Sea of Death

by Richard P. Henrick

  Henry Walker stood for added emphasis.

  “I know it’s not going to be an easy job for any of you. The crew of the Hawkbill comes from anew, improved navy.

  They’re nukes, weaned on computers and other newfangled hightech gear, that wasn’t even on the drawing boards when we were their age.

  “Yet I can assure you, you’ll never meet amore intelligent, receptive, inquisitive bunch of sailors as those lads. And they’re going to be relying on you to teach them the intricacies of this boat, and more importantly, how to operate a submarine the old-fashioned way, with sweat, brains, and guts!”

  Nine

  Captain Satsugai Okura was not only a veteran submariner, but an accomplished pilot as well. He’d learned to fly at the Eta Jima Naval Academy as a junior ensign. His instructor had said he was a natural, and he’d been considering a career in aviation when he went to sea in a submarine for the first time.

  From that moment on, however, there was no doubt in his mind that the life of an undersea warrior was for him.

  One of the benefits of his current job was that his employer allowed him to command a submarine and fly the company plane whenever time allowed. And what an amazing, historic aircraft this was!

  Dr. Ishii, who was also an avid flyer, had purchased the Model-21 Zero fighter shortly after the war’s conclusion.

  It had been built by Mitsubishi in 1943, and was in mint condition. The twenty-three-foot-long, all metal, low-wing monoplane had a clean, smooth exterior, and weighed less than 5,500 pounds. Captain Okura knew very well that it was this incredibly light weight, combined with a powerful fourteen-cylinder, 950-horsepower Nakajima Sakae engine, that had made the Zero the most agile of all World War II fighter planes.

  Okura’s current flight had begun when he’d taken off from the Takara Island airfield shortly after breakfast. This was not to be just an ordinary pleasure flight, and he’d turned the Zero on a southerly heading at an altitude of 15,000 feet. It took him a little less than an hour to complete the two-hundred-and-ten-mile flight to Okinawa.

  A storm front had recently moved through the area, and Okura was forced to descend to 5,000 feet to get below the cloud deck. The air at that altitude was a bit unstable, yet the legendary fighter handled like a dream as Okura passed over the rugged northern portion of the island, and continued on toward its major population centers that lay farther south.

  Back in 1944, over a thousand Japanese Zeros had flown over this same island, in the greatest kamikaze attack of alltime Twenty-six American ships were lost during this engagement, with another one hundred and sixty-four seriously damaged.

  Okura wondered what it would have been like to participate in such an endeavor. The kamikaze, or divine wind, embodied all that was noble and brave. Th put one’s life on the line for the sake of the Emperor was the ultimate test of loyalty, and Okura was invigorated by the mere thought of thousands of brave young pilots diving to their deaths, in defense of Imperial Nippon.

  Except for the fact that his plane carried no armaments and had its wing and fuselage insignia covered, Okura’s Zero could very easily have participated in this same attack. Yet almost half a century had passed since the divine winds last blew. During this span of time, Japan had been forced to accept a humiliating, unconditional surrender, and to face the indignity of along, Western occupation. Such a thought sickened Okura, who wondered what the thousands of brave kamikaze pilots would think of this horrifying outcome.

  But Dr. Ishii’s Black Dragon Society existed to make certain they hadn’t died in vain. Its ultimate goal was the removal of the foreign occupiers from Japan’s holy soil and the reascension of the Emperor to his rightful place as supreme leader of the Japanese people.

  Proud to be apart of this movement, Okura made certain to steer well clear of Kadena Air Base. To escape the American radar screens, he put the Zero into a steep dive, and followed a lush green valley at near treetop level all the way to the outskirts of Naha.

  The capital city was his ultimate goal, and he gained a couple of hundred feet of altitude at this point before circling it. It was now time for the next portion of his flight plan to begin, so Okura slid back the plexiglass canopy and readied his camera.

  A chill blast of air entered the open cockpit, only to be countered by the fleece-lined, leather bomber jacket and soft helmet that he wore. Okura smiled upon sighting a large white ship docked in the distance.

