Sea of Death

by Richard P. Henrick

  Though he would have liked to spend this time at sea, Roth made the best of a situation he had no control over. The way he looked at it, this would be his last chance to share some of the knowledge he’d gathered during his thirty-plus years on submarines with a whole new generation of undersea warriors.

  * * *

  Returning to New London was like traveling back in time. Ashe entered the hallowed corridors of Bledsoe Hall, he was met by the same engraved placard that had greeted him over three decades ago. It read, Through These Doors Pass the Finest Submariners in the World. Yet proof of the passing of time was quick in coming, as Roth caught his reflection in a nearby mirror. There could be no denying the slight paunch that showed on his five-foot, seven-inch frame, or the conspicuous bald spot that graced his skull. These were especially evident when he saw the bright-eyed enlisted men swarming down the hallways on the way to classes. Feeling every one of his fiftyseven years and then some, Stanley sucked in his gut and continued on to the simulator room, where his first class of the day would beheld.

  A dozen young students dressed in blue dungarees waited for him beside a full-scale mock-up of a submarine’s control room. Chief Roth wasted no time in getting down to business.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. What you’re looking at here is a ship’s control and diving trainer. Today I’m going to use it to teach you how to pilot a submarine.

  If you’ll do me the honor of following me onto the platform, we’ll get started.”

  Roth led the way up onto the simulator. He pointed toward the forward bulkhead, where two seats intended for the helmsmen were located.

  “Robnick, you take the inboard chair. Reed, you’ve got outboard.”

  As the two students took their positions. Roth added.

  “Okay, gentlemen. Buckle up.”

  With the rest of the class gathered tightly behind him. Roth continued.

  “The basic scenario goes like this. You’ve got a three-hundred-sixty-foot long, multimillion dollar submarine in your hands. I’m going to take on the roles of both OOD and diving officer, and I’ll crank up a flank bell. I want you to reach and maintain periscope depth. Are you with me?”

  The two nervous students gave atentative nod, and Roth instructed them to grab the hydraulically powered, partial steering wheels positioned in front of them. They did so, and immediately the deck of the trainer angled sharply upward.

  “Easy does it, gentlemen,” advised the veteran.

  “You’re putting too much angle on those planes. Don’t forget that we’re haulin’ ass thru the water at well over thirty knots. Minimize the use of those planes, and it will be a hell of a lot easier to maintain the trim angle.

  Limit your rise and dive to five degrees, and you’ll be able to catch the bubble and lock it in.”

  As soon as the young sailors applied this advice and gained control of the simulator. Roth called out loudly, “Flooding in the torpedo room!”

  A piercing, electronic alarm followed, and the chief assumed the roles of both diving officer and the officer of the deck.

  “Officer of the deck, we can’t maintain ordered depth. Recommend emergency surface.”

  “Diving officer, emergency surface the ship!”

  “Full rise, stern and fairwater planes!”

  The helmsmen yanked back on their steering columns and the trainer once more angled sharply upward.

  The rest of the class had to hold on to each other to keep from falling backward, as the simulated sound of venting ballast blasted from a pair of elevated speakers.

  “Surface! Surface!” ordered Roth, who resumed the role of diving officer.

  “Watch that trim angle. Get it down… Get it down… That’s it. Now we’re going to breach, so brace yourselves. And don’t forget the flooding going on in the torpedo room — we still don’t know the status of it. Now she’s going to pop out of the water and drop back in.”

  The trainer violently shook, and as it clipped abruptly downward. Roth made a cutting motion across his throat signaling that the exercise was over.

  “This is exactly how it’s going to happen on the boat, gentlemen. I can’t emphasize enough how important this training is to your success as submariners.

  Unlike a surface vessel, we can’t call the Coast Guard or throw out life rafts when a casualty comes down.

  When you’re a thousand feet under, the only thing that’s going to save you is the capability of the crew.

  That’s why we spend a major part of our budget on your training. And believe me when I tell you these big bucks are going to pay off. Because if a crisis situation ever develops down there, you could bethe one who’s going to jump in and save your ship. So with that said, let’s move on to the damage-control wet trainer.”

  The group of students appeared genuinely moved by Roth’s passionate outburst as they followed him into an adjoining room. The floor here was cut by a twisting series of steel ladders that led to a lower level. This pipe-lined confined space was designed to be a scale mock-up of aportion of a submarine’s engine room.

  “What you’re lookin’ at here is the infamous damage-control wet trainer. I’m going to put you down there at the start of a casualty, and then turn on the water to simulate flooding. Take your time, do a good job, and remember that safety is our number one priority.

  Now do it, gentlemen!”

  The students proceeded to climb down into the trainer with all the gusto of a group of condemned criminals. Stanley Roth remembered well his own first experience in this simulator, and he couldn’t help but grin ashe ducked through a nearby hatchway and sealed himself inside the control room. Waiting for him there, seated in front of a computer console, was yet another veteran instructor. Chief Ezra Burke.

  “How are you doing, Ezra?” greeted Roth.

  “Are we ready to rock ‘n’ roll?”

  Chief Burke flashed him a thumbs-up.

