Sea Devil

Chapter One

Three hours out of Oahu the weather began to deteriorate.

From the jump seat of the specially configured AV-8B Harrier, Commander Brad Mackenzie anxiously scanned the line of dark clouds that seemed to fill the entire southwestern horizon.

“Looks pretty ominous,” broke the gravelly voice of the pilot over the intercom.

“From what the weather boys back at Pearl say, that low-pressure system has all the makings of a full-fledged typhoon. I sure hope it keeps tracking to the north.”

Brad Mackenzie, who was known simply as Mac to his friends and coworkers, could see only the back of the pilot’s head as he responded.

“I was thinking the same thing. Two years ago I rode out a typhoon while I was stationed at Guam. And believe me, it’s not an experience I’d like to repeat.”

“I read you loud and clear. Commander,” returned the pilot.

“Just hang in there a little bit longer. We should be sighting some of the islands of the Ratak Chain shortly. From there on, Kwajalein is practically around the corner.”

A pocket of turbulence shook the Harrier. For a sickening moment the jet plunged downward. The cockpit filled with the throaty roar of the aircraft’s single RollsRoyce vectored-thrust turbofan engine as the pilot fought to regain the altitude they had just lost.

It seemed to take an eternity for them to reach more stable air. Only then did Mac issue the barest sigh of relief. Even under ideal conditions, flying played havoc with his nerves. He was the type of individual who liked to have complete control of a situation. And since he didn’t know how to pilot an aircraft, whenever he was airborne he was forced to put his destiny into someone else’s hands.

Back on terra firma this obsession was particularly noticeable, especially when it came to driving. He could never relax in the passenger seat of an automobile. He thus avoided taxis whenever possible, and did all the driving when it came time for commuting, shopping trips, and the family vacation.

Yet another gust of unsettled air shook the aircraft, and the thirty-six-year-old naval officer’s grip on his hand rest instinctively tightened. Sweat lined his forehead as he guardedly turned to peer out the cockpit in an effort to see how the Harrier was meeting this punishment.

He could barely see the wing, which was mounted into the central portion of the upper fuselage. It was a stubby structure that held a pair of elongated pods slung beneath its length. Stored inside these external drop tanks was the extra fuel that allowed the Harrier to attain this unusually long range.

As he watched the tanks quiver slightly, a familiar voice sounded from the intercom.

“We’ve got land dead ahead of us. Commander. It’s not much, but I’ll stake a week’s pay that we’ve arrived in the Marshalls.”

Mac diverted his gaze in time to see a small, circular shaped island pass down below. He could just make out the protected lagoon of the atoll and its surrounding reef.

“Most likely that was Ailuk Island,” added the pilot.

“If so, that would put us at our rendezvous point in another ten minutes.”

“How’s our fuel situation?” Mac asked.

The pilot answered a bit hesitantly.

“I’m not going to b.s. you, sir, but the way it looks, we should just make it. I figured that it would take all four external tanks to get us here. Fortunately, we had a tailwind for most of the trip, though this turbulence that we’ve just encountered could make things interesting.”

Mac spoke up while watching yet another minuscule coral atoll pass below.

“At least we can always land this baby on one of those islands if our fuel state gets critical.

That would sure as hell be better than dropping into the drink.”

As the Harrier shuddered in the grasp of another pocket of rough air, the pilot replied, “Don’t worry, sir.

As long as that storm keeps its distance, I’ll get you safely to your destination. Besides, I’ve got a date back in Honolulu tomorrow night with this Thai chick who’s really a looker. I sure as hell wouldn’t want to stand her up.”

Again the airplane shook violently. This was followed by an abrupt drop in altitude that caused a nauseating knot to form in Mac’s stomach. Instead of pulling the Harrier out of this unexpected dive, the pilot allowed it to drop a full 10,000 feet before leveling out. This put them only a few thousand feet from the ocean’s surface.

Their forward velocity was much more noticeable at this height. The surging blue waters of the South Pacific passed in a blur as Mac’s gaze returned to the horizon, where black storm clouds continued to gather.

Less than five hours before, the mere idea of a visit to such a remote corner of the globe had been unimaginable.

In fact, Mac was still at his condo on the North Shore of Oahu, sipping his morning coffee, when the fated call arrived that was to send him rushing off on his current assignment.

Marsha was seated beside him on the porch when the telephone began ringing. His wife intuitively sensed that whoever was calling would be the bearer of bad news, and when Admiral Long himself somberly greeted Mac, he knew that her guess had been correct.

