Sea of Death

Twelve

Pete Frystak was simply amazed at how quickly he readjusted to the life of a submariner. It was almost as if he had never retired at all, but had merely been on extended leave during these last couple of years of civilian life. The familiar sights, smells, and sounds of the boats had never left his blood after all. And he’d never realized how much he’d missed them until fate had called him back into service for this mission.

But he was concerned about his wife. There had been no hiding the hurt in Kathy’s expression ashe’d hurriedly packed his seabag and arranged transport to Homestead. Fortunately, their faithful, hardworking staff would help her run the resort while he was gone, and the Cuban maintenance men would proceed with the roofing project. If all turned out as planned, he’d be back in Big Pine Key in less than two weeks, none the worse for wear and full of pleasant memories.

Unable even to drop Kathy a postcard to let her know he was okay, Pete was currently moving into his new quarters aboard the Bokken. For the first couple of nights after arriving at Alpha Base, he had bunked in the relatively luxurious confines of the USS Hawkbill. Yet now that their sailing date was rapidly approaching, it was time to live exclusively aboard the vessel that would soon betaking them into harm’s way.

He had been assigned space in the Romeoclass sub’s forward officer’s quarters. Though this meant sharing a cramped area not much larger than his closet back home with five other sailors, he really didn’t mind at all. Their cruise promised to be a short one, and anyway, most of his time would be spent on watch in the torpedo room.

The accommodations consisted of narrow, three-tiered bunks. The top ones appeared to be already occupied, so he gratefully cased himself onto a bottom bunk.

The mattress proved to be unusually firm, which was fine with Pete. At home, to get additional support, he slept with a board under his Serta.

A locker was located beneath the bunk, and Pete was in the process of filling it with the personal belongings he’d brought along when aman carrying asea bag entered the quarters.

“Excuse me, sir,” the newcomer said politely, “but I guess we’re bunkmates.”

Pete turned and eyed a tall, lanky youngster at most twenty-one years of age. This fellow was dressed in gray sweats, and had the scarred remnants of teenage acne on his beardless chin. The veteran instantly sensed his shyness, and did his best to make the lad feel right at home.

“Pete Frystak’s the name. But please, call me Pete.”

The young man still seemed afraid to directly meet the veteran’s gaze ashe hesitantly responded.

“I’m Ensign Adrian Avila — Adie for short.”

Frystak flashed his warmest smile and, while exchanging a handshake, questioned him further.

“What’s your specialty on the Hawkbill, Adie?”

“I’m currently training to qualify as a weapons officer, sir,” returned the young sailor.

“No kidding,” said Frystak.

“That was my specialty.

So I guess we’ll be working together on this tub. And hey, I’m serious about calling me Pete.”

Ensign Avila finally found the nerve to make direct eye contact with him, and even managed a slight smile.

“Pete it is, sir,” he firmly replied.

The veteran shook his head.

“Now if I could just get you to drop that ‘sir’ crap, we’d really be cooking.”

Frystak turned back to his unpacking and added.

“Say, I hope you don’t mind, but I took this bottom bunk. Though I don’t plan to spend much time in the rack, when I do crash, my days of climbing for shuteye are over.”

Ensign Avila picked the other bottom bunk, and wasted no time emptying his seabag.

“Where are you from, Adie?” asked Frystak while unloading his toiletries.

“I was born and raised in Piano, Texas.”

“Piano, Texas,” repeated Frystak.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of the place.”

“It’s a northern suburb of Dallas with a population of over one hundred thousand,” said Adie with evident pride.

“Well, I make my home in the Florida Keys,” revealed Frystak.

“Ever been to the Keys?”

Shaking his head that he hadn’t, Ensign Avila furrowed his brow.

“Isn’t that where Ernest Hemingway lived?”

“That’s the place, son. If you like to fish, boat, or just play in the sun, you’ve got to comedown and visit us someday. My wife and I run a resort down there. It’s nothing fancy, but it sure beats the hell out of living in a big city or fighting the snow and ice up north.”

