Sea of Death

Seven

The wardroom of the USS Hawkbill had a multitude of uses. It served the sub’s officers as both an eating and recreational space, and it provided a large table at which study and work could be undertaken. It was this latter activity that brought together Commander Chris Slaughter, Lieutenant Commander Benjamin Kram, and the sub’s senior sonar technician, James “Jaffers” Echoles. A tense, serious atmosphere prevailed as the trio sat around the wardroom table, intently listening to the muted, throbbing sounds being projected from the speakers of a portable cassette player.

“That’s the best I’ve got,” offered Jaffers, who reached forward to turn the tape machine’s volume knob to maximum amplification.

“We picked this up on the lateral array seconds before Hawkbill initiated its pursuit. The source has got to be batterypowered

Nothing else could be so quiet.”

“Impossible,” countered the XO.

“We chased them for agood quarter of an hour at flank speed. And when we were forced to break off because of our galley fire, the bogey still had a couple of knots on us. No diesel-electric boat afloat has that kind of speed.”

“Perhaps we’re dealing with some kind of newfangled, air-independent propulsion system,” offered laughter.

“They could be running a closed-cycle diesel, or maybe even a Stirling.”

“I think it’s fuel cells,” Jaffers declared.

“That would account not only for the bogey’s lack of signature but for its great speed and prolonged submerged endurance.”

The sonar technician rewound the tape. Ashe hit the play button once again, Benjamin Kram queried, “Do you think this is something new that Ivan’s trying out on us?”

“It could very well be,” replied Slaughter.

“Even with the socalled end of the Cold War, the Soviets are still putting out more new classes of submarines than we are.”

Jaffers was quick to interject.

“Unless Ivan has figured out some radical new way to muffle a nuclear reactor, I still say it’s powered by fuel cells. And there’s only one country that’s advanced enough to put such technology to work. I’ll put my money on a modified Japanese Yuushio, specially configured to give it that extra get up and go.”

“If that’s the case, why hasn’t the Japanese Maritime SelfDefense Force shared knowledge of such a unique vessel with us? Aren’t we supposed to be allies?” asked Kram.

The captain shook his head.

“Not when it comes to new technologies with potential commercial applications, Ben. If Jaffers is correct, the first we’ll officially see of it is, along with everyone else, on the open market.”

A moment of thoughtful silence followed as the distant, alien, pulsating noise of the escaping underwater bogey continued to play from the tape machine. With its conclusion, Jaffers hit the stop button and voiced his opinion.

“It sure would be a feather in Hawkbill’s cap if we could bethe first to expose such a novel submarine for the whole world to see.”

“If they dare cross our path again, we’ll grab that feather, Jaffers,” said Slaughter.

“Because this time we’ll be ready for them.”

The senior sonar operator was in the process of rewinding the tape, when Chief Mallot entered the wardroom.

Ever since the fire, the portly chefs perpetual smile was noticeably absent. Still blaming himself for the entire incident, Mallot was all business ashe handed Chris Slaughter a folded message.

“Captain, I was in the radio room delivering some hot joe, when this arrived for you.”

Slaughter carefully read the dispatch, and then handed it to his XO.

“What’s for chow, Chief?” asked Jaffers ashe pocketed the cassette tape.

“I’m starved.”

“We’re serving ham steak, baked beans, cranberries, and corn,” Mallot answered.

Surprisingly enough, it proved to bethe captain who responded to this.

“Sounds good, Mr. Mallot. But you’d better set a few extra places at the table. Because as it looks now, Hawkbill’s going to be welcoming some unscheduled guests aboard shortly.”

The cabin of an airborne MC-13 °Combat Talon transport was a cold, noisy, inhospitable place. With a bare minimum of creature comforts, this aircraft was used for a variety of deep-penetration special operations missions. Its advanced avionics and onboard radar allowed its crew to locate extremely small drop zones and to drop the payload over unfamiliar territory with a great degree of accuracy.

Nighttime parachute drops over water were particularly challenging. In such instances, any number of complex factors could come into play, many of them capable of causing disastrous results.

