Ghosts of the Aleutians

The Boat and the Boys

The sleek metallic vessel slowly broke the surface of the glassy black waters, silhouetted by rugged, volcanic peaks that rose majestically—their jagged summits piercing the low-hanging cumulonimbus clouds. The silent, deadly technology of the submarine stood in stark contrast to its surroundings. In the distance, waves crashed against the rocky shores of the Aleutians, their rhythm accompanied by the plaintive cries of seabirds. Above, a vast, clear blue sky stretched out—uncharacteristic of the region, where fog, mist, and rough seas typically reigned supreme.

Below the waves, however, the past stirred uneasily. Ghosts in the fog, long unrested from their self-imposed perils, remained vigilant. These restless spirits, Japanese sailors from World War II, had once chosen death over surrender in these very waters. Their presence lingered, awakened now by the faint sound signature emanating from the submarine. It was a sound almost imperceptible to human ears—a gentle pulse of water on localized scars near the propeller's tip and back known by sonarmen as cavitation erosion. This wear, accrued during sixteen prior patrols, carried whispers of vulnerability that resonated through the deep.

In their spectral realm, the whisper of steel and sonar called forth ancient duty. These were not just ghosts of the sea but vengeful spirits of surface sailors, men whose ships were sent to watery graves by the silent predators of the deep. Their ethereal nature stood in haunting contrast to the living submariners, whose flesh and blood thrummed with the hum of modern technology. Their resentment sharpened with each echo, their purpose clear: to claim retribution against those who dared to traverse their final resting place.

The silent depths harbored more than the cutting-edge menace of Trident missiles and Mark 8 torpedoes. Here, the past and present collided, and the unseen shadows beneath the keel bore witness to the clash. As the submarine glided forward, its crew blissfully unaware of the ghosts that stirred, the stage was set for something beyond the ordinary challenges of the deep.

Surface sailors versus submariners, a clash of aquatic titans.

Life in the Steel Tube

Down in the mess deck, the hum of machinery was a familiar backdrop to the crew's banter. Kriner leaned back with a coffee in hand, exhaling smoke toward the low ceiling.

“Lucky bastard, you got topside watch?” Kriner jabbed at Whaledawg, smirking.

“Hey, the beauty of doing bullshit watch quals,” Whaledawg shot back. “You guys busted my balls for getting lookout qual, said I was sucking up to the Coners. But it was cool up there. Spooky, though. Mist and fog rolling in like something was watching.”

Kriner chuckled. “Better you than me. After Oosty relieved me, I hit the rack. You won’t believe this—a no-shitter. Wedge was tossing and turning. Sleeping naked as usual. Making all kinds of ruckus. Pretty Boy was yelling at him. You know Wedge sleeps in the top rack opposite me, Pretty's just below him in the middle rack. Porter’s below me.

Next thing I hear, Wedge's bunk curtain rips open, one of the rings snapping clean off. I open mine to see Wedge's bare ass just as Pretty Boy opened his curtain and looked up. Like slow motion, I see Wedge’s junk smack Dan right in the forehead. Porter apparently saw it too—we both busted our guts laughing."

The mess deck erupted with laughter, the cold steel walls carrying their amusement.

Porter wiped a tear from his eye and grinned. “Yeah, I even started a song about it!” He cleared his throat and, to the tune of the 1980s Cracker Jack commercial, belted out:

What do you get when you're catching a nap?
A bunkmate's junk with a resounding SMACK!
It's Wedge on the loose, and he's letting it flap,
That's the tale of Pretty Boy and the Dick Smack!

Kriner, gasping for air, laughed, “So Pretty Boy’s new nickname is Dicksmack?”

The mess deck howled with agreement.

Battle Stations Missile

The laughter in the mess deck was cut short by the sudden blare of the 1MC system.

"Man Battle Stations Missile for WSRT, spin up all missiles. This is the Captain. This is an exercise."

Instantly, the mess deck transformed. Mugs slammed down, cigarettes were stubbed out, and chairs scraped against the deck as the crew bolted into action.

Kriner's smirk vanished. “Let’s move,” he muttered, pushing off the bench.

Whaledawg sprinted toward Maneuvering, sliding into the throttleman’s seat, hands steady on the controls. Kriner raced to his post as Electrical Operator, eyes already scanning the panels. Porter climbed to the engine room upper level, monitoring the gauges. Pretty Boy hustled in, taking his place between Kriner and Whaledawg as Reactor Operator, the air thick with tension.

The submarine hummed with mechanical life as the drill kicked into high gear—but beneath the orchestrated chaos, something darker began to stir.

Torpedo in the Water

As the crew scrambled to their stations during the missile drill, the 1MC system blared again, but this time with a tone that sent ice through their veins.

"Torpedo in the water! Torpedo in the water! Bearing zero-seven-five! Range unknown! This is not a drill!"

The collision alarm wailed, echoing through the steel corridors.

Whaledawg's hands instinctively tightened on the throttles.

"All ahead flank! Dive! Dive! Rig ship for silent running! Make your depth six-five-zero feet!"

