Sergeant Dooley and the Submarine Raiders, page 1
Chapter 1
As the setting sun disappeared behind the mountains of the Bataan Peninsula, American supervisors barked orders to Filipino workers transferring cargo from truck beds into nearby warehouses. At the same time, the rattle of four-cylinder Ford engines echoed off the centuries-old stone wharf and across Manila Bay.
“Mack says we’re ready,” voiced the young officer standing in the doorway of the ship’s bridge. “Any sign of our mystery guest, Skipper?”
“Thanks, Kermit, and not yet. He should be along anytime, though. Also, remind Mack about the Number Two Boiler.”
Kermit turned his head to look at the four exhaust stacks running the length of the superstructure aft of the bridge, noticing the exhaust from the second stack appeared oilier than the others. “Think the burners will last two months? Till August?”
“The shop supervisor of the Cavite Shipyard said they should, but a prayer never hurts.”
“Prayer logged, Skipper,” Kermit replied with a quick salute as he turned to join the two men inside the bridge. The greenish light from the compass behind them illuminated their relaxed forms. The skipper, like the men inside the bridge, lit up a Camel and watched the enlisted men smile as Kermit spoke to them. After taking a draw he returned his attention to the man standing next to him. “Looks like our mystery guest is running on island time just like us.”
“You ain’t kidding,” Chief Petty Officer Fowler said as he picked a piece of tobacco from his tongue. “I’m still trying to celebrate my thirty-ninth birthday.”
The captain of the torpedo boat destroyer, Lieutenant Rance Hillary, smiled as he exhaled. “Yet you still had no problem beating the hell out of three doughboys at Fort McKinley last weekend. What the hell were you doing at an army post anyhow? Chasing some gin-drunk woman while her man is on field maneuvers?”
Fowler answered wryly. “If the colonel is going to take his regiment out for mountain training, why shouldn’t I have a chance at a white woman? ’Sides, we’re supposed to be on our way to Shanghai. How was I to know we had to wait for a stiff-ass ring-knocker?”
Lieutenant Hillary shook his head. “Boatswain’s Mate Chief Petty Officer Ernst Fowler, I know you know that sleeping with an officer’s wife is a court-martial offense and warrants brig time if found guilty. I should know.”
“You said the magic words,” Fowler replied as he exhaled. “If found guilty.”
Lieutenant Hillary shook his head. “Anyway, the skipper before me said that you did nothing but pester him about some fantasy island, and since I took command, every time we head one foot north, you harass me about stopping at every island that fits the description some drunk Chinese fisherman told you about. You’ve done your twenty, plus, so put your papers in. Then, you can get your own boat and look for it yourself. And if you do find your Spanish treasure or pirate gold then you can pay me back that twenty you still owe me, and in gold. The last time you paid me back was in paper, and that turned out to be sour dough.”
Fowler smiled. “Skipper, if I were to retire now, what would you do without me? Anyway, you learned your lesson just like the gunnery officer did. By the way, how is Mister . . .?”
The chief petty officer stopped as something on the wharf distracted him. The ship’s captain followed his chief’s eyes. On the wharf, under the lamp posts, and among the unloading, stood a naval officer wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. The man wore a dress white uniform along with a khaki musette bag hanging from his shoulder. A Filipino stood behind him holding the handle of a steamer trunk with both hands. A sheathed officer’s sword was inserted under the brass-buckled leather straps on the side facing them. The uniformed man saw those on the ship looking down at him. He waved back.
“Told you; just another stiff-ass ring-knocker,” Fowler said. “And I’ll bet he’s only here for sea time, a free trip to Shanghai, and a chance to earn a medal. That chest looks a bit bare. You don’t get medals while on flag-ship junkets.”
Hillary waved back to the officer while looking at his own ring finger. “Not all Academy graduates are stiff-ass ring-knockers.”
“Well,” Fowler said as they watched the officer walk to the gangplank, “you only turned out this well because of me. I slipped you that sour dough on purpose.”
