Dangerous Grounds

by Don Keith

  "Ahead one-third. Make three knots," Devlin called out. "Dive, get me up!"

  Well, there went his speed. And since Ward had anticipated a normal operation, the boat was already too heavy. Now he would have to get the water off fast.

  "Chief of the Watch, pump depth control at maximum rate,” Ward called out. “Captain, request to pressurize depth control."

  "No way! Too much noise. What part of a combat operation don't you understand, Mister Ward?" Devlin shouted. The man’s face had already turned crimson. "Do you want everyone in the Pacific Ocean to know where we are and that our diving officer can't get the boat to periscope depth? Now get me up, damn it!"

  Ward had no choice. Pumping the water would take a few minutes. Those were minutes that could be used to get to periscope depth if he only had some speed. But instead he would be sinking slowly while they pumped the excess weight overboard.

  "Depth one-six-eight feet, coming to six-two feet," Ward called out. He watched helplessly as the depth detector slipped slowly backward. "One-seven-zero, coming to six-two"

  "Dive, get me up, damn it!"

  "One-seven-two, coming to six-two feet."

  With maddening slowness the pump finally caught up with the excess seawater. The boat once again started upward.

  "One-six-zero, coming to six-two feet,” Ward reported. Then, a moment later, he said, “One-five-zero, coming to six-two."

  "Mister Ward, I'll die of old age before we get to PD. Now kindly obey my order and get…me…up!"

  "One-four-zero, coming to six-two feet."

  Now the boat had a good upward velocity. Ward knew from his studies that he would need to flood some water in to keep from broaching the boat, popping to surface. But thanks to the lack of speed, the thumb rules he had learned would be no good this time. He would have to guess. With three knots’ speed and the seas coming from the bow, he reckoned that a thousand pounds should be about right. And if he didn't flood enough, he could hold the boat down with the planes while he flooded more water on.

  "COW, flood one thousand to depth control."

  Young Ward could instantly feel the extra weight as the upward velocity fell off a little with the additional seawater that was pumped aboard.

  "Depth nine-eight, coming to six-two. Three degree up angle."

  Ward could now feel the first pitch of the sea as the long Pacific rollers moved down the length of the sub. It must be on the heavy side of a sea state three!

  "Depth nine-zero feet."

  Corpus was smoothly heading upward now. For the first time, Ward starting to feel in control of the boat. Elation rolled over him. He was doing it. Doing it right..

  "Eight-two feet,” he called. "Seven-eight feet."

  "All stop," Devlin suddenly shouted.

  What the hell was the captain doing? They needed the speed, as little as it was, to control the boat. The book didn't have a chapter on how to do this. Ward tried to stay calm, racking his brain for an answer.

  The sub slowed noticeably as a wave surged over the sail. The roiling water sucked the boat upward like a rocket just launched from its pad. Ward didn't have a chance to react. Before he knew it, the City of Corpus Christi was bobbing on the dark surface of a night-time Pacific Ocean, its sail and fairwater completely out of the water for all the world to see.

  "Damn it, Ward! Can't you perform even the simplest procedures correctly?” Devlin shouted, his voice an odd mixture of rage and triumph. “All I asked was for you to take us to periscope depth and you broach the son of a bitch! Any sailor on this boat could have done better than that without the benefit of your genes and upbringing. Out here, you can't go crying to daddy, can you? You have to be your own man. Now get out of here and don't come back on watch until you’re ready."

  Ward rose from the chair and made his way slowly out of control, trying desperately to maintain some sense of dignity. He couldn’t imagine what he had done to be treated like this. Despite his best efforts, he could feel his face burning and the salty sting of tears forming in his eyes.

  He hurried his step just a bit. He didn’t want to give Devlin the pleasure.

  But for the first time in his life, since he became aware as a kid of what his dad did and how wonderful it would be to follow that same path, an ominous thought entered Jim Ward’s head.

  Maybe he wasn’t meant to be a submariner after all.

