Code Name: Infamy (Aviator Book 4) (22 page)

07:48 Local, 19 August, 1945 (22:48 GMT, 18AUG)

Yokosuka Naval District, Tokyo Japan

Spike sprinted through the sub pen and up the steel lattice catwalk into the elevated operations office. Furious, he demanded the fuel chits for I-403. Bowing deeply, the man closest turned to a translator and listened. He methodically went over to a file cabinet and slowly pulled out a file. Spike snatched the file and slammed it down in front of the Japanese translator. Two Marines noticed the activity through the glass wall and entered the office. Sensing he was deliberately delaying, Spike drew his side arm in a fluid motion, chambered a round, and pressed it against the translator’s head. He pushed his head toward the document. “How many gallons?”

Instinctively, the Marines raised their rifles, ready for action. As the rest of the Japanese backed away, the translator spoke quietly. “Eight hundred thousand gallons.”

“In one fueling?” demanded Spike.

He nodded once in acknowledgment.

“Son of a bitch! Get me that damn head engineer! He’s been lying to us.”

A Marine sergeant half dragged the head engineer into the office. He spoke fluent English, having gone to the School of Engineering in Rolla, Missouri. Spike pointed to the fuel chit with his .45. The engineer looked at the number and then met Spike’s eyes. They were alive with fury, light dancing in them like flames. Spike decided to douse them. He emptied the pistol into the overhead above the engineer.

“Range?” There was no answer. Spike rammed home another magazine and chambered a round. Dust and asbestos drifted down like snow as he pressed the weapon to the engineer’s temple.

“Range?”

In a hushed and humiliated tone he spoke one word. “Unlimited.”

“Define.”

“The Sen Toku Class can sortie anywhere in the world and return un-refueled.”

Spike lowered the hammer on his pistol and lowered it to his side. He sat on the desk and shook his head, then walked out onto the catwalk in front of the glass wall. All eyes in the sub pen were on him. He pointed his .45 to Captain Nagoshi, head of the Sen Toku program.

“You, up here.”

Deliberately humiliating him, a Marine translator barked the order in Japanese. Hanging his head in shame, Nagoshi climbed the steps as Spike shouted orders. Get me my entire staff! And I need Atsugi’s personnel records in here ASAP.”

Spike could hardly stand still as he waited for Nagoshi to climb the steps. Adrenaline throbbed in his veins. The sub pen and everything in it—every noise, every color, every smell—took on a heightened aspect, as if reality had been dialed up a notch. Finally a marine pushed Nagoshi through the door.

“Tell him I know he lied. That he is without honor, and I will hang him in front of his crew if he lies again.”

Nagoshi listened calmly and intently to the translation and then burst into an explosion of movement. Grabbing Spike’s pistol, he cocked the hammer, buried it in his stomach and got off two shots before the Marines wrestled it from him. Slumping to the floor, he grinned up through crimson teeth and spoke.

“My honor is restored. Your dishonor is upon you as your country burns.” He waited for the translation and then lay back and died. A ringing phone broke the bizarre moment. Spike grabbed it in disgust.

“Shanower.”

“Spike? Irish. Hiroshi committed seppuku.”

Spike hung his head as Nagoshi had climbing the steps.

“Roger that. Get everyone over here. We’re running out of time.”

19:42 Local, 18 August, 1945 (00:42 GMT, 19AUG)

I-403, Victoria Strait, Northern Territories

Captain Tsukuba spread out the chart on the navigation table. He, Wolf, and Atsugi were the only ones in the room. He then pulled out a time line and engineering and weapons reports, and finally drew two range rings for the Seiran fighters, one around New York City, the other around Norfolk. Where they joined, he put an X and pointed.

“Here, 38 north latitude and 67 west longitude. These are the coordinates for a simultaneous launch. We must account for the ice and other hazards on the Northwest Passage. They will slow us, but we can still make it with one day to spare.” Both men studied the chart and glanced at the reports.