  “I’m ready when you are, Stanley. How do you want to start them out?”

  “Let’s begin with the port and starboard lube oil, to get them in the spirit of things. Then we’ll hit them with the collision alarm and open up the ceiling gaskets.”

  Chief Burke addressed his keyboard and fed this request into the computer. Meanwhile, Roth walked over to the large, double-paned picture window and gazed down at his class. They looked worried and nervous, but the mood below turned to near panic when water began pouring into the compartment with the force of a high-pressure fire hose.

  “Flooding in the engine room!” cried the group’s senior petty officer.

  They scrambled for the tools that were laid out on a nearby table. At the same time their leader attempted to direct them to the various valves from which the water was pouring.

  “Here we go,” reflected Roth ashe continued watching from the observation window.

  The water was well over the trainees’ ankles by the time the first student reached one of the wildly spraying valves and vainly struggled to stem the onrush with a wrench. As it turned out, two other sailors had been ordered to contain this very same leak, and they merely stood in the gathering water, watching their coworker attack the ruptured valve.

  “So much for team work,” muttered Roth ashe reached for the intercom and spoke forcefully into its microphone.

  “You’ve got two men down there who aren’t doing a damn thing! Scene leader, redirect them, and do it on the double. That water level’s going nowhere but up!”

  Down in the trainer, the soaked senior petty officer turned to carryout this directive. Unfortunately, ashe pivoted he slipped on the wet deck and went sprawling, ending up flat on his back.

  Roth shook his head and covered the microphone with his hand ashe disgustedly addressed Chief Burke.

  “Allright Ezra, shut it down. I’d better get down there and convey the wrath of God.”

  Roth unsealed the hatch and climbed down to the floor below. Ashe poked his head inside the trainer, the sounds of coughing and dripping water met his car
s.

  “Gentlemen, get over here!” he instructed.

  The students somberly gathered before him. Each of them was thoroughly soaked, and Roth laid into their leader with a vengeance.

  “Petty Officer Robnick, you’re supposed to bethe man in charge. You had a serious flooding casualty here. You can’t just assign men to fight that without a follow-up. Two of your guys were just standing there for the last two minutes, picking their damn noses, while seven-hundred gallons of water a minute poured into this trainer. If you see that somebody’s not getting the job done, get some replacements in there.”

  The soaked leader of the group looked close to tears ashe nodded in response to this advice, and Roth softened his tone ashe continued.

  “It’s obvious to all of you now that a submariner has only one real enemy, and that’s the sea. So when I go back upstairs and hit you with the next casualty, I want you to attack it like you were fighting a war for your lives. Can you handle it, Mr. Robnick?”

  The group’s senior petty officer cleared his throat and spoke out.

  “I’ll try my best, sir.”

  “That’s all I’m asking,” replied Roth ashe pivoted and returned to the control room.

  Chief Burke was waiting for him at the computer console, asealed envelope in hand.

  “This just arrived for you, Stanley. It’s marked urgent.”

  Roth quickly tore open the envelope and read its contents.

  “Well, I’ll be,” he muttered.

  “You’re never going to believe this, Ezra, but I’ve just received new orders from COMSUBPAC. I’m being reassigned to Okinawa of all places. Now what do you make of that?”

  “It’s obvious that the US Navy isn’t going to let go of one of its best,” replied the grinning assistant instructor.

  “But before you run off to pack, how do you want to handle those potential bubbleheads down in the trainer?”

  Having momentarily forgotten about his class, Stanley Roth walked over to the observation window.

  “In honor of my respite, hit ‘em with the flange,” ordered Roth.

  “One ruptured flange it is,” repeated Ezra Burke, who efficiently readdressed his computer keyboard.

  Seconds later, the trainer filled with a deafening roar as 700 gallons of wildly spraying water per minute poured out of a single pipe fitting at the center of the compartment. Several of the students were immediately knocked to the deck by the force of this unexpected spate. That gained the full attention of their shocked associates.

  “Now that’s flooding,” observed Stanley Roth.

  “Welcome to the submarine force, gentlemen!”

  Seven

  The wardroom of the USS Hawkbill had a multitude of uses. It served the sub’s officers as both an eating and recreational space, and it provided a large table at which study and work could be undertaken. It was this latter activity that brought together Commander Chris Slaughter, Lieutenant Commander Benjamin Kram, and the sub’s senior sonar technician, James “Jaffers” Echoles. A tense, serious atmosphere prevailed as the trio sat around the wardroom table, intently listening to the muted, throbbing sounds being projected from the speakers of a portable cassette player.

  “That’s the best I’ve got,” offered Jaffers, who reached forward to turn the tape machine’s volume knob to maximum amplification.

  “We picked this up on the lateral array seconds before Hawkbill initiated its pursuit. The source has got to be batterypowered

  Nothing else could be so quiet.”

  “Impossible,” countered the XO.

  “We chased them for agood quarter of an hour at flank speed. And when we were forced to break off because of our galley fire, the bogey still had a couple of knots on us. No diesel-electric boat afloat has that kind of speed.”

  “Perhaps we’re dealing with some kind of newfangled, air-independent propulsion system,” offered laughter.

