Sea of Death

by Richard P. Henrick

  “If you weren’t so damned ugly I’d kiss you, Marchetto,” joked Stanley.

  “Because next to this rust bucket floating like it is, that’s the best news I’ve heard today. Now, I don’t suppose that Orlovick has had any success with that bubbler?”

  “Last I saw, he was still at it,” reported Marchetto, who seemed impatient to get back to the job at hand.

  “Keep up the good work, men,” said Stanley ashe turned aft to check on the status of the prototype masking device.

  Expecting to find the unit stripped down and in dozens of pieces, he was surprised to find the machinery almost entirely intact. Seaman Orlovick was working on the fuse box positioned beside the c compressor, and Stanley wondered if he had even bothered to remove the outer casing of the machine and examine the components inside. Hoping that this wasn’t the case, Stanley nonetheless greeted him somewhat soberly.

  “I thought I asked you to pull apart this unit and make it tick again, Orlovick. It looks to me like you didn’t even start yet.”

  “On the contrary. Chief,” returned the serious faced reactor specialist.

  “I’ve already stripped it down, cleaned its interior parts, and put it back together.

  And if you just give me a second to replace this fuse, I’ll let you know if my efforts were a success or not.”

  Embarrassed by his misjudgment, Stanley lightened the tone of his reply.

  “Take all the time you need, Orlovick. Can I help you?”

  Not bothering to respond to this, the young sailor redirected his attention to the fuse box. It took him less than a minute to complete the installation and then reach up for the starter switch.

  “Shall I, Chief?” he questioned.

  “By all means, give it a try,” directed Stanley.

  Orlovick hit the switch, and the unit remained unceremoniously silent. He tried it again, and when it still didn’t start he turned to address Stanley, his face etched with both disappointment and puzzlement.

  “I don’t understand. Chief. It’s only a dressed-up compressor, and I know I put it back together properly.

  It’s got to work.”

  “Easy does it, son,” said Stanley, who sensed Orlovick’s frustration.

  “Sometimes when you’re dealing with older equipment, especially of various origins, it takes some special techniques to get it going. Let’s see if I can give you a hand with this sucker.”

  The grinning veteran literally did just that. He stepped up to the unit and forcefully slapped the starter box with the side of his palm. Almost instantly, the compressor activated with a high-pitched whine.

  “Looks like we’ve got one bubbler masking device ready for action,” said Stanley.

  “Now let’s just pray that we won’t need to use it.”

  Making his own tour of inspection in the still somewhat unfamiliar confines of the Bokken’s control room was Lieutenant Commander Benjamin Kram. The blondhaired XO of the Hawkbill would bethe OOD for the majority of their upcoming voyage, and he wanted to get as comfortable with his new surroundings as possible.

  Kram had gone on record as opposing the use of the Romeoclass sub from the very beginning. In his mind, it would be better to use the Hawkbill and take their chances on penetrating Takara Bay in a craft that they were experienced at operating.

  He had voiced his concerns to his CO, and Chris Slaughter had promised to share them with Admiral Walker. Yet the Director of Naval Intelligence had apparently already made up his mind; he’d felt the added risks involved in sailing the captured sub were worth taking. And now that the bulk of the repairs to the Bokken had been successfully completed and the three veterans had shared their expertise, this decision was evidently unchangeable.

  With no alternative but to make the best of the situation, Benjamin Kram had reluctantly accepted his new duty. His career goal had been to get command of one of the new SSN-21 Seawolf-class nuclear-attack submarines that were just putting to sea.

  He had hoped the Hawkbill would be a stepping stone to such an advanced vessel, but he’d suddenly found himself going in the opposite direction. One only had to set eyes on the antiquated equipment that currently surrounded him to realize this fact.

  Touring the Bokken’s control room was like stepping back in time to the 1950’s. With not a single computer keyboard in evidence, all of the operational input had to be done on old-fashioned, tubepowered consoles that were obsolete four decades ago. Valves had to be turned by hand, and as Chief McKenzie, their COB so aptly put it, the diving console was like something out of a museum.

