Sea of Death

Fifteen

Yoko Noguchi’s day off had been eagerly anticipated.

For the past six days, her work schedule had been a hectic one, with exhausting twelve-hour shifts not uncommon. She had planned to spend the day doing her laundry and catching up with the minor personal chores she had neglected, until the message arrived ordering her back to the laboratory. Her first impulse had been to ignore it. She deserved a day of rest, but to prove her loyalty, she didn’t dare not respond to this unexpected call to duty.

She made the most of her walk over to the lab building. Spring was in the air, and the blossoming cherry trees that lined the sidewalk were proof that it had arrived. This would have been a perfect day to take a hike into the surrounding mountains, and Yoko somewhat reluctantly took a last fond look at the powdery blue sky before proceeding indoors.

She was met by an unusual flurry of activity. It appeared that she had not been the only one called in, for the tiled corridor was crowded with scurrying lab technicians. All of the Biohazard Level Four laboratories were occupied, including the one that had been reserved for her personal use.

Yoke’s dour-faced superior was waiting for her at his desk. Well into middle age, he had a personality as flat as his sense of humor, and the only thing he seemed to live for was his work. Barely lifting his eyes from the computer’s monitor screen, he ordered her to get to work at once on a greatly expanded batch of the new, genetically altered anthrax toxin.

The amount he wanted produced was over a thousand times greater than the earlier lot, and Yoko was dying to ask what need they could possibly have for it. Somehow she managed to summon the self-control to hold her tongue, and after meekly nodding in acquiescence, she was surprised when her superior conveyed yet another directive. Once the toxin had been prepared, she was to oversee its loading into an unspecified number of specially designed, portable, aerosol cannisters, and was to inform him the second this process was completed.

Yoke’s pulse quickened as she silently made her way over to the dressing room. It was obvious that such an enormous amount of anthrax could have only one use. Her thoughts returned to her extended conversation with Dr. Yukio Ishii. He had mentioned his sincere interest in biological warfare, and there could be no ignoring the direction of his political beliefs.

And there washer recent tour of one of the submarines to consider. When she had initially joined the company, she’d been told that Ishii Industries had two such vessels, identical to each other. Both submarines were supposed to be involved in the firm’s undersea mining ventures and Yoko had kept this in mind as she’d made her tour of the Katana. Strangely enough, she’d found it lacked a bottoms canning sonar unit. Such equipment would be absolutely vital for locating submerged mineral deposits.

And the Katana had not been outfitted with a single articulated manipulator armor an ROV (Remotely Operated Vehicle). This meant there would be no way to obtain amineral sample, except at minimal depth where a diver could safely operate.

And the Katana had been taking on a variety of stores while docked. This most likely meant that she would be joining her sister ship at sea. Such a vessel would bethe perfect clandestine-delivery system for the anthrax-tainted cannisters Yoko had just been ordered to fill. Since the effective shelf life of this toxin could be measured in mere days, she knew the time to act was now.

Doing her best to move as inconspicuously as possible, she quietly slipped back out of the lab building.

The warm spring air greeted her like an old friend, and she knew that she would be able to get in today’s hike in the mountains after all.

On that very same morning, in the cool, calm waters approximately one hundred and sixty-five miles due south of Takara Island, a surfaced submarine pointed its V-shaped bow northward. The rugged mountains of Okinawa’s northern shoreline lay well astern of this vessel, and the narrow tunnel from which it had emerged had long since sealed itself.

Three men were crowded into the navigational control station set atop the sub’s open sail. Each one utilized binoculars to intently scan the waters immediately before them.

“It drops off quickly now,” observed Bill Brown, his white hair fluttering in the crisp sea breeze.

“We should be clear to dive soon.”

More concerned with any surface contacts that might inadvertently be made in these waters, Chris Slaughter queried the seaman who stood to his left.

“How’s it look, Mr. Morales?”

Ray Morales answered without bothering to lower his binoculars.

“The sea’s all ours. Captain.”

As soon as these words were spoken, the bridge intercom barked with a burst of static. This was followed by a firm, amplified voice.

“Captain, Dr. Kromer requests permission to join you topside.”

Slaughter bent over and spoke into the intercom.

“Send her up.”

