“All stations report in but the engine room, sir.
They show similar damage to our own, with no serious leaks or injuries.”
“Why don’t I go aft and check on Roth and his men?” volunteered Bill Brown.
“Do it. Bill,” returned Slaughter.
“But for God’s sake be careful.”
Bill Brown headed for the rear hatch, and ashe passed by the periscope well, he noted with some degree of satisfaction that Pete Frystak and his two coworkers were making progress with their efforts.
“It’s looking better, Pete,” observed Brown, who was extra careful not to lose his footing in the gathering flood.
His ex-shipmate took a second to look up and slick back his soaked hair.
“Thanks, Skipper. Do you mean you’re not going to give us a hand?”
“You don’t need this old man getting in your way,” said Brown.
“Besides, Stanley still hasn’t reported in.”
“He’s probably just napping. Skipper. But if it’s more serious than that, don’t hesitate to give me a call.”
“Will do, Pete.” Brown stepped through the aft hatchway and cautiously made his way down a passageway lit only by dim, muted red light.
Ashe passed through a compartment where a group of enlisted men were berthed, he spotted a makeshift first-aid station where an overworked corpsman was attending to a variety of cuts, bumps, and bruises. The young, blond sailor who waited at the back of the line appeared extremely frightened and close to tears, so the veteran made it a point to stop beside him.
“Get ahold of yourself, sailor,” he instructed in a firm tone.
“What’s your name and where are you from?”
The terrified young man shakily responded in a barely audible, high-pitched voice.
“I’m Seaman Second Class Jed Potters, sir, from Tallahassee.”
“I’m from Florida myself, son,” returned Brown.
“And we certainly wouldn’t want the folks back in the Sunshine State to see you like this.
You’re a US Navy submariner, Mr. Potters. And as such, you’re one of the brightest and best this country has to offer. So show some guts and pride, son, and don’t let a couple of measly depth charges scare you.”
This hasty pep talk seemed to hit home, for Potters cleared his throat, inhaled deeply, and squared his shoulders.
“Yes, sir!” he responded, more clearly now.
“I’ll try my best, sir!”
“That’s all I’m asking,” said Brown ashe nodded and then continued on his way aft.
He found the hatch that led directly into the engine room dogged shut. Before unsealing it, he took afire axe and struck its flattened head up against the lower portion of the hatch. Only when it rang out hollow did he proceed to undog the hatch, confident that the compartment inside wasn’t completely flooded.
Much to his dismay, the engine room’s deck was covered by almost an inch of water. Stanley Roth and his men were gathered beneath the split pipe responsible for this flood, and Brown braved an icy soaking to join them.
“Do you need some help, Stanley?” he asked.
Roth answered while watching one of his machinists attempt to stem the flow by closing a valve on the far side of the break.
“We’ll get a handle on it, Skipper. It’s just that some of these valves are so rusted, every time we go to close one, the damn things snap off.”
A thunderous, booming explosion sounded, and Brown was forced to grasp the rail of the catwalk as yet another depth charge rattled the hull. The already muted light dimmed further, and Brown could barely see the valiant group of sailors who continued their fight against the onrushing sea.
“Hold on, Stan!” exclaimed Brown.
“I’ll get a battle lantern.”
“Try the ledge beside the hatch, Skipper!” suggested the soaked master chief.
One of the batterypowered torches was indeed there, and Brown gratefully switched it on. Ashe returned to share its light with the struggling machinists, he heard Stanley Roth’s question.
“Skipper, are we just going to sit here on the bottom until one of those ash cans gets lucky and blows a hole in us?”
Before Brown could respond to this, there was aloud screech of grinding metal and the water suddenly stopped flowing.
“I have a feeling that Commander Slaughter’s patience is just about exhausted,” answered Brown.
“So if I were you, I’d have your boys pump this compartment dry and then stand by for action!”
