Sea of Death

by Richard P. Henrick

  Warlock came from the other end of the spectrum.

  Seemingly frail and mild-mannered, he hailed from Nashua, New Hampshire. By the time he was twenty, he’d already graduated MIT with honors. Yet instead of immediately going on for his doctorate, he decided to take a couple of years off and see what the “real” world was all about. He had always liked boats and electronics, so he joined the Navy. It was at the Navy’s amphibious base on Coronado Island, California, that he blossomed into full manhood as a SEAL, learning fifty ways to kill aman, and that was just with his bare hands.

  Traveler was the stud of the group. This smooth-talking lady’s man from the Show-Me state sported wavy blond hair and clear blue eyes that drew women like honey did flies. A born mimic and a natural comedian, Traveler had a deadly serious side to his personality.

  And when the chips were down, he was the guy that the team turned to.

  Watching the slumbering SEALs from the console located beside the rear hatchway to the MC-130, was the airplane’s jumpmaster. She was just noting that she could actually hear the snores of the commando known as Old Dog over the roaring whine of the four Allison turboprops when word arrived from the cockpit that they were nearing the jump site. She immediately awakened Traveler, and looked on as the strikingly handsome SEAL passed on the word to his teammates.

  There was a bare minimum of conversation as the members of SEAL Team Three groggily returned to full consciousness and prepared their equipment. In addition to parachute and black wet suit, each man was decked out in full combat gear. This included a Model 22 Type 0.9mm silenced pistol, especially developed for the SEALs by Smith and Wesson. Constructed completely of steel to prevent rust in the salt-water environment, this pistol had its own nickname — Hush Puppy, in reference to its role as a guard-dog killer.

  A bright yellow light, positioned above the rear hatch began blinking, and the jumpmaster pointed toward it and spoke out as loudly as she could.

  “You’ll be jumping in two more minutes. Please line up beside the hatch in order of deployment.”

  Cajun was the first in line, along with the heavy pack containing their deflated rubber raft. Old Dog and Warlock followed, with Traveler bringing up the rear.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to change your mind and come along with us, honey?” Traveler asked the jumpmaster.

  “There’s plenty of room for five in our raft.”

  The jumpmaster shook her head and grinned.

  “No thanks, sailor. I get seasick, even in the bathtub!”

  The yellow light was replaced by a blinking green one, and the jumpmaster spoke to the rest of the team while addressing the instruments on her console.

  “We’ve got ago for deployment at eighteen thousand feet. Please hold onto the static line while the hatch opens.”

  As instructed, the SEALs reached up and grabbed the sturdy, woven steel cable that extended the length of the cabin. Because of their present altitude, which was the highest one at which a jump could be made without oxygen, they planned a two-minute free fall before opening their square, ram-air inflated chutes manually.

  The whine of the Combat Talon’s turboprops increased to an almost deafening intensity as the hatch slowly opened. A gust of chilling night wind swept inside, while outside a curtain of pitch blackness hauntingly beckoned.

  “We’re just about there,” advised the jumpmaster, who had to practically scream out to be heard.

  “Have a safe jump, and I hope to see all of you again real soon.”

  The light turned a solid green, and she forcefully added.

  “Go for it!”

  Cajun kicked out the life raft, whose chute would be triggered automatically by barometric pressure, and then leaped out of the hatch himself. Old Dog and Warlock followed close behind, with Traveler taking a second to flash the jumpmaster a teasing wink before joining his associates.

  The first thing Traveler was aware of ashe attained astable spread position with a strong back arch was the sudden silence. Because of the pitch-black night sky, he had little sense of acceleration except for the force of the strong wind blowing up from below.

  It took him ten seconds to attain his terminal velocity of approximately 120 miles per hour. Balanced precariously now on a huge ball of air that allowed him to escape the conscious pull of gravity. Traveler did his best to relax and pull his hands and feet in closer to his body.

  Though he could easily go into a spin, backloop, or barrel roll at this point, he kept himself as level as possible to prevent an unnecessary collision with one of his blackness-veiled teammates.

