Sea of Death

Eighteen

The waters of the bay were smooth and calm, and the team made excellent progress. Miriam Kromer did her best to contribute her share of muscle power. No stranger to the use of a paddle now, she met the SEALs blistering pace with a powerful, constant stroke. Just knowing their exposed position brought anew urgency to this effort, and she was oblivious to her aching back and arms.

Barely a word had been spoken since they’d left the submarine. This was fine with Miriam, who had her fair share of thoughts to keep her mind busy. Even though they were well into their mission now, the reality of it had yet to sink in. A commando raid of this type was something that belonged on a movie screen, or the pages of an adventure novel, not in an actual life. But here she was all the same, on a dangerous operation, with a group of men who did this kind of thing for a living.

Adding to the unreality of the moment was the mirrorlike stillness of the surrounding waters, the crystal-clearness of the star-filled heavens. The air was warm and humid, its scent tinged with the rich, salty smell of the sea. A gull cried out over head, providing the lone accompaniment for the constant, muted sounds of paddles slicing into water.

The shoreline was quickly approaching. From her vantage point, Miriam could see the line of tall palms that ringed the narrow beach. The surf was barely existent. It was evident that they could not rely upon it to propel them onto the sand, so they utilized their paddles until the very last moment, when Cajun and Old Dog jumped overboard and guided the raft up onto the beach.

Silence prevailed as the others jumped out and helped drag the inflated craft out of the water. It was Cajun who signaled them to kneel in the sand while he scouted out a safe route into the underbrush situated some twenty yards distant. He was back in a matter of a few minutes, and together they lifted up the raft and carried it farther inland.

They hid it beneath a pile of palm fronds. Then, as Cajun returned to the beach to wipe out their tracks, the rest of the team removed the weapons from the waterproof equipment bags. They were fully armed by the time Cajun rejoined them.

Again without a word spoken, their point man led the way deeper into the underbrush, with Old Dog, Traveler, Kromer, and Warlock following at five-yard intervals. The toxicologist was somewhat surprised to find herself in a thick, semitropical forest, complete with strangely crying birds and humming insects. The overhead cover all but blotted out the starlight, and she found it difficult to see the narrow footpath that led them away from the bay.

It was good to be back on solid land again, even if the sights, smells, and sounds weren’t all that familiar.

The tight confines of the submarine had been an alien world to her. Its pitching deck and sickening diesel fumes were aggravated by the sub’s cramped spaces and almost total lack of privacy.

The men who took such vessels to sea were certainly a breed apart, and Miriam couldn’t help but respect them.

It was as she was climbing over the rounded trunk of a fallen palm tree, that the loud, distinctive chirping of a cricket came from up ahead.

Since the SEALs used a hand-held device to mimic this sound whenever they wanted to warn of danger, she momentarily halted to determine its legitimacy.

Warlock soon caught up with her and, with his finger to his lips, cautiously led her farther down the path.

They met up with the rest of the group at a spot where the trail crossed a broad, sandy clearing. It was Cajun who used the tip of his knife to point out a barely visible, taut wire stretched out barely a half-inch from the ground and extending into the surrounding forest.

“It’s atrip-wire. Doc,” whispered Warlock.

“Watch your step, and by all means, don’t wander off the trail.”

This warning hit home, and Miriam’s pulse instinctively quickened. Finally, the first hint of fear was stirring deep inside of her. This was no mere exercise. The stakes were life or death.

She carefully stepped over the wire, and tried her best to put each foot down in the exact spot

Traveler had stepped in. It was a nerve-racking experience, knowing that the very next step could be a fatal one. During one of their training sessions, Warlock had demonstrated the techniques of mine warfare, and Miriam had seen her fill of deadly weapons that could easily blow off afoot or much worse.

She didn’t have to go far until the distinctive manmade cry of the cricket once more called the team together. They took refuge behind a massive mound of cut brush, the glow of a bright spotlight readily visible through the trees ahead.

