Beyond the Sea--An Event Group Thriller

by David L. Golemon

  “You don’t think we’ll be able to control our ascent?” Devers asked Thorne quietly as he came to the navigation table.

  “Not with a flaky ballast control system. I think once we start our ascent, there may be no stopping her from surfacing. I want to be ready for a fight if and when that happens.” Thorne leaned in closer to Devers. “Get the chief of the boat and get to the arms locker and distribute everything we have to the crew. M4s to the watch shift and nine millimeters to the officers. Empty out the locker.”

  “Jesus, you’re expecting some real shit up there, aren’t you?”

  “You never know—we pop off a torpedo and we may just kill ourselves. And the Harpoons could cook off in their vertical tubes. No, this way we can possibly fight the boat if we have to.” Again, his voice lowered. “Depending upon what it is we do meet up there, get the self-destruct sequence entered into the main computer. If this thing goes south and we have a possible boarding situation, I want to blow Houston right out from under the bastards.”

  XO Devers saw the seriousness of his captain and then saw the men around him in the control room. For the first time, like Thorne had days earlier, he saw the bright young faces that were now being asked to do the nearly impossible.

  “Chief of the Boat, to the arms locker, please.”

  Thorne took the 1 MC mic. “Captain to crew, we blow ballast in twenty minutes.”

  The horn sounded throughout the boat as small-arms weapons were disbursed as far as they could be.

  “Make all preparations for getting under way,” Thorne said.

  All eyes went from their individual consoles to the man standing next to the navigation table. Then the words were said that no submariner ever wants to hear.

  “Stand by battle stations surface. Gentlemen, this one we may have to fight up close and personal. It sounds like there’s a gunfight going on up there, and guess who is on the fight card? Make all stations battle ready.”

  The sailors of the USS Houston prepared for a surface battle that had not been fought between a submarine and a surface combatant since the end of World War II.

  The broken and nearly blind and deaf Houston made ready for the fight of her life.

  COMPTON’S REEF

  The marine lance corporal, a veteran of both Iraq and Afghanistan, deployed the nine men in the makeshift rescue team off the beaten and worn trail that led to the diamond mine high above. It wasn’t until the twelve men had climbed to the midway point of the small mountain that they saw as well as heard the battle raging across the sea a few miles away. Most of the marines wanted to turn back at that point, knowing that a fight was taking place that had the ramifications of either staying in this strange world forever or helping in the fight to leave. One look at the determined faces of Charlie Ellenshaw and Master Chief Jenks staid their doubts. The two Event Group men would go it alone if need be.

  The PFC at the point position held up a fist, and the others scrambled for cover into the underbrush. Jenks listened as the lance corporal slowly and cautiously moved forward and then knelt beside the point man.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “We got six or seven of those squid things up ahead.”

  “What are they doing?”

  “Right now, nothing. Look,” he said in a low voice.

  Jenks and Ellenshaw joined the two, and their eyes saw the same thing as the marines’.

  Six of the Wasakoo were standing and slowly pouring water from large shell-like carriers over their exposed skin. The water seemed to revive the creatures.

  “They must rehydrate their skin after so long out of the water. Could be a point we could use if we ever find ourselves stuck here,” Charlie said as he adjusted his glasses.

  “That’s real comforting, Doc,” Jenks said, shaking his head.

  “Just a point.”

  “More of them,” the point man said as he eased farther back into the bush.

  They saw a group of at least sixteen more of the Wasakoo join forces with those already reviving themselves in the clearing ahead. These newcomers did the same as the first group. They doused their exposed, scaly skin with water. Charlie didn’t know if it was salt water, but he suspected it was. The entire group was heavily armed with spears and knives. Several had bows made from what looked like the spines, or quills, from some exotic sea life. The arrows were made of the same. The sharkskin pants they wore were reflecting the overhead sun, and it looked as though the heat was dehydrating these creatures at a fast rate.

  “Listen,” Jenks said.

  As the small rescue became still and silent, a hundred of the Wasakoo joined the group. They repeated the same process as the first two sets.