Mac had only just returned from a three-week stay at the Mare Island Naval Station outside San Francisco.

He had a week’s leave due him and was planning to take his family on a driving tour of the big island of Hawaii.

All he needed to do was type up a report detailing his stay on Mare Island before this much anticipated leave was to begin.

If things had gone as scheduled, the report would be just about completed by now. Unfortunately his superiors had other plans for him.

The call sent him packing for the Marine Corps Air Station at Kaneohe Bay. Here he was met by Admiral Long and given a rushed briefing. Though the details were sparse, Mac knew the admiral had no choice but to send for him. For if the marks found on the seafloor outside Kwajalein indeed proved to be manmade, his long trip would certainly be justified.

With his gaze still locked on the cloud-filled horizon, Mac contemplated the implications of his mission.

Though he hated to have to disappoint his family once again, he found himself with no alternative. As project manager, it was his duty to personally inspect each suspected sighting as soon as they were reported. Only in such a way could the pieces of the puzzle that had taken him over a year to gather together be finally assembled.

“Harrier one-zulu-alpha, this is Iwo Jima control. We have you on radar lock. How do you copy? Over.”

A static-filled voice emanated from the intercom.

With his thoughts abruptly brought back, Mac listened as the Harrier pilot answered.

“Iwo Jima control, this is one-zulu-alpha. You’re a bit fuzzy, but we copy that. Over.”

“Roger, one-zulu-alpha. You’re free to begin your approach. You’ll find us on bearing two-six-zero, on the other edge of that squall line in front of you, approximately three-five nautical miles distant.”

Mac peered out the cockpit just as the first raindrops began pelting the plexiglass. Seconds later they were completely enveloped in a shroud of thick gray clouds.

The fuselage began to vibrate, while outside a blinding bolt of lightning cut through the black heavens. This was accompanied by an ear-shattering boom of thunder that all but swallowed the straining whine of the Harrier’s engine.

“Hold on. Commander,” offered the pilot.

“I’m afraid it’s going to be a bit on the rough side. It shouldn’t last long, though.”

Mac’s gut tightened as the airplane smacked into the most unstable air yet encountered. The entire fuselage began to quiver madly and shake with such a violent intensity that he didn’t know how the plane could stay in one piece. He began mentally recreating his hurried instructions in the workings of the Harrier’s ejection system, all the while placing his right hand on the side mounted console where the eject trigger was located.

Like an out-of-control roller coaster, the aircraft plunged downward. Held in place by his shoulder harness, Mac found himself possessed by nausea, and he was thankful that earlier he had passed on the pilot’s offer to share a box lunch.

A resonant crack of lightning split the heavens, and for one chilling moment the entire cockpit seemed to be aglow with a pulsating iridescence.

“It’s St. Elmo’s fire!” cried the excited pilot.

Though he hadn’t been a practicing Catholic since high school, Mac began silently mouthing a frantic Hail Mary. With his left hand he reached up to touch the silver crucifix that still hung from his neck. The cross had been given to him by his grandfather, who surrendered it on his deathbed at the ripe old age of eighty seven.

The plane canted hard on its right side. As another lightning bolt lit up the cockpit, Mac wondered if he’d have the nerve to eject in such a storm if so ordered.

The fourteen-year naval veteran never learned the answer to this disturbing question; the Harrier broke out of the squall line as suddenly as it had entered it.

A sunlit, bright blue sky greeted them. Wiping the sweat from his soaked brow, Mac peered out the plexiglass canopy and spotted a large vessel serenely floating on the blue waters below. Though the ship looked much like an aircraft carrier, Mac knew it was properly classified as an amphibious assault ship; its primary mission was to carry helicopters.

“Harrier one-zulu-alpha,” broke a voice from the intercom.

“This is Iwo Jima control. We have you on visual.

You are clear to land at station number three.”

As the pilot verified these instructions and initiated the landing sequence, Mac’s thoughts returned to his last visit aboard this very same vessel over eighteen months ago. Mac had been working at the Naval Ocean System Command’s laboratory on St. Thomas in the Virgin Islands when the Iwo Jima made port in Charlotte Amalie. While he was in the midst of a routine tour of the ship, it was learned that an F/A-18A Hornet belonging to the aircraft carrier Coral Sea had gone down in the waters north of St. Croix. Since Mac’s expertise was in the field of marine salvage, he was ordered to remain on board the Iwo Jima as it immediately set sail for the crash site.