  With this goal in mind, he turned the Zero toward Naha harbor and reached down to snap on the camera’s telephoto lens.

  Dr. Yukio Ishii spent his morning working in one of the seven Biohazard Level Four laboratories that occupied a separate building at his Takara facility. This lab was specially designed so that any substance handled in it could not be accidentally released into the outside environment. A large shatter-proof, triple-paned window looked out onto a well-lit, white-tiled corridor, along which the other labs were situated.

  Every possible precaution had been taken to insure the safety of Ishii and his staff in this portion of the complex, including a variety of highly enforced sanitary procedures, an extremely powerful ventilation system, dozens of ceiling-mounted emergency shower heads, and the required wearing of a self-sustaining biohazard-containment suit. Made of alightweight, puncture-proof plastic compound, this head-to-toe suit was similar to those worn by the astronauts. It included a fully enclosed helmet, and was ventilated by means of an oxygen tether.

  Dr. Ishii was decked out in such an outfit ashe diligently worked on setting up an allimportant experiment designed to determine the potency of the latest batch of anthrax toxin. His assistant was Yoko Noguchi, the newest member of his staff. Attaining the services of this talented twenty-six-year-old toxicologist had been something of a coup for Ishii. After graduating number one in her class at Tokyo University, she could have chosen to work for any number of prestigious institutions. Much to Ishii’s delight, she’d chosen his, arriving on Takara only three days ago.

  A glass cage holding a large rat had been set up in the center of the lab. Several plastic ventilation tubes connected it to an adjoining air compressor. It was immediately beside this compact device that Ishii and his assistant were huddled.

  “Prepare for strain introduction. Miss Noguchi,” Ishii advised somewhat impatiently.

  “I’m anxious to see if this new preparation process is an effective one.”

  Yoko Noguchi carefully picked up apartially filled test tube with a gloved hand and poured its clear contents into the mouth of the glass beaker that was mounted on top of the compressor. Her hand was trembling slightly as she opened the valve positioned beside the beaker and watched the liquid disappear into the machinery below.

  “Good,” said Ishii, whose own gloved hand went to the compressor’s power switch. Before turning it on, he added.

  “This minute sample has been diluted in such away that only a tiny fraction of the anthrax will be inhaled. Yet because of our new process, it should be just as powerful as our old method, which required increased amounts of the actual toxin to be utilized.

  Now we shall see if it works as well in practice as in theory.”

  Ishii switched on the power switch, and the compressor activated with a muted hum. All eyes went to the glass cage, where the rat curiously sniffed the current of just introduced, tainted air. After a single breath, the rodent’s lungs suddenly seemed to freeze.

  The bulging-eyed creature vainly attempted one more frantic inhalation before being caught in a fit of violent shaking. A second later, it was dead.

  A satisfied grin turned up the corners of Ishii’s mustached mouth ashe caught the serious glance of his research assistant.

  “So, Miss Noguchi. It appears that science has triumphed one more time.”

  “That it has,” replied the soft-spoken toxicologist.

  “Please excuse my boldness, sir. But may I ask why such an enhanced strain is needed? Surely nature’s very own strain of anthrax can kill just as effectively.�
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  Ishii answered cautiously.

  “As explained during your initial orientation, an all-purpose vaccine for diseases such as anthrax must be tested against the most virulent form of the organism in existence before it can be deemed a success.”

  “But surely we would never encounter such a genet ically mutated strain in the outside world,” countered the young scientist.

  “Can you honestly say that with all certainty, Miss Noguchi?” replied Ishii.

  A steady thumping noise diverted his attention to the display window that fronted the lab. Knocking on the triple-paned glass was aman decked out in a leather bomber jacket. Ishii was quick to identify him as Satsugai Okura. The veteran mariner held a large envelope in his free hand, and his expression told Ishii that he had important news.

  “Excuse me. Miss Noguchi,” Ishii said with a polite bow.

