U.S.S. Seawolf (33 page)

“Perfect. The guys have landed. It’s around oh-one hundred Thursday. They should all be on the
Reagan
by oh-four hundred. You have a time frame in mind?”

“Is the submarine ready?”

“Yessir. Right on station. Five miles off the carrier’s bow, my last report. ASDV’s prepared, in the shelter on deck.”

“According to my charts, John, we’re nine hundred and fifty miles out—which means that if we leave right away the guys will be in the area, say sixty miles south in deepish water, by Friday afternoon…they go in as soon as it’s dark…and we want ’em out by oh-two hundred Sunday morning…Operation Nighthawk starts Sunday night. It’s tight. Too tight. But it’s now or never.”

“You got it, sir…we’ll talk in an hour. I got Frank Hart on the other line…secure from Okinawa…we’re all set.”

Arnold Morgan smiled darkly, picked up his green
telephone and hit a button connecting him to the President’s secretary. “Hi, Miss Jane,” he said. “Arnold Morgan here. Would you tell the President to cease whatever the hell he’s doing for the next ten minutes, and report to my office with the utmost speed and stealth.”

Miss Jane laughed, despite the fact that it was entirely possible no one in the entire history of the White House had ever issued such a blunt command to a sitting President of the United States.

She relayed the message verbatim to the Chief Executive, who also laughed, as much as he was capable of laughing these days, and excused himself from a meeting with Harcourt Travis and the Israeli ambassador. Then he made his way to Admiral Morgan’s office with the utmost speed and stealth.

“Hey, Arnie…how do we look?”

“Sir, we look just about as good as it’s possible to look, given our awful circumstances.”

“Have we found ’em?”

“Yup, we found ’em.”

“Have we got a shot at rescue?”

“It’s under way, sir. Siddown. Let me fill you in.”

When President Clarke returned to the Oval Office 20 minutes later, he no longer felt that the burden of the catastrophe in Canton was entirely on his shoulders. Right now he felt he was sharing it with a lot of very, very good guys, and that in the end, there was a real chance Linus would make it home. He had not felt that way before.

0330 (local). Thursday, July 13
.
U.S. Navy Operational Runway
.
Okinawa-Jima
.

The huge Sea Stallion helicopter came thundering, out of the night for the third time, hovering and then touching down gently on the runway lately vacated by the Galaxy.
Off to the left, standing outside in the warm air blowing southerly off the Philippine Sea, were Lt. Commander Rick Hunter, Chief Petty Officer John McCarthy, and a half-dozen other SEALs who had been supervising the loading of the gear and their 40-odd colleagues who had already made the journey out to the
Ronald Reagan
.

Colonel Hart was working high in the tower with Lt. Commander Bennett and a small staff setting up the operational headquarters on the carrier. These were excellent quarters, because Admiral Art Barry, the battle group commander, had decided the SEAL commander should work in conjunction with his own 70-strong staff in the admiral’s own ample-sized ops room.

This was principally because Operation Nighthawk would be relatively short, just a few days, and it would not be worth installing a brand-new set of comms and computerized naval charts. Besides, Admiral Barry was longing to know precisely what was going on, and he very much wanted to work with the legendary Colonel Hart, around whom an unmistakable aura of mystique revolved.

Anyway, Art Barry now had the carrier under way, moving southwesterly in a long swell toward Taiwan at around 25 knots. When Rick Hunter and his men arrived they would have made by far the longest of the three helicopter journeys. But the Sea Stallion had a range of almost 600 miles and clattered along at 130 knots, eating up the now 90-mile journey from Okinawa in 45 minutes.

It touched down on the gigantic 1,090-foot-long flight deck of the carrier at 0430, and the SEALs set about unloading the last of their crates, the ones with the high explosive. There were two forklift trucks and four ordnance staff from the carrier to assist in the removal of the C4, the limpet mines, and the 40-pound satchel charges, and to ensure that they were safely stored, ready for transportation to the island of Xiachuang.

Chief John McCarthy went down in the aft lift on the port side with the forklifts in order to check and mark the
explosive cases in their designated area. Several of the other SEALs, already regarded with some awe by the deck crew, stood around looking at the lines of fighter/attack aircraft, placed neatly around the perimeters of the flight deck, with the great central runway left clear for landing on at all times. The carrier’s giant steam catapults can have these fighters away at 20-second intervals if necessary.

Flight crew pointed out the aerial cavalry gathered on the deck of this ferocious example of front-line United States naval muscle: the 20 F-14D Tomcats, ranged in two lines on the starboard side. Toward the stern, the SEALs could see four EA-6B Prowlers, four Hawkeyes, six Vikings, two Shadows, and six helicopters.