  15

  The USS Topeka slipped away from the pier, pulled sideways by the huge mustard-yellow tractor tug. An ominous, heavy overcast had settled over the harbor, masking the setting sun. The low, yellow street lamps lining the thoroughfare running up to the pier and the high halogen lights strung along the pier itself all snapped on in unison. The moist air glowed yellow-gold haloes around the lamps.

  The air was so thick that it seemed to suck up the usual sounds of a boat getting underway. Even the COB's colorful cursing as he cajoled the linehandlers barely reached Don Chapman's ears. It was absorbed and eerily muted before it could travel the few feet from the main deck to the bridge cockpit.

  Chapman didn't notice. He was lost in thought, reviewing everything that had happened since he and his submarine tied up at this pier in Yokosuka a mere six hours before. In that short time span, his routine, boring deployment had morphed into something far more exciting and dangerous than he cared to comprehend. Sidling up to North Korea’s hostile coast and sending SEALs ashore in search of stolen nukes was risky enough. But then he was supposed to stick around and pick the SEALs up again after a swarm of Tomahawks rained down on the North Koreans.

  The DPRK military types were not known as especially friendly hosts under any circumstances. Chapman assumed they would not take kindly to someone blowing up their new toys. He'd just have to convince the SEAL team leader, Cowboy Walker, to not waste any time sightseeing. The longer Topeka was on the surface near North Korea, the more dangerous it would become.

  The big sub glided out into the main channel and merged with the thick stream of merchant ships heading out to sea.

  "Captain!"

  Marc Lucerno broke Chapman’s thought as he yelled back over his shoulder to the skipper. The young lieutenant stood in the narrow bridge cockpit where he could communicate with the watchstanders down in the control room. Chapman stood above him, on the curving steel top of the sail, held in by a temporary set of lifelines usually called the "playpen."

  “What you got?”

  "XO on the horn. Commodore Ward sent a heads up. He says a Japanese diesel boat got underway an hour ago. JMSDF says it's heading out for local ops down in the Inland Sea. I get the impression the commodore’s not buying any of that."

  Chapman squatted down so he could talk.

  "Probably not," he yelled to be heard over the wind. "Those guys like to play games. They’ll probably sit out there somewhere south of Nojima Zaki and wait for us. Then they’ll try to track us. Real feather in their cap to track a nuke boat. Normally it’s no big deal. This time, though, we can't afford the risk of giving them any idea of where we're headed."

  Lucerno nodded then said, “Oh, and Lieutenant Walker requests permission to come up to the bridge. He says he would like to speak with you."

  "Tell the XO to have the tracking party ready to go. We'll be using the exiting port evasion plan. Send Lieutenant Walker up," Chapman answered gruffly. He had been looking forward to a few minutes of privacy, time to be alone with his thoughts. He knew there would be precious little time for reflection once they submerged. Oh, well, he might just as well see what the kid wanted. It might even be important.

  A half-minute later, Brian Walker scurried up the vertical steel ladder leading from the control room to the bridge hatch, watching his elbows and knees as he climbed. Even this narrow little tube was filled with valves and pipes. The SEAL still couldn’t figure out how submariners did it, living cooped up in such a tiny space for months at a time without even a peak of sunlight or a whiff of fresh air. Not for him. He needed to move and breathe and stretch wi
thout bumping into something. Too much of the Texas farm boy still in him.

  The tall, lanky SEAL had to duck one more time as he climbed up into the narrow cockpit. He squeezed in between Lucerno and the lookout and breathed deeply. The air held that odd mix of smells all sailors learn to identify, the strong earthy aroma of land mixed with the promise of clean sea breezes. The horizon to starboard was ablaze with the lights from the mass of humanity that lived around the edge of Tokyo Wan. The horizon ahead and to port flickered with the running lights of a thousand ships. Even the hazy atmosphere couldn’t dampen this light show.

  "It’s pretty up here," Walker commented. "How soon ‘til we dive?"

  Lucerno glanced at his watch.

  "Another two hours. We have to get clear of all those fisherman ahead of us. Then we're going to make a feint to the north, just in case anyone is watching."

  "What's that all about?" Walker asked. The SEAL was anxious to get to the North Korean coast, to his perilous task. Any unnecessary delay meant time wasted getting there, getting ashore, getting to the task at hand.

