Security was tight at the Tokyo Hilton Hotel and guests for the private banquet were required to pass through three separate checkpoints before gaining entry to the lavish dining hall. The Japan Export Association's annual dinner was an extravagant affair featuring the best local chefs and entertainers performing for the country's top business leaders and dignitaries. Executives from Japan's major exporting companies helped sponsor the dinner on behalf of their major trading partners. In addition to key customers, in-country diplomats from all the Western and Asian countries that constituted Japan's primary trading partners were treated as special guests.
The recent assassination of U.S. Ambassador Hamilton and the bedlam at the SemCon factory opening had created a buzz in the crowd and heads turned when the American embassy's deputy chief of mission Robert Bridges entered the room, accompanied by two undercover security men.
Though a career diplomat, Bridges was more at home working policy strategies or conducting business security briefings rather than socializing in mass crowds. Hamilton had been by far the better glad-hander, Bridges thought as he made small talk with a Japanese trade representative. A dinner host soon arrived and escorted him to a small banquet table, where he was seated with a number of European diplomats.
As traditional dishes of sashimi and soba noodles were brought to the tables, a troupe of geisha dancers glided elegantly about a raised stage, dressed in brightly colored kimonos and twirling bamboo fans as they pirouetted. Bridges downed a shot of warm sake to help deaden the pain of listening to the French ambassador drone on about the poor quality of Asian wines while he watched the dancers spin.
As the first course was finished, a litany of corporate executives ok to the stage to promote their self-importance with blustery speeches. Bridges took the opportunity to visit the restroom and, with large bodyguard leading the way, walked down a side corridor and into the men's room.
The bodyguard scanned the tiled restroom, finding only a waiter washing his hands in a sink at the far end. Letting Bridges pass to the urinal, the bodyguard closed the door and stood facing the interior.
The bald waiter slowly finished washing his hands, then turned his back to the bodyguard as he dried his hands from a paper towel rack. When he spun back toward the door, the bodyguard was shocked to see a .25 automatic in the waiter's hand. A silencer was affixed to the muzzle of the small handgun, with the business end pointed directly at the bodyguard's face. Instinctively grabbing for his own weapon, the bodyguard had barely moved his hand when the .25 emitted a muffled cough. A neat red hole appeared just above the bodyguard's left eyebrow and the large man raised up and back momentarily before collapsing to the floor with a thud, a river of red blood running from his head.
Bridges failed to detect the muffled gunshot but heard the bodyguard collapse. Turning to see the waiter pointing the gun at him, Bridges could only mutter, “What the hell?”
The bald man in the waiter suit stared back at him with deathly cold black eyes, then broke into a sadistic grin that revealed a row of crooked yellow teeth. Without saying a word, he squeezed the trigger two times and watched as Bridges grasped his chest and fell to the ground. The assassin pulled a typewritten note out of his pocket and rolled it up tight into the shape of a tube. He then bent over and wedged it into the dead diplomat's mouth like a flagpole. Carefully disassembling his silencer and placing it in his pocket, he gingerly stepped over the two bodies and out the door, disappearing down a hall toward the kitchen.
The fiberglass bow of the twenty-five-foot Parker work-boat plunged through the deep, wide swells, cutting a white foamy path as it rolled through the trough before cresting on the peak of the next wave. Though tiny in comparison to most vessels in the NUMA fleet, the durable little boat, identified on the stern as the Grunion, was ideal for surveying inland and coastal waterways, as well as supporting shallow-water dive operations.
Leo Delgado rolled the helm's wheel to the right and the Grunion quickly nosed to starboard and out of the path of a large red freighter bearing down on them near the entrance of the Strait of Juan de Fuca.
“How far from the strait?” he asked, spinning the wheel hard to port a moment later in order to take the passing freighter's wake bow on.
Standing alongside in the cramped cabin, Dirk and Dahlgren were hunched over a small table studying a nautical chart of their present position near the entrance to the Pacific Ocean, some 125 miles west of Seattle.