In two long lines to starboard was a total of 36 F/A-18 Hornets, the lightning-fast workhorse of the U.S. naval attack strike force. Out here in the black of the Pacific night, the
Ronald Reagan
, America’s mighty fortress at sea, seemed to flex its rippling muscles as it pitched heavily through the rising ocean, with more than 2,000 fathoms beneath the keel. And it seemed well nigh incredible that the all-powerful U.S. military machine could not just roar in anger, right out here from this colossus of an aircraft carrier, and terrify the Chinese into returning
Seawolf
and the men who drove her.

But the subtleties of modern checks and balances of power, and the appalling ramifications of war on a global scale, sometimes render such monstrous examples of brute strength back to the age of the dinosaurs. Sometimes it works, but not always. And this was one of the tricky ones. The SEALs’ silent methods, involving high planning and low cunning, more often than not left an enemy utterly bewildered as to the identity of the culprit.

God willing, this weekend would see them carry out their deadly work in secrecy. And it was paradoxical that the most terrifying secret of all was already standing unrecognized, less than 100 feet away, from the on-deck SEALs. No, one noticed two F/A-18 Hornets, armed,
parked separately at the end of the line, both ready to go, the second in case the first failed to start. No chances taken.

Clipped underneath the fuselage of each Hornet was a 14-foot-long, dark green, laser-guided armor-piercing Paveways bomb, its warhead containing almost 1,000 pounds of compacted high explosive, sufficient to penetrate the heavy steel hull of a big nuclear submarine.

0900 (local). Friday. July 14
.
Admiral’s Briefing Room
.
USS
Ronald Reagan
.
20.15N 116.10E. Speed 30
.

There were 15 men in attendance, including the 12 SEALs who would make the insertion into the island tonight, led by Lt. Commander Rusty Bennett. He sat at the main table with the mission’s forward platoon leader, Lt. Commander Rick Hunter. In front of them sat Rusty’s number two man, the ASDV and landing boat expert Lt. Commander Olaf Davidson. There were two lieutenants, Paul Merloni and Dan Conway; the grappling-iron ace Chief Petty Officer John McCarthy; and the ex-deep water fisherman Petty Officer Catfish Jones. The two SEALs from the bayous, Rattlesnake Davies and the alligator-killing Buster Townsend, were also there, plus four other noncommissioned SEALs.

Standing up behind the table was the overall mission controller, Colonel Frank Hart, now wearing a SEAL uniform, holding a mahogany officer’s baton. Behind him
was a large bulletin board to which was pinned a chart of the island of Xiachuan. At the back of the room, allowed to sit in, was Rear Admiral Art Barry.

The doors were locked, and outside, two armed sentries were on duty. No one was permitted entry. And the tension inside the room was high. All of the SEALs sat silently, alone with their thoughts, not least the one they all tried to hide away: “
Tonight may be the last night of my life
.”

Frank Hart was slowly pacing the width of the room in front of the chart. There was taughtness written all over his face. “Gentlemen,” he said, “you all know the broad outline of tonight’s mission, which you must regard as covert in the extreme. You are to land on the island, in the south, establish a rendezvous point behind the beach, and then the observation party will move northeast, a distance of six miles, probably through tall jungle, and establish two observation posts as near to the jail as possible without getting caught.

“Now I have delayed this briefing until the last moment, because it is essential that it remain fresh in your minds. For those of you who have not been told, I will now let you know formally. Inside that jail, probably undergoing the harshest form of interrogation, is the entire crew of
Seawolf
, among them the ship’s executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Linus Clarke, die son of the President of the United States.

“It is unnecessary for me to explain the gravity of that situation, save to say that immediately upon your safe return to the carrier, with detailed maps, diagrams, and notes, we will be sending in one of the largest Special Forces expeditions ever assembled by the United States in peacetime to rescue the prisoners and get them out to the carrier.

“We will attack suddenly and brutally. It is entirely likely that there will be no Chinese military survivors…but, gentlemen, there is one thought that must never leave your minds: Discovery is unacceptable. If you should be
caught, the entire mission will be over…because the Chinese will instantly reinforce the island with helicopters, heavy ordnance, troops and maybe even warships standing offshore…and they will remove the prisoners to another jail, none of whom will ever see their homeland again.”

The colonel paused. Allowed his words to hit home. And he walked back across the room before continuing, “I doubt that any of you will ever undertake any mission so carefully observed from the Oval Office…and your watchword must be ‘care’—because if you should be careless even for one split second, and you should be detected even by one guard, we will almost certainly have to abort the mission, because massive Chinese reinforcements will be there inside the hour. Should you kill the guard and get away yourselves, the result will be the same, because he’ll be missed.