  "Skipper is worried that someone might be watching us," Lucerno answered. "Besides, the Japanese diesel boats like to sit out here and play with us when we dive."

  "What do you mean, ‘play with us?’"

  "They’ll try to sneak in and find us, see if they can figure out what we're doing," Lucerno shot back. "Gives them practice, but it sure is hell gets to be damned annoying. Especially this trip. Skipper gets real bent out of shape if they manage to pull one over on him. So we dive heading north then come back around. See if we can catch 'em trying to look up our skirts."

  Walker took it all in as he stared out at the myriad of blinking lights that surrounded the boat. This submarine stuff could get complicated but it had a familiar ring to it as well. Hide and listen. Try to head-fake the other side. Play in the dark. It was beginning to sound a lot like SEAL tactics in deep water.

  The wind shifted as Topeka made her turn. Walker could feel the long rolling swells of the North Pacific reaching into Tokyo Wan. They seemed to be urging the submarine to come out and play. The city lights on either side of the boat were beginning to fade slowly away in the mist and slip astern, but ahead was a solid line of lights that stretched across the horizon. Walker was mystified. There wasn't any land out there. At least none that the charts showed. But it looked like they were steaming straight toward some major city. And neither Lucerno nor the captain seemed the least bit concerned about running into something. It didn't make any sense.

  Fishing boats. It had to be thousands and thousands of fishing boats. Most no bigger than an oversized rowboat. Each with a lantern tied to the mast. All out here trying to attract tomorrow's dinner.

  "Mr. Walker, you up here to sightsee or to talk?" Chapman growled from above. "If it's to sightsee, call Triple-A. I got lots better things to do than be your tour guide."

  Walker looked up to where the skipper stood in the playpen and watched the shipping traffic all around them. The captain was standing up there all alone, quietly observing everything that happened, doubtless considering the awesome responsibility he had, commanding this boat and her men as they headed off for what could only be considered war. The young SEAL officer realized that was a responsibility that he now held as well.

  "Yes, sir. I thought we might discuss the mission. I had a couple of ideas that I wanted to bounce off of you."

  Chapman held his 10 x 50 binoculars firmly to his eyes and stared ahead. For a moment, the SEAL lieutenant wasn’t sure the captain had heard him. Then Chapman shouted over the wind.

  "Mister Lucerno, that inbound tanker is going to come too close. Come right thirty degrees for two minutes, then resume base course." In the next breath, without lowering the binoculars, he went on. "I'm a little busy right now for chit chat, but if it's really necessary, we can talk up here. Climb on up and clip yourself in. I don't want to have to spend the rest of the night trying to find some damn JO who fell off the bridge."

  Walker fastened his harness to a stanchion and climbed up into the playpen. He braced himself against the submarine's gentle roll that seemed more pronounced once he stood on top of the sail.

  The view from up here was spectacular. He could see why Chapman spent most of his time on the bridge when he could. It had to be nice to be king.

  "Okay, Mister Walker, what’s so important?"

  The SEAL grabbed hold of one the lifelines for balance as the Topeka heeled over in the cross swell.

  "Skipper, I've got all my men bedded down and our gear stowed. We're ready to go, except for stowing the inflatable boats and the gasoline bladders. Boats are going in the engineroom escape trunk. Your people aren't real happy about having gasoline inside the … I think the COB called it the 'people tank.' He's telling my chief that it has to go in the sail. I'm worried about water getting into the bladders and killing our outboards. I want to stow the bladders in the torpedo room."

  Chapman shot Walker a quick withering glance that spoke volumes. The SEAL might just as well have grown a second head. A rather stupid one.

  "Let me get this straight, Mister Walker. I got twenty-two warshot weapons down there. Almost ten tons of high explosives. And you want to store thirty gallons of gasoline right there alongside all that? Am I missing something or are you congenitally dumb? We have a fire down in the room and the resulting explosion would put this boat in orbit right up there next to the space station. The gas goes in the sail. End of discussion."

