Sea of Death

by Richard P. Henrick

  Like an ancient feudal lord, Ishii was responsible for all aspects of his employees’ well-being. He stressed old-fashioned family values, tempered by the simple tenets of his unique version of Zen Buddhism.

  This resulted in a loyal, contented workforce, who enjoyed excellent pay, a liberal vacation policy, and the security of having a job for life.

  Forty-eight years had passed since Yukio Ishii had first set foot on his island domain. At the ripe old age of sixty-six, he now knew no other home.

  One of his favorite places for reflecting on his vast accomplishments, and putting them into perspective, was a spacious, elevated plateau he had discovered as a mere teenager. This five-hundred-foot ridge rose from the sea on the southeastern edge of Takara Bay. It afforded a spectacular view of both bay and the industrial/city complex that hugged its northern shore.

  The dream-filled days of Ishii’s youth had long since passed. Yet he still took every available opportunity to climb up onto the plateau and gaze out at the sparkling blue waters of Takara Bay.

  This was exactly what he was doing on a gloriously warm, early spring afternoon, when the mere thought of being cooped up in an office all day filled him with dread. Exercise, fresh air, and meditation were the tonics that kept him from surrendering to the relentless call of the advancing years.

  Except for the gray that colored his shoulder-length hair and thick, Fu Manchu-style moustache, Ishii could easily pass for a much younger man.

  Dressed ashe was in a loose-fitting white robe and billowing pants, he appeared the perfect example of physical fitness. His small, wiry frame was compact and toned with muscle, while his posture was erect and had an almost noble bearing to it.

  With an intense, hawk-like movement, he angled his piercing, sea green gaze on the distant shoreline.

  Here, beside the bay’s main pier, two submarines were docked. Like lethal predators, their matching black, V-shaped hulls glistening in the sunlight, the Katana and the Bokken were being attended to by a scurrying crowd of deckhands. Both of the Romeoclass vessels were fully operational, and were already playing an allimportant role in the great drama that was presently unfolding.

  Thrilled by the mere thought of the great victory that would soon be achieved, Ishii sensed another’s presence behind him. He turned and readily identified the middle-aged newcomer who wore a loose-fitting outfit identical to his own, and along, bamboo sword swinging at his side.

  “Ah, it’s you Satsugai,” greeted Ishii warmly.

  “I was just admiring your command down below.”

  “I’m sorry I’m late, Sensei,” replied Captain Satsugai Okura with a humble bow.

  “My final inspection of the Katana took longer than I had anticipated.”

  “Were any unexpected problems encountered?”

  questioned Ishii, his voice filled with concern.

  “It’s nothing that can’t be remedied before our next scheduled sailing date, Sensei.”

  Ishii’s relief was most apparent.

  “That’s certainly good to hear, Satsugai. Now, enough of this talk of daily duty. An afternoon as glorious as this one deserves to be solely dedicated to the mastery of the Way. Shall we proceed, my friend?”

  Without waiting for a reply, Ishii bent down and picked up a bamboo sword, identical to the one Okura carried. Then, with alight step, he joined the Katana’s commanding officer at the center of the dirt-filled clearing. The two men faced each other, bowed, and adopted an opening attitude, with sandaled feet as far apart as the width of their shoulders, knees slightly bent, and both hands on the hilts of their swords.

  It was Okura who initiated the attack when he raised his sword upward, then slashed down toward his opponent’s left shoulder. In response, Ishii swung his sword up in a semicircle, blocking the blow with the side of his bamboo blade. There was the loud crack of wood on wood, and Okura continued his offensive by thrusting forward toward Ishii’s chest. With the agility of a cat, the gray-haired elder dodged this blow, countering it with an upward sweep of his blade. Okura leaped aside, missing a blow to his crotch by the merest of inches.

  A few seconds passed, the swordsmen silently appraising one another, before Okura once more went on the offensive. This precipitated alightning-quick series of blows that ended with Ishii delivering what would in actual combat be a killing blow to the top of Okura’s head.