“Back at college, I did a paper on Hemingway,” said the shy Texan, who was slowly coming out of his shell.

“He was sure some kind of guy.”

“That he was,” returned Frystak.

“Do you have a favorite Hemingway book?”

Adie thought a moment before answering.

“I guess it’s The Old Man and the Sea. One of my dreams is to go marlin fishing one day.”

“Then come on down to Big Pine Key,” offered Frystak.

“I can’t guarantee you a marlin, but I believe we could scare up a sailfish or two.”

This remark served to totally break the ice, and Ensign Avila’s face broke out into an expectant grin.

“Do you mean it, Pete?”

“Why of course I do. You just give us a call in advance, and we’ll see what we can do about making a conch out of you.”

“A what?” quizzed the Texan.

Frystak smiled.

“A conch is a native of the Florida Keys. It’s also a local variety of mollusk. I’m sure you’ve seen the large, pink and white shells they live in.”

“Do you mean the type you can blow in like a trumpet, and put up to your car to hear the sea?”

asked Adie.

“That’s the one,” said the veteran, who concluded his unpacking by removing his Bible and placing it on the stateroom’s small, fold-down desk.

“I see you read the Good Book,” observed Adie.

We don’t see many of those on the Hawkbill.”

“That’s too bad,” replied Frystak.

“Wait until you get chased around by a tin can and get some depthcharges dumped on you. That never fails to bring a crew religion.”

“Were you in World War II, Pete?” asked the young Texan.

“Hey, I’m not that ancient! Though I did manage to see a little underwater action off the coast of Korea and later Viet Nam.”

This revelation gained Adie’s complete attention.

“I didn’t realize subs were involved in those conflicts.”

Once more, the top-secret nature of Pete Frystak’s past assignments kept him from sharing his exploits, and he cryptically responded.

“You’d be surprised, son. But I guess that’s why they call it the silent service.”

“In an adjoining passageway. Master Chief Stanley Roth was in the midst of a thorough inspection of the Bokken, to assess its operational readiness. He started off in the forward torpedo room, where the around-the-clock efforts by the yard crew were finally starting to show results. The gouges and dents to the outer bow had been repaired, and now the internal structural damage was being corrected.

Roth noted, with some degree of satisfaction, that the replacement batteries had arrived from the States. He didn’t envy the men whose job it was to crawl into the dark, cramped recesses beneath the main deck and install them.

Of course, his prime concern was the sub’s engine room. His initial series of inspections found the machinery in this compartment in sad need of an overhaul.

Ashe continued to work his way aft to check on his men’s progress there, he could only pray that the young “nukes” from the Hawkbill were able to make some sort of sense out of the engine room’s various components. These had originated in such diverse places as China, the Soviet Union, Albania, and Poland. Because regardless of Henry Walker’s plan, the Bokken wasn’t going anywhere until Stanley was completely satisfied that the diesels were in proper working order.

His route aft took him through the control room.

Several of the Hawkbill’s sailors were gathered there, in the process of settling into their new positions, and Stanley took a moment to visit with them.

He was surprised to spot a somewhat familiar figure attempting to squeeze his six-foot, three-inch, two-hundred-pound bulk into one of the two, tiny upholstered leather chairs set before the helm. His curiosity aroused, Stanley went over to greet the man.

“Are you going to fit, sailor?” he lightly questioned.

The brown-haired youngster answered while doing his best not to hit his knees up against the partial steering column that was mounted into the deck before him.

“I’ll make it, sir. Though it’s going to be tight.”

“Did you recently attend basic sub school?” asked Stanley, ashe vainly attempted to place the helmsman’s face.

“Not within the last two years,” the youth replied.

“That’s funny,” said Stanley.

“I could have sworn I just had you in one of my classes there.”

A sudden look of enlightenment lit the sailor’s green eyes.