The four members of SEAL Team Three had learned long ago to put fear out of their minds. Besides, on this particular evening, they had more important things to ponder, such as the long-cherished leave that they had just been forced to cut short. Less than seven hours ago, they’d gotten this new call to duty as they were beginning a tour of the exotic fleshpots that lay outside the main gate of the Subic Bay naval station. Much to their disbelief, they’d found themselves herded into a van by a group of burly Marines, and then whisked off to nearby dark Air Base. It was there that the MC-130 had been waiting for them.

It was rapidly approaching seven p.m., and the tasteless MREs (Meals Ready to Eat) that they had been served for dinner hadn’t lightened their moods any.

They had been in the air now for over five and a half hours. Because their course had been almost due north, this put them somewhere over the East China Sea.

As usual, the team’s orders were sketchy at best. They had been merely instructed to initiate a prearranged parachute drop into the black sea below. Further orders would await them. With the hope that this mission was only another readiness exercise dreamed up by some idiot in the Pentagon, and that they’d be able to get back to their leave as soon as it was completed, the members of SEAL Team Three did their best to make themselves comfortable.

The cabin was illuminated by a dim red light, to protect their night vision. With nothing better to do than try to get some shuteye before their jump, the SEALs were stretched out on a hard bench that extended the length of the cabin.

During their gruelling fifteen-week indoctrination program in Coronado, California, each man had received a nickname that had stuck with them ever since.

Cajun was the team’s point man. Born and raised in the swamp country outside of Lake Charles, Louisiana, Cajun was a crack shot and an expert tracker. Lean and mean, he was a former linebacker at Tulane, where he’d gained notoriety after smashing an opposing quarterback’s spine during a sack. He’d joined the Navy soon afterward, and the way he saw it, now he was breaking necks for the government and getting paid for it.

Old Dog was from neighboring Hereford, Texas, where he’d grown up on a cattle ranch. It was always said that if Bigfoot had a human equivalent, Old Dog would be it. Though a little lacking in the brains department, this six-foot, five-inch, muscular hunk of a Texan thrived on pain, and liked to inflict it too.

Warlock came from the other end of the spectrum.

Seemingly frail and mild-mannered, he hailed from Nashua, New Hampshire. By the time he was twenty, he’d already graduated MIT with honors. Yet instead of immediately going on for his doctorate, he decided to take a couple of years off and see what the “real” world was all about. He had always liked boats and electronics, so he joined the Navy. It was at the Navy’s amphibious base on Coronado Island, California, that he blossomed into full manhood as a SEAL, learning fifty ways to kill aman, and that was just with his bare hands.

Traveler was the stud of the group. This smooth-talking lady’s man from the Show-Me state sported wavy blond hair and clear blue eyes that drew women like honey did flies. A born mimic and a natural comedian, Traveler had a deadly serious side to his personality.

And when the chips were down, he was the guy that the team turned to.

Watching the slumbering SEALs from the console located beside the rear hatchway to the MC-130, was the airplane’s jumpmaster. She was just noting that she could actually hear the snores of the commando known as Old Dog over the roaring whine of the four Allison turboprops when word arrived from the cockpit that they were nearing the jump site. She immediately awakened Traveler, and looked on as the strikingly handsome SEAL passed on the word to his teammates.

There was a bare minimum of conversation as the members of SEAL Team Three groggily returned to full consciousness and prepared their equipment. In addition to parachute and black wet suit, each man was decked out in full combat gear. This included a Model 22 Type 0.9mm silenced pistol, especially developed for the SEALs by Smith and Wesson. Constructed completely of steel to prevent rust in the salt-water environment, this pistol had its own nickname — Hush Puppy, in reference to its role as a guard-dog killer.

A bright yellow light, positioned above the rear hatch began blinking, and the jumpmaster pointed toward it and spoke out as loudly as she could.

“You’ll be jumping in two more minutes. Please line up beside the hatch in order of deployment.”

Cajun was the first in line, along with the heavy pack containing their deflated rubber raft. Old Dog and Warlock followed, with Traveler bringing up the rear.

“Are you sure you don’t want to change your mind and come along with us, honey?” Traveler asked the jumpmaster.

“There’s plenty of room for five in our raft.”

The jumpmaster shook her head and grinned.

“No thanks, sailor. I get seasick, even in the bathtub!”

The yellow light was replaced by a blinking green one, and the jumpmaster spoke to the rest of the team while addressing the instruments on her console.

