay the northwest tip of
Washington State, an angular peak of land that jutted into the Pacific
Ocean like the snout of a hungry dog. Just to the north lay the Strait
of Juan de Fuca, which created a natural border channel with British
Columbia and was the main thoroughfare for maritime traffic from
Vancouver and Seattle into the Pacific Ocean.
Kakishita hurriedly plotted a new route on the map and recalculated the
distances. "Sir, I compute that we can arrive at a position fifteen
kilometers offshore from the point marked "Cape Alava' in twenty-two
hours."
"Excellent, Kakishita," Ogawa replied smugly as he eyed a nearby
chronograph. "That will allow us plenty of time to commence the attack
before dawn." The timing was right. Ogawa wished to spend as little
time as possible in high-traffic areas where they might be spotted
before launching the strike. Things seemed to be falling into place,
he thought. With a little luck, they might just be on their way home
from a successful mission in just over twenty-four hours.
A buzz of activity overtook the I-403 after it surfaced again that
evening as preparations were made to launch the aerial strike.
Mechanics pulled out the fuselage, wings, and pontoons of the aircraft
and began piecing the parts together like some giant toy model. Seamen
rigged the hydraulic catapult and carefully tested the device by which
the planes would be launched. The pilots attentively studied
topographic
maps of the region, plotting their course to the drop zones and back.
And the ordnance men, under the cautious direction of Dr. Tanaka,
configured the bomb racks of the Seiran bombers to hold the twelve
silver canisters still stored in the forward torpedo room.
By three in the morning, the I-403 had crept quietly to its staging
point off the Washington coast. A light drizzle was falling and the
six lookouts Ogawa had stationed on deck strained to peer through the
murky darkness for signs of other vessels. Ogawa himself paced the
open bridge nervously in anxious wait to see the aircraft off, so that
he could hide his submarine under the protection of the rolling seas.
Another hour had ticked by when a hurried squat man in a grease-stained
jumpsuit approached Ogawa tentatively.
"Sir, sorry to report we are having troubles with the aircraft."
"What is the problem at this late hour?" Ogawa countered, clearly
annoyed.
"Aircraft number one has been found to have a faulty magneto. We must
replace it with a spare for the motor to operate. Aircraft number two
has a damaged elevator, apparently due to shifting that occurred during
the storm. This we can repair also."
"And how long will it require to complete both repairs?"
The mechanic looked skyward for a moment, contemplating his response.
"Approximately one hour for the repairs, sir, plus another twenty
minutes to load the ordnance from belowdecks."
Ogawa nodded grimly. "Proceed with all haste."
One hour turned into two and still the planes were not ready. Ogawa's
impatience grew as he noticed gray streaks in the eastern sky,
signaling the approaching dawn. The drizzling rain had stopped and was
replaced by a light fog that enveloped the sub, cutting visibility to
less than a third of a mile. Sitting ducks, perhaps, but at least
ducks in a blind, Ogawa thought.
Then the stillness of the morning air was shattered as a cry from the
sound-detection operator belowdecks pierced the air.
"Captain, I have an echo!"
"I've got you this time, Big Brother!" Steve Schauer yelled into the
radio transmitter with a grin, then pushed a pair of throttles to their
stops. Alongside him in the fishing trawler's cramped cabin, two
teenage crewmen, exhausted and reeking of dead fish, looked at each
other and rolled their eyes. Schauer ignored their looks as he lightly
fingered the wooden wheel of the plodding fishing boa
t and began
whistling an old drinking tune.
A pair of fortyish siblings with youth in their veins, Steve and Doug
Schauer had spent their lives fishing the waters in and around Puget
Sound. With skill and hard work, they had thrown all their earnings
into ever-larger fishing boats until they traded up for a matched pair
of fifty-foot wooden hull trawlers. Working as a team, they
successfully fished the Washington and Vancouver shorelines with an
uncanny ability to sniff out large schools of halibut. After a
three-day excursion, with their holds full of fish and their coolers
empty of beer, the brothers would race each other back to port like a
pair of kids on roller skates.
"It ain't over till the paint scratches the dock," Doug's voice
crackled over the radio. After a particularly good haul during the
1941 season, the brothers had splurged on two-way radios for their
boats. Though intended to help each other coordinate the catches, the
brothers spent most of their time on the airwaves goading each other
instead.
As Schauer's boat chugged along at its top speed of 12 knots, the skies
lightened from black to gray and a spotlight beam shining on the water
ahead of the bow gradually lost its illuminating effect. Ahead, in the
mist, Schauer saw the faint outline of a large black object lying low
in the water. A second later, a small orange flash emanated from the
object's center for a brief instant.
"Is that a whale off the starboard bow?" The words had barely escaped
his lips when a shrieking whistle creased past the cabin, followed by a
volcanic explosion that erupted in the water off the port beam,
showering the trawler in a downpour of seawater.
Dirk Pitt18-Black Wind Page 2