“I’m Petty Officer Howard Mallot, Chief. And you’re welcome in “Howard’s Kitchen’ anytime, day or night!”, “You’re on,” said Stanley, ashe placed his empty plate in the tiny sink and somewhat reluctantly turned to get on with his duty.
A short transit down a pipe-lined passageway led him directly into the engine room. Here he found three of his machinists gathered around one of the compartment’s two 2,000-horsepower diesel engines.
The men seemed totally absorbed in an examination of the exhaust manifold, and Stanley got right down to business.
“How did that oil pressure test go, gentlemen?”
The Hawkbill’s senior machinist, Petty Officer First Class Bob Marchetto, answered somewhat tentatively.
“The pressure reading seems a bit low, Chief. We ran the engine until it attained operating temperature, then shut it off and installed the pressure gauge in aport of the main oil gallery. We started her up again and checked the pressure twice more, once at idle and once at maximum governor speed. And in each instance, the reading was below the specs you gave us.”
“And your diagnosis?” tested Stanley.
The brawny senior machinist answered while thoughtfully stroking his beard-stubbled jaw.
“It could be a worn oil pump, or perhaps the pump’s pressure-relief valve is stuck in an open position.
Then there’s always the possibility that the engine bearings are worn.”
Stanley seemed pleased with this response.
“I’m impressed, Mr. Marchetto. But there’s one possibility you overlooked. Before we go tearing out the oil pump or needlessly replacing those bearings, how about first checking the oil itself. Perhaps all we’ve got here is the use of an improper oil weight with too low of a viscosity.”
Stanley led them over to the oil reservoir. He removed the cover plate and, with the assistance of a small flashlight, peered inside to check the ‘contents.
“Holy Mother Mary!” he exclaimed in astonishment.
“Just look at that sludge down there! This place was a breakdown just waiting to happen.”
Each of the three machinists had a look as Stanley continued.
“As I always tell my people, don’t neglect that oil. It’s the life’s blood of an engine, and if not changed regularly will cost you in the long run each and every time.”
Satisfied that he had made his point, the veteran got on with the task of readdressing this problem.
“Mr. Marchetto, you may have the invaluable assistance of Seaman Tabor here to find away to drain that reservoir. And while you’re at it, pull the oil filter. Odds are it’s just as dirty. Seaman Orlovick, you come with me.”
Stanley led the way aft. The sailor he’d picked to accompany him was a short, wiry, intense young man with a no-nonsense attitude. He had been a reactor specialist on the Hawkbill.
“What do you think of your new duty, son?” Stanley asked.
Orlovick thought a moment before replying.
“It sure is different than the Hawkbill.”
“I imagine so,” returned the veteran ashe climbed down onto the catwalk that separated the two engines.
“Ever repair a bubbler before?”
“A what?” quizzed the youngster.
Stanley was expecting just such a response and answered directly.
“A bubbler is a prototype masking device, that was incorporated into vessels of this class to decoy the opposition’s torpedoes. It does so by encompassing the sub’s hull in a wall of bubbles.
I’ve seen it at work on an experimental basis and can personally attest to its effectiveness.”
“If that’s the case, why don’t our submarines utilize such a device?” the alert machinist asked.
“We tried it out on the Barbel class,” informed Stanley.
“Yet the advent of the submarine-launched decoy made it obsolete. Of course, the bubbler’s less than fifty percent success rate didn’t hurt its demise cither.”
As they passed by the spot where the twin propeller shafts entered the reduction gears, a sailor could be seen sitting on the deck and frantically sorting through a tool locker. Spotting him, Stanley stopped dead in his tracks.
“Miller, didn’t I tell you over two hours ago to begin repacking those shafts?” questioned the perplexed veteran.
Seaman Miller looked up and nervously cleared his throat.
“Uh, Chief … I was just checking for a schematic.”
“A what?” said Stanley in utter disbelief.
