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Authors: David Hagberg

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THE U.S. LOS ANGELES—CLASS attack submarine
Indianapolis
ran submerged, two hundred feet beneath the surface of the dark sea on a course of 210 degrees out of Sixth Fleet Headquarters at Gaeta, Italy. She was one hundred miles offshore in a run-and-drift mode in which she would make fourteen knots for a half hour, and then shut down to drift for the next half hour.
She had been in the eastern Med for the past two weeks, taking part in a naval exercise with the
Nimitz
and her support
group, called LOOKUP. The Soviets had become active in the region recently and the exercise was designed to test their willingness to remain in the area, based on their battle group strengths coming through the Bosporus.
The mission completed,
Indianapolis
was heading back to her patrol station, code-named ROUNDHOUSE, off the Italian coast for further orders.
She had made it nearly six hours early and had gone into her run-and-drift mode to give the sonar operators some more practice. They had picked up a couple of ships on the surface, identifying both as freighters. There were no other submarines in the area, and they would have been very surprised had there been.
Commander John D. Webb, J.D. to his friends, looked at his watch. It was twenty minutes until two in the morning, local time. He switched on the light over his bunk and sat up, wiping the sleep out of his eyes. At forty he was beginning to burn out on submarine duty. This was his fourth boat and she was a beauty, but his thoughts lately had begun to turn more and more to Norfolk where he and his wife Lois had a small house, and to the sub school at New London, Connecticut, where he had been offered a teaching job.
Time now, he wondered as he got up and used the small head, to call it quits? Lois certainly wouldn't fight him. Their marriage had survived this long against the adversities of a navy career. Time now to reap some of the benefits.
Slipping on his shoes, he walked next door to the officers' wardroom where he poured himself a cup of coffee, and then headed forward to the attack center, passing the sonar room where the duty supervisor and one of the kids were playing a game of chess. They both looked up as the captain passed.
Lieutenant Earl Layman, his executive officer, had just shown up; he had the conn with another officer and six enlisted men.
“Just about time to get the mail,” Webb said, ducking through the hatch.
Layman looked up from the chart table. “Good morning, Captain. We're back on station.”
He and Webb had served together for nearly five years now. Layman was next in line for his own boat and he deserved it.
The two of them were almost exact opposites in every respect. Where Webb was short, dark, and husky, Layman was tall, pale, and lanky. Webb had graduated from Kansas State with a degree in engineering, while Layman had graduated first in his class from Harvard as a mathematics major. Webb was a pragmatist, Layman was an idealist. But their differences never got in the way, in fact they were complementary.
“Best damned skipper and exec combination in the entire Navy,” Admiral Wannover, CINCSUBATLANT, called them.
Webb picked up the telephone. “Sonar, conn, what's it look like out there?”
“Nothing in the past hour, Skipper.”
“All right, Tommy, keep your ears open, we're heading up.” Webb put the telephone down. “Earl, bring the boat up to periscope depth.”
“Aye, Captain, bringing the boat up,” Layman responded.
“Reduce speed to five knots and come right to zero-zero-five degrees,” Webb said softly.
“Reducing speed to five knots, coming right to zero-zero-five, aye.”
The problem with submarines had always been communications. While they were submerged the only effective means of contacting them was through either the ELF (Extremely Low Frequency) or VLF (Very Low Frequency) systems.
The former was based in Wisconsin and could transmit to submarines anywhere in the world, even subs that were as deep as a thousand feet. The problem with the system was its speed. It took fifteen minutes to transmit a single three-letter code group. And communications were only one way.
With the VLF system, an updated C-135 aircraft flying at thirty thousand feet over a sub's patrol station would trail an eight-mile-long wire antenna. But again communications were slow and only one way.
The alternatives were communications buoys either sent up by the submarine, or dropped from a passing ship or aircraft, or for the submarine to come to periscope depth and raise her satellite antenna. The latter systems, however, exposed the submarine to detection.
Lieutenant j.g. Robert Hess, the ELINT (Electronic Intelligence) officer, popped his head around the corner from his cubicle. “Are we going upstairs, Skipper?”
Webb turned to him. “On our way up, Bob. Have you got something for us?”
“Negative. But if we have the time, I'd like to put up the ECM mast. We can use the practice.”
The Electronic Counter Measures mast, like the boat's two periscopes, could be raised or lowered. It contained three directional antennae and two omni-directional arrays. Anything transmitting electronic energy within a hundred miles of their position was detectable with the system.
“Permission granted. But we're not going to be long.”
“Aye, aye, Skipper,” Hess said, ducking back.
It took another three minutes to reach periscope depth, where Layman leveled the boat, and the satellite antenna and ECM mast were raised.
“We have an uplink,” the radioman reported.
“Send our ready-to-receive,” Webb ordered.
