Considering Dan’s choice, Bostwick thought for a moment. True. Green, but tough and smart. “Okay, Woody, you got it. Some of my classmates led platoons in Vietnam as second lieutenants and gave good accounts of themselves. We’re banking on you.”
Grinning, Woody said, “I won’t let you down, sir.”
Moments later, Brent assembled Woody Parnell and twenty enlisted candidates in the crew’s mess. Quartermaster Henri, not a nominee, suspected a mission planning session in the works and slipped into the meeting uninvited.
Brent outlined the situation and a plan. “Our major goal, prevent the Soviets from reporting Denver’s presence. Eight men, under command of Ensign Parnell, will take a rubber life raft and approach the minesweeper. Silence is paramount,” Brent cautioned. “If they hear us before we get to the radio transmitter, it’s over. Blowing it up is the first order of business. Next, the crew must be terminated. We can’t take the chance of someone reporting our presence.”
The crew winced upon hearing these sobering words. Submariners are trained to sink ships and other submarines. People died but from less personal actions. Denver troops found the concept of one on one, kill or be killed to be a new and unnerving one.
“Our best point of entry is from astern.” Brent pointed to a large, hastily drawn representation of the minesweeper.
“Ensign Parnell and one troop will board. Parnell will move up the starboard side and the other up the port, each with a satchel charge. I don’t know which side the radio shack is on, but the one who finds it, open the door and neutralize the occupants, silently if you can. Then set the charge alongside the transmitter and activate the timer. You’ll have ten seconds to put some distance between your buns and the charge.”
Low remarks and repositioning of feet by the candidates reflected mounting concern and excitement.
Brent continued, “The sound of either gunfire or the explosion will bring the enemy out on deck. Hopefully, it will be the latter. The radio shack could be unoccupied. The explosion alone could bring the enemy out unarmed, but the sound of gunfire … well, you know what to expect then.
“Either sound will cue the rest of the attack party to move out, three port and three starboard. Cover the exits. Let as many get out as you can before opening fire. There’s supposed to be ten aboard but maybe a few more or less. Questions? Make them brief. We don’t have a lot of time.”
Hesitating for answers and when none came, Brent asked, “Okay then, volunteers?”
Twenty-one hands shot into the air.
“Thanks, men,” Brent said then chose a first class petty officer and six others.
The stern voice of Jacques Henri demanded, “Mr. Maddock, I don’t see how you can pull this off without the benefit of my experience. What you just described is like a normal Saturday night in East St. Louis.”
“We need you for the rest of our mission, Henri. We can’t afford to lose our leading quartermaster.”
An irritated Henri went on, “Are you saying I’m indispensable, sir? Look, you’re sending Barnes because he’s heavy on explosives. He’s the logical choice to accompany Mr. Parnell to the radio shack. You need a petty officer to control the rest of the troops while they wait for the noise to start. And, in the event of casualties to the bomb squad, someone has to pull off the rest of the job. Like I said, you need me on this one, sir. Besides, I won’t need to darken my face.”
A nervous laugh came from the assembled submariners.
Someone asked, “What about your teeth and eyeballs?”
The crew laughed louder this time.
After considering Henri’s request for a moment, Brent said, “Okay, Pruitt, Henri gets your seat. The rest of you guys get out of here so we can get ready.”
After a flurry of handshakes and wishes for good luck Brent, the captain and Chief Cunningham stood topside to see the raiders off.
Taking Henri’s hand, Brent stumbled to find a suitable expression.
Henri said, “Trouble with you white guys is you don’t know how to handle emotion.”
The two men embraced without embarrassment.
“Just get your sorry ass back here, Henri. I need you to beat up on during my watch.”
“Treat me right and I’ll bring you a Red scalp.”
The small raiding party boarded the raft and disappeared into the darkness.
Brent admired the manner by which leadership fell so naturally to the young black petty officer and wondered from which band of fierce warriors had Henri descended.
On board the raft, Woody ordered the four paddlers, “Quietly, quietly,” as much to quell his own butterflies than to reduce noise made by the crew.
Either a weaker than estimated current or lesser distance between Denver and the minesweeper shortened the raiders’ transit from what they anticipated. Before they realized it, the raft had reached the minesweeper and moved along its starboard side. Blisters of rust flaked the paint and red streaks ran down to the water line. The sound of a running auxiliary engine, probably a diesel powered generator, masked what little noise the sailors made as they fended their craft off the sweeper’s side by hand.
Woody saw no one moving about above deck so he ordered the raft repositioned at the stern according to plan. He and his men, dressed completely in black, including gloves and stocking caps, moored their tiny craft with quarter inch nylon line to the enemy ship. They sat quietly for a moment and listened. No sounds other than the generator pierced the quiet night, and the raiders’ heartbeats made a deafening sound in each man’s ears.
Heretofore unseen steel shown in Woody’s baby blue eyes when he ordered Petty Officer Barnes, “Okay, let’s go.”
Being the first American warrior to occupy Soviet territory thrilled Woody as he leapt onto the deck. He hoped time would soon find many followers. Being careful, Woody looked into the glass of each deckhouse porthole while moving up the starboard side of the sweeper and detected no movement.
No surprise, he thought. It’s 0300. At anchor with a crew of ten, all except perhaps an anchor or engineering watch slept soundly in their bunks.
He scaled a ladder to the bridge. Still no Soviet crew encountered. He quickly located the radio shack just aft of the bridge. An artistic radioman had painted a tier of lightning flashes on the door, the traditional symbol for radio transmitting equipment.
The radio shack had a porthole. Woody looked in and detected no apparent movement. He attempted to open the door. Oh shit! It’s locked and we didn’t bring anything to bust it open.
Someone made a sudden movement on the bridge. A click sounded as Woody cocked his pistol.
A hoarse whisper sounded from Petty Officer Barnes, “Denver.”
No password had been established, but when Barnes heard Ensign Parnell’s weapon being cocked, necessity gave birth to invention.
Woody explained the situation about the locked door.
Barnes exclaimed, “Dammit! What’ll we do, sir?”
“These bulkheads can’t be more than quarter inch plate. The transmitters are against the bulkhead on the portside beneath the antennas. If we put both satchels against the outboard bulkhead and set them off together, it ought to do the job. What do you think?”
“Yes, sir. These charges are big enough to knock out anything.”
Woody snapped back, “Okay, let’s do it.”
At the raft, Henri heard the approach of stepping feet as the Soviet sailor on anchor watch made a routine walk about the weather decks of the sweeper. Henri thought,That asshole’s gotta be blind not to see our mooring line.