“I can only ask your indulgence when I say one more time…for Christ’s sake, be careful.”

He walked to the table and selected a small sheaf of papers, which he first studied and then replaced.

“In my capacity as mission controller, I will now give you our timetable. Each of you will be given a copy that you will memorize and then destroy…two hours from now you will embark in the helicopters and they will fly you with your gear out to the Los Angeles-class nuclear submarine USS
Greenville
, which is currently patrolling a couple of miles off our starboard beam,

“Right now, we’re two hundred and ten miles south of the Chinese coast, and you will thus make the rest of the journey to Xiachuan in the submarine, running deep toward the mainland until we essentially run out of water, about thirty miles from shore. At that point, the eight underwater SEALs will board the ASDV, which you will see is in dry dock on the deck, and run in to about a half mile from the shore when it starts to get really shallow, only about fifty feet of depth—the ASDV is thirty feet high.

“From there you will disembark and swim in. The water’s warm, sandy bottom, not rough, no sharks to speak of…the other four will make the journey in a small Zodiac inflatable, cutting the engine and paddling in the final thousand yards. The Chinese do have a fast-attack patrol boat moored alongside on the island, but we have not observed it leaving before midnight. We’ll be in by then.

“We then establish our rendezvous point dragging the boat and its cargo up the beach into the cover of the trees. Inside the boat will be two machine guns, two trenching shovels, medical supplies, the radio, GPS, ammunition, a few hand grenades and three smoke grenades, compass, laptop, binoculars, camouflage nets, and two waterproof shelters. Plus, of course, cold water and food. As you all know, it can rain like hell out here in July—it’s doing it now, for Christ’s sake.

“As SEALs you will all be responsible for your own weapons…and the observation party will leave the rendezvous point almost instantly…soon as you’re organized.”

He pointed at the chart, tracing with his baton a line from the southwestern peninsula, where they were scheduled to make their landing, to the northeast where the jail was located. “There are a couple of mountains, both of which you go around…but this one here, north of the jail, has slopes that look to me as if they may give some vantage points right above the jail, and that is where you want to make your OP. Don’t take out the guards, because if you do, the game will be up. Try to find a nice quiet spot and mentally take the place to pieces, bring us back the information…and the Big Team will go in on Sunday night.

“Basically I’d like you guys in position by around twenty-three hundred on Friday night…and on your way out by oh-two hundred on Sunday morning which should give you time to assess the guards, their numbers and patrols throughout the day and night…
you will of course leave the island quickly, the same way you entered, via the RV, swimming out to the ASDV, which you locate with the GPS and its homing beep…but four men will remain on the island to help the guys get in on Sunday night.

“The landing point for the main assault force will be different from the departure point right here…because we’re going to have a lot of people leaving, and we want a beach as close as possible to the jail, which will be subdued by then.

“For the prisoner rescue, and the main force extraction, we may have some of our guys in bad shape…we’ll have eight big inflatables working, but it will probably take two, maybe three trips out to the deeper water where our submarines will be waiting. Now I’ll hand you over to your team leader, Lieutenant Commander Rusty Bennett, who will announce the detailed orders…Rusty?”

The iron man from the Maine coast stood up and began immediately. “If it’s at all possible I want the twelve of us inside that submarine very fast. Our gear has already been transferred and the inflatable’s on board. But the Chinese have their own satellites and I don’t want them to get a shot of us making a transfer two hundred miles off the coast. So that means we’re gonna fast-rope it, soon as the chopper gets over the deck, it’s gloves on and down, then straight inside. Anyone not comfortable with that?” The SEALs stayed silent.

“Right, when we exit the submarine, into the ASDV, there will be eight of us. Lieutenant Commander Davidson will be in charge of the exit from the dry dock in company with Petty Officer Catfish, Hank, and Al. Inside the ASDV with me will be Lieutenant Merloni, Lieutenant Conway, Chief McCarthy, Rattlesnake Davies, Buster Townsend, John and Bill.

“The submarine will give us a fifty-five-minute start, while we run in at eighteen knots. Then it will surface while Lieutenant Commander Davidson, Petty Officer
Jones, John and Bill very carefully lower the Zodiac into the water with all the stuff. And don’t for Christ’s sake let it tip over. The submarine will then disappear and you guys will run in at high speed going straight for the landing beach, located at GPS 21.36N 112.315E. You will find that the Zodiac, which is only a twenty-footer, has an especially big engine, a Johnson Two-fifty, and it will go like a bat out of hell. It also carries a lot of extra gas. We expect the seas to be calm inshore, under rainy skies, and you should knock the journey off in under the hour, even paddling in the last thousand. Don’t, by the way, run over the fucking swimmers!