An exciting week’s worth of work followed. Mac was glad to get out of the stuffy laboratory and enjoyed his brief excursion into the Caribbean Sea. Yet before he knew it, the Hornet was located and pulled from the clear blue depths. This signaled the end of his temporary sea duty, and the last he saw of the Iwo Jima was from the flight deck of a Bell Huey helicopter as he was being whisked back to St. Thomas.

He couldn’t help but be pleasantly surprised when Admiral Long mentioned the name of the ship that Mac was to be flown out to this afternoon. Though this was a long way from the Caribbean, it was a sort of homecoming all the same.

A throaty roar filled the cockpit as the pilot adjusted the Harrier’s vectored-thrust engine. The plane had all but stopped its forward movement, and was hovering over the forward flight deck. The banshee-like whine of the engine further increased to an almost deafening crescendo as the AV-8B began gradually losing altitude.

The Harrier landed with a bare jolt. As the engine was switched off, the relief from the persistent roar was immediately noticeable.

“I told you I’d get you here in one piece, Commander,” boasted the pilot lightly.

“That you did,” replied Mac, who managed a relieved grin as the plexiglass canopy was removed. The scent of warm salt air met his nostrils as he added, “Thanks for the lift. Enjoy your date tomorrow night.”

“I certainly will, Commander,” replied the pilot.

“And good luck to you, sir.”

An alert seaman on a portable ladder appeared at Mac’s side and helped him out of his harness. After removing his helmet, Mac stood and gratefully stretched his cramped limbs. He wasted no time exiting the tight confines of the Harrier and climbing down to the deck below. Here he was met by a khaki-clad officer with a tanned face, bright blue, inquisitive eyes, and a full blond moustache.

“Welcome aboard,” shouted Commander William Hunley, the ship’s executive officer.

Mac accepted the XO’s firm handshake.

“It’s good to be back. Is Captain Exman still the CO here?”

“That he is, Commander. The Captain’s waiting for you up on the bridge. If you’ll just follow me, I’ll escort you up there. How was your flight?”

Mac answered while following the XO across the flight deck.

“It was going pretty smooth until we hit that squall line a couple of minutes ago.”

“We just passed through it ourselves,” added the XO, who was leading them toward the large superstructure located amidships starboard.

“I just hope the main body of the storm stays well to the north of us. Even with a displacement of 18,000 tons, the Iwo Jima is no match for a Pacific typhoon.”

Mac noted the puddles of rainwater that still stained the deck. He was also aware of the rolling motion of the ship beneath him. It was apparent that the sea was much rougher than it had appeared from the air. Massive swells were crashing into the carrier’s hull in irregular sets, making the mere act of walking a challenge.

They ducked through a hatch and began their way up a twisting stairway. Two flights up, the XO turned and led them down an open passageway. This afforded Mac an excellent view of the entire flight deck. He briefly halted and watched as the deck crew swarmed around the Harrier.

The XO noted Mac’s interest and offered a brief explanation.

“From what I understand, that flight from Oahu was just about at the limit of the AV-8B’s range.

Our boys will top off those external fuel tanks and make certain that the Harrier is in shape for the flight back to Kaneohe Bay.”

Mac’s line of sight shifted to the collection of large, banana-shaped, dual-rotor helicopters positioned on the forward a deck. Again the XO provided the commentary.

“Those are Boeing-Vertol CH-46 Sea Knights. If I remember correctly, during your last visit with us, the Marines weren’t embarked. We’re presently carrying an entire battalion landing team of approximately 1,700 men. Those helicopters are utilized as assault transport vehicles that can hold up to 25 equipped troops, or 4,000 pounds of cargo each.”

Mac looked on as the massive hydraulically powered platform set directly opposite the superstructure activated.

A single dark green Sikorsky Sea Stallion soon appeared, having been lifted up from the ship’s enclosed hangar bay.

“I believe you’ll be most familiar with that particular helicopter before the day is over,” offered the XO.

Before Mac could get the commander to explain what he meant by this, the man turned for the enclosed bridge. Mac took one last look at the chopper that had just arrived from below deck, shrugged his shoulders, then continued forward.

The Iwo Jima’s bridge was the nerve center of the ship while it was at sea. Mac entered the spacious glassed-in compartment and found it bustling with activity.

