Black wind

Moving forward along the port side, they traveled about fifty feet before a huge gash appeared at the waterline.
    “Torpedo hit number one,” Dirk called out, eyeing the fatal impact from one of the Swordfish’s torpedoes. He positioned the Starfish so that its lights shined into the irregular opening. Inside, a circular mass of twisted and jagged metal shined back at them, like the open jaws of an iron-toothed shark. Turning and moving forward again, the submersible crept along the silent wreck another thirty feet before a second opening appeared.
    “Torpedo hit number two,” Dirk said.
    Unlike the first gash on the port flank, the second hole was oddly centered higher up, along the edge of the topside deck, almost as if the explosive force had been delivered from above.
    “You’re right, this must have been the second torpedo impact,” Summer speculated. “The stern must have already dropped under from the first hit, and the sub rolled back from the initial recoil when the second torpedo hit her here.”
    “Pretty good firing from the Swordfrish. They must have caught her at night, while she was running on the surface.”
    “Is that the aircraft hangar?” Summer asked, pointing to a large tubular appendage that ran lengthwise along the rear deck to the conning tower.
    “Yes. Looks like it was blasted open in the explosion,” he said as they glided over toward the opening. A twenty-foot section of the ) hangar adjacent to the deck had simply disappeared in the carnage. Under the beam of the floodlights, they could see a three-bladed air| craft propeller mounted on the backside of the hangar wall as they floated outside peering in. Applying power to the thrusters, Dirk turned the vehicle and zoomed forward, gliding past the I-411’s conning tower with its multiple gun platforms still in place. The Starfish proceeded down the forward deck before turning and hovering off the bow near one of the large diving planes, which sprouted off the submarine like a giant wing.
    “That concludes the scenic portion of the tour,” Dirk said. “Let’s see if we can find out what she carried.”
    “We better check in with the gang upstairs first,” Summer said, slipping on her communications headset and pushing the transmit button.
    “Sea Rover, this is Starfish. We’ve found the Easter Bunny and are proceeding to hunt for the eggs.”
    “Roger,” Ryan’s voice crackled back. “Be careful with the basket.”
    “I think he’s more concerned about his submersible than he is about us,” Dirk deadpanned.
    “A typical man,” Summer mused, shaking her head. “Places emotional feelings on inanimate mechanical objects.”
    “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dirk replied facetiously.
    As he spoke, he gently guided the Starfish above the submarine’s bow section, studying the forward deck. After several minutes, he spotted what he was looking for.
    “There’s the forward hatch to the upper torpedo room. If they follow suit with the I-403, that’s where the biological ordnance would have been loaded and stored.”
    Dirk maneuvered the Starfish in front of the hatch before setting the submersible down onto the deck of the I-411 and killing the thrusters.
    “How’s your breaking and entering skills?” he asked of Summer.
    Unlike on the I-403, the forward hatch was closed and battened tight by a flush-mounted wheel. Summer activated a joystick control hidden in the armrest of her chair and powered the hydraulics to the submersible’s right retractable arm. As she manipulated the controls, the metal appendage sprang from the side of Starfish and extended forward in a clumsy stretch. Slowly she dropped the arm down toward the hatch, adjusting the toggle control with short flips to maneuver the device. With the precision of a surgeon, she opened the clawlike hand and dropped it down to the hatch, wedging the fingers into the open slots of the hatch wheel on the first attempt.
    “Nicely done,” Dirk admired.
    “Now, if she’ll just open,” Summer replied. With the flick of a second toggle control, the articulated grip of the mechanical claw began to twist. Dirk and Summer both pressed their faces to the bubble window, intent on seeing the wheel turn. But the seal that had been locked for sixty years didn’t budge. Summer tried toggling the grip back and forth a half-dozen more times but to no avail.
    “So much for my hydraulic grip,” she finally muttered.
    “Keep a hold on the