Sea of Death

by Richard P. Henrick

  A series of flickering lights beckoned invitingly up ahead, and all too soon the narrow tunnel opened up into a huge, brightly lit cavern that had been literally hollowed out of the mountain’s base. The road sloped downward here, and Walker momentarily stopped the jeep so that his passenger could take in the amazing vista before her.

  It proved to bethe blindingly bright sparks of a welder’s torch that drew Miriam’s glance to the cavern’s floor. Here an immense dry dock was situated, afoot-long, silver-skinned submarine perched securely inside it. Dozens of metal workers wearing hard hats were gathered around this vessel’s v-shaped hull, on which the visible damage was mainly confined to the bow.

  As she caught sight of the adjoining two-sided pier, and the channel of water that disappeared into yet another dark tunnel, the toxicologist struggled to find the words to express herself.

  “So this is Alpha Base. Why it’s simply amazing!”

  “We’re extremely fortunate that this facility was available,” replied Henry Walker.

  “Security in this operation is a number one consideration, and by staffing Alpha with US Navy personnel exclusively, we can, hopefully, keep the lid on our little secret.”

  He carefully put the jeep into gear and slowly drove them down to the floor of the cavern. Here they parked, exited the vehicle, and began making their way on foot to the dry dock.

  “Is this facility used often?” Miriam asked. She couldn’t seem to take her eyes off the approaching submarine.

  Walker was quick with an answer.

  “Would you believe that this is a first. Alpha is what we call a Doomsday facility.

  It’s designed to be utilized by our submarines for refit and repair in the event of a global nuclear war.”

  As they began climbing up the gangway that led to the sub, two gray-haired civilians could be seen standing on its exposed sail. One of them let out a piercing whistle, while the other shouted out in warm greeting.

  “Good morning. Henry. What took you so long?”

  The Director of Naval Intelligence stopped dead in his tracks, looked up at the source of this query, and answered while shaking his head in astonishment.

  “Bill Brown, Pete Frystak, why you old water rats! I wasn’t expecting you until later this afternoon.”

  “And here I thought they called you director of intelligence,” Brown responded with a teasing wink.

  “See you in the wardroom, Henry.”

  The two civilians disappeared off the sail, and Walker explained who they were while escorting Dr. Kromer toward the sub’s forward hatch.

  “I served with Bill Brown back in nineteen fifty-eight, when I was his executive officer aboard the USS Cubera. He’s a hell of a guy, and almost as good a submariner as Pete Frystak, who was our weapons officer.

  Pete could fix everything aboard that pigboat but a broken heart.”

  A grease-covered sailor emerged from the deck hatch that they were about to transit, and Henry Walker took a moment to address him.

  “How does she look down there, Chief?”

  The mustached petty officer replied while utilizing a handkerchief to wipe grease off his forehead.

  “I’m afraid it’s not a pretty sight. Admiral, especially in the forward torpedo room.”

  “In your opinion, will we be able to meet our repair schedule?” added Walker.

  “Just keep the manpower and supplies flowing and we’ll certainly give it our best shot, sir,” returned the petty officer directly.

  “I hear you. Chief,” replied Walker.

  “Thanks for your time.”

  They traded salutes, and as the chief went on with his business, Henry Walker looked over to readdress his redheaded guest.

  “Have you ever been inside a submarine before, Doc?”

  “Does Disneyland count?” asked Kromer in all seriousness.

  “Well, no matter,” returned Walker.

  “Just follow me and take your time. It’s a bit tight at first, but you’ll get used to it eventually.”

  The heavy scent of machine oil flavored the air as Kromer began to make her way down a steep ladder. The hatch was barely wide enough to accommodate her shoulders, and it was with great relief that she finally dropped down onto the deck below. This put her in a cramped passageway, and it proved to be her alert escort who alleviated her fear of more such descents.

  “This submarine is a Romeoclass vessel. It was origi nally designed by the Soviet Navy. It has only one usable interior deck, with the batteries stored below. So you can relax. This is the extent of our climb.”