“We’ve got ago for deployment at eighteen thousand feet. Please hold onto the static line while the hatch opens.”

As instructed, the SEALs reached up and grabbed the sturdy, woven steel cable that extended the length of the cabin. Because of their present altitude, which was the highest one at which a jump could be made without oxygen, they planned a two-minute free fall before opening their square, ram-air inflated chutes manually.

The whine of the Combat Talon’s turboprops increased to an almost deafening intensity as the hatch slowly opened. A gust of chilling night wind swept inside, while outside a curtain of pitch blackness hauntingly beckoned.

“We’re just about there,” advised the jumpmaster, who had to practically scream out to be heard.

“Have a safe jump, and I hope to see all of you again real soon.”

The light turned a solid green, and she forcefully added.

“Go for it!”

Cajun kicked out the life raft, whose chute would be triggered automatically by barometric pressure, and then leaped out of the hatch himself. Old Dog and Warlock followed close behind, with Traveler taking a second to flash the jumpmaster a teasing wink before joining his associates.

The first thing Traveler was aware of ashe attained astable spread position with a strong back arch was the sudden silence. Because of the pitch-black night sky, he had little sense of acceleration except for the force of the strong wind blowing up from below.

It took him ten seconds to attain his terminal velocity of approximately 120 miles per hour. Balanced precariously now on a huge ball of air that allowed him to escape the conscious pull of gravity. Traveler did his best to relax and pull his hands and feet in closer to his body.

Though he could easily go into a spin, backloop, or barrel roll at this point, he kept himself as level as possible to prevent an unnecessary collision with one of his blackness-veiled teammates.

Quick glances at his chest-mounted altimeter and stop watch showed that he still had over a minute of free fall to go. This was fine with Traveler, who enjoyed sky diving whether it took place during the day or night.

Free fall was especially thrilling. The mere thought of plummeting through the air at 174 feet per second cleared his mind and gave him a high more powerful than drugs or alcohol, one almost as intense as sex.

He had made his first jump back in Missouri, at the age of sixteen. His instructor was a former Army Ranger, who’d made him complete a dozen static line jumps before allowing him his first short free fall. Less than a month later. Traveler had progressed to a thirty-second delay, and could even do a variety of midair hand, foot, leg, and body turns.

Parachuting was one of the primary reasons he’d joined the Navy and volunteered for the SEAL program.

The SEALs equipment was the best made, and he especially enjoyed jumping with one of the square, ram-air inflated canopies that allowed for pinpoint accuracy and an incredibly gentle landing.

Aloud pulsating tone began emanating from the audible altimeter he wore strapped to his chest. This was all the warning he needed to check his stopwatch and then count off ten seconds before pulling the rip cord.

Traveler looked up expectantly when his chute finally deployed. The darkness limited his vision, yet he instantly knew that something was not right. For some reason or other, his canopy had failed to properly inflate.

He vigorously shook the risers, and when the chute still didn’t clear, he had no choice but to cut away the main chute and open the reserve.

It took him eleven more long seconds to activate the calipers and cut away the twisted main canopy. By this time, the audible altimeter was emitting a nerve-racking constant tone, which indicated that he was well under 2,500 feet, and would all too soon run out of open sky.

Traveler never had the time to panic. Instead he focused his concentration on yanking free the reserve chute and making absolutely certain that it deployed properly.

The opening shock of the inflating canopy bounced him upward like a puppet on a string. He looked up, and the blossoming chute greeted him like along-lost lover.

Only then did he check his altimeter and note that all of this had taken place a mere 1,200 feet above sea level., While Traveler began carefully freeing himself from his harness to prepare for splashdown, his three teammates were already swimming for the flashing white strobe that indicated the position of their raft. Cajun was the first to reach it. Ashe began the time-consuming task of cutting free the raft’s parachute harness, Warlock arrived and triggered the vessel’s compressed air-inflation device. Both SEALs were in the process of climbing into the now-inflated raft when Old Dog made his presence known with aloud splash and a fit of steady coughing.

“Hey, Old Dog, quit swallowin’ up all the ocean and leave some water for the fish!” Cajun suggested ashe positioned himself in the raft’s bow.