Most of this action was centered around the plotting table, where the vessel’s commanding officer could be seen hunched over the charts, all the while barking out orders to a nearby lieutenant j.g.

Mac remembered Captain Kenneth Exman well. Back in the Caribbean eighteen months ago, they had hit it off splendidly. The Iwo Jima’s broad-shouldered CO looked fit and vibrant. His baseball cap covered a mop of bristly brown hair, and the captain’s full, rounded jaw and flat nose reminded Mac of his favorite coach back in high school.

It was the XO who informed the captain that their guest had arrived. Without hesitation, he looked up from the chart that he had been immersed in, met Mac’s stare, and smiled.

“Good to see you again, Mac,” he said warmly.

“Has it really been a year and a half?”

Mac walked over and accepted the CO’s firm handshake.

“It’s good to be back, Captain. Believe it or not, I genuinely missed this old lady.”

The CO affectionately patted the nearby bulkhead.

“I know we have plenty to gripe about, but for a thirty year-old vessel, the Iwo Jima can still get the job done.”

“Are you still based out of Norfolk?”

“That we are, Commander. I gather that your next question is what in hell we’re doing out here in the middle of the South Pacific.”

Mac nodded, and the captain continued.

“We’ve been stationed in the Mediterranean all fall. When those Iranian pirates hijacked that Brit oil tanker, we were sent down the Suez Canal and into the Persian Gulf to show the flag. Once the crisis was resolved, Command decided to make our life interesting and send us home the long way. We had just finished a port call in Subic Bay and were on our way to Pearl when we got the word to expect a visitor. I only learned your identity an hour ago.”

Mac seemed confused. Taking the Captain aside, he spoke cautiously.

“But how did you get involved with the find in the waters off Kwajalein?”

The CO’s wide brow tightened.

“I see that your briefing was as cursory as my own. To tell you the truth, Mac, I don’t know anything about any find. All I’ve been instructed to do is act as your transfer point and provide you chopper transport further southward.”

Mac was suddenly aware of the meaning of the XO’s cryptic comment earlier.

“I think I’m starting to see the big picture, Captain.”

“At least someone around here knows what the hell is going on,” said the captain, whose attention was diverted by a call from the air boss.

“It looks like we’re stuck with you for awhile, Mac.”

The grinning CO hung up the telephone.

“Seems that Harrier driver of yours is hot to get back to Oahu.

Would you care to watch him lift off?”

Without bothering to respond, Mac followed the captain over to the port observation window. Below on the flight deck, the AV-8B looked sleek and deadly in its camouflage paint. As the pilot switched on its jet engine, a throaty, high-pitched whine filled the bridge with intense sound. The roar intensified steadily until it reached almost deafening proportions. Appearing much like some sort of prehistoric beast, the Harrier proceeded to lift off vertically, straight into the air. Then, with a slight dip of its stubby wings, it gracefully turned its nose to the northeast and shot off in an incredible burst of forward speed.

Awestruck, Mac continued watching the aircraft until it was but a speck on the horizon. It was a gentle hand on his shoulder that brought back his thoughts.

“That’s quite a sight, my friend. No matter how many times I see it, it never fails to astound me. Now, how about joining me in my quarters for some chow? I should be able to get a decent meal into that belly of yours before your whirlybird’s ready to fly.”

Mac readily accepted the captain’s gracious offer. It was while washing up that he realized that he had left home so hurriedly that morning that he had neglected to shave. While pondering whether or not to borrow a razor, he stood before the mirror and momentarily studied his reflection.

He had inherited his full head of blond hair and his pale blue eyes from his mother. From his father he got a dimpled chin. The one feature that was distinctly his own was his nose. Broken during a collegiate football game and never set properly, Mac’s nose was unique.

Even Marsha referred to it as his “personality.” Because of his fair coloring, his eyebrows and beard were fairly nondescript, and he knew that he could easily miss a shave without anyone but his wife noticing. With this in mind, Mac decided to forget about obtaining a razor, and after soaking his face in a handful of hot water, continued on to the captain’s stateroom.

As he had proved during Mac’s previous visit. Captain Kenneth Exman was an excellent host. There was a genuine warmth to the CO’s smile as he greeted his guest and led him over to the table set for two.

“I think we’d better get going with the chow. There’s another squall line approaching, and we’d like to get you airborne before it hits.”

No sooner did they seat themselves when an alert orderly appeared with their salads and some hot rolls.

