Operation Arctic Sting, page 3
During the hours it took to get everything aboard Teuthis, Kate—wearing coveralls, steel-toed shoes, and an official ball cap someone had given her—remained below decks and out of the way. She spent most of the morning in Sonar with Chief Sonar Tech Royal Bennett, much to his delight. King, as we called him, explained to her how sonar worked and let her sit at a listening station with a headset connected to a tape recording of actual underway footage. Kate was fascinated, especially so when King informed her that I used to be a Sonar Tech before I got my commission.
After lunch in the Wardroom—pea soup with ham and swiss sandwiches, I took Kate down to Dive Control, where I delivered her into Ski’s care. Ski was short, stocky, and tough, with dark hair as long as regs allowed. He was still on light duty because of a knife wound to his right shoulder that a Soviet diver gave him on his last dive near the bottomed Alfa. My left arm was still in a sling from the Soviet dart I had taken at the same time, but I was ready to cast it off and return to full duty myself.
Ski, ever the lady’s man, took good care of Kate during the afternoon. He even pressurized the DDC so she could experience opening the bottom hatch and touching the water from inside the chamber. He regaled her with tales of derring-do and the part I played in them—probably exaggerating my role.
It was long since dark by the end of our workday. I assembled my guys and told them they could go ashore, but they had to return by 2200. I told Ham to take them to Breakers.
“No more than two drinks each, and stay alert,” I told him. I issued Ham a sidearm with a concealed shoulder holster just to be sure.
I called Jack, asking that he pick Kate and me up in a half-hour. He promised us a salmon dinner washed down with homegrown applejack.
I briefed the skipper on our status and my plans for the divers for the evening. I said that Kate and I would be at Jack’s and would return by 0730. I told him I had issued Ham a sidearm and was taking one myself. I finished with the traditional request, “Request permission to go ashore, Sir.”
“Granted,” the skipper said. “Take care of him, Kate!”
BREAKER’S BAR—KODIAK, ALASKA
On our first visit to Kodiak, my guys and I had met most of the local commercial fishermen at Breaker’s Bar. These locals, many of Russian extraction, were as tough as they came, but I softened that encounter when I bought the bar for the evening.
I met Captain Jack Petrikoff at Breaker’s Bar. He was the man whose rescue at sea had caused the death of Kate’s husband, Josh. Jack renamed his fishing boat to St. Kate immediately after that and assumed the role of Kate’s guardian protector—like an older brother or close uncle. He introduced me to Kate. My resolve to remain a bachelor crumbled the moment we met, something Jack recognized as it happened.
Kate had changed back into her skirt, sweater, and fur-lined topcoat for the evening—the only personal clothing she still possessed. I wore jeans and turtleneck, western boots, and a brown leather flight jacket worn by most sub officers. I carried the holstered .45 under my left arm, adjusting it to accommodate my still sore shoulder, although I had discarded the sling. Because the temperature was expected to hit forty below, I topped my outfit with a hooded, down parka.
Jack was waiting on the wharf in his pickup when we climbed out the forward hatch and crossed the brow. From inside, he pushed the passenger door open, and Kate and I squeezed inside, glad to be out of the frigid cold.
“We go to Breaker’s Bar for drink and say ‘Hello’ to guys before dinner,” Jack said gruffly. “All love Kate.” He turned and smiled at her. “Sad to see go.” He turned to me. “Sad see you go too,” he said. “You local hero!”
Kate dug me in the ribs with her elbow.
The three of us walked into Breaker’s Bar. The concrete floor, with its permanently attached tables, had not changed. At the back of the room, the concrete horseshoe-shaped bar was as uninviting as always. The place was filled with smoke and a half-dozen accents as tough local commercial fishermen, many with Russian heritage, filled the tables and crowded the bar.
Shouts of, “Yo, Jack! Yo, Kate! Yo, Diver Boy!” greeted us as we entered.
Unlike my first visit to Breaker’s Bar, my money was no good this time. Kate and I both sipped scotch-on-the-rocks as the tough fishermen crowded around.
“Yo, Diver Boy…you one tough sonofabitch!”
“Those motherfuckers need a teaching! We gonna teach!”