  Walker pointed down the forward passageway, where the intense spark of a welder’s torch glowed in the distance.

  “That’s the way to the bow torpedo tubes. We’re going to proceed the other way which is aft, past the control room and into the living spaces.”

  They began transitting a pipe-lined passageway that was amazingly narrow, and Kromer vented her curiosity.

  “Admiral, if this submarine is of Soviet design, then how do you know her layout so well.”

  “Good question, Doc,” said Walker without breaking stride.

  “You see, I toured one in New London once before. And the guy who piloted that particular Romeo to the beautiful shores of Connecticut is waiting for us just up ahead.”

  Not certain what he was talking about, Kromer followed him into the largest compartment yet encountered.

  There was an amazing amount of machinery packed into this relatively small space. The low ceiling was covered with valves and snaking pipes, while the bulkheads were lined with a variety of old-fashioned, bulky consoles, with not a single computer keyboard or digital readout in evidence.

  “It’s a bit outdated, but this is the control room,” the vice admiral informed her.

  “This compartment is the nerve center of the boat.”

  He pointed toward the forward bulkhead, where two leather-upholstered, deckmounted chairs with seat belts attached to them faced a pair of airplanelike steering wheels and a wall of dials and gauges with Japanese labels.

  “That’s where the planesmen sit,” he added.

  “By controlling the hydroplanes and the rudder, they can turn the sub and determine its depth.”

  Walker next referred her to an adjoining console that had dozens of small toggle switches and red and green glass bulbs on it.

  “And that’s the diving console. Doc. It doesn’t take much imagination to figure out why we used to call it the Christmas tree. By flicking those switches, the diving officer can influence the buoyancy of the sub and cause it to dive by venting off the air entrapped in the boat’s ballast tanks. As these tanks fill with seawater, the boat loses its positive buoyancy and sinks beneath the surface.”

  “And if you want to surface?” questioned Kromer.

  “Then the procedure is reversed, and the vent valves are shut, while compressed air is released into the tanks, expelling the seawater and sending the boat topside once more.”

  “Is this same system used in today’s US submarines?”

  asked the toxicologist, who was amazed with how simple it all sounded.

  Walker answered while guiding her past the control room’s other consoles as they continued heading aft.

  “The basic principle is similar, but the equipment in our nuke boats is several generations more advanced than what you’re seeing around you. In fact, that diving console back there doesn’t look much different than the one I learned to operate back in the nineteen fifties.”

  He quickly pointed out the stations belonging to radar, sonar, and fire control, and showed her where the periscope was stored. They ducked through another hatch, and entered a passageway lined with several curtained compartments. Kromer didn’t want to miss a thing, and she pushed aside one of the curtains and peeked inside. A cramped stateroom, about the size of her closet back home, met her eyes. Completely filling it was a narrow, three-tiered bunk, with the mattresses barely afoot apart from each other.

&nb
sp; “How in the world do you turn over?” quizzed the puzzled scientist.

  “You don’t,” answered Walker, who also peeked around the curtain.

  “It sure doesn’t look very comfortable,” continued Kromer.

  “And this is officer’s country. Doc. Wait until you see where the enlisted men bunk. Compared to their quarters, this is the lap of luxury.”

  Kromer looked glum as she joined Walker back in the passageway. Quick to pick up on her sudden mood change, the senior officer did his best to lighten her spirits.

  “You’re not having second thoughts, are you. Doc?

  Believe me, you have nothing to worry about. This old rust bucket’s guaranteed to have a private cabin for the captain’s use, and that’s where we plan to stow you.

  Hey, cheer up. I smell fresh coffee perking!”

  Another hatch led them to the wardroom. This compact, wood-lined compartment was dominated by an elongated table, where the two gray-haired civilians they had seen outside were seated, contentedly drinking coffee.

  “I should have known we’d find you guys hogging the joe,” greeted Walker.

  Bill Brown stood and warmly embraced the flag officer.