As Warlock climbed aboard, Old Dog made his appearance beside the raft in a frothing white wake of agitated seawater.

“Shut up and give me a hand!” he managed to get out between gasps of air.

It took the combined efforts of both Cajun and Warlock to get their hefty associate out of the water.

“Where the hell is Traveler?” Cajun asked ashe returned to the bow.

“I hope he didn’t stop to make a play for that Jump jumpmaster,” remarked Warlock.

“If he was only a few seconds late leaving that plane, he could be miles from here.”

“I’m just prayin’ he’s not shark meat,” said Old Dog, who was propped up against the side of the raft amidships.

“That blue-eyed bastard still owes me fifty bucks.”

Several tense minutes followed as they vainly scanned the surrounding waters for any sign of their teammate.

The sea itself was calm, with only an occasional gentle swell slapping up against the side of the raft. The air temperature was in the midseventies, while a myriad of stars shone forth from the crystal clear heavens.

From his position in the stern beside the flashing strobe. Warlock did his best to stand so he could increase his line of sight.

“Cajun, would you check the pack and see if there’s a whistle in there?” the MIT grad asked.

“Sound will travel a hell of a lot farther than this light will.”

“Will do. Warlock,” replied Cajun ashe bent over to rummage through the supply pack. Seconds later, he pulled out what appeared to be a large revolver.

“It’s no whistle, but will a flare gun do?”

“Hold it, you guys,” interrupted Old Dog.

“I think I hear something’.”

A barely audible splashing sound emanated from the distance, and Warlock spoke out firmly.

“Pop out a flare, Cajun!”

Cajun pointed the revolver overhead, pulled the trigger, and a blindingly bright orange ball shot up into the heavens.

“Hey, Traveler, over here!” shouted Old Dog, in a booming, deep voice that could have waked the dead.

But it was Cajun who spotted the lone figure swimming toward them with a smooth Australian crawl.

“Hey Traveler, where ya’ been?” shouted Old Dog.

Traveler reached the raft and calmly lifted himself onto the gunwales saying, “Thanks, ladies, for not starting the party without me.”

Old Dog lifted him the rest of the way out of the water as though he were merely a wet rag. Meanwhile, after replacing the flare gun, Cajun pulled along coil of rubber-coated wire out of the supply pack. He curiously examined asealed, fist-sized plastic box that was attached to one end of it.

“What do you make of this gizmo. Warlock?” he asked.

Warlock seemed genuinely interested in the device and reached over to take it out of Cajun’s hands.

“Well, I’ll be,” he muttered ashe studied it more closely.

He activated a switch on the side of the box, and it began transmitting a piercingly loud, high-pitched beeping sound. Without a second thought, he then tossed the box overboard, being extra careful to tie the loose end of the coil onto the side of the raft.

“What’s it for, Warlock?” quizzed Cajun.

“Maybe it’s to keep the sharks away,” offered Old Dog.

Traveler grinned.

“Knowing the Navy, it’s probably designed to draw the sharks right to us.”

“It’s not sharks it’s calling,” said Warlock, “but fish of a much more lethal nature. You see, this is the latest bait for catching submarines.”

A pained expression crossed Old Dog’s face ashe figured out the nature of their next mode of transportation.

“Shit, so that’s what this whole thing’s about. I should have known they weren’t going to drop us off in the middle of nowhere just for our health. Pigboats make me nervous. After all, us Texans like wide open spaces.”

“Well you certainly got plenty of that, partner,” shot back Traveler.

“Right up in that skull of yours.”

“Fuck you, Trav!” cursed Old Dog.

“I should have left you in the drink and let Jaws finish you.”

“But you didn’t, did you?” returned Traveler.

“That fifty I owe you is the greatest life-insurance policy a guy could ever have.”

“Hey, over there!” interrupted Cajun.

“I think we’ve got us a bite!”

The team followed the direction of Cajun’s finger and watched in amazement as a periscope broke the water’s surface, less than ten yards from their bow. Its appearance was accompanied by a frothing white swath of bubbling ballast as the USS Hawkbill rose up from the depths like a monstrous behemoth.

“Now don’t forget to mind your manners, ladies,” Traveler advised facetiously.

“We’re about to mix with the real US Navy!”