“Approximately twelve miles southwest of Cape Flattery,” Dirk said over his shoulder, then dictated latitude and longitude coordinates to Delgado. The Deep Endeavor's first officer reached over to a keyboard and tapped the position into the small boat's computerized navigation system. A few seconds later, a tiny white square appeared in the upper corner of a flat-screen monitor that hung from the ceiling. At the lower edge of the monitor, a small white triangle flashed on and off, representing the Grunion as it motored into the Pacific. With the aid of a satellite Global Positioning System interface, Delgado was able to steer a path directly toward the marked position.
“Now, you guys are sure Captain Burch isn't going to find out we borrowed his support boat and are burning his fuel just for a pleasure dive?” Delgado asked somewhat sheepishly.
“You mean this is Burch's private boat?” Dirk replied with mock horror.
“If he comes snooping, we'll just tell him that Bill Gates stopped by and offered us a few million stock options if he could take the Grunion out for a spin,” Dahlgren offered.
“Thanks. I knew I could trust you guys,” Delgado muttered, shaking his head. “By the way, how good is your fix on the submarine's location?”
“Came right out of the official Navy report on the sinking that Perlmutter faxed me,” Dirk replied, grabbing the cabin door sill for balance as the boat rolled over a large swell. “We'll start with the position that was recorded by the destroyer after she sank the I-403.”
“Too bad the Navy didn't have GPS back in 1945,” Delgado lamented.
“Yes, the wartime action reports weren't always entirely accurate, especially where locations are concerned. But the destroyer had not traveled very far from shore when it engaged the sub, so their reported position ought to put us in the ballpark.”
When the Grunion reached the marked position, Delgado eased the throttle into neutral and began keying a search grid into the navigation computer. On the back deck, Dirk and Dahlgren unpacked a Klein Model 3000 side-scan sonar system from a reinforced plastic crate. As Dirk hooked up the cables to the operating system, Dahlgren reeled a yellow cylindrical sonar tow fish out over the stern gunwale and into the water.
“The fish is out,” Dahlgren yelled from the back deck, whereupon Delgado applied a light throttle and the boat edged forward. In a matter of minutes, Dirk had the equipment calibrated, resulting in a continuous stream of contrasting shadowy images sliding across a color monitor. The images were reflections of sound waves emitted from the tow fish which bounced off the seafloor and were recaptured and processed into visual recordings of protrusions or cavities on the sea bottom.
“I have a one-mile-square grid plotted around the Theodore Knight's reported position at the time she rammed the sub,” Delgado said.
“That sounds like a good starting range,” Dirk replied. “We can expand the grid if we need to.”
Delgado proceeded to steer the boat down a white line on the monitor until the end of the grid was reached, then he spun the wheel around and brought the boat down the next line in the opposite direction. Back and forth the Grunion sailed, in narrow two-hundred-meter paths, slowly chewing up the grid while Dirk kept a sharp eye for a long, dark shadow on the sonar monitor that would represent the I-boat lying on the bottom.
An hour went by and the only recognizable image that appeared on the sonar screen was a pair of fifty-five-gallon drums. After two hours, Dahlgren broke out tuna sandwiches from an ice chest and tried to relieve the tedium by telling an assortment of weakly humorous redneck jokes. Finally, after three h
ours of searching, Dirk's voice suddenly cut through the damp air. “Target! Mark position.” Gradually, the fuzzy image of an elongated object rolled across the screen, joined by two smaller protrusions near one end and a large object lying next to it amidships.
“Lord have mercy!” Dahlgren shouted, studying the image. “Looks like a submarine to me.”
Dirk glanced at a scale measurement at the bottom of the screen. “She's about 350 feet long, just as Perlmutter's records indicate. Leo, let's take another pass to verify the position, then see if you can park us right on top of her.”
“Can do,” Delgado replied with a grin while swinging the Grunion around for another run over the target. The second-pass image showed that the submarine was clearly intact and appeared to be sitting upright on the bottom. As Delgado punched the precise location into the GPS system, Dirk and Dahlgren hauled in the sonar tow fish then unpacked a pair of large dive bags.
“What's our depth here, Leo?” Dahlgren called out as he poked his feet through the leggings of a black neoprene wet suit.
