“I’ve got mechanical sounds dead ahead of us, Captain. Sounds like it’s a sub net opening!”
Chris Slaughter listened to this excited report from his senior sonar technician and instantly felt relieved. The two officers who stood beside him around the chart table appeared similarly affected.
Bill Brown had an almost boyish tone to his voice ashe joyously commented, “We’re in!”
The sub’s navigator appeared equally enthused.
“Nothing’s going to stop us now!”
Slaughter looked down to the chart that lay before them, then pointed toward the route that was drawn in red grease pencil. It extended from the mouth of the channel they were presently transmitting into the western portion of Takara Bay.
“We should be passing the first mine field shortly,” he soberly observed.
“The mere fact that they opened the net proves Henry Walker was right,” said Bill Brown.
“Those CAPTORS are going to offer us no threat whatsoever during this portion of our voyage.”
Slaughter met the veteran’s calm gaze.
“We’ll be at the dropoff point soon. Bill, would you mind heading forward and giving the SEALs my best?”
“Not at all, Chris,” Brown responded.
“For all practical purposes, it’s over up here, except for the waiting. I’ll be happy to pass on the ball.”
“I sure wouldn’t want to be in their shoes right now,” remarked Rich Laycob.
“God only knows what’s waiting for them on that island.”
“Don’t forget, we’re not going to behaving any cakewalk out here,” Bill Brown said ashe headed for the forward hatchway.
Just as Bill Brown was exiting the control room, Traveler was entering the forward torpedo room, with Miriam Kromer on his heels. The happy-golucky commando wasted no time spurring his teammates into action upon spotting them still sprawled out on top of the torpedo pallet.
“Okay, ladies, drop your cocks and grab your socks. We’ve got some war paint to put on, ‘cause it’s about time to rock ‘n’ roll!”
With a minimum of grumbling, the SEALs quickly dressed themselves, and soon all of them were attired in identical jungle-camouflaged fatigues.
The toxicologist was similarly dressed, and had her long red hair neatly gathered on top of her head in a tight knot.
“Hey, Doc, how are you on puttin’ on makeup?”
asked Cajun ashe tossed her two silver tubes of the sort oils used by artists were stored in.
Miriam removed the cap from one of these tubes, and indeed found it to be filled with a green, paint-like substance. It was Warlock who identified it for her.
“Don’t worry. Doc. It’s nothing but theatrical grease paint. The object’s to cover all of your exposed skin with the same colors and general design that’s printed on your fatigues. That way you’ll blend into the natural environment of the island and offer as little a target as possible.”
Warlock took the open tube from Miriam and squeezed out a large dab of black makeup, which he proceeded to smear beneath her eyes. With the assistance of a small mirror, Miriam painted her forehead green, and alternated this color with black until her whole face was covered in a swirling, reptilian pattern. By the time she’d completed coloring her hands and wrists, she had slipped into the Halloween spirit and watched with some amusement as Warlock helped Old Dog apply his makeup.
“You’re lookin’ good, Old Dog!” she said with a sarcastic wink.
“Just a little mascara around those eyes and you’ll be areal knockout.”
The big commando wasn’t at all amused by this comment and responded accordingly.
“Up yours, Doc!”
Miriam noticed that Cajun had done aparticularly good job with his camouflage effort. The Louisiana-bred seal’s face, neck, and hands were expertly covered in bands of green, brown, and black. He had an olive green bandana tied around His forehead, and only the whites of his eyes showed beneath this strange, snake-like mask.
In contrast, Traveler had painted his face almost completely green, while Warlock had picked black as his primary color. All in all, the makeup only served to make them appear more intimidating.
The SEALs were in the process of gathering their weapons when Bill Brown entered the compartment and joined them beside the torpedo pallet.
He looked each member of the team in the eye ashe addressed them.
“Captain Slaughter sent me up here to convey his wishes for a safe return. We’ll be in position shortly, and I want to see each one of you back here safe and sound once your mission on land is completed.”