  Okura appeared to be slightly out of breath ashe lowered his sword and bowed.

  “Forgive me, Sensei,” he softly muttered.

  “It appears that my thoughts are elsewhere this afternoon.”

  “Distraction can’t be permitted for one who seeks mastery of the Way,” instructed Ishii.

  “Remember, if in his mind the warrior doesn’t forget one thing, that being death, he’ll never find himself caught short.”

  Okura appeared dejected ashe lowered his eyes and replied.

  “Too often lately I find myself unable to focus my thoughts clearly.”

  “When this happens, Satsugai, listen to the sounds of wind and water. Maintain a calm surface and alighting spirit within, and you shall become atone with the Way.”

  While absorbing this piece of advice, Okura walked heavily over to the edge of the plateau and stared down to the bay. Ishii was quick to join him.

  “You can’t hide your heart from me, old friend,” said the elder ashe followed the direction of Okura’s glance.

  “I know your thoughts are still with the Katana.”

  “How very right you are, Sensei. Failure can never be excused.”

  “Nonsense, Satsugai. Not even the Ninja have control of the elementals.”

  Okura looked up and caught Ishii’s eye.

  “My strike team should have anticipated that sudden wind change. After all, their training was my direct responsibility. Thus their failure is also my own.”

  This provoked an emotional response.

  “And who’s to say that we failed, Satsugai? Though it’s true our primary objective wasn’t accomplished, this proved to be a most effective field test. Now all that remains is for us to return to Okinawa and finish the assignment.”

  “Then the operation is continuing as planned,

  Sensei?” asked the surprised mariner.

  “Why of course it is, my friend,” answered Ishii.

  “Why shouldn’t it? The enemies of Nippon remain in place on our holy soil even as we speak. We have taken a blood oath to remove these barbarians from our midst once and for all — and to return our island nation back to the guidance of our divine Emperor.”

  There was a renewed urgency to Okura’s tone ashe responded to this.

  “Sensei, please let me take the Katana back to Okinawa, so that my crew can show their worth to this greatest of all causes.”

  “Patience, my friend,” advised Ishii with a grin.

  “I was expecting such a request from you, and must regretfully turn you down. Captain Sato and the Bokken are ready to sail with the tide. So take this time to fast and find yourself in meditation.

  And before the next new moon rises, the Katana will sail into battle once more, this time straight into the mouth of Tokyo Bay!”

  The first colors of dawn were just painting the eastern horizon, when the SH-3H Sea King helicopter carrying Dr. Miriam Kromer returned to the USS Enterprise. The exhausted toxicologist had worked through the night, the majority of her time spent at Naha General Hospital, Okinawa’s primary health care facility.

  Ever thankful that a helicopter had been provided for the hour flight to and from Okinawa, Kromer left the familiar confines of the Sikorsky Sea King. She certainly wasn’t looking forward to another carrier landing on a fixed-wing aircraft, and she didn’t even want to think about a catapult assisted takeoff.

  Commander Philip Jackman was waiting for her on the windswept deck. The good-natured medical officer was full of questions ashe escorted her belowdecks

  “How did it go. Doctor? Is it really as bad as the reports indicate?”
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  Kromer breathlessly answered, while following him through a twisting series of passageways and ladders.

  “It’s a nightmare come true in every sense of the word. Naha General is an absolute madhouse.

  Every available bed is filled, and the emergency room has over a hundred-patient backlog on new admissions.”

  “And the death count?” asked Jackman ashe led his guest into the carrier’s infirmary.

  “When I left, there were forty-seven confirmed fatalities at Naha alone. There could easily be three times that number elsewhere, with manymore to come.”

  This sobering account stunned the medical officer, and he halted beside his own clinic’s vacant admissions’ desk.

  “Then you still don’t know what the disease is-or how to treat it?” he somberly questioned.

  Miriam Kromer looked him right in the eye and replied.

  “Just give me that lab time you promised, and hopefully I’ll be able to answer that question, Commander.”