“I’ll bet it was my kid brother, dark.”

“Seaman Foard!” exclaimed Stanley, who finally remembered the name.

“And if I remember correctly, your family is from Kansas City.”

The youngster smiled fondly.

“You’ve got it, Chief. My name’s Bill.”

They exchanged a hearty handshake and the helmsman added, “I guess dark has grown some since I last saw him. How’s he doing in school?”

“He’s turning into a first-rate bubblehead,” said Stanley.

“Though, like yourself, he was having a bit of a problem squeezing himself into the tight spaces of our trainers. I take it you help drive the HawkMil.”

“That’s correct, Chief,” returned Foard ashe gripped the hydraulically powered steering wheel and vainly attempted to pull it backward. It budged only after a strained effort on his part.

“I hope the helm isn’t always this stiff,” observed Foard.

“It’s like driving a car without power steering.”

“You hit the nail right on the head,” returned Stanley.

“The Hawkbill’s like driving a souped-up Corvette, while this boat handles more like a nineteen fifty-six Chevy truck. It’ll take some time to get used to, but you’ll get the feel of it soon enough.

Just track me down in the engine room if you’ve got any problems you can’t solve. And don’t be shy, like that kid brother of yours.”

Leaving him with a playful wink, Stanley next stopped at the adjoining diving console. Here Chief “Mac” McKenzie, the Hawkbill’s grizzled COB (Chief of the Boat), was trying to make some sort of sense out of the lines of red and green lights situated beside row after row of plastic-tipped toggle switches. Mac and Stanley had already met, and Stanley was grateful for the cob’s fifteen years of submarine experience.

“Hello, Mac. Ever see anything like this before?”

“Yeah, in a friggin’ museum!” answered the disgruntled COB.

“This is sure one for the books, Roth. If these red lights belong to the hull-opening indicators, how can I read them under conditions of night adaptation, when this compartment will be lit only in red?”

“I guess that’s why we switched to indicators shaped as circles and dashes on our newer subs,” said Stanley.

“Well, that sure ashen’s not going to do me much good,” returned the crewcut chief, whose arms were intricately tattooed.

“Mac, with your years of experience, you’ll figure out away to read them.”

The cob’s response was ominous.

“You’d better hope so. Roth. Otherwise this cruise is going in one direction only, and that’s straight down!”

Stanley could only shrug his shoulders, and ashe turned to continue aft, he nearly stumbled over the pair of legs extending from beneath the hooded radar console.

“Find anything interesting in there, sailor?” asked Stanley.

“As a matter of fact, I have,” returned a muffled voice.

Seconds later. Seaman First Class Ray Morales scooted out from beneath the console, holding an old-fashioned transistor tube in his hand.

“I haven’t seen one of these since I picked apart my grandfather’s hi-fi set,” Morales reflected.

“Why, I’d bet there’s not a single microchip on this entire vessel.”

“You’re probably correct, sailor,” agreed Stanley, who took the tube and briefly examined it before handing it back.

“Chief, do you really think this radar unit can cut it?” questioned Morales.

“I don’t know why not,” Stanley replied.

“Those tubes may be a bit outdated, but they’ll get the job done all the same. Just remember to give this unit some time to warm up, and it will work just as good as your radar back on Hawkbill.”

“No offense. Chief, but I’ll believe that when I see it with my own eyes,” said Morales, who despondently shook his head and then returned to his inspection.

In away, Stanley couldn’t blame the young radar technician for his skepticism. He was expected to put his trust in apiece of equipment that was already an antique.

The same went for the other members of the crew.

These highly trained youngsters were being asked to take a step backward in time, to a technological level at which microprocessors and computer keyboards didn’t exist. Such an abrupt change, by its very nature, would be confusing, and Stanley only wished that the crew could have more time to adjust to this radically new environment.