“I’ll check it out,” said Cajun, who wasted no time in disappearing into the underbrush.

The rest of the team crouched down to wait for his return.

“How are you feeling now, Doc?” asked Traveler ashe handed her his canteen.

The lexicologist gratefully swallowed a mouthful of water before answering.

“Cajun was right. All of a sudden, I’m scared stiff.”

“Well, relax darling’,” advised Traveler ashe took back his canteen and downed a sip himself.

“Because as long as ole Trav is around, nobody’s going to be messin’ with you. And that. Doc, is a fact!”

Miriam had long ago made her peace with this well-meaning Lothario, and she found his words somewhat reassuring.

“God damn mosquitoes!” cursed Old Dog ashe slapped one of the persistent insects from his neck.

Miriam was suddenly aware of a tickling sensation on her earlobe, and she brushed off the insect responsible for it in midbite. The standing water they had passed earlier provided a perfect breeding ground for these bloodsucking pests, Miriam reflected, wondering whether they carried malaria or not, the dreaded disease caused by a parasite transmitted by the female anopheles mosquito. This parasite enters the red blood cells, where it grows and eventually bursts, causing extreme anemia, followed by intense attacks of chills, fever, sweats, and great weakness. Though malaria could be controlled by simply destroying the mosquitoes’ breeding places, the disease was still ranked as a major cause of death in the world’s tropical areas, with some two million people dying from it each and every year.

As she slapped yet another mosquito off her forehead, Cajun silently emerged from the underbrush.

Only the whites of his eyes showed ashe breathlessly joined them.

“It’s the western security perimeter, allright he reported between gasps of air.

“There’s areal pretty barbed-wire fence, with video cameras coverin’ all the angles. But I didn’t see a single guard or, more important, any sign that they’re usin’ watch dogs.”

“Can we cut our way through without being detected?”

asked Old Dog.

Cajun was quick with his answer.

“I don’t think we have to go to all that trouble, big guy. If you ladies don’t mind getting’ wet, there’s some sort of sewer tunnel that empties out into a creek over yonder. As far as I can tell, it leads straight inside.”

It was pitch black outside by the time Dr. Yukio Ishii and his two trusted senior naval officers climbed up the forward access trunk of the Katana and gathered on the sub’s top deck. None the worse for wear after imbibing his fair share of sake. Lieutenant Satoshi Tanaka was his usual convivial self ashe stretched his compact frame and looked up into the star-filled heavens.

“It’s a beautiful evening for a cruise, Satsugai,” he said to the Katana’s captain.

“Too bad you won’t be able to enjoy it from the surface.”

Satsugai Okura grunted.

“I’m quite happy to keep it that way, Satoshi. Besides, you were always the stargazer in our crowd.”

“It is indeed a magnificent night,” observed Ishii, who wondrously stared upward.

“This is but another excellent portent of things to come.”

A young sailor approached Okura and handed him a clipboard. Okura quickly read its contents before handing it back to the sailor and excusing him with a brusque salute.

“That was the final manifest,” he revealed to his two associates.

“As expected, the Katana will be ready to set sail with the tide change.”

Ishii appeared particularly relieved at this news, but he was instantly distracted by the arrival of a single motorcycle on the adjoining pier. The driver of this vehicle was dressed all in black leather; even the flat dispatch case hanging around his neck was of that color and material. With a quick fluid motion, the man leaped off the motorcycle and hurried up the Katana’s gangplank, not stopping until he reached Ishii’s side.

“Excuse me, sir,” the leather-clad messenger said, reaching into his case and pulling out an envelope.

“I was told by the assistant director to deliver this to you at once.”

Ishii quickly opened the sealed envelope and ashe read its contents, a puzzled expression crossed his wrinkled face.

“This certainly is strange,” he said thoughtfully.

“But an hour ago, our esteemed net keeper allowed a submarine into the bay. And get this, Sumiko swears that it was the Bokken!”