  Quick glances at his chest-mounted altimeter and stop watch showed that he still had over a minute of free fall to go. This was fine with Traveler, who enjoyed sky diving whether it took place during the day or night.

  Free fall was especially thrilling. The mere thought of plummeting through the air at 174 feet per second cleared his mind and gave him a high more powerful than drugs or alcohol, one almost as intense as sex.

  He had made his first jump back in Missouri, at the age of sixteen. His instructor was a former Army Ranger, who’d made him complete a dozen static line jumps before allowing him his first short free fall. Less than a month later. Traveler had progressed to a thirty-second delay, and could even do a variety of midair hand, foot, leg, and body turns.

  Parachuting was one of the primary reasons he’d joined the Navy and volunteered for the SEAL program.

  The SEALs equipment was the best made, and he especially enjoyed jumping with one of the square, ram-air inflated canopies that allowed for pinpoint accuracy and an incredibly gentle landing.

  Aloud pulsating tone began emanating from the audible altimeter he wore strapped to his chest. This was all the warning he needed to check his stopwatch and then count off ten seconds before pulling the rip cord.

  Traveler looked up expectantly when his chute finally deployed. The darkness limited his vision, yet he instantly knew that something was not right. For some reason or other, his canopy had failed to properly inflate.

  He vigorously shook the risers, and when the chute still didn’t clear, he had no choice but to cut away the main chute and open the reserve.

  It took him eleven more long seconds to activate the calipers and cut away the twisted main canopy. By this time, the audible altimeter was emitting a nerve-racking constant tone, which indicated that he was well under 2,500 feet, and would all too soon run out of open sky.

  Traveler never had the time to panic. Instead he focused his concentration on yanking free the reserve chute and making absolutely certain that it deployed properly.

  The opening shock of the inflating canopy bounced him upward like a puppet on a string. He looked up, and the blossoming chute greeted him like along-lost lover.

  Only then did he check his altimeter and note that all of this had taken place a mere 1,200 feet above sea level., While Traveler began carefully freeing himself from his harness to prepare for splashdown, his three teammates were already swimming for the flashing white strobe that indicated the position of their raft. Cajun was the first to reach it. Ashe began the time-consuming task of cutting free the raft’s parachute harness, Warlock arrived and triggered the vessel’s compressed air-inflation device. Both SEALs were in the process of climbing into the now-inflated raft when Old Dog made his presence known with aloud splash and a fit of steady coughing.

  “Hey, Old Dog, quit swallowin’ up all the ocean and leave some water for the fish!” Cajun suggested ashe positioned himself in the raft’s bow.

  As Warlock climbed aboard, Old Dog made his appearance beside the raft in a frothing white wake of agitated seawater.

  “Shut up and give me a hand!” he managed to get out between gasps of air.

  It took the combined efforts of both Cajun and Warlock to get their hefty associate out of the water.

  “Where the hell is Traveler?” Cajun asked ashe returned to the bow.

  “I hope he didn’t stop to make a play for
that Jump jumpmaster,” remarked Warlock.

  “If he was only a few seconds late leaving that plane, he could be miles from here.”

  “I’m just prayin’ he’s not shark meat,” said Old Dog, who was propped up against the side of the raft amidships.

  “That blue-eyed bastard still owes me fifty bucks.”

  Several tense minutes followed as they vainly scanned the surrounding waters for any sign of their teammate.

  The sea itself was calm, with only an occasional gentle swell slapping up against the side of the raft. The air temperature was in the midseventies, while a myriad of stars shone forth from the crystal clear heavens.

  From his position in the stern beside the flashing strobe. Warlock did his best to stand so he could increase his line of sight.

  “Cajun, would you check the pack and see if there’s a whistle in there?” the MIT grad asked.

  “Sound will travel a hell of a lot farther than this light will.”

  “Will do. Warlock,” replied Cajun ashe bent over to rummage through the supply pack. Seconds later, he pulled out what appeared to be a large revolver.