“I’ve timed it so that we should be on the beach fifteen minutes before the Zodiac. That way we gotta lot of muscle to carry the boat fast, up into the undergrowth, and establish our RV. We will then dust off our tracks on the beach, pick our spot, get the waterproof shelter up under camouflage nets, establish one of the machine guns and split up.

“The RV group commander will be Lieutenant Commander Davidson, and he will be accompanied by Catfish, Hank and Al. These four men will not leave the island when the swimmers return to the submarines. Instead they will remain on station at the RV point before moving to the assault beach where the Big Team comes in. That’s located on the east side of the island, south-facing, a fraction less than a mile southwesterly from the jail, GPS 21.39N 112.38E. The small Zodiac will eventually join the four boats ferrying the guys out early Sunday morning.

“Is all that clear?”

“Sir.” Everyone nodded.

“Meanwhile, the eight of us, Paul Merloni, Chief McCarthy, Rattlesnake, Buster, Dan, John and Bill, will get our wet suits off and get into jungle gear, with camouflage. We’ll travel as light as we can, but since it’s always fucking raining, we’ll want stuff to keep us dry, and we’ll
have to take a machine gun in case we get into real trouble and have to fight our way out. Likewise a radio and a few smoke grenades to help the rescue helicopters should we have to whistle ’em up. But I really hope that will not be necessary.

“Our walk into the observation area will be six miles through uninhabited primary forest. The colonel here has already supervised the loading of each man’s pack, distributing the gear equally among us. We don’t have to think about that. We just saddle up and leave the RV point, right? Unhappily, we do have to take a couple of shovels to get rid of any waste,
and
we will need machetes because we have to stay on bearing and we may meet impenetrable forest. We also want a coupla pairs of heavy pruning shears in case we have to cut silently. But we don’t need explosives. Remember, we are a reconnaissance party and our aim is to remain totally undetected…now, how about questions…address them to Colonel Hart.”

“Sir, do we know how many guards and Chinese personnel are in the jail?” asked Dan Conway.

“Not really,” replied the colonel. “I was rather hoping you guys would find that out.”

“Do they have any heavy guns, choppers or missile ships around?”

“The guns are, again, up to you to find. We have observed two helicopters parked right outside the jail. There is a patrol ship, a small fast-attack craft, but it’s quite far from the jail. Shouldn’t worry us, but the boys’ll probably have to get rid of it on Sunday.”

“Do we know how many of our guys are being held prisoner?”

“More than a hundred.”

“How about
Seawolf
? What’s happening about that?”

“I’m afraid we’re going to scuttle her. Sunday night. Coupla hours before the guys go into Xiachuan.”

“How, sir?”

“I’m not sure. But I know it’s organized to have them think their own scientists simply screwed up the temperature of the nuclear reactor. The explosion will frighten them half to death, and that will provide a terrific diversion for us. Canton’s only an hour away in a chopper. I’m hoping they won’t have an American attack on their minds. They’ll be too busy.”

“Sir, are all the guys from
Seawolf
in there?”

“We think so. But we have no information whether they have killed anyone.”

“Why do they want them, sir? They’re not hostages, are they?”

“No, they’re not hostages. But the Chinese have spent years trying to build a big nuclear attack submarine, stealing or buying the technology wherever they can. And now they have such a submarine captive, which they can copy—and they’ll do that ten times faster if they can persuade key members of the crew to help them…”

“Sir, does our government have an attitude about all this?”

“Very much. But the Chinese have taken a very devious line. They’re saying
Seawolf
was damaged in a minor collision with one of their destroyers. All they did was answer a call for help from its commanding officer, and now—surprise, surprise—it’s developed a possible nuclear leak, and they can’t release it till it’s fixed, which they say won’t be for another two or three weeks.”

“Give ’em time to copy it, right, sir?”

“Not hardly. They’d want a lot longer than that, even if they have real help from the top technicians in the crew.”

“Jesus.”

“Do you think they would try to torture them? Force the information out of them?”

“Yes. Yes I do. Don’t you?”

“Guess so,” replied Lieutenant Merloni. “We better get ’em out. In a big hurry.”

1050. Friday, July 14
.
Flight Deck. USS
Ronald Reagan
.
210 miles off the Chinese Coast
.

The Sea King lifted off the portside diagonal runway, its howling rotor slashing through the rain. Forty feet up, almost level with the plantation of electronic aerials at the top of the island, its nose tilted forward and it rocketed away, over the raging white wake from the bow wave, straight out toward USS
Greenville
, which could be seen on the surface two miles off the carrier’s port bow.