  Chapman’s eyes were back on the binoculars. Walker gulped. He suspected the argument would go this way, but he had hoped that Chapman would at least listen. Contaminated gasoline meant that his team might have to paddle twenty miles or more into the North Korean beach and then do the same back out again. If the fuel got ruined, they might as well head back to San Diego right now. At least that way they wouldn't end up in some North Korean prison. Or get themselves shot to death.

  "Skipper, be reasonable. We have to get to the beach and back. The outboards are our only hope," Walker said, practically begging.

  Chapman nudged Lucerno with the toe of his shoe. When the lieutenant turned around to listen, the skipper shouted his command: "Officer of the Deck, come left to course zero-one-zero. All ahead full. Rig ship for dive."

  With that complete, the skipper turned to face the SEAL again.

  "I ain't so stupid that I'm going to screw up your mission without a damn good reason. I figure we'll toss you into the water thirty miles or so from the coast, well below the North Korean's radar horizon. Then we'll do a snag-and-tow. Use the periscope to pull you in close enough that you won't even get your ballerina slippers damp when you pirouette onto the beach. Is that enough to keep you happy?"

  Walker swallowed hard then nodded as Chapman climbed down into the cockpit. Before he disappeared into the darkness, the skipper growled back up at the SEAL, "And now, if you will excuse me, I have a submarine to run. We dive in ten minutes. I suggest that you be on the inside of the people tank by then."

  Walker started to answer, to thank the captain for his time, but Chapman had already disappeared down the hatch. Lucerno gave him the slightest of smiles. It was really more of a conspiratorial grimace.

  "Skipper's okay. He growls a lot, but he'll go through the fires of hell to get you where you need to be when we get close to the DPRK. And you can damn sure count on him being there to get you out again."

  Walker nodded. He supposed that was all he could ask for.

  Colonel Manuel Ortega watched as the black Mercedes pulled up to the little restaurant. They were on the south side of Zamboango City, far from the American Consulate and the part of the city the tourists typically saw. The street was dark and empty; the houses hidden behind high walls and heavy metal gates. Only the locals frequented this area.

  He watched as Reginald Morris slowly climbed out of the big car's back seat and nervously scanned the area. Ortega suppressed a laugh as he imagined the effete little diplomat quave
ring in fear, picturing a bomb-wielding terrorist hiding in every shadow. If the little fag didn't crap his fancy pants before the night was over, Ortega would be sorely disappointed. The advantages of a Yale education were lost on the head of the Mindanao branch of the NBI. After all, he was a USC man.

  Morris scurried to the restaurant door and quickly disappeared inside. Ortega gave the diplomat fifteen minutes. That would allow the man’s nerves to simmer and stew just about long enough. Finally, he climbed out of the Land Rover and walked to the door of the little establishment.

  The interior was dark and smoky. A few candles illuminated the patrons who were spread out at secluded tables, each pair well out of earshot from the others. It was the kind of place a man could take his mistress, or to meet a business associate for the quiet but necessarily secretive deal. Or a perfect place to meet with a spy.

  Ortega found Reginald Morris sitting at a table, the back of his chair hard against the wall, nervously sloshing a martini and jumping every time the restaurant’s door swung open. The NBI agent stayed hidden in the shadows as he approached the table from the side of the dining room. The diplomat didn't see him until he spoke.

  "Reggie, how good of you to come."

  He knew that Morris hated to be called 'Reggie.' He felt it sounded much too African-American.

  “Uh…yes…well…”

  "You'll love this place. Very authentic. Mindanaon cuisine at its best."

  Morris set his highball glass down hard and glowered up at the cop.

  "Cut the crap, Manuel. I didn't sneak all the way out here to this godforsaken part of town to check out the Zagat rating on some flea-bitten Filipino ptomaine trap. Now, what is so damn important that you wanted me to risk my life?"

  Ortega was taken aback for an instant. Had the mouse suddenly developed cojones? Was there an actual penis hidden somewhere beneath all that flounce? The NBI agent only smiled, then pulled out a chair and sat down. He deliberately chose a seat that caused him to be backlit, so his face would remain in the shadows. Morris had to squint to try to see him. One more small nuance to keep the American off-balance.