“If that’s the case. Captain Sato must have gotten lost somewhere between the bay’s entrance and this pier,” jested Okura.

“Surely the senile old veteran read his computer screen improperly.”

Satoshi Tanaka was quick to defend the net keeper’s honor.

“Yano Sumiko might belong in years, but he’s still sharp as a tack. There can be absolutely no doubting his ability to operate the sensor grid.”

“Then it’s a glitch in the detection equipment that’s responsible,” offered Okura.

The one-eyed mariner shook his head to the contrary.

“Highly unlikely, Satsugai. The entire system checked out perfectly during our recent inspection.

And besides, there’s been no hint of any operational difficulty.”

“Who knows, perhaps the Bokken has indeed returned early,” interrupted Ishii.

“Since Sato helped design our hydrophone security system, maybe he’s trying to test our alertness, and he’s merely hiding out there, waiting for us to detect him.”

Tanaka wasn’t about to buy this argument cither.

“That doesn’t sound like the Hiroaki Sato I know.

If the Bokken has returned early and is not tied up to this pier yet, then I fear she might have had an accident, that she might be stranded on the bottom of the bay.”

“That, too, is a possibility,” agreed Ishii, whose intense glance locked on the one-eyed veteran.

“Satoshi, can that new towed sonar array you’ve been bragging about all afternoon locate the Bokken if such a tragedy has befallen them?”

“Most definitely, sir,” snapped Tanaka.

“Then I want you to initiate a complete underwater scan of the bay at once,” Ishii ordered.

“And remember, haste is essential, for I dare not send the Katana to sea until this mystery is solved one way or the other.”

Jaffers was in the midst of a sweep of the Bokken’s forward, port hydrophones, when a deep, low-pitched rumbling streamed in through his headphones. He needed only a couple of seconds to get an exact directional fix on this racket, whose source was easily discernible.

“Surface contact. Captain!” he firmly declared.

“Bearing zero-two-five, maximum range. Sounds like a single-shaft patrol boat of some kind.”

Chris Slaughter and Bill Brown stopped sipping coffee at the nearby chart table and came over to the sonar console as Jaffers excitedly added, “It’s just gone active, sir!”

“There goes the easy way,” said Bill Brown ashe reached the senior sonar technician’s side.

“I’d say it’s time to creep off to deep water, gentlemen,” offered Chris Slaughter.

“Then we’ll put her on the bottom, and pray they lose interest before the SEAL team signals for a pick up.”

The team that Slaughter was concerned about had its own problems. For the past ten minutes, they had been crawling on hands and knees through a slimy, pitch-black sewer tunnel that was partially filled with runoff waste water. Not certain as to where this circuitous means of entry would deposit them, they pushed onward in the hope that this effort would not be for naught.

Miriam Kromer was particularly disgusted by this tunnel. It was barely wide enough to accommodate her shoulders, and she couldn’t imagine how a giant like Old Dog was able to get through it.

As a child, she’d avoided tight, dark spaces whenever possible, and she now remembered why.

When she was a seven-year-old, hiding under her bed, a box spring had collapsed on top of her, and the trauma produced by this horrifying event was ingrained in her to this very day.

Several times during the transit of the tunnel, Miriam feared that she wouldn’t be able to continue.

With her heart pounding wildly and her body thoroughly soaked in panic-induced sweat, she fought the urge to reverse her course. Most likely it was the SEAL who followed closely behind her that kept Miriam from doing so. Somehow she summoned the fortitude to persevere, and felt great relief when the dimmest of flickering lights invitingly beckoned from the blackness up ahead. A cool draft of fresh air accompanied this sighting, and Miriam knew that her exhausting, emotional trial would soon be over.

Cajun had to remove the wire grate over the end of the tunnel before they could crawl out into the open. This put them in afoul-smelling, partially filled drainage pit. The brightly lit exterior walls of the industrial complex, less than one-hundred yards distant, could be clearly seen, and it was Traveler who pointed out their next hiding place — a collection of loose pipe at the very edge of the pit.