  “They could be running a closed-cycle diesel, or maybe even a Stirling.”

  “I think it’s fuel cells,” Jaffers declared.

  “That would account not only for the bogey’s lack of signature but for its great speed and prolonged submerged endurance.”

  The sonar technician rewound the tape. Ashe hit the play button once again, Benjamin Kram queried, “Do you think this is something new that Ivan’s trying out on us?”

  “It could very well be,” replied Slaughter.

  “Even with the socalled end of the Cold War, the Soviets are still putting out more new classes of submarines than we are.”

  Jaffers was quick to interject.

  “Unless Ivan has figured out some radical new way to muffle a nuclear reactor, I still say it’s powered by fuel cells. And there’s only one country that’s advanced enough to put such technology to work. I’ll put my money on a modified Japanese Yuushio, specially configured to give it that extra get up and go.”

  “If that’s the case, why hasn’t the Japanese Maritime SelfDefense Force shared knowledge of such a unique vessel with us? Aren’t we supposed to be allies?” asked Kram.

  The captain shook his head.

  “Not when it comes to new technologies with potential commercial applications, Ben. If Jaffers is correct, the first we’ll officially see of it is, along with everyone else, on the open market.”

  A moment of thoughtful silence followed as the distant, alien, pulsating noise of the escaping underwater bogey continued to play from the tape machine. With its conclusion, Jaffers hit the stop button and voiced his opinion.

  “It sure would be a feather in Hawkbill’s cap if we could bethe first to expose such a novel submarine for the whole world to see.”

  “If they dare cross our path again, we’ll grab that feather, Jaffers,” said Slaughter.

  “Because this time we’ll be ready for them.”

  The senior sonar operator was in the process of rewinding the tape, when Chief Mallot entered the wardroom.

  Ever since the fire, the portly chefs perpetual smile was noticeably absent. Still blaming himself for the entire incident, Mallot was all business ashe handed Chris Slaughter a folded message.

  “Captain, I was in the radio room delivering some hot joe, when this arrived for you.”

  Slaughter carefully read the dispatch, and then handed it to his XO.

  “What’s for chow, Chief?” asked Jaffers ashe pocketed the cassette tape.

  “I’m starved.”

  “We’re serving ham steak, baked beans, cranberries, and corn,” Mallot answered.

  Surprisingly enough, it proved to bethe captain who responded to this.

  “Sounds good, Mr. Mallot. But you’d better set a few extra places at the table. Because as it looks now, Hawkbill’s going to be welcoming some unscheduled guests aboard shortly.”

  The cabin of an airborne MC-13 °Combat Talon transport was a cold, noisy, inhospitable place. With a bare minimum of creature comforts, this aircraft was used for a variety of deep-penetration special operations missions. Its advanced avionics and onboard radar allowed its crew to locate extremely small drop zones and to drop the payload over unfamiliar territory with a great degree of accuracy.

  Nighttime parachute drops over water were particularly challenging. In such instances, any number of complex factors could come into play, many of them capable of causing disastrous results.

  The four members of SEAL Team Three had learned long ago to put fear out of their minds. Besides, on this particular evening, they had more important things to ponder, such as the long-cherished leave that they had just been forced to cut short. Less than seven hours ago, they’d gotten this new call to duty as they were beginning a tour of the exotic fleshpots that lay outside the main gate of the Subic Bay naval station. Much to their disbelief, they’d found themselves herded into a van by a group of burly Marines, and then whisked off to nearby dark Air Base. It was there that the MC-130 had been waiting for them.

  It was rapidly approaching seven p.m., and the tasteless MREs (
Meals Ready to Eat) that they had been served for dinner hadn’t lightened their moods any.

  They had been in the air now for over five and a half hours. Because their course had been almost due north, this put them somewhere over the East China Sea.

  As usual, the team’s orders were sketchy at best. They had been merely instructed to initiate a prearranged parachute drop into the black sea below. Further orders would await them. With the hope that this mission was only another readiness exercise dreamed up by some idiot in the Pentagon, and that they’d be able to get back to their leave as soon as it was completed, the members of SEAL Team Three did their best to make themselves comfortable.

  The cabin was illuminated by a dim red light, to protect their night vision. With nothing better to do than try to get some shuteye before their jump, the SEALs were stretched out on a hard bench that extended the length of the cabin.

  During their gruelling fifteen-week indoctrination program in Coronado, California, each man had received a nickname that had stuck with them ever since.

  Cajun was the team’s point man. Born and raised in the swamp country outside of Lake Charles, Louisiana, Cajun was a crack shot and an expert tracker. Lean and mean, he was a former linebacker at Tulane, where he’d gained notoriety after smashing an opposing quarterback’s spine during a sack. He’d joined the Navy soon afterward, and the way he saw it, now he was breaking necks for the government and getting paid for it.

  Old Dog was from neighboring Hereford, Texas, where he’d grown up on a cattle ranch. It was always said that if Bigfoot had a human equivalent, Old Dog would be it. Though a little lacking in the brains department, this six-foot, five-inch, muscular hunk of a Texan thrived on pain, and liked to inflict it too.