“About 170 feet,” Delgado replied, eyeing a humming fathometer.
“That will only give us twenty minutes of bottom time, with a twenty-five-minute decompression stop on the way up,” Dirk said, recalling the recommended dive duration from the Navy Dive Tables.
“Not a lot of time to cover that big fish,” Dahlgren considered.
“The aircraft armament is what I am most interested in,” Dirk replied. “According to the Navy report, both aircraft were on deck when the destroyer attacked. I'm betting those two sonar images off the bow are the Seiran bombers.”
“Suits me fine if we don't have to get inside that coffin.” Dahlgren shook his head briefly, considering the scene in his head, then proceeded to strap on a well-worn lead weight belt.
When Dirk and Dahlgren were suited up in their dive gear, Delgado brought the Grunion back over the target position and threw out a small buoy tied to two hundred feet of line. The two black-suited divers took a giant step off the rear dive platform and plunged fin first into the ocean.
The cold Pacific water was a shock to Dirk's skin as he dropped beneath the surface and he paused momentarily in the green liquid, waiting for the thin layer of water trapped by the wet suit surface to match the warmth of his body heat.
“Damn, I knew we should have brought the dry suits,” Dahlgren's voice crackled in Dirk's ears. The two men wore full-face AGA Divator MKII dive masks with an integrated wireless communication system, so they could talk to each other while underwater.
“What do you mean, it feels just like the Keys,” Dirk joked, referring to the warm-water islands at the south end of Florida.
“I think you've been eating too much smoked salmon,” Dahlgren retorted.
Dirk purged the air out of his buoyancy compensator and cleared his ears, then flipped over and began kicking toward the bottom following the anchored buoy line. Dahlgren followed, tagging a few feet behind. A slight current pushed them toward the east, so Dirk compensated by angling himself against the flow as he descended, trying to maintain their relative position over the target. As they swam deeper, they passed through a thermocline, feeling the water temperature turn noticeably colder in just an instant. At 110 feet, the green water darkened as the murky water filtered the surface light. At 120 feet, Dirk flipped on a small underwater light strapped to his hood like a coal miner. As they descended a few more feet, the elongated, dark shape of the Japanese submarine suddenly grew out of the depths.
The huge black submarine lay quietly at the bottom, a silent iron mausoleum for the sailors who died on her. She had landed on her keel when she sank and sat proudly upright on the bottom, as if ready to set sail again. As Dirk and Dahlgren drew closer, they were amazed at the sheer size of the vessel. Descending near the bow, they could barely see a quarter of the ship before its bulk disappeared into the murky darkness. Dirk hovered over the bow for a moment, admiring the impressive girth, before examining the catapult ramp that angled down the center deck.
“Dirk, I see one of the planes over here,” Dahlgren said, pointing an arm toward a pile of debris lying off the port bow. “I'll go take a look.”
“The second plane should be farther back, according to the sonar reading. I'll head in that direction,” Dirk replied, swimming along the deck.
Dahlgren quickly darted over to the wreckage, which he could easily see was the remains of a single-engine float plane dusted in a heavy layer of fine silt. The Aichi M6A1 Seiran was a sleek-looking monoplane specially designed as a submarine-launched bomber for the big I-boats. Its rakish design, similar in appearance to a Messerschmitt fighter, was made comical by the attachment of two huge pontoons braced several feet below the wing, which looked like oversized clown shoes extending beyond the fuselage. Dahlgren could see only a split portion of one pontoon, though, as the left float and wing had been heared off by the charging American destroyer. The fuselage and right wing remained intact, propped up at an odd angle by the damaged pontoon. Dahlgren swam to the seafloor in front of the plane, studying the visible undercarriage and wing bottom of the bomber. Moving closer, he fanned an accumulation of silt away from several protrusions, revealing a set of bomb grips. The clasps that secured the bomber's payload were empty of armament.