With Warlock’s help, Miriam climbed up a small embankment and joined the team in hiding. Cautiously, she got her first good look at the collection of buildings they had been sent to penetrate.

The complex was larger than she had anticipated, and a well-lit asphalt roadway extended along its perimeter. As a jeep carrying three armed guards sped down this thoroughfare, Miriam sighed heavily upon realizing the true extent of this mission’s difficulty.

“There it is, ladies,” observed Cajun somberly.

“I’m officially open to suggestions.”

Warlock was the first to respond.

“I’d say the first thing we should do is find a shower and some dry clothes. Doc, do you have any idea what that slime we just crawled through was?”

“Around here, God only knows, Warlock,” she answered.

It was Traveler who pointed out that two slightly built sentries were slowly approaching them on foot, having come from one of the buildings directly in front of them.

“I don’t know about that shower,” he whispered, “but I think I just spotted two fresh uniforms.”

Miriam at first feared that their secrecy had been compromised, for the two sentries crossed the road and continued straight toward them. Yet the men’s true motive became evident when they sat down on a nearby section of pipe for a cigarette break.

The toxicologist watched as Traveler looked at Cajun and made a cutting motion across his throat. Cajun nodded and joined him, dropping his pack and proceeding to close in on the two unsuspecting smokers. Like snakes, the two SEALs slithered in and around the sections of loose pipe, finally coming to a halt directly behind their quarry. Then, in unison, they sprang upward, yanked the guards backward, and cleanly broke their necks with a quick snapping motion. Minutes later the SEALs returned, the two fresh corpses in tow.

As the bodies were unceremoniously dumped on the ground before the rest of the team. Warlock coolly sized them up.

“Old Dog, I’m afraid you’re out of contention. Doc, since we need to get you into that complex to eyeball the lab, you get one of the uniforms. Trav, you get the other because this was your idea.”

There was a lustful twinkle in Traveler’s gaze ashe eyed Kromer and began undressing.

“Come on. Doc,” he whispered, “Time’s a wastin’.”

Somewhat reluctantly, she began unbuttoning her fatigues, while Warlock, Cajun, and Old Dog stripped the corpses of their khaki-colored uniforms.

Miriam tried hard to forget about the unfortunate man whose clothing she was soon putting on. Just knowing that this was the attire he had died in made her extremely uncomfortable.

The trousers were a bit baggy, and the shirt and jacket could have used some alteration, but as a whole, they really didn’t fit that badly. As she hid her long red hair under the guard’s cap and pulled the brim low over her forehead. Warlock handed her a handkerchief.

“You’d better get rid of that war paint. Doc,” he suggested.

“Right now, you look like something that just crawled out of the Black Lagoon.”

Having completely forgotten about the camouflage makeup that covered her face, Miriam now did her best to remove it. Traveler did likewise, and after making some minor adjustments to the length of his new pants, he beckoned toward the nearby roadway.

“Are you ready. Doc?” he calmly asked.

Miriam found it hard to hide her anxiety as she nervously scanned the brightly lit industrial complex and then looked back to her teammates.

“I guess so,” she managed, her tone unnaturally tense.

“Chill out. Doc,” advised Warlock.

“Take a couple of deep breaths and just act natural. And don’t worry, you’re in good hands.”

“I’ll say,” added Traveler, who pulled down the brim of his cap and reached for Kromer’s arm.

Fear weighed her down, as she hesitantly followed Traveler toward the roadway, though her cocksure escort appeared the picture of confidence, not in the least bit fazed by their precarious circumstances.

They had just reached the pavement when a jeep pulled out of aside street and headed straight for them. Sweat poured off Miriam’s forehead, and she shuddered to think what would happen to them if they were captured. Traveler sensed her unease and did his best to calm her down.