  “But it appears that I’m needed elsewhere at the moment. You may get on with the autopsy. And please, let’s continue our discussion over tea later.

  Your views are most interesting, and since you are now apart of our family, I have many of my own ideas to share with you.”

  Ishii bowed again, before turning and exiting the lab byway of a sealed hatch in the side wall. This led him directly into an adjoining dressing room. Only after stripping off his containment suit and replacing it with a white martial-arts robe did he continue on through yet another sealed hatch and then into a nearby office, where Okura was waiting for him.

  “Whatever is so urgent, Satsugai?” Ishii asked lightly.

  “We were just testing the latest batch of genetically altered anthrax toxin, and the initial results are most promising. This new strain appears to have three times the potency of the old one.”

  Okura found it difficult to hold back his excitement.

  “That’s very good to hear, Sensei. But wait until you see the results of my just concluded aerial reconnaissance of Naha. It’s everything that we hoped for and more!”

  Okura opened the envelope he had been carrying and pulled out several large black and white photographs.

  Ishii led the way over to the room’s sole desk, reached for his bifocals, and snapped on a halogen lamp. He then took the photos and began to examine them.

  The first print showed an immense white ship with a bright red cross painted on its hull. It was tied to the pier of a crowded dock, and Okura was quick to identify it.

  “That’s the US Navy hospital ship, Mercy. It arrived sometime late last night. Note all the ambulances parked beside it.”

  Ishii went on to the next photo. It showed an aerial view of a solidly built, four-story brick building surrounded by a packed parking lot. Again it was Okura who provided the commentary.

  “What you’re looking at now is Naha General Hospital.

  Once more, note all the ambulances lined up in front of its entrance. Why it appears that every emergency vehicle on Okinawa is in use.”

  Ishii grunted and examined the print that followed.

  This was a street scene, taken from an altitude of barely a thousand feet. The narrow, twisting thoroughfare was conspicuously empty, except for a group of individuals dressed in what appeared to be hooded, biological-containment suits complete with oxygen tanks on their backs.

  “This shot was taken as close as I dared fly to the entrance of the SAC base. It should be noted that all of the streets in this area were similarly vacant, while on those closer to the heart of Naha, it was business as usual.”

  Ishii heavily responded.

  “So Satsugai, it indeed appears as if Captain Sato and the crew of the Bokken have succeeded with the first half of their mission.”

  “Sensei,” returned Okura guardedly, “strangely enough, my monitoring of Kadena’s main radio station made no mention of our attack.”

  “What’s so strange about that, Satsugai?” replied Ishii ashe handed back the photos.

  “This isn’t the kind of tragedy that the proud US military likes made public. You watch, there will be absolutely no mention of this costly incident in their newspapers cither.

  Yet once the scientists at Kadena complete their tests and realize the extent of the contamination present, the Air Force will make up some lame excuse to permanently close the facility. And that will be it for sac’s presence on Okinawa. Now, if only things go this well at Sasebo.”

  “Hopefully, my overflight of the American Navy base there eight days from now will show similar results,” said Okura.

  Ishii grinned and shook his head to the contrary.

  “I’m afraid that’s one surveillance flight you won’t be making, my friend. You see, I’ve decided to move up our schedule. One week from tonight, the Katana will set sail for Tokyo Bay. Then you will hit the Americans a lethal blow with our latest batch of toxin, eliminating their Yokosuka naval facility and the ring of air and army bases that encircle the capital city. And at long last, Nippon will be free from foreign military occupation!”

  Ten

  It took Stanley Roth the better part of twenty-four hours to make it to Alpha Base. As it turned out, the most trying part of this long trip was the relatively short drive up from Kadena. It took place in a driving rainstorm, and the narrow, winding road up Okinawa’s northern spine was particularly treacherous.

  In his entire thirty-four-year naval career, the balding, potbellied master chief had never dreamed that a facility like the one he was currently entering had ever existed. The side of a mountain that opened up to reveal the top-secret military facilities within belonged in the world of fiction, not reality. Or so he thought, until the van that had conveyed him from Kadena drove into the dark tunnel and continued on deep into the mountain’s interior.

