Seriously doubting that the Bokken had returned to port early and was disabled on the floor of the bay, Ishii looked up as a voice called out from the sub’s sail.
“Sensei, I finally have some news for you!”
Ishii hurried down the pier and climbed onto the submarine’s forward gangway. The Katana’s captain could be seen standing on the exposed sail, and as Ishii continued his approach, Okura said, “Satoshi has picked up some sort of sonic homing signal emanating from the western portion of the bay. He’s currently moving in at flank speed to investigate.”
“A sonic homing signal, you say?” repeated the puzzled elder.
“Then perhaps Sato has really returned.
I’ll bethe doing all of this just to test our alertness.”
“That could very well be,” returned Okura.
“Well, whatever is happening, we’ll finally find the key to this time-consuming mystery. I imagine that your crew is anxious to put to sea, Satsugai.”
Okura nodded.
“They are, Sensei.”
“Go below and preach patience,” instructed Ishii.
“You’ll be off as soon as thatone-eyed pirate of ours returns to escort you through the sub net.”
Okura saluted and disappeared below, leaving Ishii alone on the Katana’s foredeck. Wishing that he had a pair of binoculars, the white-haired elder peered out over the black waters of the western portion of Takara Bay. Barely visible on the horizon were the red and green running lights of Satoshi Tanaka’s patrol boat. Even from such a great distance, the low rumble of this vessel’s engines was just audible over the gentle cry of the gusting night wind.
Another individual was listening to this same rumbling sound from a vastly different vantage point. With the assistance of a pair of sensitive headphones, Jaffers was anxiously hunched over the sonar console, Chris Slaughter and Bill Brown standing close behind him.
“I’ve got increased revs on the patrol boat. Captain,” revealed the senior sonar technician.
“And they’re headed our way!”
“Damn, they must have tagged the team’s sonic emitter,” said Brown.
“How far to the raft, Jaffers?” questioned Slaughter.
Jaffers readdressed his console before answering.
“Less than a thousand yards and closing, sir.”
“Can we get to them in time?” asked Bill Brown.
Chris Slaughter looked up and met the veteran’s concerned glance.
“It’s going to be close. Bill. But for the sake of that SEAL team, we’ve got to give it our best. Otherwise, that patrol boat will rip them to shreds.”
It was Cajun who first spotted the green and red running lights of the surface vessel approaching from the cast. From aseated position on the raft’s prow, he pointed out this unwelcome newcomer to his teammates.
“We’ve got company, ladies. Looks to me like it could be a patrol boat of some sort.”
Old Dog momentarily stopped paddling and worriedly scanned the calm waters that surrounded them.
“Hey, Warlock, is that gizmo of yours even workin’?” he questioned.
“I don’t see any sign of da’ sub.”
Warlock replied while readjusting the line that held the sonic emitter.
“Hang loose, big guy.
These things take time.”
“That’s one commodity we don’t have much of,” returned Traveler, and he ceased paddling to check the position of the surface vessel Cajun had warned them about.
The running lights of this ship were clearly visible now. And since he could hear the throaty rumble of its diesels. Traveler had no alternative but to reach for his M-16.
Cajun also quit paddling, to ready his rifle. He snapped the scope cover off his Heckler and Koch, put the short, plastic stock up against his cheek. The starlight scope had limited see-in-thedark capabilities, and as Cajun focused in on the intruder, he could just make out the large cannon mounted on this ship’s foredeck.
“It’s a patrol boat, allright, and it’s haulin’ ass straight for us,” he calmly revealed.
“What can we do about it?” asked the only civilian in their midst.
Cajun answered, his eye still pressed up against the scope.
“Doc, since there’s no goin’ back to shore, it looks like we’ll just have to duke it out at sea. Our only chance is to hit them with as much lead as we can muster.”
Warlock snapped a magazine into his Colt Commando and offered a brief game plan.