  “They must have had a rendezvous set up to refresh themselves,” Charlie Ellenshaw offered.

  “Too many to take on even with our weapons. They could overwhelm us before we did enough damage,” the lance corporal said as he pulled on the arm of the point man. “Come on, we can’t sit here and wait them out. Let’s find another way.”

  The twelve men easily moved off to the left to try to make their way around the large group of Wasakoo. As they moved off by at least three hundred yards, they stopped as another group of the sea creatures broke into a clearing ahead of them. This was the largest group thus far. Over two hundred of the aggressive species sat and stood while soaking their bodies with water. Weapons were casually laid at their sides, and the men watched as even these soldiers from a strange world seemed to joke and prod at each other. They were like fighting men from their own dimension as they joked and glad-handed their fellows.

  “They have no natural fear,” Charlie again said.

  “Look, Doc, if you’re going to give this National Geographic narration all the way in, why don’t you just walk over there and get an interview?” Jenks asked in exasperation. “Just stop teaching for an hour or so, will ya?”

  “Sorry, Master Chief—hard habit to break.”

  “One thing is for sure, they are slowly making their way to that mine up there. They’re just taking their time in their search. He’s right; they have no fear of anyone interfering.” The lance corporal turned and faced both Jenks and Ellenshaw. “The doc here may be right; we could use that to our advantage if the need arises.”

  “I agree,” Jenks said. “They have no fear whatsoever and that could be a break for us. They don’t know we’re here.”

  “I suspect the natural senses they use in the sea don’t translate that well to land. As you can see, these creatures are outright miserable in this environment,” Ellenshaw explained.

  Jenks was tapped on the shoulder and binoculars thrust into his hand. He was confused at first but saw the marine pointing.

  “That must be the mine entrance right up there,” he said.

  Jenks adjusted the glasses, and then he saw what the marine was seeing. The reinforced mine opening was only a quarter of a mile up. That was where the Wasakoo were heading. As he studied the entrance, he could swear that he saw movement at the mouth of the mine. He cursed as he saw a small child appear and then just as quickly vanish. He lowered the glasses and turned to face the others.

  “It looks like the drone told the truth. They’re in there.”

  “Well, we know where we have to go; sitting here isn’t going to get the job done,” the lance corporal said as he easily stood and then gestured the men farther to take a path that would lead them around the company-sized group of Wasakoo.

  * * *

  If the small rescue team had the use of the drone, they would have seen a far more chilling sight ahead, as over a thousand of the sea creatures were coming up the mountain from the opposite side.

  The battle for Compton’s Reef was drawing near, and Jenks, Charlie, and the ten US Marines were outnumbered two hundred to one.

  KIROV-CLASS BATTLE CRUISER PETER THE GREAT

  His crew was having a hard time with damage control and the attackers. As men fought to extinguish the chemically enhanced blazes erupting o
n all decks of the enormous missile cruiser, they were harassed and killed by Wasakoo who had used the speed of their boats to attach themselves to the railings and fight their way onto the main deck. Second Captain Dishlakov had abandoned the bridge and was fighting alongside his men. The battle had been raging as they sped in a wide circle in Peter the Great’s battle to protect Simbirsk. They were losing.

  He was momentarily thrilled to see Shiloh as she steamed a closer-in circle around Simbirsk. She was also ablaze but seemed to be fighting well.

  “Captain, we are running low on forty- and twenty-millimeter ammunition,” his new XO said as the man took quick aim and fired his Makarov pistol into the upturned face of a Wasakoo as it sprang over the railing. Dishlakov patted the man’s shoulder.

  “Then get knives, wrenches, and fuel oil. We fight this ship until she can’t fight any longer.” He took the young man by the sleeve. “We must give Simbirsk all the time we can.”

  As the officer moved off, Dishlakov looked around and knew his ship couldn’t last much longer. The bulk of Peter the Great would survive because the Wasakoo had no meaningful way of sinking her, but the attrition upon his crew was growing to a level that they would be expended long before the great battle cruiser gave up the fight.