  Stanley certainly wasn’t prepared for the scene that awaited him when they reached the mountain’s hollowed-out core. So astounded washe by it, he had his driver halt a moment at an overlook so he could take in the incredible scope of it all.

  At the floor of the immense, brightly lit cavern that now lay before him was a channel of water, leading to a dual-sided pier. Floating on one side of this structure was what appeared to be a Sturgeon-class nuclear-powered attack sub, the majority of its sleek hull still underwater. And beside that, in dry dock, was the familiar profile of yet another submarine.

  Because this vessel was out of the water, its hull was completely visible. Some fifty feet shorter than that of the warship beside it, this vessel left no doubt in Roth’s mind about its class.

  “Holy Mother Mary,” muttered Stanley as the reality of it all began to sink in. He finally knew why he had been called these thousands of miles to the other side of the world.

  His mind was awash in memories as they continued down to the pier, and when he left the van, he wasn’t all that surprised to spot three silver-haired figures emerging from the Sturgeon-class sub’s aft hatchway, followed by a younger officer in khakis. It was apparent that they hadn’t seen Stanley as yet, and the newcomer grinned in anticipation of the reunion that would all too soon betaking place.

  He tried to act as nonchalant as possible ashe slung his seabag over his shoulder and made his way up the nuclear sub’s forward gangway. An alert seaman carrying a combat shotgun checked his name off a list of authorized personnel, and Stanley silently continued aft, toward the group of ex-shipmates he still hoped to take by surprise. Their backs were toward him, and he could actually hear part of their conversation.

  “That was a hell of a fine tour. Commander Slaughter,” said the velvety voice of Vice Admiral Henry Walker, who’d been Stanley’s first XO thirty-five years ago aboard the USS Cubera.

  “I’ll second that,” added Pete Frystak, the

  Cubera’s ex-weapons officer and for many years Stanley’s closest friend.

  “And I’m going to take you up on that raincheck for a ride in this little lady. Commander,” said a deep voice that could only belong to Bill Brown, the Cubera’s skipper and one of the finest men Stanley had ever served under.

&n
bsp; Relishing this special moment, Stanley stepped forward as his ex-skipper continued.

  “I wonder if your men realize what they’re about to get involved in. Commander. The difference between this ship and the Romeo is like day and night.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothin’ they can’t handle. Skipper,” intervened Stanley Roth, who had already sized up the situation and now made the best of his surprise appearance.

  “I guess we’re just going to have to teach them the basics all over again — reintroduce them to the world before computers. I sure hope they don’t mind getting their hands dirty.”

  “Stanley!” exclaimed Pete Frystak ashe stepped forward to hug his old buddy.

  “I guess we can all breathe easier. Master Chief Roth is — at long last — here,” commented Henry Walker with a wide smile.

  “Now tell me, Roth, who spilled the beans to you about this mission?”

  Before answering him, Stanley traded a warm handshake with Bill Brown.

  “To tell you the truth, Admiral, it didn’t take an officer’s commission to figure out what the hell was goin’ on here the moment I laid my eyes on this incredible place.” Stanley winked.

  “But it really became obvious when the three of you climbed out of that hatch. I take it that it’s nineteen fifty-eight played all over again?”

  “You’ve just about got it right, Stanley,” returned Henry Walker, who was noticeably relieved.

  “For a minute there, I thought that we might have had a slipup in security.”

  Suddenly remembering their host. Walker looked toward the middle-aged officer in their midst and added.

  “Commander Slaughter, I’d like you to meet Master Chief Stanley Roth. We’re going to be relying on Mr. Roth here to size up the conditions inside our Romeo’s engine room and then teach your men the ins and outs of running those Chinese diesels.”

  “Ah, so she’s a Chink,” reflected Stanley ashe turned his glance back toward the dry dock.