“We’ve got another couple of minutes tops before we’re within range. It will be to our advantage to let them get as close as possible before we open up.”
Miriam didn’t like the sound of this, so she suggested an alternative plan.
“Maybe we can talk our way out of this.”
Warlock looked at her in utter disbelief.
“Doc, any second now those charges we set back on land will go bang. It’s not going to take much imagination to figure out who’s responsible, and having a nice chat is definitely not going to be on the bad guy’s agenda.”
The tension was growing, and Traveler intervened by handing the toxicologist a 9mm Smith and Wesson pistol.
“If it comes to a shooting war, just squeeze them off nice and smooth like we showed you back on Okinawa,” he said ashe snapped in around and engaged the pistol’s safety.
“And remember, Doc, once those bullets start flying, your adrenaline will have you plenty pumped. So keep your cool and make sure your barrel is on target.
And don’t forget that as long as I’m around, you’ve got absolutely nothing to worry your pretty little red head about.”
The growling roar of the patrol boat’s engines could be clearly heard now, and with the continued help of the scope, Cajun was even able to spot several figures standing beside its deckmounted gun.
“I put them at about three hundred yards,” estimated Warlock.
He had barely spoken these words when the roar of the diesels abruptly ceased. From the bridge of the patrol boat, a powerful spotlight was activated. The bright beam of this device cut through the blackness, and just as it was about to illuminate the raft, Cajun extinguished it with a single 7.62mm slug.
“Okay you ugly bunch of mother fuckers, let ‘em have it!” cried Warlock.
This was all the SEALs needed to hear to let loose a deafening barrage of gunfire. Even Miriam Kromer joined in with her pistol, and soon the patrol boat’s running lights were also put out.
“Old Dog, hit ‘em with a grenade!” ordered Warlock.
The tall Texan was all set to launch one containing a high-explosive airburst, when the patrol boat’s forward gun opened up and a large shell screamed overhead. All of the SEALs instinctively ducked. Yet this round went long, exploding in a geyser of water some twenty yards behind them.
Angered by this attack, Old Dog stood, pumped a grenade into his rifle’s breech and, after aiming toward the patrol boat, depressed the separate trigger positioned in front of the modified M-16’s magazine. There was aloud thumping sound, and seconds later a shower of searing-hot, razor-sharp fragments exploded directly above the target’s bridge.
“Nice shootin’, big guy!” exclaimed Cajun.
“Next time hit ‘em in the ammo locker, and this battle will be history.”
Once more the patrol boat’s forward gun fired.
This round fell twenty yards short, and Warlock somberly explained what this meant.
“They’ve got the range now. Heaven help us on the next one.”
Miriam Kromer had emptied her pistol’s thirteen-round clip, and as she reached down to replace it, her hand was shaking so badly that Traveler had to snap the new clip in for her.
“I told you you’d be pumped. Doc,” he whispered.
“Now just breathe deeply and relax, and maybe you’ll get lucky and take out that deck gunner.”
A puff of white smoke from the patrol boat’s bow indicated that another round was on its way.
<
br /> This one arrived with an earsplitting, piercing whistle, and exploded in the sea, less than five yards from the raft. A towering geyser of water shot up into the air and thoroughly soaked the team, who answered with a desperate barrage of gunfire.
“I don’t like these odds, ladies,” observed Traveler.
“We need more firepower!”
“Gentlemen,” interrupted Miriam in atone tinged with hope.
“There’s something strange happening in the water on this side of the raft.”
All eyes turned in that direction, to spot a white swath of bubbling foam lightening the sea a mere ten yards away. It was Old Dog who identified this disturbance.
“It’s da’ sub!” he shouted.
“US Navy to the rescue!” added Traveler.
Warlock had more practical things on his mind.
He put down his rifle and reached for his paddle.
“Come on, SEALs!” he joyously exhorted.
“Paddle like you never did before!”