“An instructional manual of some sort, sir,” timidly replied the freckle-faced sailor.
“I know what a schematic is, you knucklehead!”
burst out Stanley.
“But what I don’t understand is why you’re wasting your time searching for one that’s most probably written in bird tracks.”
Stanley pointed to his head and firmly added.
“The only manual we’ve got on this pigboat is right up here. So start using it, or we’ll never leave this damned underground garage!”
The young, red-faced sailor still appeared to be flustered, so Stanley softened his tone.
“Look, son, I’m not getting personal with you. It’s just that it’s going to take some very special smarts to get this sub running smoothly. And since none of us is all that familiar with this Chink hardware, we’re going to have to improvise and learn as we go. Remember, an engine is still just an engine, whether it’s made in Detroit or Peking. And as one of Uncle Sam’s best, you’re trained to meet any challenge, including this one. So get in there and open up that shaft coupling, and before you know it, you’ll be drawing me that schematic.”
This did the trick. Seaman Miller showed a bit more confidence ashe stood up and replied.
“I’m sorry for the delay, Chief. I’ll get on it at once.”
“That’s the spirit,” said the veteran, ashe pivoted to make his way aft.
Well aware of the youngster who followed behind him, Stanley directed his eyes upward and vented his frustration with a quick, barely whispered prayer.
“Lord, just give me the patience to get through this one last mission, and I swear you’ll never hear from me again!”
Thirteen
The sky had been pitch black when the Sikorsky Sea King helicopter dropped them into the water approximately two miles off Okinawa’s northern shoreline.
Even in a full wet suit, the shock of plunging feet-first into the cold sea brought Dr. Miriam Kromer to full alert. Her great fatigue instantly was displaced by a surge of adrenaline as she fought to keep her head above the white cap-topped waves. Beside her, the members of SEAL Team Three quickly went to work inflating their raft, and soon all of them were in this black, rubber vessel, paddling vigorously toward the shore.
They traveled in that direction for over an hour, and the lexicologist was all but oblivious to the first faint colors of dawn painting the eastern horizon.
As always, the SEALs were setting a blistering pace, and it took a total effort on her part to keep up with them. The palm of her hand stung where it made contact with the paddle’s wooden handle, and her back and neck were almost numb with pain. Though one part of her wanted to just give up, to abandon this ridiculous challenge, an inner voice urged her to push on even harder. So far, the latter preference had won out, though how much longer it would she couldn’t really say.
She supposed she had something to prove, not only to the SEALs but to herself. Throughout her life, Miriam had thrived on challenge. In her school days, her competitive spirit had been expressed both in the classroom and on the playground. She never got a grade lower than an A. And she captained the gymnastics, field hockey, and softball teams.
College was no different. If anything, the additional competition only made her work harder. Because of her father’s influence, she had chosen her field before she began her freshman year, and she had faltered only once, because of a young man she was dating. Actually, this fellow had been her first and, so far, her o
nly love. He was handsome, bright, and incredibly persuasive, and because of him, Miriam almost gave up a career in toxicology to join him as family physician.
Uninvited, Miriam had been drawn to his off-campus apartment one icy December evening. She’d entered through the backdoor which he always kept unlocked, and had immediately smelled the rich sandalwood incense burning inside. Jim Morrison and the Doors blared forth from the stereo as she quietly sneaked into the bedroom to surprise him. As it turned out, that night the surprise was on her.
Miriam had caught him making love to a big-busted, Oriental nurse who doubled as a student teacher. She had never felt real pain until that moment, and had run from the apartment, tears cascading down her cheeks. She’d cried herself to sleep, then had awakened several hours later to come to a startling conclusion. She would never again put herself in such a vulnerable position. She would never feel such pain again.
From that night on, she applied herself to her studies with anew ferocity. With her competitive spirit reawakened, she eventually graduated number one in her class, then had the good fortune to be accepted in the Armed Forces’ graduate studies program at Ft. Detrick, Maryland.