“Aye, Captain,” the radioman replied, and he activated the high-speed burst transmitter that sent the
Indianapolis's
identification code, position information, and the ready for reception signal in less than a quarter of a second.
One second later the complete message was received, and the printer chattered into life.
280301ZJUL
TOP SECRET
FM: COMSUBMED
TO: USS INDIANAPOLIS
A. LOOKUP TERMINATED AS OF DAY AND DATE.
B. PROCEED COMSUBMED INST. 1733.4 AREA OF PATROL
AS ASSIGNED ODRS.
C. REPORT AS NECESSARY.
XX
EOM
280302ZJUL
BREAKBREAK
“They could have said thanks, job well done, or something,” Layman said when he read the message.
Webb smiled. “What'd you expect, Earl? Two more weeks we'll be back in port. Not so rough.”
Layman had to grin as well. “That's what we're out here for.”
“Right,” Webb said. “Lower the masts and take us down.”
“Hold on a second, Skipper,” Hess called from his cubicle.
Webb turned and stepped around the corner. “Got something?”
“I think so,” Hess said. He was listening intently to a pair of earphones. “It sounds like … like a mayday, but very faint. Broken up. Sometimes garbled.”
“A long ways off?”
“No, sir,” Hess said, looking up. “Close.” He turned a couple of knobs on his console. “My DF puts him a couple of hundred yards out.”
“What else?”
“Nothing, sir. Just the very faint SOS. Sounds like his batteries might be just about gone.”
The
Indianapolis
was equipped with the BQQ-5 passive/active sonar suite. There had been no reason for them to go active in the past twenty-four hours. They had missed the target above, apparently because the boat was dead in the water.
Back in the attack center Webb picked up the phone. “Sonar, conn.”
“Aye, conn.”
“We have a target on the surface, fairly close, and probably stationary. Ping it once for range and bearing, give it five seconds and ping a second time for movement.”
“Aye, Skipper.”
A moment later everyone aboard the ship heard the lone pong as the sonar went active.
“Range one hundred seventy-five yards. Relative bearing, 175 degrees.”
The second pong sounded throughout the ship.
“She's dead in the water, Skipper.”
“Search periscope,” Webb said. The larger of the two periscopes rose up and broke the surface of the night sea. At first
he couldn't see much, so he dialed in the image intensifier and suddenly he could see the white tops on the waves.
A small pleasure boat wallowed in the seas. She showed no lights or any activity on deck. Webb made a quick 360-degree sweep to check for any other ships or aircraft, but there was nothing.
“Looks like a small cabin cruiser,” Webb said. “Dark. Nobody in sight.”
He flipped another switch on the periscope's control panel and the image of the small boat appeared on a small television screen to the left.
“Still getting that SOS, Bob?”
“Yes, sir,” Hess called out. “But it seems to be getting fainter. Her batteries are going fast now.”
The
Indianapolis
's patrol station and her position at any given moment, like that of any other U.S. missile or attack submarine, was top secret. By surfacing now they would be giving themselves away. But then they could not simply ignore the code of the sea.
Webb picked up the telephone. “Communications, conn.”
“Aye, conn.”
“Get a message off immediately to COMSUBMED. Tell them we've detected an apparent SOS from a small private cabin cruiser. We're surfacing now.”
“Aye, Skipper.”
“Surface the boat, Earl,” Webb said. He punched another button on his phone. “Quartermaster, conn.”
“Aye, conn.”
“We're coming to the surface, Tony. Looks like we're receiving an SOS from a small cabin cruiser. She's showing no lights, no activity on deck. Get together a boarding party. Better bring Davidson with you.”
“Aye, Skipper.”
“And, Tony?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Take along your sidearms.”
“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant j.g. Tony D'Angelo, the boat's quartermaster, said, “we're on our way.”
THE SEAS WERE RUNNING only two or three feet so that the
Indianapolis,
whose main deck was barely on the surface, provided a stable platform. Quartermaster Tony D'Angelo, Medic Chief Petty Officer Robert Davidson, and Petty Officers Charles Markham and Don Gilmore scrambled out of one of the aft maintenance hatches.
D'Angelo—a tough, beefy Italian from Brooklyn—raised binoculars to his eyes and searched the sea behind them, almost immediately picking out the cabin cruiser barely one hundred
yards away now. She was long and sleek, more like fifty or fifty-five feet, he figured. Probably worth a half a million at least. A definite pussy wagon, like only the Italians knew how to build.
Markham and Gilmore had pulled out the rubber raft and it inflated with a noisy hiss as they tossed it over the side.
“All right, lock it up,” D'Angelo said.
Markham closed the access hatch and a seaman below dogged and sealed it.
“You copy, Tony?” D'Angelo's walkie-talkie crackled.