Back in the Bokken’s control room, Bill Brown’s prediction was about to come true. Frustrated by being powerless to halt the nerve-racking series of depthcharge attacks, Chris Slaughter and Pete Frystak stood beside the sonar console, anxiously waiting as Jaffers completed the latest scan of conditions topside.
“They’re coming around real slowly. Captain,” said the sonarman somberly.
“Sounds to me like they’ve just put some sort of towed array in the water.”
This revelation caused an anguished look to cross Slaughter’s face, and he uncharacteristically cursed.
“Damn! If they pin us down with active, we’re goners. What I wouldn’t give for just one of Hawkbill’s wire guided Mk 48’s right now.”
Pete Frystak was quick to offer an alternative.
“We’re carrying a full load of fish. Why not use them?”
“Without a wire to guide them, we’d have to surface and put a torpedo right down that patrol boat’s throat,” countered Slaughter.
The veteran slyly grinned.
“As a matter of fact, that’s just what I had in mind. Back in fiftyseven, while patrolling the Formosa Straits to keep Mao’s Taiwan invasion fleet contained, Cubera was pinned on the bottom by a Chinese frigate.
Though the official word was that the Chink warship hit amine and sank, I can tell you differently.”
“And I suppose you were on board at the time,” said Slaughter.
Frystak’s eyes lit up.
“Hell, Commander, not only was I on board, who do you think came up with the tactic that sunk them?”
Like any successful hunter, Satoshi Tanaka instinctively sensed it was time to move in for the kill. Oblivious to the pain caused by the shrapnel embedded in his lower torso, the one-eyed mariner staunchly stood at his post on the patrol boat’s bullet-scarred bridge, scrupulously scanning the dark waters directly in front of them. Several minutes had passed since they had released the last depthcharge, and Satoshi was patiently awaiting his senior chiefs appearance before beginning the next and hopefully final round.
Padded steps behind him signaled this individual’s presence, and he turned and beckoned Yoshi Agawa to join him at the railing. Also a veteran of the Japanese Maritime SelfDefense Force, Yoshi was a hardworking, disciplined sailor whom Satoshi Tanaka had personally recruited. There could be no missing the dark lines of fatigue and worry that etched the weary chiefs face ashe stepped onto the bridge and conveyed the status update his CO had been awaiting.
“Sir, the array has been fully deployed and is ready to be activated.”
“That’s wonderful news, Yoshi,” replied Tanaka, who added.
“And the spotlights?”
Yoshi answered while pointing to the bow, where two sailors could be seen rigging a temporary lighting fixture.
“They will be on-line momentarily, sir.”
Tanaka was pleased with this report, and quickly expressed his reaction.
“Surely our first round of depth charges damaged our prey and put fear in their hearts. Now we’ll administer the killing blow. Activate the array and pipe it through the public address system, Yoshi. Together we’ll listen to their death throes.”
Yoshi Agawa obediently nodded and then addressed the keyboard positioned beside the helm.
Seconds later, aloud blast of scratchy static emanated from the bridge’s elevated PA speakers.
Agawa readdressed the keyboard to make an adjustment, and th
e static was replaced by a steady, throbbing hum.
“The hydrophones are picking up the sound of the submarine’s batterypowered engines,” observed Yoshi.
Tanaka expectantly rubbed his hands together.
“Ah, so they finally got the nerve to get off the bottom, and they’re trying to make a run for it.
This only makes the hunt that much more exciting.
Hit them with active, Yoshi. We’ll get their exact position, and put them out of their misery once and for all.”
Once more the senior chief typed a series of commands into the computer, and the speakers projected a single, distinctive ping. When a series of rapid pings followed, however, Agawa appeared confused and frantically returned to the keyboard.
“What is the matter, Yoshi?” questioned Tanaka, who was just as puzzled as his subordinate.
“Suddenly you’ve gone as pale as a ghost.”
“It can’t be!” exclaimed Agawa in atone of utter disbelief.
“But we were just ranged by another boat’s active sonar!”