“Jesus, Doc, relax. Right now you’re wound up as tight as a virgin on her wedding night.”

Only when the jeep passed them by without incident did she realize that their uniforms were an effective disguise, after all. She exhaled in relief, wiped her forehead dry with the back of her hand, and expressed herself.

“And to think I used to enjoy playing dress up!”

Traveler chuckled softly ashe led them up the narrow street from which the jeep had just emerged. They passed by a block of windowless, four-story concrete buildings, then turned onto a wider thoroughfare with a busy supply depot on one corner. Several paneled trucks and vans were parked here, and on the loading dock were men in white coveralls and hard hats.

It was pure chance that guided Traveler’s footsteps past a solidly built, two-story building with a conspicuous collection of ventilation pipes on its roof. One side of this structure had a massive, watter-cooled air conditioner unit built into it, and Kromer halted to study it more closely.

“Traveler, I think that we just hit paydirt,” she muttered as she studiously surveyed the familiar layout of the building’s ventilation system.

“This structure is almost an exact duplicate of the one housing our Biohazard Level Four laboratories back at Fort Detrick.”

The SEAL followed her line of sight, and somewhat skeptically replied.

“Let’s have a closer look before we go and blowup the canteen by mistake.”

An alleyway took them to the rear of the structure, where a small loading dock was situated. A number of sealed dumpsters were positioned here, and Traveler pushed Miriam behind one of these large bins when the dock’s corrugated-steel doorway suddenly began rolling open. The lexicologist’s fear was all but forgotten as she cautiously peeked around the bin and caught sight of a single figure dressed in ahead-to-toe biohazard containment suit standing on the elevated dock. This prompted an instant response from her.

“This is the place. Traveler. I’m certain!”

The SEAL viewed the individual in the protective suit, who looked like an astronaut, and his skepticism quickly dissipated.

“Darlin’,” he said.

“That’s all I wanted to hear.

Come on, let’s get back to the others.”

Miriam readily complied with this request, and they quickly returned to the main thoroughfare and turned in the direction of the supply depot. It was as they spotted this brightly illuminated structure in the distance, that a pair of white-smocked technicians passed by on foot and greeted them in rapid Japanese. Both Miriam and Traveler could only bow in response to this apparent greeting, then continue on without breaking stride. During this brief confrontation, Miriam felt completely at case and even remembered to keep the natural female sway of her hips to a minimum.

As they approached the supply depot, a white van could be seen parked at the curb, its engine running and no one inside. Such a convenient means of transportation could not be ignored, so Traveler carefully scouted the area for any signs of the vehicle’s driver.

“I always say, why walk when you can ride. Hop in. Doc. From here on in, SEAL Team Three goes in style!”

With the assistance of the van, they were able to return to the site where they’d left the others in less than two minutes. Without a word spoken, Traveler jumped from the driver’s seat and activated his hand-held recognition clicker. This was all the rest of the team had to hear to leave cover, hurriedly load their equipment into the van’s rear compartment, and then jump in themselves.

“I’m afraid to ask, but where in the hell did you find the wheels?” questioned Warlock, as Traveler jammed the van into gear and sped back into the complex.

“Somebody up there must be on our side,” Traveler answered, guiding the van down the side road that would take them to the main thoroughfare where the supply depot was located, “because it was just sitting at the curb waiting for us.”

“And the lab?” continued Warlock.

This time it was Miriam who answered.

“We found it. It’s situated in a building that’s almost an exact duplicate of a BW laboratory back at Fort Detrick.”

“Way to go, Doc!” shouted Old Dog triumphantly.

“I’m sure gonna be happy when those charges are set and we get outta this place,” said Cajun.

“All these bright lights and concrete give me the willies.”

“Well just hang in there a little longer, Cajun,” advised Traveler as the van sped past the storage depot.

“What are we up against, Trav?” asked Warlock, ever pragmatic.

Traveler downshifted and then replied.