  Surprisingly enough, the crew was accepting this unique assignment with a minimum of gripes and complaints. Kram really hadn’t known what their reaction would be as the reality of this operation sank in, but it turned out that most of the crew looked at this new duty as a challenge. Therefore, morale was high, which made the chances for a successful outcome that much better.

  The crew’s esprit de corps was evident as Kram passed by the helm. The dials, instruments, and gauges mounted into the bulkhead had been labeled in Japanese, but with the navigator’s invaluable help, the labels had been translated into English. Assisting Lieutenant Laycob with this relabeling effort was the helmsman. Bill Foard took advantage of his height, and was able to reach even the topmost gauge without having to resort to a ladder.

  Beside the helm. Chief McKenzie was in the process of simulating a dive. With amazing swiftness, Mac’s fingers flew across the dozens of red and green toggle switches mounted before him. Back on the Hawkbill, this same process could be accomplished by the mere push of a button. It had taken the grizzled COB many hours of intense study and practice to get accustomed to a diving console that differed little from those on World War II-era submarines.

  Ray Morales had put just as much effort into learning the equipment of the adjoining radar station.

  The hardworking young technician had already completed stripping down the unit and, after giving it a thorough cleaning, had reassembled it down to the last vacuum tube. As always. Morales took pride in his work, and now as the XO watched he polished the upper glass plate of the radar screen until it shone like a mirror.

  “Lieutenant Commander Kram,” said a nearby voice.

  “What do you make of this?”

  The XO looked to his left and discovered that the source of this question was seated at sonar. Jaffers was one of his favorite shipmates, and Kram proceeded over to his console. The senior sonar technician immediately handed him a set of lightweight headphones.

  “I was working on isolating the port hydrophones mounted directly beneath the sail,” continued Jaffers in all seriousness, “and that’s when I first came across it. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard a signature quite like it before.”

  Curious as to what Jaffers was referring to, the XO put on the headphones. Aloud resonant snoring sound met his cars, and it didn’t take Kram long to figure out what was going on.

  “You say that this hydrophone is mounted directly beneath the sail, Jaffers?” said Kram, who found it hard to keep a straight face.

  Jaffers also found it hard to remain serious ashe replied.

  “That it is, sir.”

  “Well then, Jaffers,” responded the grinning XO, “maybe we should tape it, and leave it to the yard foreman to figure out which one of his workers was napping on government time. Man, that guy’s really cutting Z’s something fierce!”

  Both men burst out laughing at this point, and only quieted when the sub’s acting quartermaster approached them.

  “Lieutenant Commander Kram,” he soberly said, “Captain Slaughter requests your presence in the wardroom, sir.”

  “Very well, sailor,” returned the XO, who excused the bearer of this message and removed the headphones.

  “This is one unidentified contact we’re definitely not going to have to worry about, Jaffers,” added Kram, who fondly patted the sonarman on the back and then turned to the aft hatchway.

  When he’d last
left the captain. Slaughter had been immersed in a study of their mission’s navigational charts. Kram had already sketched out a projected route, and he supposed the captain had some changes he wanted implemented.

  The XO knew he was fortunate to have Chris Slaughter as his commanding officer. The two men had a tight, trusting relationship. Perfectly happy to let his XO have a fair share of responsibility, Slaughter delegated power whenever possible. Unlike some commanding officers, who wanted to dominate those that served under them.

  This equal sharing of responsibility had permeated the crew, who saw themselves as a closely knit team. A baseball player in his Academy days, Chris Slaughter had certainly learned the value of teamwork.

  His current success as a CO was proof that the lessons he’d learned on the ball field could be applied to running a submarine.

  Proud to be apart of this crew, Benjamin Kram continued down the passageway that led to the wardroom.

  Ashe approached the aft hatchway, an appetizing scent met his nostrils. Suddenly aware that he hadn’t eaten a bite since having alight breakfast, Kram stepped through the hatch and laid his eyes on the virtual feast Chief Mallot was in the process of serving the captain.