Gliding slowly up the side of the fuselage, Dahlgren kicked over to the half-crushed cockpit canopy and wiped away a layer of silt from the glass enclosure. Shining his light inside, he felt his heart pound rapidly at the startling sight. A human skull stared up at him from the pilot's seat, the bared teeth seeming to smile at him in a macabre grin. Playing the light about the cockpit, he recognized a pair of deteriorated flying boots on the floorboard, a sizable bone remnant jutting out of one opening. The collapsed bones of the pilot still occupied the plane, Dahlgren realized, the flier having gone down with his ship.
Dahlgren slowly backed away from the aircraft, then called Dirk on the radiophone.
“Say, old buddy, I've got the business end of one of the float planes here, but it doesn't look like she had any weapons mounted when she sank. Airman Skully sends his regards, though.”
“I've found the remains of the second plane and she's clean as well,” Dirk replied. “Meet me at the conning tower.”
Dirk had found the second bomber lying thirty yards away from the sub, flipped over on its back. The two large pontoons had been ripped off the Seiran bomber when the sub went under, and the plane's fuselage, with wings still attached, had fluttered down to the bottom. He could easily see that no ordinance was mounted on the undercarriage and found no evidence that a bomb or torpedo had fallen away when the plane sank.
Swimming back to the sub's topside deck, he followed the eighty-five-foot-long catapult ramp along the bow until reaching a large round hatch. The vertical hatch capped the end of a large twelve-foot-diameter tube, which was mounted at the base of the conning tower and stretched aft for more than one hundred feet. The airtight tube had been the hangar for the Seiran aircraft, storing the sectional pieces of the planes until they were ready for launching. Set back above the tubular section was a small platform containing triple-mounted 25mm antiaircraft guns, which still sat with their barrels pointed skyward waiting for an unseen enemy.
Instead of a large metal sail rising upward, Dirk found a huge hole in the center of the I-403, the gaping remains of where the conning tower had been sheared off in the collision. A small school of ling-cod swam around the jagged crater's edge, feeding on smaller marine life and adding a splash of color to the dark scene.
“Wow, you could drive your Chrysler through that hole,” Dahlgren remarked as he swam up alongside Dirk and surveyed the crater.
“With change to spare. She must have gone down in a hurry when the sail ripped off.” The two men silently visualized the violent collision between the two war vessels so many years before and imagined the agony of the helpless crew of the I-403 as the submarine sank to the bottom.
“Jack, why don't you tak
e a pass through the hangar and see if you can eyeball any ordnance,” Dirk said, pointing a gloved hand toward a gash along the top of the aircraft hangar. “I'll go belowdecks and do the same.”
Dirk glanced at the orange face of his Doxa dive watch, a gift from his father on his last birthday. “We've only got eight more minutes of bottom time. Let's be quick.”
“I'll meet you back here in six,” Dahlgren said, then disappeared with a kick of his fins through the gash in the hangar wall.
Dirk entered the gloomy crevice adjacent to the hangar, diving past a jagged edge of mangled and twisted steel. As he descended, he could make out the sub's unusual twin side-by-side pressured hulls, which ran lengthwise down the keel. He entered an open bay and quickly identified it as the remains of the control room, as evidenced by a large mounted helm's wheel, now covered in barnacles. An array of radio equipment was fixed to one side of the room-while an assortment of mechanical levers and controls protruded from another wall and ceiling. Shining his light on one set of valves, he made out barasuto tanku in white lettering, which he presumed operated the ballast tanks.
Kicking his fins gently, Dirk moved forward at a deliberate pace trying not to stir up sediment from the deck. As he passed from one compartment to the next, the submarine seemed to echo with the life from the Japanese sailors. Dining plates and silverware were strewn across the floor of a small galley. Porcelain sake vials were still standing in cabin shelves. Gliding into a large wardroom where officers' staterooms lined one side, Dirk admired a small Shinto shrine mounted on one wall.
He continued forward, cognizant of his dwindling bottom time but careful to take in all that his eyes could absorb. Moving past a maze of pipes, wires, and hydraulic lines, he reached the chief's quarters, near the forward part of the ship. At last, he approached his objective, the forward torpedo room, which loomed just ahead. Thrusting ahead with a powerful scissors kick, he advanced to the torpedo room entrance and prepared to pass in. Then he stopped dead in his tracks.
Black Wind dp-18 Page 8