He looked up at the bridge on top of the sail. Webb and Layman were looking down at him.
“Aye, aye, Skipper,” he radioed back.
“Watch yourself.”
“Yes, sir.”
The night was warm, but the sky was overcast and the sea was very dark. The submarine showed no lights, and rowing away from her D'Angelo got the impression he was looking back at some prehistoric sea monster, which except for her lineage, she was.
Twenty-five yards away from the cruiser, he was able to pick out her name on the stern. He radioed back to the
Indianapolis.
“I can see her name now, Skipper. The
Zenzero,
out of Naples. Means ginger, the spice.”
“Any damage evident?”
“Negative. No sounds of machinery, no lights, nothing. She's definitely dead in the water.”
“Any signs of activity on deck, or through the windows?”
“Negative, Skipper,” D'Angelo radioed. “Wait just a minute, we're going around to the port side.”
They came around the stern of the cruiser. Markham was in the bow of the rubber raft. “The boarding ladder is down, Lieutenant.”
D'Angelo could see it. He also spotted empty davits amidships. “Skipper, their boarding ladder is down, and one of her runabouts is missing. Looks like she might be abandoned.”
“Hold up there,” Webb radioed back.
They came up alongside the ladder and Markham secured a line to it.
“Tony, we're still receiving the SOS, but it's very faint now. Someone is definitely aboard.”
“We're starting up.”
“Just a second, we're doing a radar sweep. We may be able to pick up that missing auxiliary.”
The rubber raft rose and fell on the swell relative to the much bigger cruiser. D'Angelo cocked his head to listen, but there were absolutely no sounds on the gentle night breeze. Absolutely nothing.
“All right, we've got it,” Webb radioed. “We're painting a small target about eight miles out and heading almost directly south. Probably trying to make Sicily.”
“What do you want us to do here, sir?”
“Go ahead and board her, find out what's going on.”
“What about the auxiliary?”
“We'll message COMSUBMED, they can contact the Italian coast guard,” Webb radioed back. “Don't worry, Tony, we won't leave them.”
“Aye, Skipper. We're going aboard now.”
Markham scrambled up the ladder first, D'Angelo right behind him, and then Gilmore and Davidson. The cruiser was laid out with a large foredeck, a much smaller afterdeck, with the main saloon taking up most of the ship's length. A ladder ran from the afterdeck up to a large, covered flying bridge. Everything about the aluminum-hulled vessel was rich and finely finished.
D'Angelo pulled out his .45 automatic and led the way aft, where an open sliding glass door led into the well-furnished main saloon. The interior of the ship was in complete darkness.
Gilmore pulled out a flashlight and shined it around the interior. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed.
“We're inside now, Skipper. Everything looks fine.”
“No sign of anyone yet?” Webb radioed.
“Negative.”
“Tony, the signal has just about died. Check out the radio room first, and then make a quick sweep through the entire boat, including the engine spaces. COMSUBMED wants us out of here on the double.”
“Aye, Skipper,” D'Angelo radioed, and he stuffed the walkie-talkie
in his pocket. “Charlie, check the engine room. Don, you take the cabins belowdecks. Doc and I will find the radioman.”
Markham and Gilmore took the stairs below, as D'Angelo and Davidson went forward through the saloon, past a small but efficient-looking galley to port, and what appeared to be a well-stocked pantry to starboard.
The owner's stateroom opened straight ahead. To the port was a big head with a bathtub, and to starboard a narrow, closed door was marked RADIO ROOM.
D'Angelo raised his pistol and slowly pushed the door open. He was beginning to get spooked. Something all of a sudden didn't seem right to him, though he didn't know exactly why.
The radio room was crammed with electronic equipment. A few lights shone on one of the consoles, and the very faint sound of the Morse code SOS message came through one of the speakers. But there was no one there.
“What the hell?” D'Angelo said, stepping the rest of the way into the tiny compartment and shining his flashlight over the equipment.
A small tape recorder had been plugged into one of the transmitters. It was sending the message.
“What's going on …” Davidson started to ask when they both heard the sliding glass doors in the saloon close softly.
The medic spun around. D'Angelo shoved him aside and rushed down the passageway.
Something popped and began to hiss angrily to his left. He turned at the same moment his entire body was gripped with an incredibly painful spasm.
“Charlie …” he screamed, grappling for the walkie-talkie in his pocket, but he was falling, an impenetrable darkness descending over him.
 
Arkady Kurshin, dressed in black, crouched in the darkness of the
Zenzero
's afterdeck, counting slowly to ten. Dr. Velikanov crouched behind him.
“Now,” Kurshin said softly. He pressed a button on a small transmitting device, and the cruiser's air-conditioning units rumbled into life.
He counted another ten seconds and hit the button again, shutting off the air-conditioners.