Brown’s glance sought out the team’s only female member, and he added, “How are you doing, Dr. Kromer?”
“Incredibly well,” answered the lexicologist.
“Considering I’ve felt worse butterflies before exams.”
“Just wait till we hit the beach,” interrupted Cajun.
“That’s when the reality of it all sets in.”
“I wish I were physically able to go along with you,” said Brown.
“But these old bones made their last commando raid long ago. Good luck, kids.
And hit that bastard with a charge with my name on it!”
While Brown was in the midst of this spirited send-off, Chris Slaughter was intently draped over the Bokken’s extended periscope. The control room around him was lit totally in red, and with his night vision intact, he could just make out a strip of deserted beach, some four hundred yards distant.
A solid line of stately coconut palms veiled the surrounding jungle.
Slaughter forcefully voiced the orders.
“All stop!
Prepare to surface!”
As the submarine ceased its forward movement, he added without diverting his glance from the eyepiece.
“Quartermaster, inform the SEALs to prepare to deploy. Chief McKenzie, take us up to the surface, nice and easy. Then stand by to take us under the moment the team is clear.”
The roar of venting ballast rumbled in the distance, and the bow of the Bokken angled slightly upward. With his hands tightly grasping the scope’s twin grips. Slaughter initiated a quick 360-degree scan. Only after he was certain that the waters of the bay were clear of all surface traffic did he turn the lens back to the beach.
“Jaffers, any uninvited visitors in the vicinity?”
he questioned.
His senior sonar technician was quick to answer.
“Nothing but a bunch of shrimp, Captain. Sonar shows all clear.”
“We’ve surfaced, Captain!” interrupted the boat’s diving officer.
This revelation prompted an immediate response from Chris Slaughter.
“Quartermaster, inform the SEALs that they’re to deploy!”
With his line of sight still locked on the beach, Slaughter visualized the commando team as they hurriedly climbed out of the forward access trunk and assembled on the deck. Here they would open the deckmounted capsule in which their raft was stored, and after throwing this inflated rubber vessel overboard, they’d load it with their equipment and then themselves.
Slaughter knew very well that this was a most critical moment. Both the Bokken and the SEAL team were extremely vulnerable on the surface. The commandoes had to get on their way as quickly as possible.
There was an alien tightness in his gut ashe hastily initiated another 360-degree scan with the scope. Yet this time, when he turned his gaze back to the beach, the firm voice of the quartermaster called out behind him.
“The team is in the water. Captain.”
The Bokken’s diving officer was quick to add.
“Captain, the forward access trunk has been sealed. I show a green board.”
“Take us under, Chief!” ordered Slaughter, his pulse quickening as the sound of onrushing ballast signaled that the dive into the protective depths had begun.
The upper deck was soon awash, and as the sail began to be covered with water, Chris Slaughter conti
nued to expectantly gaze out the eyepiece. He carefully readjusted the scope’s focus, and it was then that he sighted the team, vigorously paddling their raft toward the distant beach.
Eighteen
The waters of the bay were smooth and calm, and the team made excellent progress. Miriam Kromer did her best to contribute her share of muscle power. No stranger to the use of a paddle now, she met the SEALs blistering pace with a powerful, constant stroke. Just knowing their exposed position brought anew urgency to this effort, and she was oblivious to her aching back and arms.
Barely a word had been spoken since they’d left the submarine. This was fine with Miriam, who had her fair share of thoughts to keep her mind busy. Even though they were well into their mission now, the reality of it had yet to sink in. A commando raid of this type was something that belonged on a movie screen, or the pages of an adventure novel, not in an actual life. But here she was all the same, on a dangerous operation, with a group of men who did this kind of thing for a living.
Adding to the unreality of the moment was the mirrorlike stillness of the surrounding waters, the crystal-clearness of the star-filled heavens. The air was warm and humid, its scent tinged with the rich, salty smell of the sea. A gull cried out over head, providing the lone accompaniment for the constant, muted sounds of paddles slicing into water.