The differences in technology were especially apparent at the next console he visited. Seated before a confusing collection of dials and gauges, with a set of bulky, old-fashioned headphones over his cars, was the Hawkbill’s senior sonar technician. Stanley had yet to meet this individual, though he had heard a bit about Petty Officer First Class James “Jaffers” Echoles from his shipmates.

Jaffers, ashe preferred to be called, had worked his way up through the enlisted ranks and, if scuttlebutt was to be believed, would soon be offered a commission of his own. The sailors Stanley had spoken to had praised Jaffers as an industrious, hardworking individual who thought nothing of sitting through a double-duty shift if his unique talents were needed.

Stanley had great respect for those sailors who had mastered the arcane art of sonar. Having been a prospective sonarman himself in his early Navy days, he was well aware of the complexities of this allimportant job.

The briefest, inconsequential sound — one the untrained observer would pass right by — often meant the difference between living and dying in the competitive, complex world of undersea warfare. Intuition also helped, as well as an uncompromising attention to detail, and a disciplined, well-focused attention span. Because he lacked the patience to sit before a console for hours at a time, concentrating on unraveling the sounds of the sea, Stanley had decided not to specialize in sonar. Yet he respected those gifted sailors who made this demanding job an art form.

At the moment, Jaffers seemed to behaving some problems getting his headphones to properly fit. Taking extra care not to take the big, black petty officer by surprise, Stanley got his attention with a wave of his hand.

“Can I help you with those, sailor?” asked the veteran, ashe ambled up to the edge of the console.

Jaffers removed his headphones while responding.

“I’m afraid these Chink headphones are hopeless.”

“They certainly look like something from the dinosaur age,” returned Stanley. Then he introduced himself.

“Mr. Echoles, I’m Chief Roth. Though my domain on this cruise is the engine room, I’m familiar with most of this pigboat’s systems, and I’d be happy to give you a hand if you ever need help.”

Jaffers seemed surprised by this.

“No kidding, Chief. Do you mean to say there’s actually someone still alive who knows how to operate this old-timer?”

“Watch it, Mr. Echoles,” returned Stanley playfully.

“Or I’ll take back that offer to help. By the way, is it okay if I call you Jaffers?”

“Please do. Chief,” said the senior sonar technician ashe fiddled with the dials of his console.

“I see that my notoriety has preceded me.”

“That’s usually the way it is with the best and brightest,” said Stanley.

“Scuttlebutt also has it that you own a race horse.”

“You wouldn’t happen to be a sporting man, would you. Chief Roth?” asked Jaffers.

Stanley winked.

“I’ve been known to put down a few two-dollar combinations in my time, son.”

“I thought that might bethe case,” replied Jaffers, who instantly liked where Roth was coming from.

“Actually, I only own apiece of a horse, along with my father and uncle. She’s a spirited three-year-old filly that we picked up in Arlington on a two-thousand-dollar claim. We’re going to cleanup this coming summer down at Fairmont Park.”

“That’s in Illinois, isn’t it?” said Stanley.

“Why there?”

“That’s home for me. Chief. Why I grew up so close to the track, I could hear the starting bell from my crapper!”

Stanley laughed and knew he’d have no trouble at all getting along with this colorful individual.

“Say, Jaffers, what do you know about the Fenik passive array set you’ll be monitoring here?”

Jaffer’s tone turned serious.

“Only what we learned back in sub school, and that wasn’t much, since the Feniks have been pretty well obsolete for the last three decades.”

“I realize it’s far from the BQS-6 you’re used to operating, Jaffers. But this is all we have to work with. If you’d like, I’d be willing to give you a hand getting the feel of it. Back in nineteen fifty-eight, I manned this same station aboard an abandoned Soviet Romeo. I found the array itself extremely reliable, though its range and sensitivity were rather limited.”

“I’d appreciate the help. Chief,” replied Jaffers, whose attention went back to the bulky headphones that lay in his lap.

