Black Wind

Like her brother, Summer had possessed a deep love of the sea since childhood. After obtaining a master's degree in oceanography from the Scripps Institute, she'd joined her brother at NUMA following a uniting with their father, who now headed up the undersea organization. As headstrong and resourceful as her sibling, she'd gained respect in the field with her knowledge and hands-on abilities, while her attractive looks never failed to turn heads.

Leading Dirk past a row of parked cars, Summer suddenly stopped in front of a tiny orange Suzuki subcompact parked by itself.

“Oh, no, not another knee-crusher,” Dirk laughed as he surveyed the tiny vehicle.

“A loaner from the Port Authority. You'll be surprised.”

After carefully wedging his gear into the minuscule hatchback, Dirk opened the left-side door and prepared to pretzel himself into the passenger seat. To his amazement, the interior of the right-hand-drive car proved roomy, with a low sitting position creating ample headroom for the two six-footers. Summer jumped into the driver's seat and threaded their way out of the parking lot and onto the Hanshin Expressway-Heading north toward downtown Osaka, she accelerated the little Suzuki hard, zipping in and out of traffic, for the twelve-kilometer drive to the city's port terminal. Exiting the expressway, she turned the car into the Osaka South Port Intermodal Terminal and down a side dock before pulling up in front of the Sea Rover.

The NUMA research vessel was a slightly newer and larger version of the Deep Endeavor, complete with matching turquoise paint scheme. Dirk's eyes were drawn to the stern deck, where a bright orange submersible called the Starfish sat glistening like a setting sun.

“Welcome aboard, Dirk,” boomed the deep voice of Robert Morgan, the master of the Sea Rover. A bearded bear of a man, Morgan resembled a muscular version of Burl Ives. The jovial captain held an amazing array of seagoing experience, having commanded everything from a Mississippi River tugboat to a Saudi Arabian oil tanker. Having salted away a healthy retirement sum from his commercial captain days, Morgan joined NUMA for the pure adventure of sailing to unique corners of the globe. Deeply admired by his crew, the skipper of the Sea Roverwas a highly organized leader who possessed an acute attention to detail.

After storing Dirk's bags, the threesome adjourned to a starboard-side conference room whose porthole windows offered a serene view of Osaka Harbor. They were joined by First Officer Tim Ryan, a lanky man with ice blue eyes. Dirk grabbed a cup of coffee to regain alertness after his long flight while Morgan got down to business.

“Tell us about this urgent search-and-recovery mission. Gunn was rather vague with the details over the satellite phone.”

Dirk recapped the Yunaska incident and the recovery of the I-403's bomb canister and what had been learned of the sub's failed mission.

“When HiramYaeger reviewed the Japanese naval records in the National Archives, he discovered a near-duplicate operations order that was issued to a second submarine, the I-411. It had the same mission, only to cross the Atlantic and strike New York and Philadelphia instead of the West Coast.”

“What became of the I-411?” Summer asked.

“That's what we're here to find out. Yaeger was unable to uncover any definitive information on the I-411's final whereabouts, other than that she failed to appear for a refueling rendezvous near Singapore and was presumed lost in the South China Sea. I contacted St. Julien Perlmutter, who took it a step further and found an official Japanese naval inquiry which placed the loss in the middle of the East China Sea sometime during the first few weeks of 1945. Perlmutter noted that those facts matched up to a report from the American submarine Swordfish that she had engaged and sunk a large enemy submarine in that region during the same time frame. Unfortunately, the Swordfish was later destroyed on the same mission so the full accounting was never documented. Their radio report did provide an approximate coordinate of the sinking, however.”

“So it's up to us to find the I-411” Morgan said matter-of-factly.

Dirk nodded. “We need to ensure that the biological bombs were destroyed when the submarine went down, or recover them if they are still intact.”

Summer stared out one of the porthole windows at a skyscraper in distant downtown Osaka. “Dirk, Rudi Gunn briefed us about the Japanese Red Army. Could they have already recovered the biological weapons from the I-411?”

“Yes, that's a possibility. Homeland Security and the FBI don't seem to think the JRA has the resources to conduct a deep-water salvage operation and they're probably right. But, then, all it would take is money, and who's to say how well funded they, or an associate terrorist group, may be. Rudi agrees that we better make sure one way or the other.”

The room fell silent as all minds visualized a cache of deadly biological bombs sitting deep below the ocean's surface and the consequence if they fell into the wrong hands.

“You've got the best ship and crew in NUMA at your disposal,” Morgan finally said. “We'll get her done.”

“Captain, we've got a pretty large search area on our hands. How soon can we be under way?” Dirk asked.

“We'll need to top off our fuel supplies, plus two or three of the crew still ashore obtaining additional provisions. I expect we can be under way in six hours,” Morgan said, glancing at a wall chronometer.

“Fine. I'll retrieve the search coordinates and provide them to the ship's navigator right away.”

As they exited the conference room, Summer tugged at Dirk's elbow.

“So what did the data from Perlmutter cost you?” she chided, knowing the gourmet historian's penchant for culinary blackmail.

“Nothing much. Just a jar of pickled sea urchins and an eighty-year-old bottle of sake.”

“You found those in Washington, D.C.?”

Dirk gave his sister a pleading look of helplessness.

“Well,” she laughed, “we do have six more hours in port.”

But, Dae-jong, opening the gates to the North is not going to provide me a usable, skilled labor pool," the CEO of South Korea's largest auto manufacturer asserted before taking a puff on a large Cuban cigar.