Hillary replied. “And I almost got my head stove in trying to use them.”
“See, wasn’t that a good lesson?” Fowler said with a nod, “Now, back to pirate gold.”
“Here we go again,” Hillary scoffed. “You’re about to tell me a tale some toothless waterfront rummy sold you, and you have it for sure this time: an island that looks like a crouching tiger or the breasts of a woman. There are a thousand islands between here and Shanghai.”
“Skipper,” Fowler replied. “I got square dope this time. I ran into a Chinese sailor who kept repeating an ancient proverb. Something about the sleeping wise ones. Intrigued by the coded message, I did research and found evidence of what I’ve been told. It matched his proverb, and the island exists on our charts, and it’s only two days out of our way. It’s called Isla de la Muerte. ’Sides, didn’t you study codes at Annapolis?”
“Some, and I also took academy summer cruises which included port visits to Colombia and Pensacola. Places that also have islands named Isla de la Muerte. Seems back in the olden days, seamen had a habit of getting dead bodies off their ships and under an island’s sand as quick as possible. My point is there will always be an Isla de la Muerte somewhere.”
“Good,” Fowler said, “and as captain, your job is to show the American flag, help stranded seamen, rescue typhoon victims, and look out for the welfare of American citizens and property. It’s your job to use your discretion.”
Hillary responded. “Chief, you’re ignoring my point. Anyway, I don’t know anything about Spanish treasure, but that rumor of a hijacked shipment of British gold sovereign coins hidden on a secret island has existed since HMS Rangoon disappeared in 1819. A hundred years ago to the year and month. Even if Ching Shih did seize that vessel, I’ll bet they spent those sovereigns faster than it took to capture the ship. The idea of buried pirate treasure exists only in the minds of writers and readers.”
“Skipper, I know that gold is still there. On Isla de la Muerte; the Island of the Dead.”
“If you look at a cloud long enough, you’ll always see the image you’re looking for.”
“No, Skipper. That cache of gold coins still exists, and we can’t wait that long,” Fowler said. “It could be found anytime now. The Far East is full of lousy characters, and you don’t know who else could be searching for it.”
“I don’t know about any lousy characters north of here,” Lieutenant Hillary said, flicking his butt over the railing, “but I know I’m looking at one right now.”
Both the men smiled as they looked down at the officer stepping up to the gangway.
Chapter 2
An eruption of silvery bubbles exploded from the black depths. The outburst reflected the moonlight while the sound of the bursting froth chased itself into the surrounding night. After a minute of disruption, a submarine pushed the torrent aside as it bobbed to the surface leaving only the sound of water running off the deck to disturb the night air. Suddenly, the squeaking of metal replaced the sound of running water. A silent thin, red grin turned into a wide yawn as somebody inside pushed the hatch open. Five dark-clothed figures escaped the aurora of blood-red light welling up from the hatch and as one of them quickly closed the hatch, the others briefly saw his face and the ragged scar across his cheek. After standing, he spoke slowly while observing their surroundings. “Nice work, Captain Vostok.”
The man who spoke went silent as his eyes fell on the nearly invisible horizon. The only light available came from the partial moon, the vivid stars, and the greenish glow of compass lights, which escaped the windows of the two patrol boats protecting the approaches to the crescent-shaped bay.
The man who complimented Captain Vostok spoke again. “Now all we have to do is land my raiders and walk up that cliff face.”
The other eyes on the conning tower turned their attention to the cliff a little more than a hundred yards away. At the top, a forest lined the edge, and everybody saw the peaked roofs and upper windows of a dacha. Just like the patrol boats, the only signs of life were the occasional slits of weak light escaping from behind drawn curtains.
The man continued speaking while raising one arm. “Let’s go over the plan again. Once we unlimber the boats, we will row to those rocks where we will go ashore.”
Everybody looked at the bumpy row pointing out from the cliff base.
“We will then run along the base of the cliff to the staircase. According to the information the countess obtained for us, there are four guards and five officers inside the dacha, but they’ve fallen into a routine.”
