Black Wind (2 page)

“None whatsoever.” Tanaka's face was inscrutable as he lied.

Ogawa didn't believe him, but figured the risk of the American Navy's antisubmarine warfare forces were a greater risk to his sub than anything carried on board. Ogawa tried to procure what little information he could from Tanaka, but the Army doctor volunteered few additional facts. Whatever mystery was associated with the weapon, he kept close to the vest. There was something ominous about the man, Ogawa decided, and it made him uncomfortable. After sharing a quick cup of tea, he dismissed the eerie scientist. Sitting silently in his cabin, Ogawa cursed the Fleet Command for selecting his vessel for the assignment. It was a mission that he didn't want.

*  *  *

T
HE SPORADIC
ocean traffic of merchant ships and fishing boats soon dissipated as the Japanese mainland fell behind the sub's wake and the vessel crawled farther north in latitude. For the next twelve days and nights, the crew embraced a normal operating schedule as the sub nosed northeast, surfacing at night to run at higher speed. The prospect of being detected by an Allied plane or ship was more remote in the north Pacific, but Ogawa took no chances and ran submerged during all daylight hours. Operating under the waves, the bottled-up sub became like an oven to the men who drove her. Interior temperatures would climb into the nineties from the machinery, while the confined air would grow foul to the breath over the hours. Evening darkness was eagerly anticipated by each crewman, knowing the sub would finally surface, open its hatches, and vent cold, fresh sea air into the dank interior.

Naval authority on submarines was notably relaxed, even in the Japanese Navy, and operations on the
I-403
were no different. Officers and enlisted crew mixed easily, sharing the same meals and suffering the same miseries aboard the cramped vessel. The
I-403
had survived depth charge attacks on three different occasions and the near-death experiences had bonded the crew tightly together. They were survivors in a deadly game of cat and mouse and felt the
I-403
was a lucky ship that could defy the enemy.

On the fourteenth night, the
I-403
surfaced near the Aleutian island of Amchitka and quickly found the supply ship
Morioka
anchored in a small cove. Ogawa gently brought his vessel alongside the surface ship and mooring lines were tossed across. As diesel fuel was pumped into the submarine's reservoir tanks, crewmen on each vessel bantered back and forth in the freezing cold.

“Aren't you a little cramped in that anchovy tin?” asked a bundled yeoman at the ship's rail.

“No, we've got plenty of room for our canned fruit, chestnuts, and sake!” yelled back a submariner, boastful of the superior food the undersea services were provided.

The refueling operation was completed in less than three hours. One of the submarine's crewmen, diagnosed as suffering an acute bout of appendicitis, was transferred to the ship for medical attention. After rewarding the supply ship crew with a box of hard candies, the
I-403
cast off on an eastward tack toward North America. The skies gradually turned black and the gray-green ocean waters frothed with spray as the
I-403
found herself sailing into the teeth of an early winter storm. The sub was tossed violently for three nights as waves flooded across the low deck and crashed into the conning tower as the sub attempted to recharge its batteries. A lookout was nearly washed overboard into the icy seas on one occasion, and many of the experienced crew succumbed to bouts of seasickness. Strong westerly winds aided the voyage, however, pushing the sub briskly through the swells and quickening its trek east.

Gradually, the winds began to ease and the seas flattened. Ogawa was pleased to find his vessel had survived Mother Nature's buffeting with no damage. The battered crew regained their sea legs and their fighting morale as the seas stabilized and the submarine neared the enemy's homeland.

“Captain, I have a final plot to the coast,” Seiji Kakishita remarked as he unrolled a chart of the northeast Pacific Ocean in front of Ogawa. The
I-403
's navigator had ceased shaving, like many crewmen upon leaving port, and sported a straggly tuft of hair from his chin that created a cartoonish look about him.

“What is our present position?” Ogawa inquired as he studied the map.

“Right here,” Kakishita replied as he pointed to a spot on the map with a pair of dividers. “Approximately two hundred kilometers west of Vancouver Island. We have two more hours of darkness for surface running, which will bring us to within 150 kilometers of land by daybreak on our current heading.”