Satoshi Tanaka stood on the shattered bridge of the patrol boat that currently lay dead in the water.
A corpsman worked on bandaging the bloody lacerations on his waist and thighs, while his second in command sprawled on the deck before him, half of his skull blown away.
Still having no idea of who was responsible for this unprovoked attack, the one-eyed mariner absently gazed at his ship’s debris-strewn foredeck.
With a gaff hook, a group of sailors had just retrieved the raft on which the mysterious attackers had first been spotted. It was empty, and as his men pulled it in for a comprehensive inspection, Tanaka listened to the worried young medic who was attending to him.
“There are still grenade fragments in your wound, sir. They require immediate hospital attention.”
His thoughts far from any personal concerns, Tanaka firmly replied, “There’s no time for such a luxury. I’ve got the spilled blood of our fellow shipmates to avenge.”
Tanaka could see the sailor who had been inspecting the raft. Below on the foredeck, he pulled in a rope that had been attached to it. A small, compact device was tied to the end, and the sailor shouted up to the open bridge.
“Sir, I’ve found some sort of sonic homing device!”
Well aware that this was most likely the source of the signal that had originally called them to this portion of the bay, Tanaka tried hard to put the various pieces of the puzzle together. Seconds before the first shot had taken out their spotlight, the towed sonar array had picked up the signature of a rapidly approaching submarine. One of his men had actually sighted this vessel on the surface only minutes ago. It had apparently been called to this spot by the homing device, to pick up the intruders. Unfortunately the phantom sub had made good its descent before they could train their weapons on it. And with it, the men who had attacked them had disappeared.
Tanaka couldn’t ignore the report that Yano Sumiko had relayed to them earlier. In this dispatch, the elderly net keeper had mentioned that he had allowed a submarine, which he presumed to bethe Bokken, entrance into the bay. This had to bethe same vessel they had just encountered, which meant only one thing. It was not the Bokken but another Romeoclass sub, belonging to the People’s Republic of China, North Korea, or the USSR, that Sumiko had unknowingly allowed into Takara Bay.
Tanaka supposed these infiltrators had been caught in the midst of an act of industrial espionage.
That was why they had opened fire. And since they were now trapped in the bay, Tanaka saw only one course of action that could secure him revenge. With this in mind, he picked up the still-functioning intercom handset.
“Chief Agawa, I don’t care what it takes, but I want that towed sonar array back on-line. We’ve got a phantom submarine to hunt down, and we’re going to drop as many depthcharges as it takes to crack that vessel’s hull wide open!”
Anticipating just such a reaction on the part of the patrol boat they had just confronted, Chris Slaughter ordered the Bokken down into the protective depths. With Bill Brown at his side, he anxiously stood behind the helmsman, tightly gripping a ceiling-mounted, steel handhold to counter the bow’s steep down angle.
“That’s right, Mr. Foard,” said Slaughter softly.
“Take us to the bottom, nice and easy.”
The helmsman continued pushing forward on his control column, and as their angle of descent increased, several pieces of loose debris clattered up against the forward bulkhead. Those members of the crew not restrained by seat belts found it difficult to remain standing. Yet anew comer in their midst demonstrated remarkable balance and agility ashe entered the control room from the forward hatch. Pete Frystak appeared to be climbing up a steep incline ashe joined the sub’s two senior officers behind the helm.
“We’ve retrieved them all,” reported the veteran weapons officer.
“They’re wet, cold, and exhausted, but otherwise they seem to be in excellent physical condition.”
“That’s wonderful news, Pete,” replied Bill Brown.
“With all that lead that was flying around topside, I’d say they’re quite a lucky bunch.”
Chris Slaughter spoke without taking his eyes off the depth gauge.
“We had a little good fortune ourselves. If one of those rounds had hit the Bokken, we’d beheaded down for aten count and much more.”
“What about the team’s objective?” asked Brown.
Frystak directly met his ex-skipper’s glance.
