Sea of Death

Seventeen

Chris Slaughter had always prided himself on being cool under fire. This was a trait he’d used to good advantage when he’d taken the mound in his baseball days. While others let the pressures of the moment distract their focus. Slaughter’s concentration rarely faltered, even in the most dire situations.

His coach at the Academy had always said he had ice water in his veins, and his teammates took this one step farther, giving him the nickname “Ice Man.”

It had been Slaughter’s father who’d helped develop the confidence and self-reliance that made such control possible. An Air Force Thud driver in Viet Nam, Slaughter’s dad had survived the war with a chestful of medals — and a lot of horror stories about pilots who broke under pressure. Chris was but a teenager when he’d come home from the war, and his father had made it his business to spend as much time as possible with his impressionable son. They’d played ball, fished, and taken many an overnight camping trip together. And it was because of this closeness that Chris’s father had been so instrumental in determining what type of man his only son would become.

Lately, Chris Slaughter had often found himself thinking of his father. This was especially the case now that his current command was about to go into harm’s way. Though his dad hadn’t lived to see him graduate from the Naval Academy or get his first commission, Chris constantly felt his presence.

Under times of great stress, when a single bad decision could cost aman life, he did his best to harken back to the advice his father had given him about the importance of making a choice and then sticking to it to the very end. It had been sound, for Slaughter had learned in Viet Nam that a commanding officer had to be unwavering to earn the confidence and loyalty of those who served beneath him. He must never appear hesitant in making a decision.

As Slaughter crossed the cramped control room of his present command, he made it a point to appear as calm and relaxed as possible. Yet in reality, this passive outward shell masked anxieties even more intense than those that had settled in the pit of his stomach on the eve of his pitching debut against the archrival Army. Coach had always said such anxiety was only natural — and sure enough, it had dissipated after his first pitch — and his father had admitted that before every combat mission he’d flown, he’d been a victim of this nervous tension that put doubts in the minds of lesser men.

So far, the cruise had gone remarkably well, and Chris couldn’t help but derive confidence from this fact. His men had displayed an amazing ability to master the alien operational systems of the Bokken. It was almost as if they’d been trained on this outdated equipment. Yet a nagging doubt persisted.

A baseball game or the seemingly endless exercises aboard the Hawkbill were vastly different from this mission. Lives and the honor of his country were at stake. Now was the time for him to summon the inner strength to lead his men.

“Bearing, mark!” broke the voice of Rich Laycob from the sub’s periscope well.

The white-haired Bill Brown could be seen standing beside him, assisting with this latest navigational fix. Slaughter quietly joined them.

The navigator took a moment to fine-tune the scope’s focus knob before backing away and noting the newcomer in their midst.

“Captain, I’ve got a solid fix on a beacon mounted on the tip of the inlet’s eastern perimeter,” he reported.

“There also appears to be some sort of inhabited concrete structure close by.”

Bill Brown took this opportunity to peer through the eyepiece himself, and offered his own thoughts.

“I see it. Maybe it’s the net keeper’s hut.”

Slaughter replaced the veteran at the scope and after completing a quick 360-degree scan, centered his line of sight on the promontory they would soon be passing. He spotted the flashing red navigational beacon and the adjoining hut. The lighting was poor, the sun having set over a half-hour ago, but Slaughter did his best to survey the fairly narrow channel of water that lay directly before them.

“I make the distance between us and the entrance to that inlet at about five thousand yards,” observed Slaughter.

“We should be well within the zone of their defensive sensors by now.”

“If you’ve got a favorite prayer, now’s the time to say it,” offered Bill Brown.

Chris Slaughter folded up the scope’s grips and sent it barreling back down into its storage well.

“Any sounds coming from that net, Jaffers?” he asked while turning in the direction of the sonar console.

The senior sonar technician had one of his headphones pressed tightly to his car. He hesitated a moment before answering.

“Negative, Captain. Do you want me to hit it again with active?”

“That won’t be necessary,” replied Slaughter.

“Just call out the second you pick up the first hint that it’s opening.”

Jaffers held up his free hand and flashed an okay sign, and Slaughter quietly voiced his concerns to Bill Brown.

“This is a hell of a welcome for a vessel whose mere signature is supposed to unlock the front door to this place. Maybethere’s some sort of recognition signal that we overlooked.”

“Give them a couple more minutes, Chris,” advised the veteran.

“Those hydrophones of theirs should pick up all the recognition signals they need to open that sub net and signal the CAPTORS that we’re a friendly.”

“That’s a big should. Bill,” reflected Slaughter.