  “Ah, there you are, Ben,” greeted Slaughter.

  “Please join me.”

  The XO readily accepted, taking aseat at the wardroom table immediately beside the captain.

  “I hope you brought your appetite along,” Slaughter added.

  Kram gazed at the collection of food-filled platters.

  Mallot was quick to identify each dish.

  “Here it is, gentlemen, the first hot meal cooked exclusively in this galley. In honor of our new home, I cooked up a batch of tempura-battered shrimp, my already infamous turkey teriyaki, miso soup, steamed veggies, green tea, and all the fried rice you can cat. Ken Pei!”

  “It looks wonderful, Mr. Mallot,” said Chris Slaughter.

  “But where’s the silverware?”

  A devilish gleam came to Mallot’s eyes ashe reached into the pocket of his apron and pulled out two pairs of chopsticks.

  “You can’t cat an authentic Japanese meal with a knife and fork,” he instructed ashe handed out the wooden utensils.

  Neither one of the officers protested, though it took some practice on their part to perfect their techniques. Of the two diners. Slaughter proved to bethe most adept with chopsticks, while his XO dropped more food back onto his plate than he was able to get into his mouth. Nevertheless, Benjamin Kram’s face lit up in delight when he bit into one of the juicy fried shrimp.

  “You’ve got areal winner with this tempura, Chief,” he observed between bites.

  “The rest of the crew is going to love it.”

  “I hope you’re not planning on making them use chopsticks,” said Slaughter ashe washed down a bite of teriyaki with some piping hot tea.

  “Half of them might starve to death.”

  Mallot chuckled.

  “Don’t worry. Captain. I’ll make certain to transfer over enough silverware from the Hawkbill to take care of any of our boys without a sense of adventure.”

  “Sense of adventure, hell!” exclaimed the XO, who impotently looked on as a slice of turkey fell onto his lap.

  “These damn things take coordination plus.”

  “Don’t be afraid to use that thumb,” instructed Slaughter.

  “That’s the secret to these things.”

  The captain went on to provide a hasty demonstration that Kram did his best to imitate. It took several more misplaced bites before the XO’s patience was rewarded and he dared take on his rice.

  “There’s plenty more if you’d like it,” offered Mallot.

  “Otherwise, I’ll be back with some fresh green tea ice cream.”

  Mallot left the two officers alone to finish their meals. They did so with a minimum of conversation.

  After completing his fill, Slaughter pushed away his plate and watched as his subordinate tackled the rest of his rice.

  “You’ve got it now, Ben. By the time this operation’s over, you’ll be eating peanuts with those things.”

  “How did you ever become such an expert with chopsticks. Skipper?” asked Kram ashe reached out to refill their teacups.

  “During my junior year at the Academy, we had a Japanese exchange student from the Eta Jima Academy bunking in our dormitory. His name was Osami Nagano. He was shy, but agood kid who adored baseball. I invited him to a couple of games, and he reciprocated by taking me to his favorite Japanese restaurants in the area. Believe it or not, I’d never even laid my eyes on a pair of chopsticks until then, and Osami demonstrated commendable patience in teaching me the basics.”

  “Where’s he now?” asked Kram, who was content to sit back and sip his tea.

  “The last I heard, Osami was in line to take command of one of Japan’s newest Yuushio-class submarines.

  That’s the Seawolf of the Japanese Maritime SelfDefense Force.”

  “If he only knew what we were about to get involved in…” reflected the XO.

  Slaughter sat forward and lowered his voice.

  “From what I gather from Admiral Walker, it’s highly unlikely anyone in the Japanese military will ever learn of this operation, even if there’s a successful outcome. It’s just taking place too close to their home waters.”

  “I hear you. Skipper. And I imagine that if the tables were turned, the Japanese would be equally as secretive. Allowing amaniac to run loose in their backyard wouldn’t be good for their world image, and they’d quietly eliminate Ishii. Maybe even by sending in your old friend Osami in his Yuushio.”