Sitting across a mahogany cocktail table, Dae-jong Kang shook his head politely as a long-legged waitress brought a second round of drinks to the table. Their conversation halted while the young Chaebel Club waitress placed their drinks in front of them. The club was a private enclave for Korea's super rich and powerful, a secure and neutral meeting place where huge deals were hammered out over kimchi and martinis. The aristocratic club was appropriately housed on the hundredth floor of the world's tallest building, the recently completed International Business Center Tower located in western Seoul.

“You must consider the lower labor wages. Retraining costs would be minor and recouped in no time. My staff has analyzed the prospects and told me I could save twenty million dollars a year in labor costs if we could draw on manpower from North Korea at their current equivalent wage rate. I can only imagine what your potential auto anufacturing savings would be. Suppose instead of expanding your Tllsan manufacturing facility, you built an entirely new plant in the orthern province of Yanggang. How would that improve your competitiveness on the world markets, not to mention open access to the northern consumers?”

“Yes, but it is not so easy for me. I have unions to contend with, as well as capital budget constraints. I certainly can't throw people out on the street at Ulsan and rehire workers from the North at half the price. Besides, there's a whole mind-set that we'll need to contend with if we bring on the northern worker. After all, no socialist state was ever admired for its devotion to quality output.”

“Nothing that a dose of retraining and a taste of capitalistic wages wouldn't quickly solve,” Kang countered.

“Perhaps. But, face it, there is no consumer market for automobiles in the North. The country is an economic mess, and the average man on the street is primarily concerned with putting a meal on the table. The disposable income just isn't there to aid my industry.”

“Yes, but you are looking at the present, not the future. Our two countries are on an inescapable collision course toward unification, and those that are prepared today will reap the riches tomorrow. You had the vision to expand your manufacturing presence to India and the United States and now you are a major player in the auto industry. Have the vision of a unified Korea and help place our homeland at the forefront of world leadership.”

The auto exec blew a large puff of blue cigar smoke toward the ceiling as he contemplated Kang's words. “I can see the wisdom in your thinking. I'll have my strategy office look into it, perhaps work up some contingencies. I'm not sure I have the stomach for dealing with the political issues and approvals, with both the North and South Korean governments, to establish a presence in the North just yet,” he hedged.

Kang set down his vodka gimlet and smiled. “I have friends and influence in both governments that can come to your aid when the time is right,” he replied with understatement.

“Most gracious of you. And there is something I can do for you; my good friend, in return?” the exec replied with a smirk.

“The resolution in the National Assembly to expel the U.S. military from our soil is gaining momentum,” Kang answered. “Your support of the resolution would sway a good deal of political opinion.”

“The embarrassing news incidents with the American military personnel are admittedly making things touchy in some areas of our business. However, I am not convinced the security concerns regarding an American force withdrawal are unfounded.”

“Of course they are,” Kang lied. “The American presence promotes aggression from the North. Their removal will only stabilize relations between our countries and allow our ultimate reunification.”

“You really think it's the right thing to do?”

“It could make us very rich men, Song-woo,” Kang replied.

“We already are,” the auto executive laughed as he snuffed out his cigar in a porcelain ashtray. “We already are.”

Kang shook hands good-bye with his fellow industrialist, then took a quick ear-popping elevator ride a hundred floors down to the lobby of the sprawling business center. An accompanying bodyguard attired in black spoke into a handheld radio, and, seconds later, a red Bentley Arnage RL limousine pulled up to the curb to collect them. As Kang rode silently in the leather-bound backseat, he allowed a sense of self-congratulations to overtake him.

The plan of events was going better than expected. The staged murder of a young girl by the American airman had caused widespread outrage across the country. Mothers were staging numerous protests outside of American military bases, while a mob of loud anotous college students had marched on the U.S. embassy. Kang's corporate administrative staff had orchestrated an intense letter-writing campaign that bombarded a score of local politicians with demands to oust the foreign armed forces. And Kang's extortion of several National Assembly leaders had initiated the political resolution that South Korea's president would soon have to contend with. Now he was working the business leadership community, which had the real clout with both the media and the members of the National Assembly.

The North Korean leadership in Pyongyang was doing their part in the deception by talking up reunification on every public front. As a goodwill gesture signaling improved relations, they temporarily lifted a majority of the travel restrictions to the north. With additional fanfare, they announced that an army armored division was being pulled back from the DMZ in a peaceful move, though failed to admit that they were just being repositioned a short distance away. Facts to the contrary, a peaceful and friendly front was being promoted in the spirit that a Madison Avenue ad exec would admire.

The Bentley drove into downtown Seoul, turning through the gates of a nondescript low-rise glass building marked with a small sign, stating simply: kang enterprises-semiconductor division. The luxury car continued past a crowded parking lot, then down a small alleyway that led to the back of the building and the shoreline of the Han River. The driver stopped in front of a private dock, where Kang's Italian motor yacht was tied up. A servant welcomed Kang and his bodyguard aboard as the engines were started, and, before he had entered the main cabin, the yacht was cast off for its commute back to Kang's estate.

Kang's assistant, Kwan, bowed as the tycoon entered a small inte-"or cabin he used as a working office aboard the boat. As was his tradition, Kwan provided daily briefings to his boss, either on board the yacht or at the estate, at the end of each workday. A pile of two-page briefing reports that bested the intelligence reports of many Western leaders lay stacked on the table. Kang quickly scanned the assorted briefings, which detailed everything from forecast quarterly earnings at his telecom subsidiary, to military exercises of the South Korean army, to personal profiles of which politician was cheating on his wife. Items related to subversive activities or from protected sources were printed on a special orange paper that dissolved when immersed in water and were destroyed immediately after Kang's viewing.