As far as Miriam was concerned, there was no more intellectually stimulating opportunity on earth.
With the entire world asher laboratory, she was on a life and death quest, her goal to identify, control, and eliminate some of the most deadly natural substances known to man. The proliferation of biological weapons only made her job that much more challenging. And this was especially the case now that genetically altered toxins were beginning to make their nightmarish ways into the world’s arsenals.
No stranger to commitment, she considered her current assignment the perfect opportunity to demonstrate that. The mysterious Dr. Ishii was challenging her to make a stand, to become personally involved in ridding the earth of the scourge he would inflict on untold millions. The SEALs were pushing Miriam to the very edge of her physical endurance.
If she was worthy, she would pass this test and be in on the completion of the mission. Unable to contemplate failure, she did her best to ignore her pain-racked body as she dipped the paddle in, at the limit of her arm’s extension, and swept it backward with a powerful push.
“I think I saw some surf breakin’ up yonder,” observed Cajun from the raft’s rounded bow.
“I bet that’s the beach.”
Old Dog voiced his concern from a position immediately behind their point man.
“What if it’s a reef?”
“Then we throw you overboard, big guy, and float over it,” remarked Traveler, who was paddling opposite the Texan.
“Breath easy. Old Dog,” said Warlock from his seat in the stern beside Miriam.
“If Cajun saw breaking surf, then that can only mean the beach is close-by. Because before they dropped us in the drink, I got a chance to study the bathymetrics of this approach. And unless we got pushed off course by a hell of an unexpected current, the nearest reef is miles from these parts.”
“There it is again!” exclaimed Cajun, who pointed toward a frothing line of white surf, several hundred yards in front of them.
Miriam Kromer only had one thing on her mind.
“When can we stop paddling?”
“Now’s as good a time as any. Doc,” said Warlock, and he lifted up his own paddle.
“That goes for the rest of you misfits as well. No use wasting energy when we can let the tide do the work for us.”
There was a collective sigh of relief as the team quit paddling. The only female in their midst was especially appreciative of this respite, and she sat back and gratefully stretched out her aching arms.
“In a couple of days, we’ll be making this trip for real, two hundred miles north of here,” said Warlock.
“The only differences being a submarine will drop us off and our reception committee on land will be far from friendly. That’s why it’s imperative we make a clean entry on the beach.”
“Hey, Doc, ever go surfing?” interrupted Traveler.
“I’m afraid I haven’t,” answered Miriam.
“Well, that’s going to change real quick,” added Traveler, who began stowing away the loose equipment at his feet.
The other SEALs followed his example, paying extra attention to the waterproof sacks holding their weapons. They completed this task just as the crashing of surf echoed clearly in the near distance. The raft surged forward as if in the firm grasp of a submerged hand. Miriam could see the surf line now, as well as the bare outline of a distant beach. She expectantly sat forward, and regripped her paddle when Warlock called out firmly.
“Mount ‘em up, ladies! The more forward speed we have going into this, the easier it’s going to be to catch that curl.”
All of the SEALs began forcefully clawing at the water with their paddles, Miriam spiritedly stroking as well. The pounding of the breakers intensified, and she could actually feel their deafening rumble in the back of her dry throat. Her pulse quickened as the raft bobbed upward on the back of an advancing wave. And there was a sickening sensation in the pit of her stomach as they abruptly dropped downward into a deep trough, only to be lifted upward once again.
The team’s paddling now attained almost frantic proportions, and in response, the raft shot forward in an incredible burst of wave-induced speed. Never before had Miriam experienced the raw force of a fully formed, twenty-foot-high wave. They were surfing now, the raft and its occupants tightly tucked into the wave’s well-developed curl.
“Ya-hoo!” cried Cajun, ashe leaned forward, his right hand held high over his head as if he were a cowboy on a bucking bronco.