“We gonna miss you, Kate, girl. You the best thing what happened to Kodiak in long time.”
“You got friends here, Kate…always!”
“You too, Diver Boy!”
“What the fuck is your name, anyway?”
“Mac,” I said. “Mac McDowell.” I signaled Kate and rose to leave. “My guys’ll be here in a bit. Save some beer for ’em.”
“Yo, Kate! Yo, Diver Boy! Yo, Mac!” echoed in our ears as we exited through the double doors.
JACK PETRIKOFF’S PLACE—KODIAK, ALASKA
Jack Petrikoff was a successful commercial fisherman, but success had not gone to his head. His house was a well-maintained two-story Craftsman occupying, Jack told me, about a half-acre of lawn on the corner of Spruce Cape Road and Anderson Way. He pulled into the driveway. In the light from his headlights, all I could see was a foot or so of snow surrounding the house on all sides.
Pointing at a pickup parked at the curb, Jack said, “Ling, the Saint Kate’s cook. He fixin’ salmon.”
We exited the warm cab into the stinging cold and hurried to the front door. The porch was clear of snow, and a fancy light by the door welcomed us.
We stepped through the door onto a tiled foyer where Kate left her mukluks. Jack indicated to me to keep wearing my boots. We doffed our outer clothing, and Jack hung them on large hooks. When I removed my leather jacket, he saw my .45.
“You wanna keep wearing or leave here?” he asked, pointing to a cabinet top. “Makes me no difference.”
I grinned and removed the shoulder holster and .45. “Don’t think I’ll need it here,” I said.
“I show room. Then have drink and dinner,” Jack said, moving toward a staircase.
The room was large, with a big bed and its own bathroom that Kate promptly occupied. I flopped into an easy chair beside a rustic end table with a shaded lamp and leaned back, thinking about the last eighteen hours. It seemed like something out of a dream…or a deadly nightmare.
Kate came out of the bathroom, tripped over to my chair, and plunked herself into my lap. She kissed me solidly for about a minute, arms wrapped around my neck. When we came up for air, I said with a grin, “We gotta go down for drinks and dinner, you know.”
She grabbed my face between her hands and looked deep into my eyes. “I’m gonna say it, Diver Boy. I love you!”
I wasn’t shocked or surprised. I opened my mouth to respond and heard myself say, “I love you too, Kate, with everything I am!” as tears filled my eyes.
Dinner was a rousing success. Plank broiled salmon, accompanied by baker potatoes topped with butter and sour cream, washed down with applejack is a hard combination to beat. It was the best meal I had consumed in ages, and I had to restrain myself not to get outrageously drunk on the Jack. Kate ate less than I but obviously enjoyed it just as much.
When we were done, Jack said, “You guys need be alone, so hustle topside. I get you up and feed you breakfast plenty time for go to Teuthis by 0730.”
It was a night to be remembered, filled with passion, tears, sweet coupling, hard sex, even recriminations about my heading to the Arctic in the morning, but totally loving and goddammed fulfilling.
Ling awakened us with two steaming cups of black coffee, discreetly averting his eyes from Kate’s nakedness. My watch said 0530.
At 0600, we sat down at a breakfast table heaped with fried eggs, bacon, pancakes and maple syrup, more coffee, and what tasted like fresh orange juice.
“You eat like this all the time, Jack?” I asked.
He grinned. “Hell no! But this be special occasion. Kate like my own kid. I love her. She love you. You love her…”
I looked at him sharply.
“You can no hide fact!” he said with a chuckle. “I bring you together. Now, you stuck with each other!”
At that moment, a shot rang out, and a bullet pierced the double-glazed dining room window.
“Under table!” Jack ordered.
While Kate and Jack dove under the table, I sprinted to the foyer and grabbed my .45. A second shot rang out.
“You okay?” I yelled.
“Yeah…Kate too!”
As I drew my weapon and cleared the safety, the front door smashed inward, admitting a rush of frigid air. I whipped around in the bitter cold blast and snapped off two shots at a figure silhouetted against the porch light. As he crumpled, I dropped prone to the floor. A flash from the darkness beyond the porch, and a bullet whizzed past my right ear. I shifted position and squeezed off a round at the flash and heard a grunt followed by a thud. Another flash from farther left as I rolled to my right and got off two more rounds. I heard one bullet ricochet off the side of Jack’s pickup, but apparently, my second shot found its target. I heard a yell and a thud.