After addressing a number of business issues, Kang rubbed his eyes and asked, “What have we heard from Tongju on the Back/e?”

Kwan's face visibly paled. “We have a problem with the marine equipment for the recovery operation,” he replied tentatively. “The Japanese submersible we leased was damaged while being transported to the Baekje. It was the fault of some careless dockworkers.”

Kwan watched as a vein stood out on Kang's temple and began throbbing violently. The anger rose quickly in the man but came out in a controlled hiss.

“This bungling must stop! First we lose two of our agents in America on a simple assassination attempt and now this. How long before repairs to the damage can be completed?”

“At least three months. The Shinkai is out,” Kwan said quietly.

“We have a timetable to adhere to,” Kang replied with agitation. “We're talking days, not months.”

“I have initiated a complete search of available submersibles in the region. The other potential Japanese deep-water submersible is undergoing a refit, and all the Russian vessels are currently operating in Western waters. The nearest available submersible that is suitable for the recovery is a Ukrainian vessel currently operating in the Indian Ocean. It will take three weeks to have her on-site, however.”

“That is too late,” Kang mumbled. “The momentum we have built in the National Assembly for the referendum is peaking. There will be a forced vote within a few weeks. We must act before then. I need not remind you that we had committed to strike during the G8 assemblage,” he said, his eyes simmering with anger.

An anguished silence filled the room. Then Kwan ventured to speak.

“Sir, there may be another option. We were told that an American scientific research vessel has been operating in Japanese waters with a deep-sea submersible. I was able to track the vessel down earlier today as it was taking on fuel in Osaka. It is a NUMA ship, fully capable of deep-water recovery.”

“NUMA again?” Kang mused. His face pinched up as he contemplated the successful foundation he had laid for the project and the potential risk of delay. Finally, he nodded his head at Kwan.

“It is imperative that we initiate the recovery as soon as possible. Obtain the American submersible, but do it quietly and without incident.”

“Tongju is there to lead the operation,” Kwan replied confidently. “At your instructions, he will proceed. He will not fail us.”

“See to it,” Kang replied, his dark eyes boring through Kwan with seething intolerance.

Six-foot swells carrying caps of white foam atop their shoulders pushed and prodded at the Sea Rover, causing her decks to roll gently with the undulating seas. A high-pressure front was slowly moving out of the East China Sea, and Captain Morgan noted with satisfaction that the strong southerly winds had gradually softened since they had entered the sea located southeast of the Japanese mainland the night before. As Morgan watched from the bridge, a gray dawn slowly washed the research ship in a bath of muted light. Near the rising and falling bow, he spotted a solitary figure standing at the rail scanning the horizon. A wavy patch of black hair could be seen fluttering in the wind above the upturned collar of his navy blue foul-weather jacket.

Dirk breathed in a deep lungful of the sea air, tasting the damp saltiness of it on his tongue. The ocean always invigorated him, both physically and mentally, the blue vastness providing a tranquil tonic that Uowed him to think and act more clearly. Not one capable of working behind a desk, he was addicted to the outdoors, flourishing when at one with what Mother Nature had to offer.

After watching a pair of gulls arc lazily above the ship in search of a morning meal, he made his way aft and climbed up to the elevated bridge. Morgan thrust a steaming mug of coffee into his hand as he entered the ship's control room.

“You're up early,” the captain boomed, a jovial grin on his face even at the early hour of the day.

“Didn't want to miss out on any of the fun,” Dirk replied, taking a long draw at the coffee. “I figured we would be approaching the search area shortly after dawn.”

“Pretty near,” Morgan said. “We're about forty minutes from the Swordfisffs reported position where she sank the Japanese sub.”

“What's the depth here?”

A young helmsman in a blue jumpsuit eyed the depth monitor and crisply announced, “Depth 920 feet, sir.”

“Looks like territory for a deep-water AUV search,” Dirk said.

“I'll have Summer wake up Audry and get her ready for work,” Morgan replied with a grin.

Audry was the variant of an Autonomous Underwater Vehicle, which the NUMA scientists who built her had instead dubbed “Autonomous Underwater Data Recovery Vehicle.” A state-of-the-art self-propelled sensing unit, Audry contained a side-scan sonar, a magnetometer, and a sub-bottom profiler, all packaged into a torpedo-shaped casing that was simply dropped over the side of the ship. The combined sensors provided the capability to seismically map the seafloor for natural or man-made objects, as well as peer beneath the seabed for buried anomalies. The fish-shaped sensor could skim above the seafloor at a depth of five thousand feet, propelled by a powerful battery pack, which eliminated the need for a lengthy and cumbersome tow cable.

As the Sea Rover approached the search area, Dirk assisted Sum* mer in downloading the search parameters into Audry's navigatiot| computer.

“We'll use the side-scan sonar only so we can run wider search! lanes,” Dirk instructed. “If the I-411 is out there, we ought to be able| to see her sitting up off the bottom.”

“How large a search grid?” Summer asked as she tapped instructions into a laptop computer.

“We have only a rough fix from the Swordfish, so we'll likely have plenty of ground to cover. Let's set the initial search grid at five by five miles.”