Behind him. Old Dog appeared tense, while Traveler was taking it all in stride, still calmly chewing away on a toothpick that had materialized shortly after they’d first hit the water.
Much like a child on a roller coaster, Miriam was caught between fear and total exhilaration. Warlock seemed equally enthused, yet he called out a warning when the curl began closing in on them overhead.
“We’re gonna’ lose it! Hold on!”
As soon as these words were out, the sea came crashing down in an icy torrent. For a frightening second, Miriam thought they had capsized and that she was trapped underwater. But then the upright raft popped out of the agitated wall of water that had just fallen on them. Spread out before them now was a wide, sandy beach, whose palm trees were just being illuminated by the first rays of dawn.
Cajun leaped into the shallow water, followed closely by Traveler and Old Dog. As they struggled to guide the now-lightened raft up onto the beach, Traveler provided encouragement.
“Come on, ladies, pull! I’ve got a hot date with the platter of ham ‘n’ eggs waiting for me somewhere up there!”
Bill Brown and Henry Walker watched the SEALs hit the beach from the cover of a nearby sand dune.
As the first rays of the sun broke over the horizon, they were able to see the commando team gather on the sand without the aid of the thermal-imaging binoculars they’d brought along.
“That must have been one hell of a ride in,” remarked Bill Brown ashe put on his aviator-style, wire-rimmed sunglasses.
“Is the surf always this rough up here?”
“This sea condition is highly unusual,” replied the Director of Naval Intelligence.
“There’s a low-pressure system passing to the west, and that’s what’s generating these monster waves. The normal size of the surf here is a good half what we’re seeing this morning.”
“Well, if they can handle these conditions, they should have no trouble at all taking on the protected waters of Takara Bay,” said Brown.
The commandoes were in the process of dragging their raft up onto the gently sloping sand as Henry Walker pulled a large, black plastic police whistle out of his pocket.
“Shall we see how the good doctor is getting along?” he asked.
“I almost forgot she wasn’t a regular member of the SEAL team.” Brown’s gaze wa
s locked on the five, wet-suited figures pulling the raft up onto the beach.
Walker stood, put the whistle to his lips, and blew three distinct, high-pitched blasts. He also waved his arms overhead, and the commandoes soon spotted him.
Bill Brown also rose. After brushing the sand from his khakis, he followed his ex-shipmate down toward the water line. With each advancing step, the pounding of the surf intensified, until the very sand seemed to tremble as a result of the sea’s fury. The white-haired veteran had anew respect for the commando team’s seamanship. Up close, the breaking surf could rival the giant waves that smashed onto Oahu’s northern shore.
“Good morning, gentlemen.” The devilishly handsome SEAL known as Traveler smiled.
“Surfs up.
Where’re your boards?”
Henry Walker had to scream to be heard.
“That was a wonderful approach. Anyone care to try it again?”
“I’m game if the Doc here is willing,” replied Traveler.
This prompted an instant response from the serious-faced toxicologist.
“Thanks, but no thanks. I’ve already had my adrenaline rush for the morning.”
“I was just teasing. Dr. Kromer,” returned Walker.
“All of you did a hell of a fine job this morning, and the least I can do is offer you a lift back to Alpha Base.”
The SEALs readily accepted, and as they made their way up the road where the van was parked. Bill Brown fell in beside Miriam Kromer.
“Was that ride as scary as it looked?” asked the veteran.
“At least when we hit the surf I didn’t have to paddle.” Miriam gingerly rubbed the callused skin of her left palm.
“Though I do believe I left my stomach on the crest of one of those waves.”
Brown couldn’t help but feel sorry for the attractive redhead who reminded him of his wife. Both women had that highly competitive spirit. It had often gotten his Mary into difficult situations. He remembered when she’d volunteered to work in a Red Cross blood drive and had ended up chairman of the entire chapter.
“How are the SEALs treating you?” probed Brown.
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