  “It’s no whistle, but will a flare gun do?”

  “Hold it, you guys,” interrupted Old Dog.

  “I think I hear something’.”

  A barely audible splashing sound emanated from the distance, and Warlock spoke out firmly.

  “Pop out a flare, Cajun!”

  Cajun pointed the revolver overhead, pulled the trigger, and a blindingly bright orange ball shot up into the heavens.

  “Hey, Traveler, over here!” shouted Old Dog, in a booming, deep voice that could have waked the dead.

  But it was Cajun who spotted the lone figure swimming toward them with a smooth Australian crawl.

  “Hey Traveler, where ya’ been?” shouted Old Dog.

  Traveler reached the raft and calmly lifted himself onto the gunwales saying, “Thanks, ladies, for not starting the party without me.”

  Old Dog lifted him the rest of the way out of the water as though he were merely a wet rag. Meanwhile, after replacing the flare gun, Cajun pulled along coil of rubber-coated wire out of the supply pack. He curiously examined asealed, fist-sized plastic box that was attached to one end of it.

  “What do you make of this gizmo. Warlock?” he asked.

  Warlock seemed genuinely interested in the device and reached over to take it out of Cajun’s hands.

  “Well, I’ll be,” he muttered ashe studied it more closely.

  He activated a switch on the side of the box, and it began transmitting a piercingly loud, high-pitched beeping sound. Without a second thought, he then tossed the box overboard, being extra careful to tie the loose end of the coil onto the side of the raft.

  “What’s it for, Warlock?” quizzed Cajun.

  “Maybe it’s to keep the sharks away,” offered Old Dog.

  Traveler grinned.

  “Knowing the Navy, it’s probably designed to draw the sharks right to us.”

  “It’s not sharks it’s calling,” said Warlock, “but fish of a much more lethal nature. You see, this is the latest bait for catching submarines.”

  A pained expression crossed Old Dog’s face ashe figured out the nature of their next mode of transportation.

  “Shit, so that’s what this whole thing’s about. I should have known they weren’t going to drop us off in the middle of nowhere just for our health. Pigboats make me nervous. After all, us Texans like wide open spaces.”

  “Well you certainly got plenty of that, partner,” shot back Traveler.

  “Right up in that skull of yours.”

  “Fuck you, Trav!” cursed Old Dog.

  “I should have left you in the drink and let Jaws finish you.”

  “But you didn’t, did you?” returned Traveler.

  “That fifty I owe you is the greatest life-insurance policy a guy could ever have.”

  “Hey, over there!” interrupted Cajun.

  “I think we’ve got us a bite!”

  The team followed the direction of Cajun’s finger and watched in amazement as a periscope broke the water’s surface, less than ten yards from their bow. Its appearance was accompanied by a frothing white swath of bubbling ballast as the USS Hawkbill rose up from the depths like a monstrous behemoth.

  “Now don’t forget to mind your manners, ladies,” Traveler advised facetiously.

  “We’re about to mix with the real US Navy!”

  Eight

  The view from the passenger seat of the jeep was a breathtaking one. For the past half-hour. Dr. Miriam Kromer had been content to sit back and soak in the magnificence of Okinawa’s rugged northern mountains.

  Her distinguished chauffer. Vice Admiral Henry Walker, was a safe, courteous driver, who handled the twisting, narrow roadway like an expert.

  They had left Naha just as dawn was breaking and had headed due north. Once they’d passed Kadena Air Base, the traffic was at a minimum, and for the most part, they’d had the whole road to themselves.

  “That peak up ahead is Yonaha mountain,” instructed the Director of Naval Intelligence, ashe downshifted the jeep to assist it in rounding a steep curve.

  “Atone thousand six hundred and fifty feet, it’s the island’s highest elevation.”

  Dr. Kromer spotted this rounded peak through the thick forest of pine trees that hugged the road.

  “I never realized Okinawa was so hilly,” she lightly commented.

  “I thought it would be much more tropical, filled with nothing but jungle and rice fields.”