“You guys okay?” I hollered back into the house.
“We okay,” Jack said. “There were only three left…me think you got all.”
USS TEUTHIS—WOMAN’S BAY
Jack got us to the wharf a few minutes before 0730. Kate had been silent during the entire drive. As we sat on the wharf, engine running to maintain the cab warmth, Kate put her arms around me and buried her head on my chest.
“I love you, Mac,” she said quietly. “I haven’t forgotten Josh, but you are my knight in shining armor, my soulmate, my eternal love!”
Jack winked at me as I opened the passenger door of his pickup. “Kate, darlin’,” he said. “You be careful. Let Jack know you be well. I can no take care of you when you gone. Be sharp. Be smart. Call Jack time-to-time.”
Kate hugged him and kissed his cheeks, tears flowing down hers. Then she grabbed my hand, jumped out of the cab, and ran with me to the brow. As soon as we were below decks, we went to see Cmdr. Roken. I told him what had happened and that I believed I had shot the remaining three cell members. He took a couple of notes, made sure Kate was okay, and then left for Radio to brief the Coast Guard before Teuthis departed.
“Use my head to change,” he told Kate as he left.
___________
2 General Dynamics Electric Boat Division, Groton, Connecticut, where Teuthis was overhauled.
3 See Operation Ice Breaker, the second book in the Mac McDowell Mission Series.
4 Fleet Ballistic Missile Submarine.
5 See Operation Ivy Bells, the first book in the Mac McDowell Mission Series.
6 Submarine Development Group One in San Diego, California, the group originally organized to conduct Operation Ivy Bells; sometimes called the Dev Group.
7 See Operation Ivy Bells, the first book in the Mac McDowell Mission Series.
8 Deck Decompression Chamber.
USS Teuthis & Mystic underway from Woman’s Bay to a 1,000-foot-deep ledge on the Aleutian Trench wall.
CHAPTER THREE
Underway
USS TEUTHIS—UNDERWAY FROM WOMAN’S BAY
As I headed to the Bridge, I told the Chief-of-the-Watch to set the Maneuvering Watch.
“Station the Maneuvering Watch! Station the Maneuvering Watch!” the Chief-of-the-Watch announced over the 1MC. Throughout the submarine, sailors hurried to their designated slots. The COB and his topside deck crew raised the fore and after capstans, even though they probably would not be used. Master Pilot Sven Jakobsen crossed the brow and clambered up the sail to the Bridge.
“Commander McDowell,” he said with a ready smile, shaking my hand. We had met twice before, when we first arrived at Woman’s Bay and when we left. The skipper had arranged for him to spend two hours with us, participating in underwater operations. It probably was the highlight of his career.
Jakobsen was short, dressed in cold-weather gear, wearing a woolen watch cap. His weathered face made guessing his age difficult, but I made him for sixty-plus. His close-cropped full blond beard was peppered with grey, and his crinkled eyes showed permanent smile lines.
“Where’s Commander Roken?” he asked.
“On his way,” I answered as two men hauled in the brow and stowed it, and Coasties placed themselves at both bollards on the wharf, ready to handle lines from dockside.
“Captain’s on the Bridge,” one of the lookouts announced as the skipper poked his head through the hatch.
“Mr. Jakobsen,” the skipper said, shaking the pilot’s hand.
“Commander Roken,” the pilot said. Turning to me, he asked. “Is your draft still about twenty-seven feet?”
“Close enough,” I responded.
In the dim morning twilight, Jakobsen looked at his waterproof stainless chronometer. “High tide is at eight forty-three, Captain—seven feet.” He checked his watch again. “That’s in eleven minutes. We’ll want to ride it out through the channel.”
“Maneuvering Watch set,” the squawk box announced.
I looked at the skipper, and he nodded.
“Single up all lines,” I ordered.
The Coasties tossed off the extra turn of line around the bollards, and the deck crew hauled the slack line aboard.
“Lower the outboards,” I told the Chief-of-the-Watch.