At this moment the patrol boat’s replacement spotlights snapped on. With his gaze now drawn in this direction, Satoshi Tanaka pondered his senior chiefs ominous warning while looking out to the waters directly before them. And it was then he spotted the surfaced submarine, some fifty yards off their bow — and the white wakes of the four torpedoes streaking straight toward them.
Dr. Yukio Ishii was standing at the end of Takara pier, when he saw the patrol boat’s spotlights activate. Satsugai Okura stood beside him, listening as his worried employer vented his anxiety.
“Good. Satoshi’s most probably scanning the wreckage his depth charges created. Soon we’ll know what this is all about, Satsugai.”
“I still think that is a Russian sub, Sensei,” offered Okura.
“They’re so desperate, they’ll go to any length to get high-technology secrets.”
Ishii held back his own opinion ashe intently watched the vessel’s progress. He could hear the throaty roaring of the boat’s engines as its throttle was fully engaged, and he prepared himself for the inevitable blast of an exploding depth charge.
But instead of a single massive detonation, there followed a quick succession of four individual blasts, these at a different pitch than the previous ones. At the same time, the patrol boat’s lights were abruptly extinguished and a frothing geyser of debris-laced seawater shot up into the air at the precise spot where the patrol boat had just been positioned.
“My heavens! What has just happened out there?” questioned Ishii. He appeared genuinely confused by this entire sequence of events.
Okura was equally as dumbfounded, though as a veteran naval officer he knew very well this last blast could only signal the end of his old friend Satoshi Tanaka.
“I can’t say for certain, Sensei,” he shakily managed.
“But it appears the patrol boat has just exploded. Perhaps they hit amine or maybe it was an engine malfunction.”
Ishii was all set to argue otherwise, but an even louder series of blasts sounded from the direction of land. Surprised by this unexpected commotion, the stunned elder turned his head and looked on as a massive, mushroom-shaped cloud of smoke and flame shot high into the night sky directly over the main industrial complex. So bright were these flames, they clearly illuminated Ishii’s horror-filled face ashe struggled to find words to express his shock.
“The complex! The laboratory! My life’s work!
No, this cannot be!”
A siren began wailing in the distance, and a series of secondary explosions signaled that this conflagration was far from over.
“What should we do, Sensei?” asked Okura, spurred by the warrior’s need to meet violence with violence.
“Should I release the ninja, then use the Katana to hunt down the phantom submarine that’s responsible for all of this?”
“Absolutely not!” shouted Ishii.
“You must set sail at once, and get on with your original mission.”
Okura dared to challenge this order.
“But what about the ones who caused all this death and destruction, Sensei? Surely we can’t just let them get away with such a horrific crime.”
A renewed sense of purpose guided Ishii, and as the raging flames were reflected in his eyes, he responded, “I will handle tracking down these perpetrators. You have only one divine duty, and that is to guide the Katana safely into Tokyo Bay.
Besides, once the Katana is safely through the net, all I have to do is rearm the mine field, and our socalled phantom submarine will be doomed.
So get on with it, Satsugai, before all of our hard work and sacrifice is in vain!”
Twenty
Pete Frystak tried hard to maintain a poker face ashe listened to the report that was being conveyed to him via the intercom handset mounted into the bulkhead beside the port-side torpedo tubes. His expectant audience included Adie Avila, Miriam Kromer, and the four SEALs. None of them took their eyes off the serious-faced veteran ashe concluded his conversation and thoughtfully hung up the handset.
“Well, Pops, what’s the verdict?” Traveler eagerly asked.
“Did our torpedoes score or not?”
This was the question each of them had in mind, and Frystak responded to it coolly and collectedly.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said with a minimum of emotion.
“That was Commander Slaughter on the line. He informs me that we took out that patrol boat, and that a tremendous, landbased explosion was just monitored by our hydrophones.
A subsequent periscope observation showed flames extending well over one hundred feet into the air above the very heart of Ishii Industries.”