This was followed by a platter filled with grilled chicken breast, noodles, and a helping of broccoli in cheese sauce.

The Iwo Juno’s CO had originally been an aviator. A graduate of the Naval Academy, he’d flown the Grumman A-6 Intruder in Viet Nam, and had over 3,500 flight hours and over 700 carrier-arrested landings. Two and a half years ago he’d reported to the Naval Education and Training Center at Newport, Rhode Island, where he was enrolled in the prespective commanding officers’ course. Upon graduation, he assumed command of the Iwo Jima.

Mac liked the man’s no-nonsense attitude. He genuinely cared about his shipmates and wasn’t afraid to candidly express himself. This was the case as he described the Iwo Jima’s current deployment.

“I don’t have to tell you that I was worried as all hell when Command ordered us home by way of the Pacific.

Our steam plant is over thirty years old. It needs some major overhauls. Yet to make matters worse, not only did they cut our funding, but they rushed us through our last refit as well. I’ve got over 2,600 men currently on board this ship. With only a single shaft to propel us, we can’t risk even a brief interruption of power. So far my boys have managed to keep us going, but the Lord only knows how long our luck is going to hold.”

Mac polished off his broccoli.

“I still say that your crew deserves a lot of credit. Captain. The gator navy might not be glamorous duty, but just look who’s called upon when there’s trouble brewing. If you ask me, we’ve got our priorities all wrong. Nuclear-powered aircraft carriers and high-tech cruisers are great for worldwide conflicts, but for the low-intensity threat operations that we’ll most likely be facing during this upcoming decade, it’s vessels like the Iwo Jima that will lay down the law.”

“Well said, Mac. I’m glad to hear that someone out there calls it like it is. Now if we could only get the backing of Congress and the Pentagon.”

“You’re not asking for much, are you, Captain?”

A wide grin turned up the corners of the COs mouth.

“Here I go and invite you to chow, and all I do is bore you with my problems. So enough of my bellyaching.

How’s that family of yours doing? If I remember correctly, you’ve got a set of twins about five years old. At least those two should keep your mind off the Navy.”

“Actually, Andrew and Michael will be six next month,” said the proud father.

“And yes, when I’m home they keep me occupied every minute of the day.

Their new love is baseball. Marsha got them uniforms, and now they’re pestering us to let them join Little League.”

“Six is a little young for that, isn’t it?” offered the captain.

Mac was quick to answer.

“That’s what Marsha says, but I kind of wonder. Michael’s got an unbelievable arm. Why, that little devil can already throw a curve ball. Andrew’s specialty is hitting. He’s already cost me a kitchen window and a new skylight. How’s your son doing?”

The Captain’s eyes sparkled.

“Ken Jr. will graduate junior high school with honors this June. That kid’s a mechanical genius. Just last month he took apart our personal computer and replaced a defective chip. Now he’s writing his own programs. He plans to eventually attend the Naval Academy, where he wants to study nuclear physics.”

A ringing telephone interrupted the captain. He reached for the handset at his side. While he initiated a conversation, Mac finished his chicken breast and took a second to survey the stateroom. Behind them was a comfortable sitting area — of a couch, a magazine-filled coffee table, and two upholstered chairs. Next to this was the captain’s desk. One could easily forget that such a setting belonged in a warship, though a CO’s duty hardly allowed one a moment’s respite.

“That was the XO,” said the captain, who had already hung up.

“It looks like that weather is moving in quicker than we’d anticipated. Our senior meteorologist recommends that we get you airborne pronto. Your chopper’s just about ready, so I’m afraid you’ll have to take a raincheck on dessert.”

Mac patted his stomach while following the captain’s lead, and pushed his chair away from the table to stand.

“That meal was more than adequate, Sir. I’ve had nothing all day but a half cup of coffee, and it really hit the spot. Thanks again for the hospitality.”

“You’re most welcome, Mac. And don’t be such a stranger. We’ll be back in Norfolk at the end of the month, and I’d love to have you stop by for a proper visit. Who knows, maybe by then you’ll be able to tell me what this mysterious excursion of yours is all about.”

Doubting that he’d ever get the clearance to talk about the project that had called him these thousands of miles, Mac nodded politely and followed the captain up the flight deck.

The weather topside looked menacing. Thick dark clouds blotted out the sun, while a rising wind made the mere process of walking difficult. They were halfway to the open fuselage of the Sea Stallion when the rains began falling in a torrent.