  “Unfortunately, we’ve managed to pull the dirty duty once more,” remarked Slaughter, whose glance met that of his XO.

  “By the way, Ben. I looked over the route you picked and can find no fault in it whatsoever. Bypassing Yokoate Island on the west, we’ve got an almost straight line into Takara. That makes it atrip of some one hundred and sixty-five miles from Alpha Base. If the engine room gang can give us a submerged, snorkel depth speed of at least twelve knots, we should be able to get there in the better part of fourteen hours.”

  “That’s not soon enough as far as I’m concerned, Skipper. I still wish that we were sailing aboard Hawkbill.”

  Slaughter’s intense glance narrowed.

  “You might feel that way now, Ben. But wait until we pass through that inlet and enter Takara Bay. I’m sure going to be breathing a lot easier knowing that our signature is preprogrammed as a friendly inside of any CAPTOR mines we might be meeting up with. No, Ben, I believe in this instance, Admiral Walker made the right decision. And now we’re just going to have to bethe ones to live or die with it.”

  * * *

  Henry Walker and Bill Brown left the modular trailer that served as Alpha Base’s headquarters building and slowly made their way back toward the pier. This rectangular concrete structure extended into a black channel of water, and currently had a submarine floating on each side of it. The nuclear powered Hawkbill was clearly the larger of these vessels, its streamlined hull stretching agood fifty feet longer than that of the Bokken.

  Only a token workforce was visible on the Romeoclass submarine’s deck. Conspicuously absent were the pounding of the metal workers’ hammers and the blindingly bright glow of their acetylene torches.

  The hollowed-out cavern instead echoed with the high-pitched whine of a forklift at work. It was positioned at the tail end of a large flatbed truck parked beside the Bokken’s stern. Pete Frystak and a young sailor could be seen examining the contents of the first of six elongated cases the forklift had pulled off the truck’s bed. Knowing full well what the ex-weapons officer was looking at. Bill Brown nevertheless commented.

  “I wonder what could be in that crate? Ole Pete’s examining it like it was the Holy Grail.”

  “Let’s take a look,” said Henry Walker, and he led the way over to the kneeling veteran.

  Frystak’s eyes were wide with wonder ash
e looked up from his examination of the shiny green torpedo that lay inside the case.

  “I know I shouldn’t even bother asking, but where in the world did you ever find this fish. Henry? Why it’s a brand-new Soviet M-57 antiship torpedo!”

  The grinning Director of Naval Intelligence answered in his usual cryptic manner.

  “You’d be surprised what you can find for sale today on the international arms market, Pete.”

  “Well, wherever they came from, it’s sure nice having them,” replied Frystak gratefully.

  “Even though these fish are almost as obsolete as the sub we’ll be loading them into, it sure beats going to sea without any punch.”

  “Too bad we couldn’t update the Bokken’s firecontrol system so we could take along some wire guided Mk 48’s,” added Bill Brown.

  “There are a lot of operational systems I would have liked to update,” returned Henry Walker.

  “But we’re very fortunate just to be able to get the Bokken on her way in the time allotted. How does that forward torpedo room look, Pete?”

  “I was just beginning a comprehensive inspection of it, when I was informed of this delivery,” answered Frystak.

  “The yard work appears to be first rate, and as long as those welds hold, we should be just fine.”

  Henry Walker seemed pleased with this report and responded accordingly.

  “We can all be proud of that yard crew. They did the impossible and still gave us time to spare.”

  “Are you going to need any help onloading these fish, Pete?” asked Bill Brown.

  “Lieutenant Commander Kram is taking care of that. Skipper,” said Frystak.

  “Well, just holler if you need a hand,” offered Brown.

  “And don’t forget that final briefing in the Bokken’s wardroom at eighteen-hundred hours,” Walker reminded.

  “I won’t, Henry,” replied Frystak. He went over to supervise the removal of the next crate, as his two ex-shipmates turned to continue on down the pier.