As the faces of his audience lit up with excitement
Frystak broke down and joined them in a boisterous celebration that included a spirited exchange of high fives.
“Allright cried Cajun.
“Way to go SEALs!” shouted Old Dog.
Traveler appeared especially jubilant, and he shared his joy with Miriam Kromer.
“Hey, Doc. I told you there was nothin’ to worry about. That lab is history!”
The toxicologist found it hard to believe what she washearing was true.
“Do you mean that’s it?
It’s all over?”
“That’s all she wrote. Doc,” replied Warlock.
“Now we just have to lay back and enjoy the cruise home.”
As they continued with another round of high fives, Pete Frystak silently motioned for his assistant to join him beside the firecontrol panel.
Only when both of them had reached the relative isolation of this console, did Frystak speak out softly.
“I hate to spoil the party, Adie. But this patrol isn’t over just yet. We’ve still got to get out of this bay, and Commander Slaughter wants us to reload all four bow tubes.”
“But with that patrol boat snuffed, who are we going to shoot them at?” quizzed Avila.
“Ours is not to reason why, son. Let’s just say it’s a little added insurance policy.”
The youngster thought this over before responding.
“I hear you, Pete. And I’m with you all the way.”
* * *
Back in the Bokken’s control room. Bill Brown, Chris Slaughter, and Benjamin Kram were tightly gathered around the sonar console. Jaffers was the star of the moment ashe explained the latest sounds being picked up by his headphones.
“They’re diesels. Captain. And I’d be willing to bet a month’s pay they belong to another Romeo.”
“Admiral Walker did mention that Ishii had two Romeoclass subs in his fleet,” said Slaughter.
“What better vessel to hunt us down with?”
commented Bill Brown.
Jaffers was quick to interject.
“I don’t believe that’s the case, sir. They’re currently heading due south, straight for the mouth of the inlet.”
“They’re making a run for it!” exclai
med Benjamin Kram.
“All we have to do is hide in their baffles, and follow them through the sub net and out into the open sea.”
“But can we catchup to them in time?” asked Brown.
Chris Slaughter reacted forcefully.
“There’s only one way to find out. Mr. Foard, bring us crisply around to course one-eight-zero, at flank speed!
We’re going to have to shut down all unnecessary systems, and have Mr. Roth and his gang squeeze out every last bit of juice left in our batteries. We won’t be able to surface and initiate a recharge until we’re well past that net.”
Yano Sumiko was not having agood night. It had started to go wrong after he’d called in his usual evening report. As was his habit, he’d been sitting down for alight meal of dried mackerel and rice when the phone began ringing off the hook.
The assistant director himself was on the line, and he gruffly instructed Sumiko to relate the exact details concerning the submarine allowed entrance into the bay earlier. Sumiko did his best to satisfy his inquisitor’s stern request, and when he eventually hung up the phone, he thought he had succeeded.
Yet he’d no sooner returned to his table than aloud knock sounded on his front door, and in walked a trio of stern-faced, white-smocked technicians. They went directly to the sensor console and began a comprehensive systems analysis that took over an hour to complete.
Sumiko was in no mood for this unwelcome disturbance.
He was tired and hungry, and his back hurt from shoveling mulch for most of the day.
Besides, the system had been thoroughly checked less than three days ago, so this whole thing was nothing but a waste of time.
The technicians departed as abruptly as they had arrived, with absolutely no explanation as to what they had found. This was fine with Sumiko, who just wanted to be left alone in the first place.
To calm his nerves, he allowed himself an extraportion of sake, which he made certain to thoroughly warm before drinking. This did the trick, and not even bothering to clean out his rice pot, the old-timer headed straight for his futon. The firm canvas mattress had never felt so good, but just ashe was about to nod off, the first muffled blast sounded outside.
He supposed this was a byproduct of the construction project. During the days when the complex was being excavated, such explosions were a common occurrence, though seldom did they take place after sunset.
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