“What’s up, Chris?” a familiar voice asked.
“Have your first look at Takara Island, Bill,” Slaughter offered ashe backed away from the scope.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” countered the surprised veteran.
“I thought that our ETA was agood hour away.”
Slaughter grinned and pointed toward the eyepiece.
“Look for yourself, Bill.”
Brown did just that, and spent almost a full minute studying the view.
“Well, I’ll be,” he commented while readjusting the focus knob.
“I can even make out the mountain range.”
“That’s it allright concurred Slaughter.
“The current gave us an unexpected boost, and Mr. Roth’s miracle workers helped by keeping us at a steady thirteen knots.”
Bill Brown stepped back from the eyepiece, then watched as the scope slid back into its storage well with a muted hiss.
“We might as well take this extra time to loiter off the inlet and initiate a complete recon of the inner bay,” suggested Slaughter.
“That will sure make things easier for us come nightfall.” Brown’s evaluation was cut short by the agitated voice of their sonar operator.
“I’ve got an unidentified submerged contact, bearing one-two-zero, range unknown!”
Both Slaughter and Brown turned in time to see Jaffers anxiously hunched over the primitive dials and gauges of his console, all the while pressing his headphones up against his cars.
“Wait a minute, now it’s gone!” observed the mystified senior sonar technician.
Without further delay, the sub’s two senior officers crossed over to join him.
“Maybe it was just an anomaly of some sort,” said Slaughter.
Jaffers shook his head to the contrary.
“I don’t know, Captain. But for a second there, I could have sworn something was sharing these waters with us.
Lord. if I only had Hawkbill’s BQS-6.”
“It could have been a whale sounding beneath the thermocline,” offered Bill Brown.
“Or maybe another sub,” added Slaughter.
“Just stay on it, Jaffers. And don’t be afraid to cry out the moment it shows itself again.”
Vice Admiral Henry Walker sat in one of the two high-backed leather chairs that graced the captain’s bridge of the USS Enterprise. From this elevated vantage point, he could see the nuclear-powered carrier’s entire 252-foot-long deck. A shiny white F-14 Tomcat was in the midst of takeoff at the forward port catapult. Yet not even the deafening roar of this aircraft’s dual afterburners could distract Walker from the disturbing contents of the dispatch he had just read. It now lay half-folded in his lap.
“Damn!” he muttered to the khaki-clad officer sitting beside him.
“It’s confirmed, Steven. The Japanese Maritime SelfDefense Force is on to Ishii. I don’t know how, but somebody tipped them off, and they’re not wasting anytime in getting a handle on the situation.”
“How many ships are they sending in?” questioned Captain Steven Webster ashe watched the justlaunched Tomcat leap off the deck and gracefully soar upward to cruising altitude.
“So far, only one submarine,” returned the worried Director of Naval Intelligence.
“She’s the Nadashio, one of their latest and most capable Yuushio class attack boats. It’s under the command of Captain Osami Nagano, an Academy grad, of all things.”
“And Captain Nagano’s orders?” probed Steven Webster, who looked on as another F-14 maneuvered into its takeoff position at the starboard catapult.
“To eliminate all Romeoclass submarines he encounters exiting Takara Bay,” replied Walker with a heavy sigh.
This unforeseen development caused Webster to immediately cease scanning the flight deck. He met the concerned stare of Henry Walker.
“If we can’t share knowledge of our operation with the Japanese navy, and there’s no way to inform the Bokken, what can we do about it?” asked the perplexed surface officer.
Henry Walker held back his reply until the Tomcat completed its takeoff. Only after the roar of the aircraft’s afterburners had completely faded did he solemnly voice himself.
“For a start, we can pray that Bill Brown and his boys remain undetected. Then all we can do is pull in our planes and get this task force to head for Takara.
At the very least, we can be within air range by tomorrow morning.”
Seventeen
Chris Slaughter had always prided himself on being cool under fire. This was a trait he’d used to good advantage when he’d taken the mound in his baseball days. While others let the pressures of the moment distract their focus. Slaughter’s concentration rarely faltered, even in the most dire situations.
His coach at the Academy had always said he had ice water in his veins, and his teammates took this one step farther, giving him the nickname “Ice Man.”
It had been Slaughter’s father who’d helped develop the confidence and self-reliance that made such control possible. An Air Force Thud driver in Viet Nam, Slaughter’s dad had survived the war with a chestful of medals — and a lot of horror stories about pilots who broke under pressure. Chris was but a teenager when he’d come home from the war, and his father had made it his business to spend as much time as possible with his impressionable son. They’d played ball, fished, and taken many an overnight camping trip together. And it was because of this closeness that Chris’s father had been so instrumental in determining what type of man his only son would become.
Lately, Chris Slaughter had often found himself thinking of his father. This was especially the case now that his current command was about to go into harm’s way. Though his dad hadn’t lived to see him graduate from the Naval Academy or get his first commission, Chris constantly felt his presence.