A good thirty seconds later, Miriam Kromer climbed out of the access trunk cut into the floor of the sail, her long, red hair tied back in a ponytail.

She inhaled a deep lungful of fresh sea air, then looked up to scan the partly cloudy sky.

“It’s agorgeous morning for a cruise, gentlemen,” she gratefully observed.

A moderate-sized swell struck them abeam, and as the Bokken rocked from side to side, the toxicologist was forced to hurriedly reach for the bulkhead to steady herself.

“That it is. Doc,” replied Bill Brown, whose own balance did not falter.

“Have you got your sea legs yet?”

Kromer shook her head that she hadn’t.

“I took some Dramamine earlier just to be on the safe side.

And now I’m glad I did. For such a calm-looking sea, it sure feels rough.”

“Don’t forget that you’re sailing on a vessel without a stabilizing keel,” explained Bill Brown.

“The ride should smooth out once we submerge.”

Once again Kromer was forced to steady herself when a swell rocked the Bokken and she was amazed to find her three associates totally unaffected by this unsteady motion.

“And when will that be?” she impatiently questioned.

Chris Slaughter seemed to ignore this query ashe spoke into the intercom.

“Conn, this is bridge.

What’s the sounding?”

“We’re just approaching the fifty-fathom curve, Captain,” replied an amplified voice.

Again Slaughter addressed his remarks into the intercom.

“Conn, increase speed to two-thirds. Come right ten degrees, to course zero-two-five.”

“Zero-two-five it is at two-third speed. Captain,” repeated the Conn.

With a minimum of fanfare, Slaughter backed away from the intercom speaker and almost casually remarked, “Doc, Bill, you’d better get below.”

“Then we’ll be submerging now?” asked Kromer.

“That’s affirmative. Doc,” said Slaughter with a bit more emotion.

“It’s showtime!”

The toxicologist took a last fond look at the morning sky before meeting the kind gaze of Bill Brown.

“Now’s when it gets interesting,” said Brown with a wink.

Kromer tried hard to relax, yet her heart was pumping wildly as she began climbing back down into the access trunk. The familiar confines of the control room soon surrounded her. And just as Bill Brown completed his own descent, the compartment filled with the forceful, amplified voice of Chris Slaughter.

“Clear the bridge! Dive! Dive!”

This was followed by two raucous blasts of the diving alarm. Miriam Kromer was barely aware of

Bill Brown’s hand on her arm ashe guided her over to the diving console. Here the Hawkbill’s blondhaired XO had assumed the role of diving officer.

He stood alongside McKenzie, who, as chief of the watch, would activate the console’s buttons and toggle switches.

“Shut the induction, Mac,” instructed Benjamin Kram.

Mac flipped one of the switches and waited until it flashed red before reporting.

“Straight board, sir.”

“Inform Mr. Roth to shut down diesels and to close exhaust and air-intake valves,” ordered Kram.

This order was relayed to the engine room, and only afterword arrived that it had been successfully carried out did the XO add.

“Switch over to electric motors.”

“Hatch secured!” declared a voice from behind.

This prompted an immediate response from Benjamin Kram.

“Bleed air into the boat!”

The control room suddenly filled with aloud whistling roar, and Miriam Kromer’s hands shot up to her cars as an alien pressure began pressing on her eardrums. Quick to note both her concern and discomfort was Bill Brown.

“Don’t worry. Doc. That pressure you feel is being intentionally pumped into the sub to confirm that she’s watertight. This way we know if we have a hatch or air-induction valve stuck open before we go under.”

“Pressure’s holding!” reported one of the crew.

“Open vents!” ordered the XO.

As Chief McKenzie’s hands flew across a row of toggle switches that turned from red to green, the distant noise of rushing air could be heard. Chris Slaughter had worked his way over to the diving console by this time and calmly took over.

“I’ve got the dive, Ben. Three degrees down bubble, Mr. Foard. Put your stern planes on full dive.”

The big helmsman pushed his steering column all the way forward and held it there, and the deck began tilting down by the bow. In the background, the faraway hiss of rushing air continued to sound, along with the muted throb of the Bokken’s twin, batterypowered propellers.

Miriam Kromer had to hold onto the back of the diving officer’s stool to keep from falling forward.

There was a certain tension in the air and on the faces of the men who stood beside her.