“Good luck to you, Mac,” offered the CO as he escorted his guest to the helicopter’s side.

“I sure hope the weather is better down south where you’re off to.”

“You don’t happen to know where that might be, do you, sir?” asked Mac as he climbed into the doorway.

The captain had to hold onto his cap and practically shout to be heard over the howl of the gusting wind.

“Afraid they didn’t bother to share that with me. Command will relay the exact coordinates to you once you get airborne. All that I know for certain is that you’re headed somewhere south of Kwajalein. Have a safe trip!”

“You too. Skipper,” returned Mac, who saluted and then allowed a jumpsuited airman to lead him further into the helicopter’s rather cavernous interior. There was room inside for at least three dozen passengers. Yet Mac was alone except for the single attendant.

No sooner did he sit down and buckle his restraining harness when the Sea Stallion’s dual turbine engines coughed alive. As its six-bladed rotor began madly spinning, a large drop of hydraulic oil fell onto Mac’s forehead.

He disgustedly wiped the smelly fluid off and addressed the airman seated across from him.

“I think something’s leaking up there!” shouted Mac.

“Welcome aboard a Sikorsky, Commander,” replied the airman stoically.

“It’s when this baby stops leaking that we’ve got serious problems.”

Mac could only shake his head and sit back as the helicopter began its ascent. They rose vertically. Except for a slight vibration, the wind didn’t seem to play a factor as the Sea Stallion turned to the south, all the while continuing to gain altitude.

Strangely enough, during the entire ascent Mac was unusually at ease. In fact, he was so relaxed that he fell asleep soon after they reached their cruising altitude.

Mac’s sound, dreamless slumber was broken by a loud buzzing noize. As he groggily opened his eyes, he watched as the cabin attendant picked up a bulkhead mounted intercom handset. The cabin was lit by a muted red light and Mac realized with a start that it was apparently night already.

“Good evening, Commander,” said the airman, who had completed his phone conversation and noted that Mac had awakened.

“How’d you sleep?”

“Like a baby,” Mac answered as he yawned and glanced down at his watch.

“Have I really been out for two hours?”

The airman nodded.

“That you have. You didn’t miss anything but a little lightning and thunder.”

“How’s the weather now?” quizzed Mac.

“It’s clear as can be. We left all the heavy stuff up north. So it looks like we can complete your transfer with a minimum of risk.”

“Transfer?” repeated Mac.

Mistaking Mac’s puzzlement as an inability to hear over the chopping sound of the spinning rotors, the airman shouted, “I just got word from the cockpit that you’ll be leaving us shortly. We’ll be dropping you onto the deck of a submarine. Have you ever used a rescue hoist before, sir?”

Mac was genuinely dumbfounded.

“I can’t say that I have,” he managed with a heavy sigh.

Noting his anxiety, the airman’s tone softened.

“Well, you have nothing to worry about, sir. I’ll be fitting you into a harness, and then utilize a winch to lower you by means of a steel cable. All you have to do is hit the release mechanism once you touch down on the deck.”

Mac looked up when a loud electronic tone sounded.

It proved to be the attendant who identified this noise.

“It’s showtime, sir. Just follow me over to the doorway and I’ll get you fixed up.”

Mac reluctantly did so, and was soon sitting on the edge of the now opened hatchway. The roar of the Sea Stallion’s turbine engines filled the cabin with a deafening grind. Outside the air was warm and clear, and Mac could see a myriad of stars glistening in the heavens.

Conscious that the helicopter was now hovering, he looked down and could just make out a single dim red light. As the Sikorsky began to descend, this light intensified until soon Mac viewed the distinctive, teardrop shaped outline of a submarine floating on the surface of the sea. When several individuals could be seen on the forward deck of this vessel, Mac heard the attendant cry out behind him.

“So long, Commander. Just ease your way off the ledge and we’ll take it from there.”

Mac managed a brave salute and after inhaling a deep calming breath, scooted off the helicopter’s hatchway.

He found himself dangling in midair now, his weight supported by the steel cable attached to the harness at the back of his shoulders. He could feel the downdraft of the Sea Stallion’s rotors as the cable began playing out, and he began to drop.

So rapid and smooth was this descent that Mac had little time to contemplate his precarious position. The submarine continued to grow larger, and Mac spotted two individuals perched in its sail. Behind them, mounted on the aft portion of the vessel’s deck, was a large, cylindrical object that Mac identified as being a deep submergence rescue vehicle. He was no stranger to the workings of a DSRV, and supposed that this would be the platform that would be conveying him to the seafloor itself.