  More of the manta rays burst from the sea and climbed skyward, their long wings crushing the air as they rose. Ten of the ray-like beasts came on, and soon their riders were launching more of the explosive devices that struck and burst open. Their brightly flared results started more intense fires. Dishlakov fired into the sky, as did others. Three of the creatures crashed into the flaming deck, where they and their riders were quickly dispatched by the crazed but lethal defenders.

  More of the flying mantas burst from the sea, only this time they were larger and carried more than ten of the Wasakoo on their backs. The rays slammed into the upper deck just aft of the number-three missile launcher. One of the Wasakoo, injured from his jump from the back of the ray, limped over and then slashed at the aluminum cover of the missile hatch. Too late, Dishlakov and others saw the creature as he dropped something into the well where one of the Burn missiles was housed. The Wasakoo was struck down as their bullets ripped into its body, but they all knew it was too late. The Burn missile exploded in its launch tube.

  Men were thrown from the deck along with many of the attackers. The Burn missile sent explosive gases up and out of the housing, and suddenly, large parts of the missile cruiser flew into the sky and sea. The entire port side was in flames.

  Peter the Great was slowly being bled to death.

  TICONDEROGA-CLASS AEGIS MISSILE CRUISER USS SHILOH

  Captain Johnson was almost knocked from his feet on the battle bridge as the entire port side of Peter the Great burst out like an exploding balloon. He adjusted his field glasses and saw the flames being swept backward by the speed of the great warship.

  “How in the hell did they know to hit their missile tubes?” Johnson turned away from the horrid scene and then grabbed his second in command. “Get below and place teams on all missile batteries; they’ll try the same here.”

  “Aye,” the man said, and then he quickly went to his radio to give out the order.

  Johnson hissed as he again sighted Peter the Great as she sped along in flames. He could see the crew fought both Wasakoo and the damage that had been done, and it looked as if both efforts were failing. He then turned his glasses onto the Simbirsk. Her crew was fighting valiantly, but he knew they wouldn’t stand a chance if he moved Shiloh from her current close-in station to assist; he knew the Simbirsk would be done for. He cursed as he knew that Second Captain Dishlakov was on his own.

  “Helm twenty degrees to starboard; get in closer to Peter the Great. Fire control, get the fifties and twenty-millimeter weapons to assist the Russians. Sweep some of those bastards off her deck, give her crew a chance to get damage control working.”

  “Aye, helm answering, twenty degrees to starboard.”

  As Shiloh heeled over sharply, her .50-caliber machine guns and the manually operated Phalanx twenty-millimeter cannon opened fire on Peter the Great. Although many holes were punched into her side by the heavy-caliber weaponry, they could see the sudden assault had the desired effect on the attackers. Over two hundred Wasakoo were knocked from their ropes, and some even fell to pieces and then plunged into the sea. Peter the Great’s entire starboard side was swept clean of the attackers. Shiloh again turned away as her heavy weaponry kept a constant fire in their efforts to assist their onetime enemy.

  As Captain Johnson had his mind momentarily eased as Dishlakov and his brave crew once more gained the upper hand in fighting the fires, the announcement from his CIC stunned him. Did one of Peter the Great’s missiles cook off? He was frozen in shock as the vision of a missile coming in at sea-top level slammed into Shiloh on her bow section.

  The warhead’s detonation rocked Shiloh to her core. Men flew from the decks as a missile slammed into her stern. Flames erupted all along her mainframe and engulfed over fifty men as the fireball expanded. Johnson was thrown from his feet, and with one of his arms nearly broken, he tried to stand. Shiloh slowed and then started to immediately list to starboard. She was taking on water.

  “All damage control stations shift to decks four, five, and six aft of frame sixteen, all sections!”

  The announcement brought Johnson’s senses back faster than a face slap. As he stood, he felt hands on him as men tried to gather their wits.

  “Conn, CIC, torpedo in the water!”

  This time, Johnson felt his heart actually skip a beat.

  “Peter the Great is under attack by a submerged source!”

  Captain Johnson felt his hopes being dashed as he and his bridge crew were helpless to do anything as the long white wake of a torpedo headed straight toward Peter the Great.