“That's still within range of the data relay system. I'll do a quick systems check, then we should be ready to deploy.”

As Audry's software program was reconfigured, the Sea Rover dropped a pair of self-positioning transducers into the water at either end of the search grid. With built-in GPS satellite receivers, the transducers would relay underwater navigational guidance to Audry that would enable the vehicle to run a precise back-and-forth grid pattern several dozen feet above the seafloor. Audry in return would upload packets of data to the transducers at periodic intervals, detailing the sonar's search results.

“Ready with the winch,” a crewman's voice shouted.

Dirk gave the thumbs-up signal, then he and Summer watched as the eight-foot-long, lemon-colored survey vehicle was lifted out of a rack on the rear deck and lowered over the side railing into the water. A white plume of spray from the tail indicated that Audry's small propeller was churning, then the grips from the winch were let go. Lunging like a thoroughbred out of the gates at Santa Anita, the torpedo- shaped vehicle surged down the length of the Sea Rover before submerging under a wave and into the depths.

“Audry has some legs on her,” Dirk noted.

“She's undergone a recent modification and is now capable of running her surveys at a speed of 9 knots.”

“At that pace, she may not give me much time for my favorite part of the search.”

“What's that?” Summer asked, a quizzical look on her face.

“Why, having a beer and a peanut butter sandwich while waiting for the results,” he grinned.

While Audry motored back and forth down neat imaginary lanes a hundred feet above the seafloor, Summer monitored the vehicle's progress on a computer display aboard the Sea Rover. At twenty-minute intervals, a digital data upload was wirelessly transmitted from the transducers to the ship, where further electronic processing converted the binary data bits into a graphical image of the sonar readings. Dirk and Summer took turns scanning through the images of the seabed, searching for linear or angular shapes that might signify a shipwreck.

“Looks like a pepperoni pizza,” Dirk mused as he studied the rock-strewn bottom, seeing odd-shaped boulders that threw off round shadows against the flat backdrop.

“Don't tell me you're hungry again,” Summer replied, shaking her head.

“No, but I bet Audry is. What kind of mileage does she get on a tank of battery acid?”

“The batteries for high-speed operation are only designed to last eight hours. We never run her past seven hours, though, to make sure she has enough juice to propel herself from deep water to the surface. She's been in the water now about six hours,” Summer said, glancing at her watch, “so we'll need to call her back for a battery change within the next hour.”

A pop-up window suddenly appeared on the computer screen, signaling receipt of the latest data upload.

“Only one more file to go till we've covered the first search box,” remarked, standing up from his computer console chair and stretching his arms. “I better identify the boundaries of the next search grid. Can you take a look at the next data feed?”

“Sure, I'll just go ahead and find it for you,” Summer joked as she took his seat and typed a string of commands into the keyboard. A new set of images appeared on the screen, a five-hundred-meter swath of ocean bottom scrolling from top to bottom, which resembled the aerial view of a hard-packed dirt road through the desert. Summer had adjusted the color images in a golden hue so that the occasional rock or mound on the bottom cast a brown-tinted shadow. She studied the monitor closely, watching the same monotonous sea bottom glide by. Suddenly, a dark smudge appeared on the top right side of the screen and grew larger as the readings rolled down. The smudge was a shadow, she quickly realized, created by a long tubular shape that was crisply defined in a dark shade of russet.

“My word, there it is!” she squealed, surprised at her own voice.

A small crowd gathered around Summer as she replayed the image at a slow speed several times. The distinct outline of a submarine was clearly evident, complete with an upright conning tower that cast a long shadow to one side. The image roughened near one end of the vessel, but Summer measured the object at well over three hundred feet.

“Sure looks like a submarine, and a big one,” she said, not sure whether to trust her eyes.

“That's our baby,” Dirk said confidently. “Looks just like the image we scanned of the I-403.”

“Nice work, Summer,” Morgan offered as he approached the commotion.

“Thanks, Captain, but Audry did all the work. We better pull her aboard before she makes her way to China.”

Summer typed in a new handful of commands and a signal was relayed from the transducers to the underwater vehicle. In a matter or seconds, Audry terminated the search pattern and propelled herself upward, where she broke the water's surface a quarter mile away from the Sea Rover. Summer, Dirk, and Morgan watched as a retrieval team in a rubber Zodiac scooted over to the idling yellow sensor and clamped it to the gunwale. The team slowly made their way back alongside the research ship, where Audry was hoisted out of the water and replaced in her cradle on the stern deck.

As the second of the two transducers was hoisted back aboard, Dirk admired a large exploration vessel that was inching past them a mile away, a Japanese flag wafting off its high bow platform.

“Cable-laying ship,” Morgan said, catching Dirk's gaze. “She followed us out of the Inland Sea.”

“She's a beauty. Doesn't appear to be in any hurry,” Dirk said, noting the vessel's slow speed.

“Must be operating under a daily billing rate contract,” Morgan laughed, then turned his attention to ensuring the transducers were securely aboard.

“Maybe,” Dirk replied, smiling, but a vague caution tugged at the recesses of his mind. He shook off the feeling and refocused his thoughts on the task at hand. It was time to take a look. at the I-411 up close and personal.

The crew of the Sea Rover wasted no time in making preparations to investigate the submerged target. Captain Morgan brought the ship around and positioned it directly above the target, using the GPS coordinates identified by Audry. Computerized side thrusters on the research vessel were activated and the Sea Rover was parked in place, constantly self-adjusting its position against the wind and current with the thrusters to remain fixed within a few inches of the designated mark.