The shoreline was quickly approaching. From her vantage point, Miriam could see the line of tall palms that ringed the narrow beach. The surf was barely existent. It was evident that they could not rely upon it to propel them onto the sand, so they utilized their paddles until the very last moment, when Cajun and Old Dog jumped overboard and guided the raft up onto the beach.
Silence prevailed as the others jumped out and helped drag the inflated craft out of the water. It was Cajun who signaled them to kneel in the sand while he scouted out a safe route into the underbrush situated some twenty yards distant. He was back in a matter of a few minutes, and together they lifted up the raft and carried it farther inland.
They hid it beneath a pile of palm fronds. Then, as Cajun returned to the beach to wipe out their tracks, the rest of the team removed the weapons from the waterproof equipment bags. They were fully armed by the time Cajun rejoined them.
Again without a word spoken, their point man led the way deeper into the underbrush, with Old Dog, Traveler, Kromer, and Warlock following at five-yard intervals. The toxicologist was somewhat surprised to find herself in a thick, semitropical forest, complete with strangely crying birds and humming insects. The overhead cover all but blotted out the starlight, and she found it difficult to see the narrow footpath that led them away from the bay.
It was good to be back on solid land again, even if the sights, smells, and sounds weren’t all that familiar.
The tight confines of the submarine had been an alien world to her. Its pitching deck and sickening diesel fumes were aggravated by the sub’s cramped spaces and almost total lack of privacy.
The men who took such vessels to sea were certainly a breed apart, and Miriam couldn’t help but respect them.
It was as she was climbing over the rounded trunk of a fallen palm tree, that the loud, distinctive chirping of a cricket came from up ahead.
Since the SEALs used a hand-held device to mimic this sound whenever they wanted to warn of danger, she momentarily halted to determine its legitimacy.
Warlock soon caught up with her and, with his finger to his lips, cautiously led her farther down the path.
They met up with the rest of the group at a spot where the trail crossed a broad, sandy clearing. It was Cajun who used the tip of his knife to point out a barely visible, taut wire stretched out barely a half-inch from the ground and extending into the surrounding forest.
“It’s atrip-wire. Doc,” whispered Warlock.
“Watch your step, and by all means, don’t wander off the trail.”
This warning hit home, and Miriam’s pulse instinctively quickened. Finally, the first hint of fear was stirring deep inside of her. This was no mere exercise. The stakes were life or death.
She carefully stepped over the wire, and tried her best to put each foot down in the exact spot
Traveler had stepped in. It was a nerve-racking experience, knowing that the very next step could be a fatal one. During one of their training sessions, Warlock had demonstrated the techniques of mine warfare, and Miriam had seen her fill of deadly weapons that could easily blow off afoot or much worse.
She didn’t have to go far until the distinctive manmade cry of the cricket once more called the team together. They took refuge behind a massive mound of cut brush, the glow of a bright spotlight readily visible through the trees ahead.
“I’ll check it out,” said Cajun, who wasted no time in disappearing into the underbrush.
The rest of the team crouched down to wait for his return.
“How are you feeling now, Doc?” asked Traveler ashe handed her his canteen.
The lexicologist gratefully swallowed a mouthful of water before answering.
“Cajun was right. All of a sudden, I’m scared stiff.”
“Well, relax darling’,” advised Traveler ashe took back his canteen and downed a sip himself.
“Because as long as ole Trav is around, nobody’s going to be messin’ with you. And that. Doc, is a fact!”
Miriam had long ago made her peace with this well-meaning Lothario, and she found his words somewhat reassuring.
“God damn mosquitoes!” cursed Old Dog ashe slapped one of the persistent insects from his neck.