Under times of great stress, when a single bad decision could cost aman life, he did his best to harken back to the advice his father had given him about the importance of making a choice and then sticking to it to the very end. It had been sound, for Slaughter had learned in Viet Nam that a commanding officer had to be unwavering to earn the confidence and loyalty of those who served beneath him. He must never appear hesitant in making a decision.
As Slaughter crossed the cramped control room of his present command, he made it a point to appear as calm and relaxed as possible. Yet in reality, this passive outward shell masked anxieties even more intense than those that had settled in the pit of his stomach on the eve of his pitching debut against the archrival Army. Coach had always said such anxiety was only natural — and sure enough, it had dissipated after his first pitch — and his father had admitted that before every combat mission he’d flown, he’d been a victim of this nervous tension that put doubts in the minds of lesser men.
So far, the cruise had gone remarkably well, and Chris couldn’t help but derive confidence from this fact. His men had displayed an amazing ability to master the alien operational systems of the Bokken. It was almost as if they’d been trained on this outdated equipment. Yet a nagging doubt persisted.
A baseball game or the seemingly endless exercises aboard the Hawkbill were vastly different from this mission. Lives and the honor of his country were at stake. Now was the time for him to summon the inner strength to lead his men.
“Bearing, mark!” broke the voice of Rich Laycob from the sub’s periscope well.
The white-haired Bill Brown could be seen standing beside him, assisting with this latest navigational fix. Slaughter quietly joined them.
The navigator took a moment to fine-tune the scope’s focus knob before backing away and noting the newcomer in their midst.
“Captain, I’ve got a solid fix on a beacon mounted on the tip of the inlet’s eastern perimeter,” he reported.
“There also appears to be some sort of inhabited concrete structure close by.”
Bill Brown took this opportunity to peer through the eyepiece himself, and offered his own thoughts
.
“I see it. Maybe it’s the net keeper’s hut.”
Slaughter replaced the veteran at the scope and after completing a quick 360-degree scan, centered his line of sight on the promontory they would soon be passing. He spotted the flashing red navigational beacon and the adjoining hut. The lighting was poor, the sun having set over a half-hour ago, but Slaughter did his best to survey the fairly narrow channel of water that lay directly before them.
“I make the distance between us and the entrance to that inlet at about five thousand yards,” observed Slaughter.
“We should be well within the zone of their defensive sensors by now.”
“If you’ve got a favorite prayer, now’s the time to say it,” offered Bill Brown.
Chris Slaughter folded up the scope’s grips and sent it barreling back down into its storage well.
“Any sounds coming from that net, Jaffers?” he asked while turning in the direction of the sonar console.
The senior sonar technician had one of his headphones pressed tightly to his car. He hesitated a moment before answering.
“Negative, Captain. Do you want me to hit it again with active?”
“That won’t be necessary,” replied Slaughter.
“Just call out the second you pick up the first hint that it’s opening.”
Jaffers held up his free hand and flashed an okay sign, and Slaughter quietly voiced his concerns to Bill Brown.
“This is a hell of a welcome for a vessel whose mere signature is supposed to unlock the front door to this place. Maybethere’s some sort of recognition signal that we overlooked.”
“Give them a couple more minutes, Chris,” advised the veteran.
“Those hydrophones of theirs should pick up all the recognition signals they need to open that sub net and signal the CAPTORS that we’re a friendly.”
“That’s a big should. Bill,” reflected Slaughter.
“But I guess that’s what this game is all about.”
Brown nodded and calmly looked to his watch.
Slaughter was very aware that the veteran exuded the leadership qualities his father had tried so hard to instill in him.
“Do you miss all this, Bill?” he whispered.
Brown smiled.
“You’d better believe it, son. I haven’t felt this alive in years.”
“Did you ever have trouble coping with fear when you were about to become involved in a dangerous operation?” questioned Slaughter directly.
Brown looked the young officer straight in the eye and replied.
“To tell you the truth, Chris, I’m scared shitless right now. I guess the secret’s not showing it.”
“I hear you loud and clear, Commander,” concurred Slaughter.
“It seems that all my life I’ve been in positions where others look to me to bethe brave one, and sometimes it’s damn difficult to play the role.”
“I don’t trust aman who doesn’t show fear, Chris. He’s a fool, or he doesn’t value human life.
Command’s a delicate balance of bravado and vulnerability.
And from what I’ve seen, you’ve done a hell of a fine job mixing the two. There’s no doubt in my mind that you’ve earned the respect of your men, which proves that whatever you’re doing, you’re doing it right.”
“Coming from you. Bill, I take that as areal compliment,” Slaughter replied. He felt a strong, personal bond developing between the two of them.
Brown felt likewise and added, “Returning to your earlier question, I guess what I really miss about all this, in addition to the adrenaline rush you experience whenever you put your life on the line, is working with fine young men like yourself.
Old age and retirement can be awfully lonely, and I thank the good Lord for giving me this opportunity to serve alongside you and your brave crew.”
“I’m the one who should be thankful. Bill,” returned Chris Slaughter.
“Because I’ve got a gut feeling it’s going to be your presence here, and your two ex-shipmates’, that’s going to make the difference between this mission’s success or its failure.”