  “Damn, but it’s good to see you again. Henry. What’s it been, three years now since I’ve seen that ugly mug of yours?”

  Walker attempted some quick mental arithmetic before responding.

  “Has it really been that long. Bill?”

  “It certainly has. Henry,” Brown replied.

  “That’s when you did us the honor of attending the last annual Cubera reunion. Of course, I see you’ve had a little change of rank and job description since then. We’re all damn proud of you. Henry.”

  “I’ll second that. Admiral,” said Pete Frystak ashe stood and offered the flag officer a hearty handshake.

  “Why, thank you, Pete,” returned Walker.

  “You’re certainly looking as fit as ever. The resort business appears to have been good to you.”

  “It’s a lot of work, but Kath and I love it down there in the Keys.”

  “And how is your lovely bride?” asked Walker.

  Pete Frystak shrugged his shoulders.

  “What can I say? Kath’s asheadstrong and stubborn as ever. Yet after thirty-five years of marriage, I still wake up every morning knowing I’m the luckiest guy in the world to have her by my side.”

  A fond grin turned the corners of Walker’s mouth.

  “I’ll never forget the day you two were hitched. You know, I can’t say I’ve been to a wedding on a submarine since.”

  Suddenly remembering his own guest, Walker turned to beckon forth Miriam Kromer.

  “I’m sorry. Doc. Let me do the honor of introducing Bill Brown and Pete Frystak, two of the finest sailors I’ve ever had the privilege of serving with. Gentlemen, this is Dr. Miriam Kromer.”

  They traded handshakes, and Kromer instantly liked this group of handsome, silver-haired veterans. They reminded her of her father and of his warmhearted friends on the hospital staff back in Washington, D.C.

  “Gee, Henry,” deadpanned Bill Brown.

  “I didn’t realize we were going to have to take a physical for this job.”

  “I’m not a physician, Mr. Brown,” she said.

  “I’m a toxicologist, based at Ft. Detrick, Maryland.”

  “A what?” quizzed Pete Frystak.

  Henry Walker was quick to intercede at this point.

  “We’ll be explaining all that during this afternoon’s briefing, once everyone has arrived. And speaking of the devil, how in the hell did you guys beat us here?”

  “That MAC flight you put us on out of Homestead was able to leave earlier than originally scheduled,” explained Bill Brown.

  “Headwinds were at a minimum, and here we are.”

  “I’m still thanking my lucky stars that both of you were available,” said Henry Walker.

  “By the way, what do you think of Alpha Base?”

  “It’s absolutely incredible,” Pete Frystak responded.

  “Why I’ve never seen anything quite like it before.”

  “At least now I finally know where all of our tax dollars are disappearing to,” added Bill Brown.

  “As I was explaining to the doc here,” said Walker.

  “Most of this facility was completed at the expense of the Japanese. It was scheduled to come on-line in the fall of nineteen forty-five, and by that time it was ours.”

  A young sailor entered the wardroom, carrying a large thermos and two mugs.

  “I’ve got some more hot coffee here,” he said uneasily.

  “I’m afraid the galley is for the most part still inoperable, though I could throw together some cold sandwiches if you’d like.”

  “The coffee will do for now, sailor.” Henry Walker beckoned his associates to sit down.

  As the orderly exited. Walker filled the two mugs and handed one to the toxicologist. He took a sip before continuing.

  “Have you gotten a chance to see much of this Romeo yet. Bill?”

  Brown looked up from his mug and answered.

  “We were just finishing up a preliminary walk-through when you two arrived.”

  Walker intently searched his old shipmate’s eyes.

  “What do you think. Bill, can we sail her again?”

  Brown’s serious gaze didn’t flinch.

  “I don’t see why not. Though a lot depends on the condition of her diesels and batteries.”

  “Too bad we don’t have the expert services of Stanley Roth,” said Pete Frystak.

  “He’d be able to size up the state of that engine room soon enough.”

  Henry Walker couldn’t help but smile.