“But I guess that’s what this game is all about.”

Brown nodded and calmly looked to his watch.

Slaughter was very aware that the veteran exuded the leadership qualities his father had tried so hard to instill in him.

“Do you miss all this, Bill?” he whispered.

Brown smiled.

“You’d better believe it, son. I haven’t felt this alive in years.”

“Did you ever have trouble coping with fear when you were about to become involved in a dangerous operation?” questioned Slaughter directly.

Brown looked the young officer straight in the eye and replied.

“To tell you the truth, Chris, I’m scared shitless right now. I guess the secret’s not showing it.”

“I hear you loud and clear, Commander,” concurred Slaughter.

“It seems that all my life I’ve been in positions where others look to me to bethe brave one, and sometimes it’s damn difficult to play the role.”

“I don’t trust aman who doesn’t show fear, Chris. He’s a fool, or he doesn’t value human life.

Command’s a delicate balance of bravado and vulnerability.

And from what I’ve seen, you’ve done a hell of a fine job mixing the two. There’s no doubt in my mind that you’ve earned the respect of your men, which proves that whatever you’re doing, you’re doing it right.”

“Coming from you. Bill, I take that as areal compliment,” Slaughter replied. He felt a strong, personal bond developing between the two of them.

Brown felt likewise and added, “Returning to your earlier question, I guess what I really miss about all this, in addition to the adrenaline rush you experience whenever you put your life on the line, is working with fine young men like yourself.

Old age and retirement can be awfully lonely, and I thank the good Lord for giving me this opportunity to serve alongside you and your brave crew.”

“I’m the one who should be thankful. Bill,” returned Chris Slaughter.

“Because I’ve got a gut feeling it’s going to be your presence here, and your two ex-shipmates’, that’s going to make the difference between this mission’s success or its failure.”

“Let’s just pray it’s the former,” replied the grinning veteran. He then followed Slaughter over to the chart table.

Yano Sumiko was Takara Bay’s net keeper. The Kyoto native had first come to the island in 1944 as a naval observer. Shortly thereafter, he’d been joined by a vibrant young ensign, Yukio Ishii, who had been sent to Takara on similar duties. Since Sumiko was several years older than Ishii, he took on the role of protective older brother, and watched as his new friend matured into full manhood.

With the war’s conclusion, they returned to the mainland to get on with their lives. Unlike Ishii, Sumiko found nothing of real substance waiting for him back home. His young wife and child had been killed by an American bomb in the closing days of the conflict, and the rest of his small family had met similar fates. With no schooling or ambition to speak of, Sumiko aimlessly wandered the war-ravaged streets of Kyoto trying to find some purpose to his life. When six months had passed, and he still found himself wearing the tattered uniform he had arrived in, he decided to return to Takara, the only place where he’d felt real security. He remained on the island ever since, not once returning to the mainland.

For the next three decades, he lived the simple life of a fisherman. He never married again, and was content to spend his days eking a meager subsistence from the sea. He supplemented his seafood diet with the vegetables he grew himself from seed, and as the years progressed, he became an accomplished farmer. This was fortunate, for working the sea was no way for an old man to earn his living, and as his legs and eyesight weakened, he gave away his small boat and became permanently landlocked.

Soon afterward, Yukio Ishii returned to the island.

Sumiko’s wartime friend had grown into a great man with a fine mind and a large fortune.

When he divulged his plans to make Takara his new base of operations, Sumiko was most pleased, and when Ishii offered him a permanent job, he accepted.

Sumiko was there the day Ishii broke ground for the base with a gilded shovel. He did his best to make himself helpful and earn his generous rice bowl, helping the many newcomers to Takara get settled. Thousands of construction workers were soon scrambling over the island, and Sumiko watched in amazement as an entire city emerged out of what was once nothing but volcanic rock.

Three years ago, he’d been assigned his current duties. As net keeper, Sumiko monitored the computerized console set up inside his cottage. At first, he’d feared he’d never be able to operate such a complex piece of machinery. But Ishii would not listen to his protests. He forced him to participate in a basic instructional course, and Sumiko soon found that the computer was not something to be feared. Within a month, he was operating the sensor console on his own.

The job entailed very few hours of actual labor.

Most of his efforts were of a supervisory nature, giving him plenty of time to work on his true love — his vegetable garden. Ishii graciously provided him free use of the cottage and the small patch of arable land that lay beside it.

Since it was early spring, Sumiko was working the soil to prepare it for planting. A mixture of sand, silt, and clay, in the past it had produced wonderful melons, cucumbers, and squash. And this year, Sumiko hoped to try some tomatoes.