  “I had my staff prepare the ship’s pathology laboratory for your exclusive use. If there’s anything you need that you can’t find, just ask for it and it’s yours.”

  Kromer fought back a yawn.

  “For starters, how about a microscope and a thermos of black coffee?”

  The medical officer pointed toward a closed doorway on the right side of the corridor.

  “I believe that can be arranged. Doctor. One half of your request is waiting for you behind that door.

  I’ll meet you there with the coffee.”

  As she expected, the laboratory was more than adequate for her needs. Her primary job was to analyze several tissue samples she’d brought back from Naha. To do this, she prepared a slide and inserted it into an electron microscope. By the time Philip Jackman arrived with her coffee and a platter of sandwiches, Kromer had completed her initial scan. There was a look of thoughtful relief on her face as she sat up and beckoned the medical officer to join her.

  “I’ll trade you a peek for a mug of coffee. Commander,” offered Kromer.

  “You’ve got yourself a deal. Doctor,” replied Jackman, handing over the requested mug and bending to peer into the microscope.

  “By the way, what am I looking at?” he added.

  “That slide contains pleural fluid, drawn from a victim’s lungs,” answered Kromer between sips of her drink.

  “Do you see those tiny boxcar-shaped organisms at the slide’s center?”

  “Yeah, I see ‘em,” replied Jackman.

  “Well, they happen to prove that the disease we’re up against is none other than anthrax. Now, how do I go about informing the health authorities back on Okinawa of this fact?”

  This matter-of-fact revelation was excitedly received by the carrier’s senior medical officer. He rushed over to the telephone, and within seconds, Kromer was on the line with the head of Okinawa’s public health department.

  To combat this deadly disease, she ordered that the sick be dosed with massive intravenous injections of penicillin G. Kromer also advised strict isolation, and she said that mass immunizations should begin as soon as vaccine could be rushed from the Michigan Department of Health.

  “To think all of this is being caused by contact with a diseased animal,” observed Jackman as the toxicologist hung up the phone and returned to her coffee.

  “I beg to differ with you. Commander,” countered Kromer.

  “If an infected animal had been the cause, the anthrax toxin would have attacked its human victims cither thru the skin or the gastrointestinal tract. Yet in the majority of patients I examined the spores had gathered exclusively in the lymph nodes and lungs, indicating that the anthrax was inhaled.”

  “But if that’s the case, where did it originate?”

  To answer this question, Kromer pulled out the map of Naha that the public health authorities had given her. Dozens of red X’s were drawn along the city’s northern outskirts.

  “Those red marks show the locations of the victims’ residences,” she explained.

  “Note how close they are, collectively, to the security boundary of Kadena Air Force base.”

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?” quizzed the puzzled naval officer.

  Kromer’s response was firm and deadly serious.

  “Commander, in the entire recorded history of medicine, never before has society faced a sudden outbreak of inhalation anthrax like we’re seeing today.

  There’s only one way this amount of toxin arrived here, and that was by man, cither deliberately or by accident.”

  Her companion’s expression went from confusion to sudden enlightenment.

  “Dr. Kromer, there’s anew comer aboard the Enterprise I’d like you to share this with. He’s Vice Admiral Henry Walker, the Director of Naval Intelligence.”

  The Flag Quarters of the USS Enterprise looked like an exclusive men’s club complete with wood-paneled walls, plush red carpet, and French provincial furniture. Vice Admiral Henry Walker fit these dignified surroundings perfectly. His neat white hair and movie-star good looks were more befitting for a bank president than an intelligence officer.

  This was especially apparent ashe sat behind the FQ’s sole desk and carefully studied the map that the only civilian in the room had just handed him.

  Seated before Walker in identical high-back leather chairs were Captain Steven Webster, Commander Philip Jackman, and Dr. Miriam Kromer.

  Each of them looked on expectantly as the handsome flag officer completed his examination of the map and then looked up to address the red-haired individual who had just brought it to him.