“Make your depth sixty-five feet, Mr. Foard,” ordered Chris Slaughter.

“Sixty-five feet it is. Captain. I show eight knots, on course zero-two-five true.” returned the helmsman, whose eyes never left the instruments that were mounted on the bulkhead before him.

Ever so slowly, Foard began pulling back on his steering column, and in response, the Bokken began leveling out.

“The conn’s yours, Ben. Good job everyone,” said Slaughter in atone of almost casual indifference.

The captain’s coolness didn’t temper the brief flurry of excited chatter that filled the compartment as the rest of the men vented their anxieties.

The toxicologist appeared puzzled as she scanned the relieved faces of these celebrants, then turned to Bill Brown for an explanation.

“Is that it? Are we submerged?”

“That’s it. Doc,” answered the grinning veteran, who continued on with an almost dramatic flair.

“Be it known to all good sailors of the seven seas, that on this date, Dr. Miriam Kromer was totally submerged beneath the waters of the East China Sea. In consequence of such dunking and her initiation into the mysteries of the deep, she is hereby designated an honorary submariner. Be it therefore proclaimed that she is a true and loyal daughter of the wearers of the dolphins.”

Back in the Bokken’s engine room, there was no outburst of relieved voices as the sub plunged into the cold, dark depths. Instead, the machinists were anxiously gathered beside the compartment’s forward bulkhead, doing their best to stem the watery flow from a wildly spraying, ruptured ceiling valve.

“Shouldn’t we inform the captain of this break?”

questioned one of the younger sailors, who was totally soaked from head to soggy foot.

Heedless of his own soaking, Stanley Roth answered while doing his best to attack the valve with a wrench.

“You call this a break, son? Why, it’s only a small fracture. No need to bother the captain. We’ll handle it ourselves.”

Much to the veteran’s dismay, his grip on the valve unexpectedly slipped, and a virtual torrent of water knocked him to the slippery deck on his rear. Quick to replace him with their tools were Senior Machinist Bob Marchetto and Seaman Orlovick. Ignoring the spraying water, they efficiently cut off the overhead flow by turning off the valves located on each side of the break. As the leak slowed to a virtual drip, they collectively gazed down at their fallen coworker, expressions of pride and satisfaction painting their faces.

“What in the hell are you grease monkeys gawking at?” shouted Stanley.

“Find me a dry towel. And get some mops in here and cleanup this mess before one of you goofballs slips and breaks his goddamn neck!”

A scene of a much calmer nature was unfolding in the sub’s forward torpedo room. Not long after the diving alarm rang out and the Bokken’s bow angled down beneath the sea’s surface, Pete Frystak initiated a comprehensive inspection of the compartment’s six torpedo tubes. He did so with the assistance of Ensign Adie Avila, who currently had his head and upper torso tucked inside the tight confines of tube number six. Frystak waited close-by, and appeared genuinely concerned as his young assistant pulled himself out of the twenty-one-inch tube.

“How’s she look, Adie?” questioned the veteran.

Adie answered while switching off his flashlight.

“As far as I can tell, it’s bone dry in there, Pete.”

The veteran’s relief was most noticeable.

“That’s great news, son. We can give those yard workers back at Alpha Base an A plus for quality control.

Except for that small leak in the outer seal of number two, they’re as good as new.”

“I don’t suppose the captain is going to let us take a test shot,” remarked Adie.

Frystak looked the young sailor right in the eyes and answered him.

“That’s the way it appears, Adie.

Which means we’re going to have to do it right the first time or spend all of eternity trying to figure out where the hell we went wrong.”

“Do you think it will actually come to firing a torpedo?”

quizzed the neophyte torpedoman.

Pete Frystak replied ashe walked over to the nearby weapons pallet and carefully patted one of the shiny green, M-57 antiship torpedoes on its blunt nose.

“That’s what these fish are here for. And that’s why they took us along.”

The torpedo pallet filled the majority of the compartment’s interior space. It had mattresses spread out on its top, and was currently home for the members of Seal Team Three.

“Okay, ladies, get set for the sixty-second drill,” said Traveler, who was one of the four commandoes currently sprawled out there.

Pete Frystak and his assistant had to stand on the steel edge of the pallet’s lower frame in order to see what the SEALs were up to. Apparently they had just field-stripped their weapons, and as Traveler spotted the two onlookers, he casually addressed them.