Several hours ago, a truck belonging to the aqua-farm had dropped off a load of mulch that was derived from various sea plants. At once, Sumiko had gotten to work distributing this odoriferous substance throughout his plot. This job took longer than he had anticipated, and it looked as if he’d have to finish tomorrow. Regardless of this, he kept on working until the fading light made it impossible for him to see.

He was in the process of loading his tools into the wheelbarrow to return them to the storage shed when aloud, electronic alarm began buzzing in his hut. Since this alarm was directly tied in to the console he was assigned to monitor, Sumiko immediately returned to the cottage as quickly as his arthritic legs would carry him.

It was dark inside, so he turned on a lamp and then crossed over to the large table positioned by his futon bed. Without bothering to seat himself, he bent over and hit a single digit on the keyboard of the computer. Almost instantaneously, the monitor screen blinked alive.

This message prompted him to once again address the keyboard, this time utilizing his two index fingers.

The computer took several seconds to respond to this request.

Seeing this, Sumiko hesitated a moment. The Bokken wasn’t expected back until sometime tomorrow afternoon. He wondered why he hadn’t been informed of this schedule change. The submarine’s commanding officer. Captain Hiroaki Sato, was a native of Kyoto and agood friend.

Sato enjoyed farming almost as much as Sumiko did, and he had promised to help him with this year’s planting. If all went well, perhaps he would have the services of the submariner’s strong back in spreading the rest of the mulch.

Though operational protocol required him to inform Dr. Ishii’s office of any early arrivals, Sumiko doubted that it was necessary in this instance.

Most likely, Sato’s crack crew had completed their assignment with time to spare. This would not bethe first time they had done so, and that was a demonstration of his friend’s competency.

Hoping Sato would have a few days off before his next assignment, Sumiko once more addressed the keyboard.

Without a second’s hesitation, the computer responded.

The alarm quit ringing in the background, and Sumiko jotted down the exact time for his nightly report. This done, he went outside to retrieve his wheelbarrow, all the while visualizing the sleek undersea warship that would soon be passing beneath the narrow channel his small plot of land overlooked.

“I’ve got mechanical sounds dead ahead of us, Captain. Sounds like it’s a sub net opening!”

Chris Slaughter listened to this excited report from his senior sonar technician and instantly felt relieved. The two officers who stood beside him around the chart table appeared similarly affected.

Bill Brown had an almost boyish tone to his voice ashe joyously commented, “We’re in!”

The sub’s navigator appeared equally enthused.

“Nothing’s going to stop us now!”

Slaughter looked down to the chart that lay before them, then pointed toward the route that was drawn in red grease pencil. It extended from the mouth of the channel they were presently transmitting into the western portion of Takara Bay.

“We should be passing the first mine field shortly,” he soberly observed.

“The mere fact that they opened the net proves Henry Walker was right,” said Bill Brown.

“Those CAPTORS are going to offer us no threat whatsoever during this portion of our voyage.”

Slaughter met the veteran’s calm gaze.

“We’ll be at the dropoff point soon. Bill, would you mind heading forward and giving the SEALs my best?”

“Not at all, Chris,” Brown responded.

“For all practical purposes, it’s over up here, except for the waiting. I’ll be happy to pass on the ball.”

“I sure wouldn’t want to be in their shoes right now,” remarked Rich Laycob.

“God only knows what’s waiting for them on that island.”

“Don’t forget, we’re not going to behaving any cakewalk out here,” Bill Brown said ashe headed for the forward hatchway.

Just as Bill Brown was exiting the control room, Traveler was entering the forward torpedo room, with Miriam Kromer on his heels. The happy-golucky commando wasted no time spurring his teammates into action upon spotting them still sprawled out on top of the torpedo pallet.

“Okay, ladies, drop your cocks and grab your socks. We’ve got some war paint to put on, ‘cause it’s about time to rock ‘n’ roll!”

With a minimum of grumbling, the SEALs quickly dressed themselves, and soon all of them were attired in identical jungle-camouflaged fatigues.

The toxicologist was similarly dressed, and had her long red hair neatly gathered on top of her head in a tight knot.

“Hey, Doc, how are you on puttin’ on makeup?”

asked Cajun ashe tossed her two silver tubes of the sort oils used by artists were stored in.

Miriam removed the cap from one of these tubes, and indeed found it to be filled with a green, paint-like substance. It was Warlock who identified it for her.