  “Your conclusions are most convincing, and I must say extremely frightening. Doctor. How do you advise that we proceed?”

  Kromer liked his direct manner, yet she responded cautiously.

  “I think our first step should be to query the Air Force and see if they’re responsible for the release.”

  “And if they’re not?” continued Walker.

  Though she certainly couldn’t prove it, the toxicologist voiced her belief.

  “Then we’ve got a third party on our hands, one that thinks nothing of releasing a deadly toxin that could wipe out an entire city.”

  Ever the skeptic. Captain Webster broke in at this point.

  “Oh, come on. Doctor. I guess next you’ll be telling us these biological terrorists could beheaded for Tokyo — or even the US mainland.”

  Walker quickly interceded.

  “Go easy on her, Steven. Because your offhanded remark might not be so far off as you think.”

  With a deliberate slowness, the admiral stood and forcefully continued.

  “What I’m about to tell you is to beheld in the strictest confidence. Three days ago, on the night before the first anthrax victim was discovered, a Japanese patrol boat made radar contact with an unidentified surface vessel off Kadena’s southern security perimeter. This contact mysteriously disappeared, and the possibility is good that it could have been a submarine. On the very next morning, the body of a young Air Force sentry was found floating off this same beach. A preliminary autopsy indicated that the airman died of a broken neck some twelve hours before his corpse was discovered.

  “Yet what really scares the dickens out of me, now that we’ve had the benefit of Dr. Kromer’s report, is a log entry from the SAC airtraffic-control tower at Kadena. It shows that at 8:03 p.m.” a little more than an hour after the Japanese patrol boat first made radar contact with the supposed bogey, all airtraffic bound to and taking off from Kadena had to be rerouted, when the winds unexpectedly shifted from south to north.”

  “My God, they were after our base!” exclaimed the carrier’s senior medical officer.

  “Who was?” asked Steven Webster.

  It was Miriam Kromer who dared to reply.

  “That’s irrelevant. Captain. Because the one thing you can be certain of is that if they’re able, they’ll be back to finish the deed.”

  “And we’re going to b
e out there, just praying that those coldhearted bastards have the balls to give it another try!” added Henry Walker, his eyes wide with excitement.

  Five

  In the mid-nineteen-fifties the Soviet Navy introduced anew line of diesel-powered, medium-range attack subs that were to be designated by NATO as the Romeo class. Designed to protect the USSR from the threat of Western carrier and amphibious forces, the Romeos were fitted with an assortment of advanced offensive sensors. These included the new Fenik passive sonar array that was placed within a bulged casing set into the upper portion of the sub’s V-shaped bow.

  A pair of Type 37D diesel engines and two electric motors powered a set of twin propellers housed within individual circular guards located forward of the horizontal hydroplanes and a single rudder. Such a propulsion system was capable of sustaining a sixteen-knot surface speed, and of making fourteen knots submerged.

  The interior of a Romeo was characterized by a single usable deck, with the batteries stored below.

  Six twenty-one-inch torpedo tubes could be found in its bow, and two in the stern. The primary weapon fired from these tubes was the primitive but effective M-57 antiship torpedo.

  Twenty of the Romeos were constructed at the Gorky Shipyards before the Soviet navy underwent a drastic change of strategic policy. Long-range cruise missiles delivered by anew generation of submarines, surface warships, and aircraft, would now bethe weapons of choice for defending Soviet waters.

  This resulted in the immediate termination of the Romeo program, as it no longer fit into the navy’s new war plans.

  A number of the already completed subs were transferred to other navies — those of Egypt, Bulgaria, Algeria, and Syria. It was also decided to share the plans of the Romeoclass sub, and the technological skills needed to build them, with the People’s Republic of China. Between 1960 and 1982, eighty-four units were completed at the Wuzhang, Guanzhou, Jiangnan, and Huludao shipyards. Several of these vessels were subsequently made available for export. It was in this manner that Ishii Industries purchased a pair of Chinese-made Romeos for use by the company’s undersea mining subsidiary.