“Greetings, gents. Ever see a sixty-second drill before?”

“I don’t believe we have,” replied Pete Frystak, who was amazed at the amount of hardware spread out on the mattress before him.

“That looks to be quite an arsenal,” he added.

“What are you outfitted with?”

Traveler was the first to answer.

“I’ve got one of the new improved, gas-operated M-16A2 assault rifles.

It’s got a thirty-round clip that spews out 5.56mm rounds to an effective range of about five hundred and fifty yards.”

“The parts spread out before me belong to a 5.56mm Colt Commando,” offered Warlock.

“This baby’s got a shorter barrel than the M-16, and because of the reduced muzzle velocity, is designed for use at closer ranges.”

“That’s certainly not the case with this honey,” said Cajun, ashe lovingly stroked the loose polygonbored black barrel of his weapon.

“This here’s a Heckler and Koch PSG1 sniper rifle. I’ve shot a lot of weapons in my time, but this one takes the cake.

Any target within eight hundred yards you can consider eliminated. She fires a 7.62mm cartridge, that’s carried in a twenty-round magazine, and is topped by a state-of-the-art Hensoldt six by forty-two scope with LED-enhanced manual reticle. Boy oh boy, could I have some fun with this little lady down in the swamps.”

“None of that fancy stuff for me,” observed Old Dog.

“I’ll stick with my good ole’ M-16A2, that’s got the added punch of a breech-loaded, pump action M203 40mm grenade launcher. She might not have the range of Cajun’s H&K, but she can sure kick ass with a variety of antipersonnel, armor-piercing, buckshot, and riot-control rounds.”

Pete Frystak couldn’t help but be impressed.

“I sure wouldn’t want to tangle with you guys in a dark alley. Now what’s this sixty-second drill all about?”

Traveler replied while handing the veteran a palmsized, digital stopwatch.

“At your discretion, just give us the word and hit the top button. We’ll take it from there.”

Frystak briefly looked over at Adie before returning his gaze to the SEALs.

“Go for it!” he shouted ashe activated the watch’s digital counter with a single push of his right index finger.

There was the immediate clash of metal upon metal as the SEALs began reassembling their weapons.

They did so with incredible swiftness, demonstrating an amazing degree of dexterity along the way. In a matter of seconds, the dozens of disjointed parts that had been spread out before them began to take on amore familiar shape, as the commandoes expertly snapped them together.

The first one to complete the assembly of his rifle was Warlock, who clipped in the last piece of his Colt Commando in an astonishing forty-three seconds. Traveler’s M-16A2 assault rifle was completed five seconds later, with Old Dog snapping on the grenade launcher of his fully assembled M-16 three seconds later. The uniquely shaped, long-barreled sniper rifle was proving to bethe greatest challenge.

Yet Cajun took it all in stride, and coolly nodded toward their timekeeper as the last piece snapped into place.

Pete Frystak hit the timer button and held up the digital stopwatch for all to see.

“Now I see why you call it the sixty-second drill,” observed the veteran, who shook his head in amazement at realizing that it had taken them exactly one minute to complete the exercise.

Ashe returned the watch to Traveler, the good-looking commando offhandedly remarked, “I’ve been on a lot of pigboats in my time, but this one is the strangest of all. Even the torpedoes look weird.”

“That’s because they were designed and produced by the Soviets,” replied Frystak.

“And you’re going to be able to shoot the suckers?”

countered Traveler.

“You’d better hope so, mister,” returned the veteran.

“Especially if we’ve got an unfriendly reception committee waiting for us in Takara Bay.”

“Hey, Pops, is the scuttlebutt really true about you old-timers snatchin’ one of these Romeos right out of Ivan’s hands back in the fifties?” asked Cajun.

Before answering this question, Frystak agilely lifted himself up onto the pallet. Here he directly faced the SEALs, sitting crosslegged on one of the mattresses.

“The incident you’re referring took place in nineteen-fifty-eight.

I was the weapons officer aboard the USS Cubera, a post-World War II GUPPY-2class diesel-electric attack sub that was the nuke of its day. Bill Brown was the skipper. Henry Walker our XO, and Stanley Roth was the senior machinist.”