“Don’t worry. Doc. It’s nothing but theatrical grease paint. The object’s to cover all of your exposed skin with the same colors and general design that’s printed on your fatigues. That way you’ll blend into the natural environment of the island and offer as little a target as possible.”

Warlock took the open tube from Miriam and squeezed out a large dab of black makeup, which he proceeded to smear beneath her eyes. With the assistance of a small mirror, Miriam painted her forehead green, and alternated this color with black until her whole face was covered in a swirling, reptilian pattern. By the time she’d completed coloring her hands and wrists, she had slipped into the Halloween spirit and watched with some amusement as Warlock helped Old Dog apply his makeup.

“You’re lookin’ good, Old Dog!” she said with a sarcastic wink.

“Just a little mascara around those eyes and you’ll be areal knockout.”

The big commando wasn’t at all amused by this comment and responded accordingly.

“Up yours, Doc!”

Miriam noticed that Cajun had done aparticularly good job with his camouflage effort. The Louisiana-bred seal’s face, neck, and hands were expertly covered in bands of green, brown, and black. He had an olive green bandana tied around His forehead, and only the whites of his eyes showed beneath this strange, snake-like mask.

In contrast, Traveler had painted his face almost completely green, while Warlock had picked black as his primary color. All in all, the makeup only served to make them appear more intimidating.

The SEALs were in the process of gathering their weapons when Bill Brown entered the compartment and joined them beside the torpedo pallet.

He looked each member of the team in the eye ashe addressed them.

“Captain Slaughter sent me up here to convey his wishes for a safe return. We’ll be in position shortly, and I want to see each one of you back here safe and sound once your mission on land is completed.”

Brown’s glance sought out the team’s only female member, and he added, “How are you doing, Dr. Kromer?”

“Incredibly well,” answered the lexicologist.

“Considering I’ve felt worse butterflies before exams.”

“Just wait till we hit the beach,” interrupted Cajun.

“That’s when the reality of it all sets in.”

“I wish I were physically able to go along with you,” said Brown.

“But these old bones made their last commando raid long ago. Good luck, kids.

And hit that bastard with a charge with my name on it!”

While Brown was in the midst of this spirited send-off, Chris Slaughter was intently draped over the Bokken’s extended periscope. The control room around him was lit totally in red, and with his night vision intact, he could just make out a strip of deserted beach, some four hundred yards distant.

A solid line of stately coconut palms veiled the surrounding jungle.

Slaughter forcefully voiced the orders.

“All stop!

Prepare to surface!”

As the submarine ceased its forward movement, he added without diverting his glance from the eyepiece.

“Quartermaster, inform the SEALs to prepare to deploy. Chief McKenzie, take us up to the surface, nice and easy. Then stand by to take us under the moment the team is clear.”

The roar of venting ballast rumbled in the distance, and the bow of the Bokken angled slightly upward. With his hands tightly grasping the scope’s twin grips. Slaughter initiated a quick 360-degree scan. Only after he was certain that the waters of the bay were clear of all surface traffic did he turn the lens back to the beach.

“Jaffers, any uninvited visitors in the vicinity?”

he questioned.

His senior sonar technician was quick to answer.

“Nothing but a bunch of shrimp, Captain. Sonar shows all clear.”

“We’ve surfaced, Captain!” interrupted the boat’s diving officer.

This revelation prompted an immediate response from Chris Slaughter.

“Quartermaster, inform the SEALs that they’re to deploy!”

With his line of sight still locked on the beach, Slaughter visualized the commando team as they hurriedly climbed out of the forward access trunk and assembled on the deck. Here they would open the deckmounted capsule in which their raft was stored, and after throwing this inflated rubber vessel overboard, they’d load it with their equipment and then themselves.

Slaughter knew very well that this was a most critical moment. Both the Bokken and the SEAL team were extremely vulnerable on the surface. The commandoes had to get on their way as quickly as possible.

There was an alien tightness in his gut ashe hastily initiated another 360-degree scan with the scope. Yet this time, when he turned his gaze back to the beach, the firm voice of the quartermaster called out behind him.

“The team is in the water. Captain.”

The Bokken’s diving officer was quick to add.

“Captain, the forward access trunk has been sealed. I show a green board.”

“Take us under, Chief!” ordered Slaughter, his pulse quickening as the sound of onrushing ballast signaled that the dive into the protective depths had begun.

The upper deck was soon awash, and as the sail began to be covered with water, Chris Slaughter continued to expectantly gaze out the eyepiece. He carefully readjusted the scope’s focus, and it was then that he sighted the team, vigorously paddling their raft toward the distant beach.