“When do we get underway?” Atsugi asked.

“Immediately. We hope to be through the Bellot Strait by 21:00. The further south we go the faster we will be able to run. But I must warn you, the sun hardly sets this time of year. Our damaged batteries are now only good for three hours of submerged running. To make our time, we must run at snorkel depth. Thus we will run at snorkel depth and full speed. We will save the batteries for emergency dives if necessary. That is also why I am readying the conventional weapons.”

“What about the narrow straits? We will be spotted.”

“As your report points out, Lieutenant Commander, Bellot Strait has a current of eight knots. Even with all our batteries, I-403 is capable of only six fully submerged. We have no option.”

09:58 Local, 19 August, 1945 (00:58 GMT, 19AUG)

Yokosuka Naval District, Tokyo Japan

In a few short hours, Spike had converted the sub pen operations center into his own. Charts of the world covered the walls and a master plot was laid out on a chart on a large table in the center of the room. In the corner a Top Secret level communication suite was being installed. Armed Marines were stationed on the catwalk and around the sub pen. He had fired all the Japanese nationals and was using the only two Marine translators he could find. Both were currently reading aloud from Atsugi’s records.

“No!’ Spike snapped. “I want anything unusual; I don’t care what schools he went to.”

“His family was killed in a B-29 raid. Yokohama.”

“Okay, we can use that. We now know it’s personal. Keep digging.”

Jeff pointed to two plots on the master chart. “Eliminating fuel stops, he can be approaching either the tip of South America or in a few days Africa. But the south Indian Ocean is the most desolate place on the planet. He can run on the surface twenty-four hours a day and that puts him damn near there.”

“Major?” One of the translators spoke up.

“Speak.”

“Something strange here, out of the ordinary.”

“Go on.”

“Atsugi commanded a whaler in 1937—”

“A whaler? That makes no sense! Give me the name, destinations, ports of call, everything. I want a full dossier by 11:00. This is priority one.”

“Here’s something else strange: it is home ported right here. A military base.”

“That’s a damn INTEL ship. Captain of the Guard, prepare a raiding party.”

“But sir, how do we even know it’s here?”

“Because there is no fuel. It’s here, now move.”

Rigid Japanese sailors stood aside as U.S. Marines rampaged through their ship. Spike was on the bridge going through the ship’s logs on the chart table. Jeff was plotting the cruise that had been made with Atsugi in command.

“Damn. Look at this. They were in the Aleutians and then the North Shore of Alaska.”

Spike stood back to watch the process and let his men work. After a few minutes he called out. “Stop!’ He grabbed three of the log books and stacked them together. “See a difference?”

His translators stayed silent. Jeff walked over to look.

“That middle one is newer, different shade.”

“Exactly.” Spike turned toward the yeoman who had brought them out. The man backed away until hitting a bulkhead. “Tell him he has one chance to answer.”

Not military and with the war over, the young sailor had no intention of committing seppuku. He didn’t need a translation and blurted out, “A lieutenant commander came and switched the books weeks ago.”

Spike turned and looked out the bridge windows. Something didn’t fit. Hell, none of it fit. They were missing something. Something big. Of that, he was sure. Spike pushed past the yeoman into the comm center behind the bridge.

“This is no whaler; that’s crypto gear. Tell him to open the safes. All of them.” Spike crushed out a cigarette on the steel deck and lit yet another. He watched as his translators went through message after message. The only thing he could do was smoke and look at his watch. Finally, thirty-eight minutes later, one the translators looked up.

“Bingo!”

“What do you have?” Spike said.

“A report from Atsugi to Imperial Naval HQ. It details contact with the crew of the Hudson Bay Company ship Aklavik.” He went back to reading. “Holy shit,” he said, looking up at Spike, eyes wide.

“Talk to me,” Spike urged, crushing the just lit cigarette onto the tabletop.