Adie Avila remained perched on the pallet’s edge, and joined the SEALs as a rapt audience while the veteran continued.

“It was summer in the Arctic, and we were patrolling the Barents Sea, at the very edge of the pack ice, when we first spotted her. Assuming we’d caught Ivan napping, the skipper ordered us in to take a closer look. I was OOD at the time, and was on the periscope, just waiting for the Russians to pull the plug and dive. Yet as we continued to close in, I caught sight of a wisp of smoke rising from the bridge and knew they were in trouble. Yet never in my wildest dreams did I realize the extent of their difficulties. For a boarding party found evidence of an intense fire and the sub had been totally abandoned.

Needless to say, we didn’t waste anytime securing aline and towing her back to Norway.”

“Why didn’t the Reds scuttle her before they abandoned ship?” interrupted Warlock.

“We were asking ourselves the same question,” answered Frystak, “when the refit yard at Tromso provided the answer. In their haste to leave the burning sub, the Russians failed to fully engage the vessel’s scuttle cocks. As the crew drifted off in their life rafts, they apparently never knew of their shortcoming.

And as far as we know, the Soviet Navy still believes Romeo 201 to be on the icy bottom of the Barents Sea.”

At this point. Traveler broke in.

“It sure sounds like Ivan gave us a hell of a gift. What did we ever do with it?”

Frystak sat forward, and his eyes lit up with enthusiasm.

“From Norway, Romeo 201 was transferred to Holy Loch, Scotland. Here we oversaw a complete refit of the sub, a job that entailed even more work than we put into the Bokken. Once 201 was seaworthy again, we sailed her to New London, where the brass had afield day studying what was then considered to be an example of state-of-the-art Soviet undersea technology.”

“That’s quite asea tale. Pops,” observed Cajun.

“Thanks for sharin’ it with us.”

“Not at all, gentlemen,” returned Frystak. He intently scanned the faces of his audience ashe added, “Besides, if things work out on this mission, in thirty more years you’ll have an even more amazing story to tell.”

For Miriam Kromer the dive was almost anticlimactic.

She hadn’t anticipated it to go so quickly and smoothly. Except for the moderate tilt of the deck and the pressure on her cars during the initial descent, they could still be cruising on the surface for all she knew. This was especially so now that they had leveled out and reached snorkel depth.

She was extremely proud of the crew. They had done a wonderful job. There had been some concern that the Bokken’s unfamiliar equipment would be unmanageable, but Miriam certainly didn’t see any evidence of this during her time in the control room.

If anything, the men gathered there went about their work in an efficient, calm, and professional manner.

Of course, much of the credit went to the men who’d trained them. They were fortunate to have the services of the three veterans. Together with a select group of officers brought over from the Hawkbill, these men had carried out an intensive training program that had so far resulted in an almost faultless voyage. Miriam could only pray that this would remain the case during the rest of the cruise.

Soon after they had attained periscope depth, she excused herself from the control room and began to make her way aft. She suddenly felt exhausted, her fatigue no doubt brought on by the excitementpacked morning, and she just wanted to rest in her bunk for a few minutes. She had no trouble finding her quarters. Gratefully she removed her athletic shoes and lay down on the firm, single mattress.

Now that they had reached snorkel depth, the diesels could be switched back on, and she clearly heard the steady throbbing hum of the dual engines.

The air smelled of machine oil, ascent that had bothered her at first, though she was finally getting accustomed to it. When she’d mentioned her initial aversion to this scent to Bill Brown, the personable veteran had related a story concerning his wife. It seemed she couldn’t stand the smell of machine oil cither. Since it permeated his uniforms and skin, one of the first things she did whenever he returned from a cruise was to send him to the shower. Then she thoroughly washed his clothes in the strongest possible detergent.

One of the luxuries that Miriam really missed was agood hot soak in areal bathtub. Her last bath had been taken while she was staying at the US ambassador’s residence in Bangkok. This seemed like a lifetime ago, though in reality it was only a little over a week since she had spent the night in Thailand. So much had happened to her since then, that she had trouble keeping up with the flow of time. Not only did she have no idea of the correct date, in her current environment she didn’t even know if it was day or night.