  “Only about twenty out of every one hundred acres of land here are suitable for crops,” replied Walker.

  “And as for those rice fields, until America constructed a series of dams in these hills after World War II; the principal crops here were sweet potatoes, sugar cane, and garden vegetables.”

  Kromer absorbed this information while the jeep began to make its way up a steep incline. The vehicle momentarily coughed and sputtered, and it took Henry Walker several tries to find the proper gear for climbing.

  “I’m afraid my driving’s a little rusty,” apologized the silver-haired flag officer.

  “You’re doing just fine,” returned the lexicologist.

  “I must admit, it sure is a welcome change of pace to be traveling by car. I’ve had my fill of helicopters, carriers, and airplanes.”

  The jeep reached the top of the rise and Walker shifted into third gear to begin along stretch of fairly flat, windy roadway.

  “I want to thank you again for agreeing to join our team. Dr. Kromer. This is certainly above and beyond the call of duty on your part.”

  The redhead looked to her left and smiled.

  “To tell you the truth. Admiral, next to working in the lab, I enjoy being out in the field. Office work stifles me.”

  “Tell me about it. Doc,” replied Walker with an introspective grin.

  “I’ve sailed nothing but a desk for too many years now. And by the way, I had a chance to read up on you a bit. I believe I know your father. Is he the Dr.

  Charles Kromer who was chief of staff at Bethesda Naval Hospital back in the seventies?”

  Kromer nodded.

  “That’s him, allright Dad officially retired five years ago, though he still sees patients three days a week at a Washington, D.C.” low-income clinic.”

  “Well he did a hell of a fine job at Bethesda, and I’m certain he’d be very proud of his daughter right now if he knew what you were taking on.”

  This sincere compliment hit home, and Kromer was momentarily lost in thought before replying.

  “It was because of my father’s involvement with treating Viet Nam veterans exposed to Agent Orange, that I became interested in my current line of work. He was one of the first to speak out on the dangers of biological and chemical warfare, and I know this operation to destroy the anthrax lab would gain his full support.”

  The jeep entered a broad, steeply banked curve that opened up
to a short stretch of narrow asphalt pavement.

  A closed, chainlink security fence blocked the road here, and Walker was forced to hit the brakes and shift the jeep into neutral. No sooner did the vehicle come to a complete halt than a fully armed Marine wearing camouflaged fatigues materialized out of the woods and approached them.

  “Good morning,” the sentry said in a no-nonsense tone.

  “May I see your id’s?”

  Both of the jeep’s passengers handed over the heavy plastic identification cards that had been issued to them back in Naha. The Marine studiously scrutinized the stamp-sized photograph that graced each one before handing them back and saluting.

  “Welcome to Alpha Base, Admiral Walker, Dr. Kromer. We’ve been expecting you. Please drive carefully, and don’t forget to keep your headlights on bright.”

  With this enigmatic greeting, the sentry stepped aside and hit a remote-control switch that caused the gate to swing open.

  Henry Walker put the jeep into gear, and as they began moving forward once again, his passenger noticed that the roadway they were now following stretched barely twenty yards before abruptly ending at the solid rock face of a mountain. Walker showed no signs of braking, and Miriam Kromer was quick to voice her concern.

  “Uh, Admiral, I think you’re about to run out of pavement up ahead.”

  Strangely enough, this observation generated only a sly smile as Walker continued driving straight toward the wall of rock. As it turned out, Miriam Kromer was spared further distress when that portion of the mountain situated directly in front of the road began rolling upward and a tunnel was exposed. The jeep drove right into this abyss that was lit by an occasional overhead lamp.

  “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you. Admiral?”

  Miriam managed to say between relieved breaths.

  “Just wait,” returned Walker eagerly.

  “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

  The dimly lit tunnel was obviously conveying them deep into the mountain’s core, and Henry Walker’s words echoed in the dark void.

  “This facility was originally designed by the Japanese for use during World War II. The war was over before it was fully operational, and that’s when we took it over.”