He found himself being guided forward of the sail.

Here a pair of brawny sailors succeeded in grabbing his legs and stabilizing him. The moment that he touched down on the deck, he hit the harness release mechanism as instructed and felt the pull on his back lessen. The last he saw of the harness itself was as it was being hoisted back up into the hold of the still hovering helicopter.

“Commander Mackenzie, welcome aboard the USS Billfish.”

This greeting came from a wiry, khaki-clad officer who stood at Mac’s side. He continued, “I’m Lieutenant Commander Jenkins, the sub’s XO. Captain Holden is up in the sail and sends his respects. I’m afraid that time is a bit critical, so if it’s all right with you, we’d like to get you loaded into the DSRV and get on with the dive.”

“Lead on, Mr. Jenkins,” replied Mac, who was relieved that his long journey was finally about to end.

As they proceeded around the sail, Mac noted that the chopping roar of the helicopter was no longer audible.

This racket was replaced by the splashing sound of lapping water as it gently broke against the sub’s rounded hull. The warm night air was fresh and smelled of the sea. Quite happy to be back in this familiar medium, Mac traversed the vessel’s spine, finally coming to a halt beside the DSRV. Here he spotted an individual dressed in dark blue coveralls, in the process of inspecting the mini-sub’s forward thruster ducts. It proved to be the XO, who provided the introductions.

“Commander Mackenzie, I’d like you to meet the DSRV Avalon’s pilot, Lieutenant Richard Sullivan.”

Mac accepted the pilot’s cool handshake. The lieutenant was well into his forties and displayed a lined, weather-worn face as he looked Mac directly in the eyes.

“The Avalon’s ready to go whenever you are, Commander.”

Mac sized him up as a man who had worked his way up through the ranks. He exuded confidence, and Mac felt instantly at ease with him.

“Were you the one who made the initial discovery?” asked Mac.

“I’m the one,” the pilot answered.

“I’d be happy to give you a complete briefing once we get underway.”

“I’d like that, returned Mac. He followed Sullivan as he climbed a portable ladder that was propped against the DSRV’s side.

A humped casing on the Avalon’s upper deck hid a narrow hatchway. As Lieutenant Sullivan opened the hatch, the XO of the USS Billfish called out to Mac.

“Have a safe voyage, Commander. If you need anything, just ring us up on the underwater telephone.”

Mac returned his salute and then followed the Avalon’s pilot down into the DSRV’s interior. A short climb led to the main pressure capsule. The air was cool here and smelled of machine oil. By the light of a red lamp they moved forward. This put them in the central command module. While the pilot settled into the padded chair on the port side, Mac squeezed into the seat beside it. Following the grizzled veteran’s example, Mac fastened his safety harness.

“I take it you’re no stranger to a deep submergence rescue vehicle, Commander.”

“Actually, I spent some time on the Mystic. And please, call me Mac.”

The pilot continued while addressing the various switches and buttons of his console.

“You wouldn’t happen to know Matt Crowley, would you?”

“I certainly would,” answered Mac.

“Matt was my driver during a dive off Kauai.”

“Good op angles-and-dangles Crowley,” reflected the pilot.

“He taught me the business, and was almost responsible for getting me to muster out of the service early. That guy’s scared of nothing.”

Mac grinned.

“So I’ve noticed.”

The intercom activated, and they were informed that the Billfish was standing by to dive. Only when he was absolutely certain that the Avalon was properly pressurized did the pilot notify their mother ship that they were also ready for the black depths below. A raucous blast of compressed air signaled that the dive was on. Still anchored piggyback-style on the deck of the Billfish, the DSRV slid beneath the surface of the sea.

“How long until we disengage?” asked Mac.

“A couple of minutes at most.”

“Does that give us time for that briefing you promised me?”

The pilot nodded.

“The Avalon was in Sydney when I received my current orders. The Aussie Navy is thinking about building a couple of DSRVs of their own, and they’d like to use Avalon as a prototype. Since I was ordered up here ASAP, MATS sent in a C5-A that subsequently carried Avalon to the airstrip at Kwajalein.

From here we were mounted on the back of the Billfish.

“The Avalon’s primary mission was to search the waters surrounding the atoll for any recently deposited debris.