On the aft deck, Dirk, Summer, and First Officer Ryan carefully walked through a pre dive checklist for the Starfish. Specifically designed for deep-water scientific exploration, the Starfish was a high-tech submersible capable of operating in depths up to two thousand meters. Resembling a giant translucent ball on a forklift, the Starfish cat-tied two operators in a six-inch-thick reinforced acrylic bubble that offered a panoramic view of the sea. Wedged into a bright orange supporting buttress, the see-through sphere was filled with a myriad of sensors, still and video cameras, and coring devices. Four sets of adjustable thrusters were mounted behind and beneath the bubble, which provided the sub with a high degree of maneuverability. Adding to the functionality were a pair of steel articulating arms mounted on either side of the bubble, which could be used for collecting samples and manipulating the multiple data analysis devices. Since the right mechanical arm was larger in size than the left, the whole submersible took on a crablike appearance when operating on the seafloor.

“I think we're set,” Summer said, eyeing the last item on her clipboard. “You ready to get wet?”

“Only if I get to drive,” Dirk grinned back.

Clad in aqua-colored NUMA jumpsuits, the two siblings threaded their way into the tiny chamber through a hatch in the rear. Though cramped inside, Dirk and Summer sat comfortably in a pair of padded captain's chairs, which faced out the front of the acrylic bubble. Dirk slipped on a communications headset and spoke to First Officer Ryan.

“This is Starfish,” he said, checking the system. “Ready when you are, Tim.”

“Prepare for deployment,” Ryan's voice rang back.

An overhead boom reeled up a thick cable attached to the submersible by a pair of eyelets, raising the underwater vessel straight into the air and suspending her three feet above the deck. As the Starfish hung floating in the air, Ryan pushed a button on a side console and the deck suddenly split open beneath the submersible, sliding on rollers to either side of the deck. Exposed beneath the dangling submersible was the pale green water of the East China Sea. Ryan hit another switch and a circular band of underwater floodlights burst on, outlining the perimeter of the large moon pool cut into the Sea Rover's rear hull section. A large meandering grouper was caught illuminated Dy the sudden flash of light and quickly bolted from beneath the odd hole in the ship's hull. The orange submersible was slowly dropped through the hole and into the water, the lifting cable released after Dirk confirmed that all systems were operational aboard the Starfish.

“Cable is released,” Ryan's voice announced over Dirk's headset. “You are free to swim. Happy hunting, guys.”

“Thanks for the drop,” Dirk answered. “I'll honk the horn when we get back from the store.”

Dirk tested the thrusters one last time as Summer opened a ballast tank, allowing a flood of salt water to fill the chamber. Negative buoyancy was quickly achieved and the submersible began slowly dropping into the depths.

The pale green water gradually dissolved to brown, then faded to an inky black as the Starfish sank deeper. Summer flicked on a switch and a powerful bank of xenon arc lights illuminated their path, though there was little to see in the murky water. Dependent on gravity to reach the bottom, it took about fifteen minutes to make the nearly thousand-foot descent to the seafloor. Despite the frigid water temperatures outside, the occupants soon became warm from the electronic equipment churning about them in the insulated acrylic and Summer finally turned on an air-conditioning unit to keep themselves cool. Attempting to make the time go faster, Dirk rehashed a few of Jack Dahlgren's stale jokes while Summer brought her brother up to date on the sea pollutant survey taken off Japan's eastern coast.

At nine hundred feet, Summer began tweaking the buoyancy level to slow their descent and avoid smacking hard on the bottom. Dirk noticed the water visibility had cleared, though the seas were devoid of much life at that depth. Gradually, through the murk, he eyed a familiar dark shape looming up beneath them. “There she is. We're right on her.”

The shadowy black superstructure of the I-411's conning tower reached out to them like a tiny skyscraper as the Starfish descended amidships of the giant submarine. Much like he had found with the I-403, Dirk observed that the I-411 was sitting upright on the bottom, tilted at just a fifteen-degree angle. Surface encrustation was much less severe than on the I-403 and the big sub looked as if she had been underwater only a few months, not years. Dirk activated the Starfish's thrusters and backed away slightly from the approaching vessel while Summer adjusted their buoyancy to remain neutral at 960 feet, just even with the submarine's deck.

“She's enormous!” Summer exclaimed as her eyes took in the sub's huge girth. Even with Starfish's bright lights, she could see only a portion of the entire vessel.

“Definitely not your run-of-the-mill World War Two U-boat,” he replied. “Let's see where she got hit.”

Maneuvering the thrusters, Dirk propelled the submersible along a path down the starboard flank of the submarine, gliding just a few feet above its rounded topsides. Circling around the stern, Summer pointed out the tips of the I-411's two giant bronze propellers poking out of the muddy bottom. Moving forward along the port side, they traveled about fifty feet before a huge gash appeared at the waterline.

“Torpedo hit number one,” Dirk called out, eyeing the fatal impact from one of the Swordfish's torpedoes. He positioned the Starfish so that its lights shined into the irregular opening. Inside, a circular mass of twisted and jagged metal shined back at them, like the open jaws of an iron-toothed shark. Turning and moving forward again, the submersible crept along the silent wreck another thirty feet before a second opening appeared.

“Torpedo hit number two,” Dirk said.

Unlike the first gash on the port flank, the second hole was oddly centered higher up, along the edge of the topside deck, almost as if the explosive force had been delivered from above.