Her week spent with the SEALs had gone by in a virtual flash. Each day, there had been another physical challenge to meet. And her nights had passed too quickly, tending to sore muscles and doing her best to catchup on sleep.

When Admiral Walker had called them in for their final briefing yesterday evening, she had hardly believed that the actual operation was about to begin.

Reality had sunk in only after the distinguished Director of Naval Intelligence had said his goodbyes and returned to the USS Enterprise just before the team boarded the Bokken.

Now that they were under way, Miriam was ready for whatever fate had in store for her. It was too late to back out, and besides, she was actually looking forward, in a perverse way, to experiencing the thrill of real combat.

As she lay back on her pillow, the distinctive sounds and scents of the submarine all around her, she closed her eyes and issued a silent prayer for protection.

Then she fell instantly into a deep, dreamless slumber.

She awoke ninety minutes later, aroused by the tempting aroma of freshly baked cookies. Her first impression was that this pleasing, familiar scent was but the byproduct of a dream. Yet when it persisted, she knew otherwise.

She arose from the cot and crossed over to her quarters’ fold-down sink. Much like a train’s pullman car, the toilet, or head as it is known on a submarine, was located beneath this small metal fixture.

These were the only private facilities on the entire vessel, and she was ever thankful that the captain had surrendered his quarters for her exclusive use.

She freshened up and, with a terry-cloth towel still draped around her neck, walked out into the passageway that led directly into the nearby wardroom.

Much as she’d expected, it was in this simulated wood-paneled compartment that she found the cookies whose scent had awakened her.

Seated at the elongated table, a pile of charts and a heaping platter of chocolate chip cookies before them, were Captain Chris Slaughter and his navigator, Lieutenant Rich Laycob. The boat’s portly chef looked disappointed ashe stood beside them, and with Miriam’s entrance his face lit up.

“Now I bet the Doc here will try one of my cookies,” said Howard Mallot, who picked up the platter and held it out toward her.

Miriam needed no more prompting. She was a true chocolate chip cookie connoisseur, and on a scale from one to ten, the still-warm sample she bit into rated right at the top. It was moist, not too sweet, and filled with chunks of rich dark chocolate and crispy chopped-up pecans.

“Chief Mallot, these are absolutely delicious!” raved the toxicologist.

“You must share the recipe.”

Mallot readily did so.

“The secret’s in using half white sugar and half brown. Then I mix some vanilla with the eggs and stir in pure oat bran flour, salt, and baking soda, along with plenty of chocolate chips and chopped nuts. The oven’s got to be precisely at three hundred and seventy-five degrees, and if you cook them a second over ten minutes, you’ll blow the whole thing. If you’d like, I’ll scratch down the complete recipe and leave it in your cabin.”

“Please do,” said Kromer, who took another cookie and sat down at the wardroom table.

While Mallot left to brew some fresh coffee, Chris Slaughter politely addressed the cookie-munching newcomer.

“I hope your quarters are sufficient. Doctor.”

“Actually, they’re quite comfortable,” she replied.

“It’s nice to get a moment’s privacy around here.

Thanks again for giving them up.”

“Not at all,” said Slaughter.

“With a mission of this short duration, I wouldn’t have used them much anyway.”

“How do you like working with the SEALs, Doc?” asked the navigator.

Kromer answered as honestly as possible.

“It was tough breaking the ice at first. But now that we’re getting to know each other, things are going just fine.”

“I guess working with a SEAL team wasn’t part of the job description when you signed on at Fort Detrick,” observed Slaughter.

Kromer carefully replied.

“My position as an intelligence specialist has required that I become involved with some pretty strange assignments, but nothing quite like this one.”

Slaughter rolled up the chart that had been spread out before him, then turned his full attention on the toxicologist.

“I never realized we had that much of a problem with the proliferation of biological weapons.”

“You’d be surprised. Captain,” countered Kromer.

“They don’t call them the poor man’s atomic bomb for nothing. Almost every country on this planet currently has some sort of BW program. Besides being relatively cheap to create and disperse, biological weapons have quite a successful track record.”

“I thought this was all hightech stuff,” offered Rich Laycob.

Kromer shook her head to the contrary.