“Now if I could only do something with this uncomfortable contraption. Say Chief, do you think it would be allright for me to bring over my set from the Hawkbill? All I’d have to do to make it compatible is patch in anew socket adaptor.”

Stanley saw nothing wrong with this idea and responded accordingly.

“By all means, son, go ahead and give it a try. And I’m certain that you’ll find your superiors wide open to any other suggestions that will make your job any easier.”

The potbellied veteran looked at his watch and added.

“Please excuse me while I go and checkout the action in this tub’s engine room. I left instructions for a couple of your shipmates to begin an overhaul of our Chink diesels, and Lord only knows what kind of trouble they’ve managed to get themselves into in the meantime.”

“I hear you. Chief,” returned Jaffers.

“But please go easy on them. They’re nukes, and aren’t used to getting their hands dirty.”

Stanley flashed him a salute and continued aft, down the narrow passageway that led through the crew’s mess and into the engine room. It was ashe was passing by the galley that a captivating aroma caught his attention. A bespectacled, heavyset man, wearing a stained apron stood beside the galley’s open grill, in the process of overseeing the source of this tempting scent. Stanley couldn’t help but take a closer look.

“Looks good and smells even better,” he remarked ashe peeked over the cook’s shoulder and spotted a variety of sizzling strips of meat and cut-up vegetables.

“But exactly what is it?”

“I call it Howard’s turkey teriyaki,” answered the proud chef ashe looked over to see who he was addressing.

“You must be another of Admiral Walker’s friends,” he correctly assumed.

“Chief Stanley Roth at your service. Now I don’t suppose you’d be giving out any free samples?”

Without a second’s hesitation, Mallot scooped aportion of the teriyaki onto a plate, and handed it to Stanley along with a fork. The veteran readily tasted a biteful, and a look of pure bliss lit up his face.

“Why it’s absolutely marvelous!” he said.

“The secret’s in the marinade,” offered Mallot.

“It’s a combination of canola oil, light soy sauce, brown sugar, garlic, and grated gingerroot. If I was at home, I’d also throw in some sherry.”

Stanley polished off the rest of his sample and shook his head admiringly.

“Son, you certainly know how to cook a mean teriyaki.”

“Thanks, Chief.” Mallot took this compliment in stride.

“Just you wait until I get used to cooking in this closet. Then I’m going to prepare some real Jap delicacies.”

“If it’s anything like that sample I just tasted, I’ll certainly be looking forward to chow time on this rust bucket. Incidentally, whom do I have the honor of addressing.”

The potbellied chef wiped his hand on his apron and offered it in greeting.

“I’m Petty Officer Howard Mallot, Chief. And you’re welcome in “Howard’s Kitchen’ anytime, day or night!”, “You’re on,” said Stanley, ashe placed his empty plate in the tiny sink and somewhat reluctantly turned to get on with his duty.

A short transit down a pipe-lined passageway led him directly into the engine room. Here he found three of his machinists gathered around one of the compartment’s two 2,000-horsepower diesel engines.

The men seemed totally absorbed in an examination of the exhaust manifold, and Stanley got right down to business.

“How did that oil pressure test go, gentlemen?”

The Hawkbill’s senior machinist, Petty Officer First Class Bob Marchetto, answered somewhat tentatively.

“The pressure reading seems a bit low, Chief. We ran the engine until it attained operating temperature, then shut it off and installed the pressure gauge in aport of the main oil gallery. We started her up again and checked the pressure twice more, once at idle and once at maximum governor speed. And in each instance, the reading was below the specs you gave us.”

“And your diagnosis?” tested Stanley.

The brawny senior machinist answered while thoughtfully stroking his beard-stubbled jaw.

“It could be a worn oil pump, or perhaps the pump’s pressure-relief valve is stuck in an open position.

Then there’s always the possibility that the engine bearings are worn.”

Stanley seemed pleased with this response.