“You're right, this must have been the second torpedo impact,” Summer speculated. “The stern must have already dropped under from the first hit, and the sub rolled back from the initial recoil when the second torpedo hit her here.”

“Pretty good firing from the Swordfrish. They must have caught her at night, while she was running on the surface.”

“Is that the aircraft hangar?” Summer asked, pointing to a large tubular appendage that ran lengthwise along the rear deck to the conning tower.

“Yes. Looks like it was blasted open in the explosion,” he said as they glided over toward the opening. A twenty-foot section of the ) hangar adjacent to the deck had simply disappeared in the carnage. Under the beam of the floodlights, they could see a three-bladed air| craft propeller mounted on the backside of the hangar wall as they floated outside peering in. Applying power to the thrusters, Dirk turned the vehicle and zoomed forward, gliding past the I-411's conning tower with its multiple gun platforms still in place. The Starfish proceeded down the forward deck before turning and hovering off the bow near one of the large diving planes, which sprouted off the submarine like a giant wing.

“That concludes the scenic portion of the tour,” Dirk said. “Let's see if we can find out what she carried.”

“We better check in with the gang upstairs first,” Summer said, slipping on her communications headset and pushing the transmit button.

“Sea Rover, this is Starfish. We've found the Easter Bunny and are proceeding to hunt for the eggs.”

“Roger,” Ryan's voice crackled back. “Be careful with the basket.”

“I think he's more concerned about his submersible than he is about us,” Dirk deadpanned.

“A typical man,” Summer mused, shaking her head. “Places emotional feelings on inanimate mechanical objects.”

“I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about,” Dirk replied facetiously.

As he spoke, he gently guided the Starfish above the submarine's bow section, studying the forward deck. After several minutes, he spotted what he was looking for.

“There's the forward hatch to the upper torpedo room. If they follow suit with the I-403, that's where the biological ordnance would have been loaded and stored.”

Dirk maneuvered the Starfish in front of the hatch before setting the submersible down onto the deck of the I-411 and killing the thrusters.

“How's your breaking and entering skills?” he asked of Summer.

Unlike on the I-403, the forward hatch was closed and battened tight by a flush-mounted wheel. Summer activated a joystick control hidden in the armrest of her chair and powered the hydraulics to the submersible's right retractable arm. As she manipulated the controls, the metal appendage sprang from the side of Starfish and extended forward in a clumsy stretch. Slowly she dropped the arm down toward the hatch, adjusting the toggle control with short flips to maneuver the device. With the precision of a surgeon, she opened the clawlike hand and dropped it down to the hatch, wedging the fingers into the open slots of the hatch wheel on the first attempt.

“Nicely done,” Dirk admired.

“Now, if she'll just open,” Summer replied. With the flick of a second toggle control, the articulated grip of the mechanical claw began to twist. Dirk and Summer both pressed their faces to the bubble window, intent on seeing the wheel turn. But the seal that had been locked for sixty years didn't budge. Summer tried toggling the grip back and forth a half-dozen more times but to no avail.

“So much for my hydraulic grip,” she finally muttered.

“Keep a hold on the wheel,” Dirk instructed. “We'll try a little leverage.”

In an instant, he powered up the thrusters and lifted the Starfish a few inches off the deck. With Summer gripping the hatch wheel with the claw, Dirk applied full reverse thrust and tried to break the seal with the momentum of the entire submersible. The wheel held tight, so he began rocking the Starfish forward and backward, trying to get a quick burst of leverage against the hatch.

“I think you're going to rip the arm off,” Summer cautioned.

With silent determination, he kept trying. On the next tug, he observed a barely perceptible movement in the wheel. Another blast and the seal broke at last, the wheel jerking a quarter spin. “That's showing it who's boss,” Summer said. “Just don't tell Ryan that his baby's right arm is now a few inches longer than it used to be,” Dirk smiled.

Hovering over the hatch, Summer was quickly able to spin the locking wheel to its stops with the articulated claw. Dirk then backed the Starfish away, and, with Summer holding on, the hatch finally swung up and open. Repositioning the submersible in front of the opening, they peered into the hole but could see nothing but a black void.

“I guess this is a job for Snoopy. You have the controls,” Summer said.

Dirk pulled out a laptop control module and pressed the power on button. A row of lights lit up green as the unit was activated. “Ready, go fetch,” he murmured while pressing a toggle switch that engaged a tiny thruster.

From an external cradle tucked beneath the acrylic bubble popped out a small tethered Remote Operated Vehicle. No larger than an attache case, the tiny ROV was little more than a self-illuminated video camera wedged against a small set of electronic thrusters. Able to probe and prod into tight spaces, Snoopy was an ideal tool for exploring the deep and dangerous niches of a submerged wreck.

Summer watched as Snoopy sprang into view and quickly ducked into the open hatch amid a spray of small bubbles. Dirk punched another console button and a live video feed from the ROV appeared on a color monitor. Watching the monitor to steer, he guided the vehicle around the now-familiar torpedo room. Snoopy skirted down one row of torpedoes, where the camera showed all five of the huge steel fish still resting in their racks. Circling to the other side of the bay, a duplicate scene was replayed on the opposite side of the torpedo room-The I-411 was clearly not anticipating battle when the Swordfish surprised and sank her.

But Dirk wasn't interested in torpedoes. Methodically, he drove Snoopyto the Prow f ^e torpedo room, then systematically swept the ROV back and forth across the bay, slipping a few feet toward the stern with each pass until he was satisfied that every square foot had been viewed.