  “What would you say if I told you that Master Chief Stanley Roth was on his way to Alpha Base from New London, Connecticut, even as we speak?”

  “That’s wonderful news,” observed Bill Brown.

  “Stanley knows the engine room of a Romeo better than any American alive today. He’ll get this pigboat up and running if he has to complete a full overhaul all by himself.”

  “That’s all well and fine. Skipper,” interrupted Pete Frystak.

  “But speaking as your former weapons officer, this boat’s going nowhere until that forward torpedo room is squared away. There’s still a hell of a lot of work up there before that compartment’s shipshape.”

  “I understand that, Pete,” returned Brown.

  “Yet overall, for a Soviet-designed submarine built for export by the People’s Republic of China, I’d say she doesn’t look all that bad. Especially after that little collision she was involved in. What did she hit anyway?”

  Henry Walker took along sip of coffee and scanned the faces of his audience while he replied.

  “This little lady tangled with a reef off the coast of Kadena Air Force Base and lost. Over two-thirds of her fifty-man crew died from injuries sustained as a result of the initial collision. Most of them suffocated to death, when chlorine gas was released out of the battery well.”

  “You never did say who she belongs to, or what they were doing off Kadena,” astutely observed Bill Brown.

  Walker once more took a moment to study the faces of his audience before responding.

  “I was going to cover all of that during this afternoon’s briefing, once the entire team has arrived. But here it is in a nutshell. This vessel’s name is Bokken. It belongs to Ishii Industries, a privately owned conglomerate based on Takara Island in the Ryukyu chain. We have gathered solid evidence which proves that the Bokken was being utilized to smuggle deadly biological toxins into Kadena, with the purpose of releasing them into the air downwind of the SAC base. We have further proof that this attack was not to be an isolated one, but that a subsequent biological release would take place at our naval facility at Sasebo in a week’s time.”

  “I hate to show my ignorance once again,” interrupted Pete Frystak, “but what exactly is a biological toxin?”

  Walker looked ov
er at Miriam Kromer, who expertly answered this question.

  “Put simply,” she explained, “it’s a disease, that in this instance has been made in a laboratory for the express purpose of killing human beings.”

  “And I suppose this lab just happens to be on Takara Island,” continued Bill Brown.

  “And that the Bokken will have something to do with removing it from the face of the earth.”

  Walker solemnly nodded that the veteran was correct and went on to add, “In a week’s time, I hope to use the Bokken to penetrate the bay on which this lab is situated and then land a SEAL team to destroy it. Dr. Kromer has graciously consented to accompany the SEALs and ensure that their explosives eliminate the entire installation.”

  “Wouldn’t it be a lot easier to use one of our own subs for this purpose?” asked Pete Frystak.

  Henry Walker took a sip of coffee and then answered the retired weapons officer.

  “That’s been seriously considered, Pete. And I wish we could. Unfortunately, the bay we’ve been tasked to penetrate is filled with hydro117 phones and CAPTOR mines. As you may very well know, the CAPTOR is one of the new SMART weapons that are programmed to allow friendly vessels to pass without harm, but they explode beneath those that don’t belong. They do so by analyzing the sound signature of the approaching ship.

  “Since the Bokken is homeported in this same bay, and because the bastards at Ishii Industries still don’t know we have her, we should have a clean shot coming in. Though going out could be another story.”

  Bill Brown had one more concern to voice.

  “And just who do you plan to get from today’s nuclear Navy to drive the Bokken, Henry? You know as well as I that we lost our last qualified diesel-electric crew back in the fall of nineteen ninety, when they retired the Blueback.”

  The Director of Naval Intelligence sat forward and got right to the point.

  “I’m pulling fifty of the brightest submariners in the entire US Navy off the USS Hawkbill, a Sturgeon-class attack sub that has been operating in the vicinity. In fact, they should be arriving here any minute now, along with that team of SEALs. I’m relying on you to teach these youngsters all you know about the Romeoclass- and the operation of a diesel-electric.”