“I’m impressed, Mr. Marchetto. But there’s one possibility you overlooked. Before we go tearing out the oil pump or needlessly replacing those bearings, how about first checking the oil itself. Perhaps all we’ve got here is the use of an improper oil weight with too low of a viscosity.”

Stanley led them over to the oil reservoir. He removed the cover plate and, with the assistance of a small flashlight, peered inside to check the ‘contents.

“Holy Mother Mary!” he exclaimed in astonishment.

“Just look at that sludge down there! This place was a breakdown just waiting to happen.”

Each of the three machinists had a look as Stanley continued.

“As I always tell my people, don’t neglect that oil. It’s the life’s blood of an engine, and if not changed regularly will cost you in the long run each and every time.”

Satisfied that he had made his point, the veteran got on with the task of readdressing this problem.

“Mr. Marchetto, you may have the invaluable assistance of Seaman Tabor here to find away to drain that reservoir. And while you’re at it, pull the oil filter. Odds are it’s just as dirty. Seaman Orlovick, you come with me.”

Stanley led the way aft. The sailor he’d picked to accompany him was a short, wiry, intense young man with a no-nonsense attitude. He had been a reactor specialist on the Hawkbill.

“What do you think of your new duty, son?” Stanley asked.

Orlovick thought a moment before replying.

“It sure is different than the Hawkbill.”

“I imagine so,” returned the veteran ashe climbed down onto the catwalk that separated the two engines.

“Ever repair a bubbler before?”

“A what?” quizzed the youngster.

Stanley was expecting just such a response and answered directly.

“A bubbler is a prototype masking device, that was incorporated into vessels of this class to decoy the opposition’s torpedoes. It does so by encompassing the sub’s hull in a wall of bubbles.

I’ve seen it at work on an experimental basis and can personally attest to its effectiveness.”

“If that’s the case, why don’t our submarines utilize such a device?” the alert machinist asked.

“We tried it out on the Barbel class,” informed Stanley.

“Yet the advent of the submarine-launched decoy made it obsolete. Of course, the bubbler’s less than fifty percent success rate didn’t hurt its demise cither.”

As they passed by the spot where the twin propeller shafts entered the reduction gears, a sailor could be seen sitting on the deck and frantically sorting through a tool locker. Spotting him, Stanley stopped dead in his tracks.

“Miller, didn’t I tell you over two hours ago to begin repacking those shafts?” questioned the perplexed veteran.

Seaman Miller looked up and nervously cleared his throat.

“Uh, Chief … I was just checking for a schematic.”

“A what?” said Stanley in utter disbelief.

“An instructional manual of some sort, sir,” timidly replied the freckle-faced sailor.

“I know what a schematic is, you knucklehead!”

burst out Stanley.

“But what I don’t understand is why you’re wasting your time searching for one that’s most probably written in bird tracks.”

Stanley pointed to his head and firmly added.

“The only manual we’ve got on this pigboat is right up here. So start using it, or we’ll never leave this damned underground garage!”

The young, red-faced sailor still appeared to be flustered, so Stanley softened his tone.

“Look, son, I’m not getting personal with you. It’s just that it’s going to take some very special smarts to get this sub running smoothly. And since none of us is all that familiar with this Chink hardware, we’re going to have to improvise and learn as we go. Remember, an engine is still just an engine, whether it’s made in Detroit or Peking. And as one of Uncle Sam’s best, you’re trained to meet any challenge, including this one. So get in there and open up that shaft coupling, and before you know it, you’ll be drawing me that schematic.”

This did the trick. Seaman Miller showed a bit more confidence ashe stood up and replied.

“I’m sorry for the delay, Chief. I’ll get on it at once.”

“That’s the spirit,” said the veteran, ashe pivoted to make his way aft.

Well aware of the youngster who followed behind him, Stanley directed his eyes upward and vented his frustration with a quick, barely whispered prayer.

“Lord, just give me the patience to get through this one last mission, and I swear you’ll never hear from me again!”