The man dropped his arm as he appraised one of the raiders next to him. While the raider gripped a modern weapon in his hand, the man focused on another weapon inserted into the raider’s canvas web belt. “Sergeant Dooley, is that shingle axe worth its weight?”
Sergeant Dooley answered. “Major Utkin, this 1881 Stanley never failed me, my father, or his father . . .”
Major Utkin nodded at the statement before continuing. “What about that Thompson?”
Dooley respo
The major nodded again. “Sergeant, you, and your squad, will go up first, and make your way to the barracks. Allow no troops to interfere with our mission.”
Dooley, like almost everybody else around him, wore a black wool cap. He also wore his US Army uniform, minus badges, or chevrons. Around his waist, Dooley wore a web belt holstering a .45-caliber pistol along with two magazines, and a sheathed hunting knife. He also wore a musette bag containing two hand grenades, three, thirty-round stick magazines for the Thompson along with an extra drum magazine. Dooley glanced at his hand holding the Thompson and at the trench watch strapped to his wrist. The greenish glow highlighted the black hands, which indicated an hour before midnight. He turned his attention back to the cliff and the metal staircase running diagonally up its face. “No problem, Major,” Dooley said as he enjoyed the cool night and relief from oil-tainted air and cabbage farts. He thanked God that nobody smoked on the submarine. It was claustrophobic enough inside that thing without having thick, smoke-filled air to make the closed-in feeling worse. He also shivered slightly. Although it was early June, the Siberian night air reminded Dooley’s bones of the winter he fought through only months ago.
“Good,” Major Utkin replied as he turned to face another man. “Lieutenant Gorki, you and your men will stay with myself and the countess. We will follow her into the main building. Process everybody else with your knives. Understood?”
The man addressed as Lieutenant Gorki held a magazine-fed, automatic rifle with strips of canvas hanging off it just like Dooley’s Thompson. He also wore a pistol belt that holstered a revolver and a sheathed Russian trench fighting knife. Dooley knew what Utkin meant by the word “process” as he had seen the young officer, and his men, sharpen the stiletto-bladed knives nightly since he boarded the submarine. He felt sorry for whoever would be on the receiving end of those vicious blades and enclosed jaw-breaking grips.
Gorki looked at the major’s scarred face as he answered. “Process them. Da.”
Accepting the response, Utkin turned to the smallest figure among their group. “Countess Tolstoy, your task is to let your cousin know we are here to rescue her. Again, are you sure we can trust your informant, and are you sure she will be hiding where you said she’ll be?”
The eyes of the men towering over the countess waited for a response. Like most of the men, she wore a black wool watch cap. Although she tried to stuff as much of her blond hair under it as she could, some still leaked out. Her small frame was further diminished by her oversized Russian army blouse and trousers. She reminded Dooley of a Mary Pickford drama where the actress played a tragic character too young to understand her dire circumstances and who only sought some sort of rescue. Like in the drama, the sudden turmoil of the October Coup in 1917, the downfall of the Imperial family, and the subsequent Revolution still eating at the Russian soul betrayed the chaos on her young face. Dooley felt sorry for the countess.
Countess Tolstoy responded. “Again, I would like to thank you for your efforts to rescue my cousin, Major Utkin. And yes, I believe our informant is trustworthy. Before the Revolution, he was a landed gentleman and my family relied on him, and his father and his father before him, to oversee the property during the non-summer months. Now, he is but a lowly manager of a state-owned farm. Yes, his information can be trusted as he would want to return to the way they used to be. There is no reason to mistrust him.”
Major Utkin chuckled.
“I said something amusing, Major?” she asked.
“No, you didn’t,” he responded. “It is nineteen-nineteen now, and everything in Russia is state owned. Even mistrust is a state-owned commodity.”
She nodded while continuing. “He was the one who informed me, through the post, that the duchess had been abducted from Shanghai by Reds two months ago and taken to this place for safekeeping, but for what, I do not know. We have all heard the rumors of precious stones cached on the property. A hoard the Reds never had a chance to seize. Perhaps her abduction might have something to do with that.”