Miriam was suddenly aware of a tickling sensation on her earlobe, and she brushed off the insect responsible for it in midbite. The standing water they had passed earlier provided a perfect breeding ground for these bloodsucking pests, Miriam reflected, wondering whether they carried malaria or not, the dreaded disease caused by a parasite transmitted by the female anopheles mosquito. This parasite enters the red blood cells, where it grows and eventually bursts, causing extreme anemia, followed by intense attacks of chills, fever, sweats, and great weakness. Though malaria could be controlled by simply destroying the mosquitoes’ breeding places, the disease was still ranked as a major cause of death in the world’s tropical areas, with some two million people dying from it each and every year.
As she slapped yet another mosquito off her forehead, Cajun silently emerged from the underbrush.
Only the whites of his eyes showed ashe breathlessly joined them.
“It’s the western security perimeter, allright he reported between gasps of air.
“There’s areal pretty barbed-wire fence, with video cameras coverin’ all the angles. But I didn’t see a single guard or, more important, any sign that they’re usin’ watch dogs.”
“Can we cut our way through without being detected?”
asked Old Dog.
Cajun was quick with his answer.
“I don’t think we have to go to all that trouble, big guy. If you ladies don’t mind getting’ wet, there’s some sort of sewer tunnel that empties out into a creek over yonder. As far as I can tell, it leads straight inside.”
* * *
It was pitch black outside by the time Dr. Yukio Ishii and his two trusted senior naval officers climbed up the forward access trunk of the Katana and gathered on the sub’s top deck. None the worse for wear after imbibing his fair share of sake. Lieutenant Satoshi Tanaka was his usual convivial self ashe stretched his compact frame and looked up into the star-filled heavens.
“It’s a beautiful evening for a cruise, Satsugai,” he said to the Katana’s captain.
“Too bad you won’t be able to enjoy it from the surface.”
Satsugai Okura grunted.
“I’m quite happy to keep it that way, Satoshi. Besides, you were always the stargazer in our crowd.”
“It is indeed a magnificent night,” observed Ishii, who wondrously stared upward.
“This is but another excellent portent of things to come.”
&nb
sp; A young sailor approached Okura and handed him a clipboard. Okura quickly read its contents before handing it back to the sailor and excusing him with a brusque salute.
“That was the final manifest,” he revealed to his two associates.
“As expected, the Katana will be ready to set sail with the tide change.”
Ishii appeared particularly relieved at this news, but he was instantly distracted by the arrival of a single motorcycle on the adjoining pier. The driver of this vehicle was dressed all in black leather; even the flat dispatch case hanging around his neck was of that color and material. With a quick fluid motion, the man leaped off the motorcycle and hurried up the Katana’s gangplank, not stopping until he reached Ishii’s side.
“Excuse me, sir,” the leather-clad messenger said, reaching into his case and pulling out an envelope.
“I was told by the assistant director to deliver this to you at once.”
Ishii quickly opened the sealed envelope and ashe read its contents, a puzzled expression crossed his wrinkled face.
“This certainly is strange,” he said thoughtfully.
“But an hour ago, our esteemed net keeper allowed a submarine into the bay. And get this, Sumiko swears that it was the Bokken!”
“If that’s the case. Captain Sato must have gotten lost somewhere between the bay’s entrance and this pier,” jested Okura.
“Surely the senile old veteran read his computer screen improperly.”
Satoshi Tanaka was quick to defend the net keeper’s honor.
“Yano Sumiko might belong in years, but he’s still sharp as a tack. There can be absolutely no doubting his ability to operate the sensor grid.”
“Then it’s a glitch in the detection equipment that’s responsible,” offered Okura.
The one-eyed mariner shook his head to the contrary.
“Highly unlikely, Satsugai. The entire system checked out perfectly during our recent inspection.
And besides, there’s been no hint of any operational difficulty.”
“Who knows, perhaps the Bokken has indeed returned early,” interrupted Ishii.
“Since Sato helped design our hydrophone security system, maybe he’s trying to test our alertness, and he’s merely hiding out there, waiting for us to detect him.”
Sea of Death Page 23