“They succeeded in penetrating the complex, isolating the lab, and setting their charges. The first detonation should come any minute now.”
A relieved smile turned the corners of Bill Brown’s mouth. Yet before he could express himself, Jaffers called out from the nearby sonar console.
“The patrol boat is on the move again. Captain!
Its current heading puts them smack on our tail.”
“The bastard’s following us to the deep water,” said Slaughter disgustedly.
“Did you expect anything else?” returned Bill Brown.
“After all, this is his turf.”
“I wonder what ASW weapons they’re carrying?”
asked Frystak.
Chris Slaughter momentarily diverted his gaze to face the veteran.
“I eyeballed a depthcharge rack on their fantail. I saw no evidence of any type of homing torpedo.”
“We’ve just passed one-hundred feet,” reported the tense helmsman. He had already begun pulling back on his control column.
Slaughter quickly turned his attention back to the depth gauge.
“Level her out, Mr. Foard. If our bathymetric chart is accurate, we should be close to bottoming out, so brace yourselves, gentlemen.”
Both Bill Brown and Pete Frystak reached up to grab an overhead support bar, just as the Bokken struck the sandy bottom of the bay with an abrupt jolt. The interior lights flickered, and as the shock-wave faded, this proved to bethe extent of the damage.
“Pass the word,” ordered Slaughter firmly.
“I want this boat buttoned down tight, and as quiet as a church. All personnel not on duty are to remain in their racks, with the galley closed until further ordered.”
“If that patrol boat’s got a towed sonar array, nothing short of a miracle is going to keep them off our back,” commented Pete Frystak.
None of the sub’s senior officers saw their sonar operator press the right receptor of his headphones up against his car, ashe hurriedly reached out to turn down the volume increase of the boat’s hydrophones. But they did hear his warning.
“Something’s just entered the water topside!” exclaimed Jaffers.
“I think it could be-” This sentence was cut short by a deafening, gut wrenching blast that set the Bokken to reeling violently from side to side. Crewmembers and equipment went crashing to the deck, while the lights blinked off, on, and then off.
“Quartermaster, I need a damage report!” ordered Slaughter, who had been thrown to the deck beside the h
arness-secured helmsman.
“And someone activate the emergency lighting system.”
“I can’t get to the light switch. Captain!” managed the fallen electrician’s mate.
The lack of light enhanced their disorientation, and several frustrating and frightening minutes passed before the bright beam of a battle lantern cut through the murky darkness. It was Pete Frystak who held this batterypowered device. With calm, exacting precision, the veteran picked his way around the debris-strewn deck until he managed to locate the proper console and activate the emergency lights.
As a series of strategically placed, red lamps popped on, Chris Slaughter, Bill Brown, and several other crewmembers could be seen picking themselves up off the deck. No one appeared to be seriously injured, and as the officers scanned the control room for damage, yet another depth charge exploded close-by.
The violent concussion that accompanied this resounding blast shook the hull with the force of a major earthquake, and once more those crewmembers not held in place by restraints fell to the trembling deck. The emergency lighting system failed, and this time water sprayed from overhead.
The Bokken’s retired weapons officer was quick to switch on the battle lantern, and ashe struggled to get to his hands and knees, he angled the beam upward and spotted the broken water valve on the ceiling beside the periscope.
“I need some tools, pronto!” Pete Frystak loudly shouted.
He stood and fought his way across the slippery, angled deck. He was met at the periscope well by an alert sailor holding a variety of wrenches. Another sailor joined them, and together they worked at stemming the leak that already had them soaked in frigid seawater.
Meanwhile Chris Slaughter and Bill Brown once more picked themselves off the deck. Ignoring the fractured valve, they focused their attention on the quartermaster, who was readjusting the shoulder harness of his soundpowered telephone.
“What’s that damage report. Chief?” quizzed Slaughter.
The quartermaster momentarily delayed his reply because his last call remained unanswered.
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