  LOS ANGELES–CLASS ATTACK SUBMARINE USS HOUSTON

  Captain Thorne had just made the announcement to seal the boat. All hatches and vents were closed and all stations prepared to trust the last chance they had in getting the ballast tanks to release their hold on the sea.

  “Conn, sonar, we have a submerged disturbance twenty miles to the north. Water slug! Submerged missile launch!”

  Johnson grabbed the 1 MC mic. “What?”

  “Suspected submerged contact has launched a missile.”

  “Damn,” Thorne said as he turned to his XO. “Just what in the hell are we facing here, Gary?”

  “Conn, sonar, we have a surface detonation!”

  Thorne allowed the mic to lower as his heart skipped a beat. He looked at all the anxious faces watching him. He again raised his mic to his mouth but was suddenly cut off.

  “Conn, sonar, we have high-speed screw cavitation—torpedo in the water!”

  Thorne closed his eyes as the information refused to break into the clearer thoughts he had been trained in. His eyes went to XO Devers, and both men saw the same look of disaster. Wherever they were, whatever place they found themselves, somehow a shooting war was erupting right above their heads, and they were blind as bats.

  They felt the disturbance in the seas even this far down as Houston once more rocked and rolled. This time when she started to slide, Thorne knew she wouldn’t stop until they went off the almost three-mile ledge she had lodged herself on. Every crewman aboard felt the vibration start anew as Houston began to slide. They heard the rush of sand and rock as her massive bulk started her slide into oblivion.

  “Conn, sonar, we have a surface detonation, three-quarters of a mile away from the first.”

  Thorne reached out and took a handhold on the stanchion that helped guide the periscope and felt his heart stop for a moment as the submarine picked up speed in her hurry to slide into the abyss far below. He once more raised the 1 MC mic to his lips, but he stopped when Houston once more came to a grinding halt. He closed his eyes in silent thanks.

  “Engineering, how are we coming with that repair?” he asked anxiously.

 
; “Skipper, we’re almost there,” came the call.

  Houston slid a few feet and then settled. Thorne again felt the boat move and froze until it stopped.

  “Gentlemen, there’s a fight going on up there; we don’t have the luxury of time here.”

  For emphasis, every crew member felt the rumble of explosions even from their stranded spot on the side of the submerged mountain ledge.

  “Chief of the Boat, stand by to surface!”

  22

  KIROV-CLASS BATTLE CRUISER PETER THE GREAT

  Second Captain Dishlakov could not believe what he had just been told. He quickly scanned the waters in the direct path of the giant warship. There it was: a single straight line of a torpedo’s wake heading straight at him.

  “Hard to starboard!” he shouted as he watched in horror as the wake vanished as the torpedo went deep. The fear of every surface commander ever to take to the modern seas flared into his mind. “All ahead flank!”

  Too late. The torpedo dove under the bow of Peter the Great, and the magnetic sensors buried deep inside ordered the warhead to detonate. Dishlakov felt the entire front sections of the enormous warship rise free of the sea, and he had the frozen moment in time all soldiers and sailors of the world knew was the pivotal time of an imminent death. The forward sections of the eight-foot-wide keel of Peter the Great separated as if they were nothing more than cordwood. The bow flashed brightly as her forward missile battery ignited in a fireball of massive proportions. A hundred feet of bow sheared away as the entire bulk of the battle cruiser came crashing back into the sea. Men, Wasakoo, and steel flew in all directions as the wail and cry of bending and cracking steel sounded even above the din of explosive outgassing.

  Dishlakov was thrown into the bulkhead along with every sailor on the battle bridge. Glass shattered, and men screamed as their electronic suites exploded into the frightened faces. Seawater rose to a height of three hundred feet before it came crashing down onto the exposed sailors fighting her fires. Her number-one forward gun mount was tossed into the air as if it were nothing but a toy being kicked by a petulant child. The sea rushed into the now sheared-off bow of the mightiest vessel ever built by the Russians. Her engines kept up their relentless push as they continued to drive Peter the Great through the now erupting seas.