“The building’s a two-story, concrete structure with a loading dock in the rear and a water-cooled air-conditioning unit built into its western wall. It’s got a shit-load of ventilation equipment on the roof, and it shouldn’t take much to bring the whole thing down.”

“Trav, you take Doc and set your charges inside that air conditioner,” instructed Warlock.

“I’ll take the roof. Old Dog and Cajun can plant their explosives at the rear of the building and alongside the eastern wall. Do your best to place them where they’ll do the most structural damage, and make certain to set those timers at maximum delay.”

As the SEALs readied their equipment, Miriam Kromer’s pulse quickened. Time seemed to have an almost dream-like quality to it as the van turned down the darkened alley that adjoined the suspected lab and Traveler turned off the ignition.

“Let’s do it, SEALs!” ordered Warlock. A coil of rope ending in a razor-sharp grappling hook was draped over his shoulder.

The van’s rear door was flung open and the commandoes sprang into action. Miriam only caught a brief glimpse of Warlock ashe heaved the grappling hook upward and its sharpened claws firmly gripped the rim of the wooden siding that encircled the structure’s flat roof. When he pulled the rope taut and began climbing up the side of the building, Miriam followed Traveler over to the massive air conditioner.

The SEALs were using plastic explosives. They looked much like white putty, had the same pliable, dough-like consistency. Miriam helped Traveler mold the explosives into long, sausage-shaped segments.

He then proceeded to carefully place the charges at the base of the building, paying particular attention to the spot where the air conditioner was attached to the wall itself. Next he connected each individual segment with a fuse, which he subsequently attached to a master detonator that had a wind-up alarm clock on its face. The entire process took less than five minutes, but Traveler scrupulously rechecked his work before setting the timer and flashing Miriam a thumbs-up.

“We’ve got an hour to go until this entire block is nothing but dust. You did good. Doc. Now let’s get you home safe and sound like the captain ordered.”

This sounded fine to Miriam, who readily followed the handsome commando back to the van.

Old Dog and Cajun were already waiting for them, and just as they all looked up to check on their missing teammate. Warlock came rapelling down the side of the wall. He landed hard, and after disconnecting his rope, headed straight for the van’s cargo door, the others close behind.

Not a word was uttered as they sped back to the security perimeter. Here they reluctantly abandoned the van, and took off on foot for the sewer pipe that would convey them back into the surrounding forest.

As they climbed down the embankment and crossed the drainage pit, Miriam gathered her nerve in preparation for the next part of their escape route. She mentally visualized the raft that would be waiting at the other end of the pipe, and managed to get the courage to crawl down into the dank, dark tunnel.

Just knowing this was the only way to safety prompted her to focus solely on moving as fast as possible. They had completed the most difficult portion of their mission with an amazing degree of case; surely she could survive this one last obstacle.

Nonetheless, it seemed to take an eternity to complete their transit, and it was a very relieved Miriam Kromer who eventually crawled out of the pipe.

Without stopping to celebrate, the team continued on into the dense thicket of palms. Soon they were back on the footpath they had previously followed up from the beach, and Miriam made certain not to wander off its narrow confines. Once again it was Cajun who pointed out the tripwire, and with his invaluable assistance, they were able to quickly locate the raft. This craft didn’t seem heavy at all as they picked it up and sprinted for the nearby water.

Miriam needed no coaxing to put her back into her strokes, and because of the gentle surf, they were able to travel seaward with a minimum of difficulty.

For once, the paddle felt good in her hand, and she reached forward and dug into the water without fear of straining her muscles.

They were agood four hundred yards from shore when Warlock deployed a miniature, batterypowered sonic emitter. This device was dipped overboard on a nylon rope, and its utilization prompted an immediate taunt from Traveler.

“Hey, Old Dog. Do subs still make you nervous?”

The big Texan answered without missing a single stroke of his paddle.

“Not the one that gizmo’s callin’. As far as I’m concerned, that pigboat’s home sweet home!”