“No sign of the canisters or their crates. But there is a second torpedo room below where they could have been stored.”

“Can you get Snoopy down there?” Summer asked.

“There's a floor hatch for loading the torpedoes, but I don't think Snoopy is going to lift that open. I may know of another route.”

Scanning the room with Snoopy\ camera lens eye, he spotted the rear hatch door that led to the chief's quarters. The hatch door was still open and Dirk maneuvered the ROV through it a few seconds later.

“Over there,” Summer said, motioning to a corner of the monitor. “There's a ladder that looks like it leads to the deck below.”

Dirk danced the ROV around a mass of debris and down an open hatchway in the floor. Dropping down to the deck below, Snoopy sniffed out the doorway to the lower torpedo room and- entered the second bay of warheads. Though slightly smaller due to the more tapered sides of the submarine's hull, the bay was an exact duplicate of the torpedo room above it. And just as they had seen once before, the camera showed all ten of the deadly Type 95 torpedoes resting peacefully in their racks. Though near the limit of the self-coiling tether that provided Snoopy its power, Dirk carefully maneuvered the ROV around the full confines of the room. The camera showed a full complement of torpedoes in the bay but nothing else. The empty room glared back at them vacantly.

“It would appear,” Summer said, shaking her head with disappointment, “that there are no eggs to be had.”

As Dirk carefully guided the small ROV back to the Starfish, he began whistling the old Stephen Foster standard “Swanee River.” Summer looked at her brother with abashed curiosity.

“You seem awfully happy, given that the biological bombs are missing in action,” she said.

“Sister, we may not know where they are, but we sure know where they ain't. Now, if it was me, I'd want to keep those eggs close to the hen.”

Summer took a second to digest the comments, then her face brightened slightly.

“The deck hangar? Where the aircraft are stored?”

“The deck hangar,” Dirk replied. “And the Swordfish was even kind enough to leave the door open for us.”

Once Snoopy was secure in its cradle, Dirk activated the main thrusters and the Starfish shot off down the deck of the submarine to the second torpedo blast. The detonation hole was easily large no ugh to allow the Starfish to drop into the interior, but the 11.5-foot ijarneter of the hangar was just fractionally too tight to allow any room for the submersible to maneuver any farther. Dirk studied the gash in the aircraft hangar before inching the Starfish into the opening. The deck had been blasted away in pockmarked sections, leaving step-through holes that led into the dank bowels of the submarine. Dirk slowly guided the Starfish lower until he spied firm decking near the forward edge of the gap that was large enough to support the submersible. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that the airplane propeller they detected earlier was hanging just to his right. He gently eased lower until the Starfish's supporting skids tapped onto solid decking.

As he powered off the Starfish's thrusters, a momentary silence filled The submersible. Together, they peered down the enclosed hangar that stretched in front of them like an endless tunnel. Then the quiet was broken by a muffled metallic clunk than rang through the water.

“Dirk, the propeller!” Summer shouted, pointing out the bubble window toward the right.

The mounting bracket that held the spare three-bladed Seiran bomber propeller had long ago corroded in the salt water yet against all reason had somehow maintained sufficient integrity to hold the heavy blade onto the wall for sixty years. Not until the stirred waters from the Starfish's thrusters blasted against it did it decide to give up its mission and crumble from the wall in a rusty glob of dust. As the bracket fell away, the heavy propeller dropped straight to the deck, landing on the tips of its lower two blades with a clang.

But the show wasn't over. They watched in helpless fascination as the propeller fell forward, its upper blade skimming just in front of the Starfish's bubble window, inches from Summer's face. It appeared to move in slow motion as the force of the water suspended the movement of the steel blades. A secondary clang echoed through the water as the blade and nosepiece hit home, the entire assembly dragging across the submersible's right robotic arm and falling onto the front skid plates. A cloud of brown sediment rose and obscured their vision for a moment, then, as the water cleared, Summer noticed a small trail of dark fluid rising up in front of them, as if the Starfish were bleeding. “We're pinned,” Summer gasped, eyeing the heavy propeller lying across the front skids.

“Try the right arm. See if you can lift the blade up and I'll try and back us out,” Dirk directed as he powered up the thrusters.

Summer grasped the joystick and toggled it back to raise the arm. The metallic appendage began to rise briefly, then fell away limp. She repeatedly toggled the joystick control back and forth but there was no response.

“No good,” she said calmly. “The blade must have cut the hydraulics. The right arm is as good as amputated.”

“That must have been the fluid we saw. Try the left arm,” Dirk replied.

Summer configured a second joystick and applied power to the submersible's left mechanical arm. Working the controls, she tried stretching the arm across the viewing window and down to the fallen propeller. Since the left arm was both smaller and shorter than the right arm, it allowed for less maneuverability. After several minutes of bending and twisting the arm in various configurations, she finally worked the claw to a position where she could grab the edge of the propeller blade.

“I've got a grip, but it's at an awkward angle. I don't think I'll be able to exert enough pressure,” she said.

Pushing at the controls, her words fell true. The arm attempted to pull the propeller up but nothing budged. Several further attempts met with the same result.

“Guess we'll have to barge our way out,” Dirk replied, gritting his teeth.