“Says here they found the Northwest Passage. Provides a detailed route, currents, tides, everything. Bastards … they grabbed the Aklavik’s helmsman and got the info. Then weighted him down and threw him overboard.”

“Oh, my God,” Jeff whispered.

Everyone stopped and looked at Spike. He was leaning his head back as if trying to stop a nose bleed. After a moment, he spoke, his voice quiet with determination.

“Jeff plot the northern route. I’m afraid we sent the entire Navy to the wrong side of the planet.”

Jeff went to work as Spike walked onto the fly bridge. The captain of the guard was on the main deck below. Spike called to him.

“Captain, secure this ship and arrest the crew. A war crime was committed on it.” He turned and walked back onto the main bridge where Jeff was working his MB-4A hand computer vigorously. Finally he set it down and looked up at Spike.

“How bad?”

“Major, they could be all the way to Bellot Straight. According to that report Atsugi sent, they can transit it this time of year. Once through the strait, it’s only two or three days to open sea then a week, ten days max, to a simultaneous launch point.”

TOP SECRET

FLASH MESSAGE/011119AUG

TO: POTUSCINCPACCINCLANT

SUBJ: NUCLEAR ATTACK ROUTE IS NOT, REPEAT NOT, SOUTH. 100% CERTAINTY. ROUTE IS THROUGH NORTHWEST PASSAGE. I-403 HAS RANGE UN-REFUELED. REQUIRE ALL AVAILABLE ASSETS NORTH.

SPIKE SENDS

FLASH MESSAGE

TOP SECRET

CHAPTER 27

13:08 Local, 19 August, 1945 (03:08 GMT, 19AUG)

Yokosuka Naval District

A B-29 Super Fortress lifted off the runway at Yokosuka field and turned north for the Aleutian Island of Adak, Alaska. Spike was in the cockpit when the aircraft commander reached up to retard the throttles of the finicky Wright R-3350-23 Duplex engines.

“Max speed all the way,” Spike said, stopping the captain.

“But, sir, these engines are kind of shaky.”

Spike stared at him. “Max speed until touch down. That’s an order. Any questions?”

The captain had none and let the engines wail. Spike moved aft and joined his team in the navigation station. He had two new members: a Navy lieutenant who was a specialist in antisubmarine warfare (ASW) and a chief sonarman.

“Okay, gents, what does CINCLANT have for us?”

“Not much. Hell, we flushed everything that could move south. Aviation assets are headed back north, but it will be days before they get in position.”

“Irish, don’t tell me what we don’t have, tell me what we do have.”

“We got squat. One submarine just out of rework, ten B-29s from the training command, and a squadron of Canadian Corvettes that were guarding the Hudson Bay!”

“There has to be something coming out of Europe. Check the movement messages from CINCLANT.”

Lieutenant Avery, the ASW officer, ruffled through the messages.

“Looks like a jeep carrier hauling tanks, the Suwannee, is in the area—”

“Turn it north and tell them to shove the tanks overboard and get their air wing on an alert status.”

“On whose authority?”

“POTUS.”

“President of the United States?”

Spike wheeled on the young man. “Send it now!”

00:38 Local, 19 August, 1945 (03:38 GMT, 19AUG)

USS Suwannee, North Atlantic

A portly chief huffed onto the Flag Bridge completely out of breath. He handed the admiral a flash message and between pants coughed out, “Admiral, you’d better read this!”

The admiral scanned the message and then turned to his staff. “Push the tanks overboard?”

“Sir? Authority of the president.”

Picking up the ship’s phone, the admiral called the captain. “Skipper, we need to go to GQ. Set course for the Labrador Sea at flank speed.”

General Quarters blared over the ship’s speakers before he hung up the phone. Below, sleepy sailors ran to their battle stations. Kid and the rest of the aviators mustered in their ready room. Aviation Boatswain-mates were unchaining the tanks as Tilley the crane cranked up her engine. Fifteen minutes later Stutz came through the hatch and walked to the front of the room.