It seems that the Air Force lost some sort of warhead in the area after a successful test launch from Vandenberg, and it was hoped that we would be the ones to sniff it out for them.

“After scouring the lagoon and finding not a trace of the warhead, we expanded the search to the surrounding ocean. It was while examining the waters directly south of the lagoon’s entrance that our bottom scanning sonar registered a minor irregularity on the seafloor, at a depth of six-hundred and seventy-eight feet. I decided to bring the Avalon down to eyeball this anomaly, and that’s when I made the initial discovery.”

A soft electronic tone began sounding in the background, and the pilot excused himself to begin the disengagement process. He utilized the underwater telephone to coordinate this process with the USS Billfish, and soon afterward the Avalon was free from its mother vessel and totally on its own.

With the assistance of an airplane-type steering column, the pilot guided the DSRV downward. At a depth of five hundred feet he hit a clear plastic button on the sonar console. Almost immediately a repetitious, soft warbling ping began sounding from the elevated intercom speakers.

“That sound that you’re hearing is from a set of homing beacons we placed at the site. It will lead us straight to the area in question.”

Mac sat forward excitedly. His pulse quickened as they passed below six hundred feet and the pilot activated the Avalon’s powerful bow-mounted spotlights and its video camera. Now all Mac had to do was gaze up at the monitor screen to see for himself what secrets the ocean had in store for them.

A startled grouper darted into the blackness beyond, while a curious gray shark stared into the camera as if it was considering it as a possible food source. After adjusting the monitor’s fine-tuning knob, the pilot continued.

“I don’t really know what I was expecting to find down here. But I’ll tell you this much, in my ten years of work on DSRVs, I haven’t ever seen anything like what you’re about to see with your very own eyes. Why, it just doesn’t make any rational sense!”

Mac’s mouth was bone dry as they dropped below six hundred and fifty feet. On the monitor screen, the gray shark was no longer visible. In its place was a faint blue beacon whose strobe seemed to be synchronized with the pinging tone that was still emanating from the Avalon’s intercom.

“That’s the homing beacon,” observed the pilot.

“The site is only a few meters from its base.”

It seemed to take forever for the DSRV to cover this distance. As they passed the strobe, the pilot took manual control of the video camera and aimed its lens straight at the seafloor.

An expanse of smooth golden sand filled the monitor screen. Yet as they sped over a nesting starfish, the character of the sand abruptly changed. Its previously glossy surface was now pockmarked by a set of alien tracks. This trail seemed manmade, the individual treads appearing much like that which would be left in the wake of some sort of subterranean tractor.

Mac noted the shape of the tread marks and the width of the track itself. Though he would need to take exact measurements, there was no doubt in his mind that Admiral Long’s suspicions had been correct.

Only three weeks ago, Mac had seen an exact duplicate of this same track on the seafloor beneath San Francisco harbor. The previous month, he had examined another similar trail off the coast of Norfolk, Virginia, in Chesapeake Bay. Earlier in the year, other tracks were found in the Mediterranean Sea near Sicily, and on the seafloor of the Baltic opposite the Swedish city of Karlskrona. Each of these sightings pointed to the presence of some sort of mysterious vessel that used a tracked drive to prowl the seafloor. What made this supposition all the more chilling was the fact that each of these sightings occurred in the restricted waters adjoining a variety of the West’s most sensitive military installations.

It was Mac’s current mission to determine the nationality of this vehicle, and to figure out a way to stop future incursions before America’s very security was compromised.

“If you ask me, it looks like someone’s been driving a Caterpillar tractor down here. Who knows, maybe the guys who were driving it are the same ones who made off with our warhead,” offered the pilot.

Such an idea caused goosebumps to form on Mac’s forearms, and as he was about to respond, the DSRV’s underwater telephone activated. The pilot put the receiver to his ear, and after a brief conversation he handed it to Mac.

“Commander Mackenzie, this is Lieutenant Commander Jenkins on the Bill fish. I’m afraid we’re going to have to get you topside on the double. We just received a priority flash from COMSUBPAC requesting your immediate presence in San Diego. Air transport will be awaiting you on Kwajalein.”

His eyes still glued to the monitor, Mac wondered what had occurred to necessitate his immediate presence in far-off California. The only thing he could be certain of was that it was most likely somehow related to the mysterious set of tracks that were still displayed on the screen before him. Not looking forward to yet another long commute, he wearily instructed the Avalon’s pilot to break off the scan and rejoin the mother ship.