Applying full-throttle power to the thrusters, he tried to elevate the Starfish and slip back and away from the fallen propeller. The electronic thrusters hummed and vibrated violently as they clawed at the water with all their might, but the weight of the propeller was just too great. The submersible sat still as a rock while its thrusters beat the water madly, kicking up a dirty cloud of silt around them. He adjusted the thrusters forward and backward, trying to rock their way out, but it was no use. After several fruitless attempts, Dirk shut off the thrusters and waited for the brown cloud to settle.

“We'll just needlessly burn up our batteries if we continue to try and slide out,” he said dejectedly. “We just don't have enough thrust to pull ourselves away from the prop.”

Summer could see the wheels churning in her brother's head. It wasn't the first time she had been trapped underwater with Dirk and she felt reassurance knowing that he was with her. Just months before, they had nearly died together off Navidad Bank when their undersea research habitat had rolled into a crevasse from the force of a killer hurricane. Only the last-second arrival by her father and Al Giordino had saved them from a slow death by asphyxiation. But this time, her father and Giordino were a thousand miles away.

Out of the murky darkness, voices of the past began to whisper. The long-dead crew of the I-411 seemed to call out to Dirk and Summer to join them in a cold, watery grave a thousand feet under the sea. The silent black sub exuded a morbid sense that sent a shiver up Summer's spine. The stirred waters around them calmed and they could peer again into the depths of the hangar. She could not help but dwell on the fact that they were lodged in an iron tomb for dozens of brave Imperial Navy sailors. Forcing the macabre image from her mind, she tried to refocus her attention on the logical demands of their situation.

“How much time do we have left?” Summer asked, the desperation of their situation beginning to sink in.

Dirk glanced at a row of gauges to his side. “We're fine until the scrubbers give way to the loss of battery power. It'll be lights out in about three hours, then another hour or so for the air to go. We better contact the Sea Rover.” His voice was muted but matter-of-fact.

Summer activated the communication system and called Ryan on the Sea Rover but was met with silence in return. After several additional attempts, the receiver crackled in her earpiece.

“Starfish, this is Sea Rover. We do not copy, please repeat, over,” came a faint and fuzzy call from Ryan.

“Our com signal must be blocked by the submarine's bulkheads,” Dirk said. “We can hear them, but they can't hear us.”

“I'll keep trying in case they can pick up sporadic signals.”

Summer continued calling for another ten minutes, speaking in a loud, clear voice, but received only the same frustrating reply from Ryan.

“It's no use. They can't hear us. We're on our own,” Summer finally conceded.

Dirk began flipping switches on the console, shutting down all nonessential electronics in order to conserve battery power. His hand came to the controls that powered Snoopy and he hesitated.

“Any objection to taking Snoopy for a walk?”

“We came here to explore the hangar, so we might as well finish the job. We still need to determine if the biological weapons are aboard or if there's any evidence they've been removed.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Dirk said as he powered up the tiny ROV. Grasping the controls, he worked the vehicle out of its cradle and over the fallen propeller, then elevated it to eye level in front of the Starfish. Ahead lay the long dark shaft of the hangar stretching into the gloom toward the conning tower. He quickly toggled the ROVs thrusters forward and Snoopy sailed into the darkened hangar.

Both their eyes shifted from observing the illuminated ROV out the viewing bubble to watching Snoopy's field of vision on the color monitor as it moved away from the submersible. The hangar appeared empty at first, but, as Snoopy moved forward, silt-covered objects began materialize. The camera lens glided up to a large encrusted mound ositioned on a platform to one side, beyond which several large cab-nets protruded from the hangar walls.

“A spare aircraft engine,” Dirk remarked as he aimed Snoopy's eyes at the long metal block.

“I'll bet those are storage bins for other spare parts and mechanic's tools,” Summer added, pointing at the image of the cabinets.

“No doubt there's a floor jack in there somewhere,” Dirk lamented, knowing there was no way of retrieving any tools that might aid their escape.

Slowly he led Snoopy down the cavernous hangar before nearly driving the ROV into a grouping of thin metal sheets hanging vertically. Backing up the camera, Dirk identified the structure as the tail assembly of an airplane, with the tip of the vertical stabilizer folded down, as well as both horizontal stabilizers. Swinging Snoopy ahead and to the side, they could clearly see it was part of the fuselage of an Aichi M6A1 Seiran float plane “Wow,” Summer murmured, impressed by both the size and condition of the twin-seat bomber. “Hard to believe they could fold up a plane and slide it in here.”

Dirk led Snoopy alongside the fuselage for a side view of the craft. The camera showed that the wings were still attached to the fuselage but folded back toward the tail like the wings on a duck. Faintly visible beneath the silt, they could still make out the familiar red Japanese meatball" insignia painted on the wingtips.

“It's still amazing to me that they could store, launch, and retrieve aircraft from a submarine,” Summer pondered.

“Just roll the fuselage out onto the forward deck, raise the tail stabilizers, bolt on the wings and floats, and launch it off the catapult. A trained crew of four men were capable of assembling and launching a plane in under thirty minutes.”

“I guess it's a good thing these big Sen Toku boats weren't around earlier in the war,” Summer replied.

Dirk kept Snoopy nosing forward through the hangar. Gliding past the fuselage, the cameras revealed a pair of the plane's giant pontoons strapped to a wooden pallet on the deck. A blast from the ROV's thrusters dusted a layer of silt and mud off one of the pontoons, exposing a forest green paint scheme on the topsides and a shark gray tone on the pontoon's belly. A similar camouflage paint pattern would be found on the wings and fuselage.