“Think again. Lieutenant. Among the earliest users of biologicals were the ancient Greeks and Romans, who used to foul their enemy’s wells with diseased animal corpses. In thirteen-forty-six a.d.” the Tartars hurled their plague victims over the walls of the besieged Black Seaport city of Caffa. When the inhabitants subsequently fled, they helped spread the plague throughout Europe. BW even made it to the pristine shores of the New World, when the British handed out smallpox-tainted blankets to the American Indians, resulting in the deaths of untold thousands.”

“I recently read about an island off Scotland that’s still off limits because of a World War II biological weapons test,” remarked Slaughter.

“You’re referring to Gruinard Island,” responded the well-read toxicologist.

“Interestingly enough, that experiment involved anthrax, and proved that its spores can survive in the soil for over fifty years.”

Chris Slaughter appeared amazed by this revelation, and worriedly voiced himself.

“It sounds like we’d have all hell to pay if such a toxin was released on the Japanese or US mainlands.”

Kromer nodded in agreement.

“Just look at the death toll we’ve already encountered on Okinawa, then multiply it by tens of thousands, and you can start to get an idea of what would happen if a major population center was attacked in such a manner.”

It was at this point in the conversation that Bill Brown entered the wardroom. The white-haired veteran looked tired and pale. Even his voice lacked its usual vibrance ashe addressed Chris Slaughter.

“I’ve just completed a walk-through of the boat and can report that all systems are fully operational.

Other than the usual handful of minor leaks, our watertight integrity shows no signs of compromise.”

“That’s good news. Bill,” returned Slaughter.

“How are the men holding up?”

“As far as I can tell, morale remains excellent,” answered Brown, somewhat lackadaisically.

Chris Slaughter sensed the old-timer’s weariness and directly confronted him with it.

“Bill, you look beat. Why don’t you hit the rack for a couple of hours?”

“I’ll be allright, Chris,” countered the veteran.

“It’s nothing a strong mug of joe won’t cure.”

Slaughter remained unconvinced.

“No, Bill, I’m serious. You’ve done more than your fair share of work around here, and I’m going to need you fully rested once we reach Takara.”

Brown looked at the young officer in protest, yet found himself with little strength left to argue.

“I guess I have been pushing a bit.”

“You’re more than welcome to use my quarters,” offered Miriam.

“Thanks, Doc, but that won’t be necessary,” said Brown ashe stifled a yawn.

“I’m bunking with Lieutenant Commander Kram, and since he’s got his hands full in the control room, I’ve got my peace and quiet.”

He was all set to leave, when he turned to say one more thing, “Now don’t forget to awaken me if the least bit of difficulty arises.”

Slaughter couldn’t help but grin.

“That’s a promise.

Now get!”

Bill Brown showed every one of his sixty-seven years ashe nodded and slumped off to his stateroom.

“There goes one hell of a fine sailor,” observed Slaughter fondly.

“Now I know why Admiral Walker speaks so highly of him.”

“You should have seen him helping me chart our course,” added Rich Laycob.

“He worked with me for three hours straight, and the old guy seemed guilty just to take the time out to go to the head. At his age, I don’t know how he can do it.”

“At sixty-seven, he’s certainly not ready to be put out to pasture,” offered Miriam Kromer.

“He’s got plenty of productive years left in him. Commander Brown has just got to be reminded now and then that he’s not a spring chicken anymore. My own father’s no different. Though he’s officially retired, he still sees his fair share of patients. And every once in awhile he bites off more than he can chew; then he’s got to be coerced to case up.”

“I understand that the commander’s associate in our torpedo room is no different,” said Laycob.

“The guys say he never lets up.”

“They’re a special breed allright reflected Slaughter.

“And we can thank our lucky stars they were willing to accompany us. Because when the going gets tough, it sure will be nice to have the benefit of their years of experience.”

Slaughter looked at his watch and added, “Now, how about joining me forward and getting on with that navigational check, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir,” snapped Laycob ashe gathered his charts and stood.

Chris Slaughter also rose, but before leaving, he looked down at Miriam Kromer.

“Enjoy those cookies, Doc. At least you’ve got the SEALs to help you work them off your waistline.”

“I admire your willpower. Captain,” replied the toxicologist, who was reaching for another cookie ashe made this comment.

“You know, these things are addictive.”

Chris Slaughter patted his stomach and smiled.

“Tell me about it. Doc,” he added ashe turned to the forward hatchway.