The countess paused as she looked up at the major. “Do you think her presence will help restore Imperial Russia? Will she be accepted by all Russians?”
“I understand your concerns,” replied Utkin, “and yes. She may not have been part of the inner circle, but she was in line to inherit the throne. Her freedom in Shanghai would allow her to gather an audience, which is why the Reds had to get her away from Shanghai. I and my men will rescue your cousin, along with the means necessary to restore the rightful monarchy. I am thankful you allowed me to convince you of this plan. I hate to think of what would have happened if you ended up relying on that trash in Shanghai. Those men call themselves patriots for the Tsar but are simply rabble with rotten teeth, big mouths, and slack backbones who fight for ignorant Chinese warlords. Only to waste their pay in the bars and brothels of an uncivilized city. We will end this mission on our terms and ensure the duchess is retrieved from what you describe as a fairy-tale house.”
“This estate was designed many years ago by a Bavarian craftsman,” the countess continued. Together, he and my granduncle built a home with internal mysteries. The duchess and I discovered many of them as children, so if the diamonds were hidden there, she will find them.”
“Good,” Major Utkin replied. “We don’t want to alert the soldiers by killing the generator. Its silence would be quite deafening. That said, do you still believe there is no electricity provided for the barracks?”
She answered, “The informant said the only modern fixture is a telephone.”
Utkin, who returned his attention to the cliff, responded, “Based on your informant’s information, I know the officer in charge, and he truly is a useless dullard. However, even bores know a visible telephone wire leading to the only source of assistance is the first thing an attacker will take care of. So, we can assume that there is a line buried in the ground leaving the exposed line as a decoy. In either case, Sergeant Dooley’s men will take care of that wire and remain ready for any opposition. We will be on our way back to Shanghai before survivors can alarm headquarters in Vladivostok.”
Utkin paused. “And the patrol boats have no wireless radio? No deck guns?”
She nodded. “He said that the guards take turns on the boats, and all they have are rifles, a pair of old machine weapons, and flare guns.”
Countess Tolstoy finished as she turned her eyes up to the American sergeant. Their eyes met and remained on each other for a second.
“Good,” Utkin said as he turned his eyes back to the submarine officer. “Captain Vostok, once we launch our boats, station a man there with a Lewis gun and extra magazines.”
“Da,” Captain Vostok replied as he adjusted the bill of his naval officer’s peaked cap.
“Excellent,” Utkin answered as he bent to the hatch at their feet, cracking it enough to give a quiet order. Dooley again noticed that the dull, red light illuminated the scar on Utkin’s cheek.
Chapter 3
As they practiced during their transit from Shanghai to the Siberian-Russian coast, the raiders inside the submarine climbed out of the fore and aft deck hatches, attacked the lashings securing the upside-down wooden boats to the deck, and flipped them over before easing them into the water. While the tiller in each boat would be manned by a submariner, Major Utkin, Lieutenant Gorki, and six other men, armed with Fedorov Avtomats, with their twenty-five-round box magazines slung over their backs and pistols and knives hanging from web belts, slid into the boats. Countess Tolstoy followed them into the boat.
Sergeant Dooley, with his squad, slid into their own boat and paddled ashore. While Dooley was armed with his Thompson and his squad carried automatic rifles slung over their backs, one man, Morda, was armed differently. In the bilge, at the man’s feet, lay a Lewis machine gun complete with a mounted bipod and an attached ninety-seven round pan magazine. A Russian army musette bag, filled with more pan magazines, lay next to the Lewis gun. As a veteran infantryman Dooley knew it took more than one soldier to operate and carry the Lewis, while keeping it armed and functioning. Despite its length and weight, Dooley noted throughout their training, Morda had no problem handling the machine gun. The only other weapon Morda carried was a wooden-handled entrenching tool. During their transit north, Morda spent his time, when not reading, sharpening its blade and oiling the short handle.