Kriner's eyes widened. "What the hell? A torpedo? Out here?"

Whaledawg's voice was sharp. "There’s no one out here... unless—"

Pretty Boy's hands trembled on the reactor controls. "Unless what?"

Before Whaledawg could answer, the sonar operator's voice cut through the tension.

"Conn, Sonar! The contact's... fading. It's... gone, sir."

The boat held its breath. The alarm fell silent. No explosion followed.

"Sonar, confirm. Is that torpedo still active?"

"Negative, Conn. No contacts. Nothing on bearing zero-seven-five. It's just... gone."

A heavy silence settled over the crew.

Kriner exhaled slowly. "This makes no sense."

Whaledawg's voice was low. "It’s not supposed to."

The Breaking Point

The submarine vibrated with raw energy as the crew raced to their stations. Whaledawg tightened his grip on the throttles, forcing the boat to all-ahead flank. Kriner’s eyes darted between electrical panels, monitoring the load. Pretty Boy's hands hovered nervously over the reactor controls, sweat beading on his forehead.

"Shifting port and starboard main seawater pumps to fast speed!" Whaledawg announced, steady but tense.

Deep in the engine room, the port and starboard main seawater pumps hummed, drawing heavy current from the 450-volt, three-phase busbars. Each steel busbar—thick and solid—channeled hundreds of amps of power. Unseen by the crew, the bolts securing the port pump’s wires to the busbars had been loosened, the malevolent spirits of the deep tampering telepathically with deadly precision.

As the pumps shifted to fast speed, a surge of current roared through the system. The loose connections on the port pump couldn't hold. The increasing load caused an arc to leap between phases. In an instant, plasma gas ignited at the top of the switchgear.

The explosion was immediate and catastrophic.

A blinding flash of white-blue light erupted from the port switchgear. A deafening roar followed as the back of the port electrical switchgear disintegrated. A violent shockwave tore through Maneuvering, blasting a ball of raw energy and shrapnel into the confined space.

Kriner was thrown hard against the bulkhead. Sparks rained down like molten hail. Whaledawg instinctively ducked as searing fragments tore through the air. Pretty Boy shielded his face, the console lights flickering wildly.

"Loss of port power!" Kriner shouted, his voice barely cutting through the chaos.

In the control room, every light and system suddenly went dark. The sonar, navigation, missile control—everything powered by the port side—was dead.

Whaledawg grabbed the sound-powered phone, dialing forward. "Tom! Check the ABT! Switch it to starboard!"

Moments later, Tom's voice crackled back, confusion thick in his tone. "Whale, I just checked the ABT before the drill—it was set to automatic. But now... it's in manual and locked on port. I don't know how that happened. Switching to starboard now!"

The hum of power surged back to life as the control room systems flickered on.

Without hesitation, the Chief of the Boat lunged forward. "Blow forward ballast tanks!" he barked, throwing the massive levers. The valves groaned as compressed air roared into the forward tanks.

"Blow aft ballast tanks!" the Chief commanded, pulling the second set of levers.

The submarine groaned under the sudden force, rising sharply. The steel hull shuddered as the vessel shot toward the surface like a missile launched from the depths.

With a deafening roar, the submarine breached the surface, rocketing out of the water in a towering spray. The hull slammed back into the sea with a thunderous crash, rocking violently before settling into a steady float.

Ghosts in the Wreckage

Breathless, Whaledawg and Kriner gathered the electrical team to inspect the wreckage. Smoke curled from the mangled switchgear. Scattered at the base of the blown panel lay the burnt and loosened bolts. Kriner knelt beside them, eyes narrowing.

"These... these bolts didn't just come loose," Kriner muttered. "Someone—or something—did this."

Before Whaledawg could answer, a voice cut in over the sonar channel.

"Sonar, Conn. Report contact."

"Conn, Sonar... faint contact, bearing zero-seven-five. Dead in the water. It’s... it’s weird, sir. Sounds like an old WWII Japanese surface ship. Exactly like the training tapes."

Static crackled on the radio. Then, an eerie, garbled transmission in Japanese broke through.

"...Mayday... sinking... help us..."

The bridge crew stared at the speakers, pale.

Lights flickered. Somewhere far off, metal groaned.

The periscope rose slowly. The officer of the deck peered through it, breath catching.

Out on the horizon, barely visible through the mist, a ghostly silhouette of a warship glided into the distance—its tattered flag limp in the still air.

And then, it was gone.

Echoes in the Deep

The boat rocked gently on the surface; the sea deceptively calm. Below deck, the crew moved in uneasy silence, their minds replaying the explosion, the ghostly contact, and the fading ship.

Whaledawg glanced at the darkened corner of the Maneuvering Room, the scent of burnt metal still thick.

A faint knock echoed somewhere deep within the hull.

Kriner froze. His mind drifted to lyrics of a song from his favored band. I am like steel falling through black water, I reach the bottom, I start again. I am like steel falling through black water, my fall it never ends.

Whaledawg’s grip tightened on the console.

The ghosts weren’t finished.