Ogawa studied the chart intently for a few moments before speaking. “We are too far north. I wish to launch the attack from a point central to the four targets in order to minimize flight time. Bring us south and we'll approach the coastline here,” he said, stubbing his finger at the map. Beneath his fingertip lay the northwest tip of Washington State, an angular peak of land that jutted into the Pacific Ocean like the snout of a hungry dog. Just to the north lay the Strait of Juan de Fuca, which created a natural border channel with British Columbia and was the main thoroughfare for maritime traffic from Vancouver and Seattle into the Pacific Ocean.

Kakishita hurriedly plotted a new route on the map and recalculated the distances. “Sir, I compute that we can arrive at a position fifteen kilometers offshore from the point marked ‘Cape Alava' in twenty-two hours.”

“Excellent, Kakishita,” Ogawa replied smugly as he eyed a nearby chronograph. “That will allow us plenty of time to commence the attack before dawn.” The timing was right. Ogawa wished to spend as little time as possible in high-traffic areas where they might be spotted before launching the strike. Things seemed to be falling into place, he thought. With a little luck, they might just be on their way home from a successful mission in just over twenty-four hours.

*  *  *

A
BUZZ
of activity overtook the
I-403
after it surfaced again that evening as preparations were made to launch the aerial strike. Mechanics pulled out the fuselage, wings, and pontoons of the aircraft and began piecing the parts together like some giant toy model. Seamen rigged the hydraulic catapult and carefully tested the device by which the planes would be launched. The pilots attentively studied topographic maps of the region, plotting their course to the drop zones and back. And the ordnance men, under the cautious direction of Dr. Tanaka, configured the bomb racks of the Seiran bombers to hold the twelve silver canisters still stored in the forward torpedo room.

By three in the morning, the
I-403
had crept quietly to its staging point off the Washington coast. A light drizzle was falling and the six lookouts Ogawa had stationed on deck strained to peer through the murky darkness for signs of other vessels. Ogawa himself paced the open bridge nervously in anxious wait to see the aircraft off, so that he could hide his submarine under the protection of the rolling seas.

Another hour had ticked by when a hurried squat man in a grease-stained jumpsuit approached Ogawa tentatively.

“Sir, sorry to report we are having troubles with the aircraft.”

“What is the problem at this late hour?” Ogawa countered, clearly annoyed.

“Aircraft number one has been found to have a faulty magneto. We must replace it with a spare for the motor to operate. Aircraft number two has a damaged elevator, apparently due to shifting that occurred during the storm. This we can repair also.”

“And how long will it require to complete both repairs?”

The mechanic looked skyward for a moment, contemplating his response. “Approximately one hour for the repairs, sir, plus another twenty minutes to load the ordnance from belowdecks.”

Ogawa nodded grimly. “Proceed with all haste.”

One hour turned into two and still the planes were not ready. Ogawa's impatience grew as he noticed gray streaks in the eastern sky, signaling the approaching dawn. The drizzling rain had stopped and was replaced by a light fog that enveloped the sub, cutting visibility to less than a third of a mile. Sitting ducks, perhaps, but at least ducks in a blind, Ogawa thought.

Then the stillness of the morning air was shattered as a cry from the sound-detection operator belowdecks pierced the air.

“Captain, I have an echo!”

*  *  *

“I'
VE GOT
you this time, Big Brother!” Steve Schauer yelled into the radio transmitter with a grin, then pushed a pair of throttles to their stops. Alongside him in the fishing trawler's cramped cabin, two teenage crewmen, exhausted and reeking of dead fish, looked at each other and rolled their eyes. Schauer ignored their looks as he lightly fingered the wooden wheel of the plodding fishing boat and began whistling an old drinking tune.

A pair of fortyish siblings with youth in their veins, Steve and Doug Schauer had spent their lives fishing the waters in and around Puget Sound. With skill and hard work, they had thrown all their earnings into ever-larger fishing boats until they traded up for a matched pair of fifty-foot wooden hull trawlers. Working as a team, they successfully fished the Washington and Vancouver shorelines with an uncanny ability to sniff out large schools of halibut. After a three-day excursion, with their holds full of fish and their coolers empty of beer, the brothers would race each other back to port like a pair of kids on roller skates.