“Cast off the bow line,” I signaled to the COB.
“Forward thruster, starboard full; after thruster starboard easy.”
“Cast off all lines,” I told the COB.
When Teuthis’ bow angled away from the dock, and the stern was about ten yards from the dock, I ordered, “Ahead slow, right full rudder. Stop and stow the thrusters.”
I kept an eye on the stern as Teuthis angled out into Woman’s Bay, pushing thin sheets of ice aside as she moved. When we were twenty yards from the dock, I turned to the pilot.
“You ready to take it, Mr. Jakobsen?”
“Aye that,” he answered.
“Master Pilot Jakobsen has the Conn,” I announced through the squawk box.
I glanced up at the two periscopes protruding from the top of the sail—rotating and stopping, rotating and stopping. The navigation team under Ship’s Navigator Lt. Cmdr. Barry Jacobs was taking bearings to prominent objects. The radar mast turned slowly while his team captured range and bearing to radar points as they traced our track out of Woman’s Bay and into the channel. As we turned left into the channel, Jakobsen said, “Let’s take her to ten knots.”
“Ahead two-thirds,” I ordered over the squawk box, and then called Maneuvering. “Make turns for ten knots.”
Our wake stood out against the thin ice cover, showing some phosphorescence in the still dim morning twilight. The wake was practically ice-free except for a few small ice-pads that floated back into the wake farther behind us. We were headed into the wind, so our extra speed dramatically lowered the chill factor on the Bridge. I called the lookouts from the fairwater planes into the bridge well and ordered hot coffee for everyone.
After fifteen minutes, we turned right at the end of the channel and threaded our way between a couple of islands toward the Pilot Buoy about three nautical miles out. The ocean was throwing ten-foot waves at our bow, mostly from the southeast out of the Alaska Gulf. Wave intensity began to lessen as we crossed the fifty-fathom curve. Ahead of us, the pilot boat was standing by at the Pilot Buoy, awaiting our arrival.
As we neared the Pilot Boat, to my total surprise, Jack Petrikoff stepped onto the bridge wing and waved to us. The skipper picked up the squawk box mike and announced over the 1MC, “Kate Perry to the Bridge! Kate Perry to the Bridge!”
About a minute later, Kate’s ball-cap-covered head poked through the Bridge hatch. She was wearing her fur-lined topcoat to protect her from the sub-zero cold. I reached down and took her hand, helping her up. As I did so, it seemed like electric shocks coursed through my body. My love for this girl nearly overwhelmed me. The skipper pretended not to notice and pointed to the Pilot Boat and Jack.
Kate squealed with delight, waving both arms. Jack cupped his mouth and shouted, “Bon Voyage! Stay safe, Kate, darlin’!”
Jakobsen held out his hand to the skipper. “It’s been a great pleasure, Captain.”
I announced to Control, “Commander McDowell has the deck and the conn.”
Two minutes later, the pilot was gone, and his boat had pulled away. Jack waved again as the Pilot Boat turned and headed back to the safety of Woman’s Bay.
“Bridge, Radar, contact bearing zero-eight-five, designate Romeo-one.”
I acknowledged. That was fifteen degrees off the port bow. The skipper, both lookouts, and I all lifted our binoculars and scanned in that direction.
“Bridge, Nav, I have the contact visually at zero-eight-five, range four nautical miles. Redesignate Mike-one. It’s a trawler, angle-on-the-bow starboard-eight-zero. He’s bristling with antennas. I think he’s a Soviet spy trawler. Mike-one is doing six knots on an intercept course.”
We were just beyond the territorial limit of three nautical miles. Soviet trawlers like this one frequently loitered just beyond the territorial limits of important ports, not only of the U.S. but also other nations, especially where there was military traffic. Since Kodiak rarely hosted military traffic, except for Coast Guard traffic, finding this trawler here was significant.
“It looks like they are keeping track of us,” the skipper said. “Take us to decks awash to give him a smaller profile, increase speed to ten knots, and set a course of one-zero-five. Dive as soon as you can.” He turned to Kate. “Come below with me, Kate. We’ll let Mac do his job. It will be more interesting in Control anyway.” He gestured toward the hatch.