“Let’s just pray it’s the former,” replied the grinning veteran. He then followed Slaughter over to the chart table.
Yano Sumiko was Takara Bay’s net keeper. The Kyoto native had first come to the island in 1944 as a naval observer. Shortly thereafter, he’d been joined by a vibrant young ensign, Yukio Ishii, who had been sent to Takara on similar duties. Since Sumiko was several years older than Ishii, he took on the role of protective older brother, and watched as his new friend matured into full manhood.
With the war’s conclusion, they returned to the mainland to get on with their lives. Unlike Ishii, Sumiko found nothing of real substance waiting for him back home. His young wife and child had been killed by an American bomb in the closing days of the conflict, and the rest of his small family had met similar fates. With no schooling or ambition to speak of, Sumiko aimlessly wandered the war-ravaged streets of Kyoto trying to find some purpose to his life. When six months had passed, and he still found himself wearing the tattered uniform he had arrived in, he decided to return to Takara, the only place where he’d felt real security. He remained on the island ever since, not once returning to the mainland.
For the next three decades, he lived the simple life of a fisherman. He never married again, and was content to spend his days eking a meager subsistence from the sea. He supplemented his seafood diet with the vegetables he grew himself from seed, and as the years progressed, he became an accomplished farmer. This was fortunate, for working the sea was no way for an old man to earn his living, and as his legs and eyesight weakened, he gave away his small boat and became permanently landlocked.
Soon afterward, Yukio Ishii returned to the island.
Sumiko’s wartime friend had grown into a great man with a fine mind and a large fortune.
When he divulged his plans to make Takara his new base of operations, Sumiko was most pleased, and when Ishii offered him a permanent job, he accepted.
Sumiko was there the day Ishii broke ground for the base with a gilded shovel. He did his best to make himself helpful and earn his generous rice bowl, helping the many newcomers to Takara get settled. Thousands of construction workers were soon scrambling over the island, and Sumiko watched in amazement as an entire city emerged out of what was once nothing but volcanic rock.
Three years ago, he’d been assigned his current duties. As net keeper, Sumiko monitored the computerized console set up inside his cottage. At first, he’d feared he’d never be able to operate such a complex piece of machinery. But Ishii would not listen to his protests. He forced him to participate in a basic instructional course, and Sumiko soon found that the computer was not something to be feared. Within a month, he was operating the sensor console on his own.
The job entailed very few hours of actual labor.
Most of his efforts were of a supervisory nature, giving him plenty of time to work on his true love — his vegetable garden. Ishii graciously provided him free use of the cottage and the small patch of arable land that lay beside it.
Since it was early spring, Sumiko was working the soil to prepare it for planting. A mixture of sand, silt, and clay, in the past it had produced wonderful melons, cucumbers, and squash. And this year, Sumiko hoped to try some tomatoes.
Several hours ago, a truck belonging to the aqua-farm had dropped off a load of mulch that was derived from various sea plants. At once, Sumiko had gotten to work distributing this odoriferous substance throughout his plot. This job took longer than he had anticipated, and it looked as if he’d have to finish tomorrow. Regardless of this, he kept on working until the fading light made it impossible for him to see.
He was in the process of loading his tools into the wheelbarrow to return them to the storage shed when aloud, electronic alarm began buzzing in his hut. Since this alarm was directly tied in to the console he was assigned to monitor, Sumiko immediately returned to the cottag
e as quickly as his arthritic legs would carry him.
It was dark inside, so he turned on a lamp and then crossed over to the large table positioned by his futon bed. Without bothering to seat himself, he bent over and hit a single digit on the keyboard of the computer. Almost instantaneously, the monitor screen blinked alive.
SENSOR DETECTION-ZONE EIGHT
This message prompted him to once again address the keyboard, this time utilizing his two index fingers.
SIGNATURE I.D. SOURCE?
The computer took several seconds to respond to this request.
BOKKEN
Seeing this, Sumiko hesitated a moment. The Bokken wasn’t expected back until sometime tomorrow afternoon. He wondered why he hadn’t been informed of this schedule change. The submarine’s commanding officer. Captain Hiroaki Sato, was a native of Kyoto and agood friend.
Sato enjoyed farming almost as much as Sumiko did, and he had promised to help him with this year’s planting. If all went well, perhaps he would have the services of the submariner’s strong back in spreading the rest of the mulch.
Though operational protocol required him to inform Dr. Ishii’s office of any early arrivals, Sumiko doubted that it was necessary in this instance.
Most likely, Sato’s crack crew had completed their assignment with time to spare. This would not bethe first time they had done so, and that was a demonstration of his friend’s competency.
Hoping Sato would have a few days off before his next assignment, Sumiko once more addressed the keyboard.
DEACTIVATE DEFENSIVE SYSTEMS
Without a second’s hesitation, the computer responded.
DEACTIVATED
The alarm quit ringing in the background, and Sumiko jotted down the exact time for his nightly report. This done, he went outside to retrieve his wheelbarrow, all the while visualizing the sleek undersea warship that would soon be passing beneath the narrow channel his small plot of land overlooked.
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