“It ain't over till the paint scratches the dock,” Doug's voice crackled over the radio. After a particularly good haul during the 1941 season, the brothers had splurged on two-way radios for their boats. Though intended to help each other coordinate the catches, the brothers spent most of their time on the airwaves goading each other instead.

As Schauer's boat chugged along at its top speed of 12 knots, the skies lightened from black to gray and a spotlight beam shining on the water ahead of the bow gradually lost its illuminating effect. Ahead, in the mist, Schauer saw the faint outline of a large black object lying low in the water. A second later, a small orange flash emanated from the object's center for a brief instant.

“Is that a whale off the starboard bow?” The words had barely escaped his lips when a shrieking whistle creased past the cabin, followed by a volcanic explosion that erupted in the water off the port beam, showering the trawler in a downpour of seawater.

Schauer stood stunned for a moment, his mind unable to comprehend what his eyes and ears had just absorbed. It took the sight of a second orange flash to jolt him into action.

“Get down!” he shouted at the two men in the cabin as he spun the ship's wheel hard to port. The laden trawler was slow to respond, but it was enough to avoid the second shell from the
I-403
's 5.5-inch deck gun, which screamed into the water just astern of the boat. This time, the force of the explosion lifted the entire trawler out of the water and slammed it back down again hard, shearing the rudder off in the upheaval.

Wiping blood out of his eyes from a gash to the temple, Schauer groped for the radio microphone.

“Doug, there's a Jap sub. It's blasting the hell out of us. No joke. Keep to the north, and get help.”

He was still talking when the third shell found its mark, piercing the forward hold of the fishing boat before detonating. A furious explosion of splinters, glass, and mangled halibut blasted into the cabin, throwing the three men viciously to the back wall. Struggling to his feet, Schauer peered out a gaping hole in the front of the cabin and saw the entire bow of the trawler disintegrate into the sea before him. Instinctively grabbing the wheel for support, he looked on in disbelief as the remains of the boat began to sink rapidly beneath his feet.

*  *  *

P
EERING THROUGH
binoculars, Ogawa watched with grim satisfaction as the trawler slipped beneath the waves amid a scattering of flotsam. Rescuing survivors was out of the question, so he wasted no time in looking for bodies in the water.

“Motoshita, have there been any additional sound recordings?” he asked his exec.

“Negative, sir. The sound operator reported a possible secondary target before we initiated firing but the reading faded. It was either background noise, or a small vessel at best.”

“Have him keep sweeping. With this visibility, we will hear a vessel well before seeing her. And have the chief aircraft mechanic report to me. We've got to get those planes launched.”

As Motoshita scurried off, Ogawa stared toward the hidden coastline of Washington. Perhaps we'll get lucky, he thought. The trawler was likely a lone fishing boat and wouldn't have a radio. The guns could have been heard ashore, but, at this distance, would sound like an innocuous muffle. The charts showed few inhabitants residing along that stretch of coast as well. Perhaps—just perhaps—they could still pull off the mission undetected.

*  *  *

T
HE HAIRS
on the back of Radioman First Class Gene Hampton's neck stood up like a grove of ponderosa pine. The voice ringing through his earphones had an air of urgency and authenticity that could not help but be believed. After confirming the message twice, Hampton popped out of his chair like a jack-in-the-box and bounded to the center of the bridge.

“Captain, I just picked up a civilian Mayday message,” he blurted excitedly. “A fisherman says there's a Jap sub offshore shelling his brother's boat.”

“Did he sound coherent?” replied the ship's bearded, heavyset commander in a skeptical tone.

“Yes, sir. Said he didn't see the sub because of the fog but got a radio call from his brother on another fishing boat. He heard a couple of shots fired from a big gun, then lost contact with his brother. I received a call from another boat confirming the sound of gunfire.”

“Did they provide a fix on the location?”