Checking over the rail to make certain the submarine had not moved, and that no other boat was coming across, he pushed open the saloon door and went inside.
D'Angelo, his eyes open, his tongue protruding from his mouth, lay on his side in the middle of the big room. Davidson lay crumpled in a heap in the passageway just behind him.
“Get started, we don't have much time,” Kurshin told the doctor. He turned and hurried down the stairs belowdecks. Gilmore was dead at the foot of the stairs, and Markham's body lay half in and half out of the doorway that led into the engine room.
He seized Gilmore's body beneath the armpits and dragged him up the stairs, dumping him in a heap in the middle of the saloon.
The doctor had his bag open and the equipment he needed laid out beside him on the carpeted floor. He had already opened D'Angelo's jacket and shirt and had cut away the dead man's undershirt, exposing his broad barrel chest.
“Tony, what's going on over there?” D'Angelo's walkie-talkie blared.
Ignoring it, Kurshin hurried back downstairs, where he grabbed Markham's body and dragged it back up to the saloon.
Dr. Velikanov had opened a twelve-inch gash in D'Angelo's gut. The wound was bloodless although some of the dead man's body fluids were seeping out. The smell was horrific.
“Tony, for Christ's sake, what's going on over there?” the walkie-talkie crackled. “Do you copy?”
As the doctor continued with his gruesome task, Kurshin yanked open the jackets and shirts of the other three sailors, cutting their undershirts open with his own knife.
“How much longer?” Kurshin asked.
Dr. Velikanov was already sewing up the gash in D'Angelo's gut, using coarse thread and big running stitches. He glanced up, his jaws tight, his eyes narrow. “Five minutes and this butchery will be done.”
“Tony, this is Captain Webb. I want you out of there now!”
Kurshin scrambled over to D'Angelo's body and pulled out the walkie-talkie. He keyed it and, holding the unit well away from himself, screamed hoarsely.
“Christ … Christ … Skipper, we've got a fire started over here … there are … dead bodies everywhere … God, it's … horrible …”
“Tony, is that you? Tony, get the hell out of there, now, it's an order!”
“Skipper … this place is … about ready to blow … oh, God …”
“Tony! Tony!” the walkie-talkie blared, but Kurshin switched it off and tossed it down on the floor.
Dr. Velikanov was just about finished with Davidson. Kurshin hurriedly rebuttoned D'Angelo's shirt and jacket and dragged his body out onto the afterdeck, making sure he kept well below the level of the rail.
The beam of a searchlight suddenly swept across the ship. Kurshin waited until it had passed, and then dragged the body forward and dumped it over the side into the rubber raft.
By the time he got back to the saloon, Dr. Velikanov was finished with Davidson and was halfway through with Markham. Whatever the man was, he was efficient. Kurshin dragged Davidson's body onto the afterdeck and dumped it overboard. The searchlight was still playing over the cruiser.
“You've got two minutes,” Kurshin said, hurrying again below decks. In the engine room he used a hacksaw to cut the fuel lines to both engines and then started the pumps. Diesel fuel began spurting out all over the place.
Setting an incendiary fuse for five minutes, he tossed it down on the floor and then set the other charges to blow five seconds later. He rushed back upstairs.
Hurriedly he rebuttoned Markham's shirt and jacket and dragged the body outside, where he dumped it over the rail.
“Ahoy the vessel
Zenzero,
this is the U.S. Navy,” an amplified voice rolled over the water from the
Indianapolis.
“Stand by to be fired upon unless you immediately signal your identification.”
“It's done,” Dr. Velikanov shouted from the saloon.
Kurshin rushed inside, helped him rebutton Gilmore's shirt and jacket, and together they dragged his body out onto the afterdeck and around to the port side, where they dumped it down into the rubber raft on top of D'Angelo's body.
“You have thirty seconds to comply,
Zenzero
,” the amplified voice boomed from the sub.
Kurshin yanked open a compartment door across from the boarding ladder, pulled out a rubber raft canister, and dumped it over the side, the raft immediately popping open and inflating with a hiss. Next he pulled out a waterproof equipment bag with its own flotation collar and dumped it into the water.
He hustled the doctor down the ladder and bodily shoved him into the sea. Pulling out his knife he cut the painter holding the
Indianapolis
's rubber raft to the ladder and shoved it away with his foot. He jumped into the water and in a few powerful strokes reached the equipment bag, which he hauled up into their own raft, and then clambered aboard himself. As he was shipping the oars, Velikanov climbed aboard, and they headed away from the cruiser, keeping it between them and the submarine.
The raft was black, as were their clothes. They were completely invisible to radar, and twenty-five yards out they would be invisible to anyone aboard the sub.
An explosion suddenly shattered the night, and flames roared out of the saloon door.

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