Authors: Patrick Robinson
And out on the Yehliu Road things were going from bad to worse. The Chinese army was having constant
problems with its surface-to-air missiles, and after 16 hours of sustained attack from Taiwan’s brave fighter pilots they had hit only one, and had themselves sustained hundreds of casualties. It was impossible to evacuate them all back to the beachhead, and their hospital capacity on the long sands was negligible. The fact was, China had to take Keelung, not just to provide a proper inbound port for her massed armies, but to give her a proper mechanized base for supplies of both food and ammunition, treatment of the wounded and communications. Right now they had no base on the island of Taiwan.
Admiral Morgan stared at the screen, trying to read between the lines. He was a military officer attempting to picture the scene in his mind. As were General Scannell and Admiral Dixon.
And it was the CNO who spoke first. “They don’t get ahold of that goddamned seaport in the next two days, they could find themselves in serious trouble,” he muttered.
“Think they might switch the attack altogether, maybe go south to Kaohsiung?” asked Bob MacPherson. “That’s as big as Keelung.”
“I wouldn’t have thought so,” replied Admiral Dixon. “According to our information, the bulk of the Taiwanese Army is trapped in the south, can’t get back north. But that army is probably in pretty good shape, mainly because they’re kinda stranded, with nothing to fight. By the look of this, the Chinese are determined to win the battle in the north, and right now they’re in some trouble.”
“They are that,” interjected Arnold Morgan. “They got a foothold in the container port, and another in the museum, which is what this war is at least partially about. But they have to consolidate, and that does not seem to be happening.”
“You know what their real problem is?” said General Scannell thoughtfully. “They are bound and determined
not
to knock down Taipei. And you take that option away
from an invading army, you cut its balls right off. You render them unable to use the ultimate force. If they rolled up their sleeves and began a bombardment of the capital city, flattening major buildings, destroying the downtown area, Taiwan would surrender inside of an hour. It’s not like the London blitz, or Berlin. It’s different. More like a civil war.
“And, faced with imminent death, or normal life under an ultimately benevolent ruler on the mainland, there’s only one answer for Taiwan. And until China gets prepared to slam Taipei, she’s gonna be fighting a half-assed conflict, against a very proud enemy. And that’s gonna cost them a lot of guys.”
“Not that they care about that,” said Arnold Morgan. “But I’m with you. They have to
take
Taiwan by force of arms…with an army occupying it mile by mile. Until Taiwan formally surrenders.”
“And the longer they take to get their asses in gear at Keelung,” said the CNO, “the worse it’s gonna get. In my opinion, they’d be better off knocking down Keelung to save Taipei.”
“They might at that,” added General Scannell. “But one thing’s for sure: They can’t stay long as they are now.”
The second item on the news was just as serious. The conflict in Taiwan had again sent the world oil markets into a complete frenzy. The prospect of a war, into which the United States might be drawn, always does. And here was the CNN newscaster reporting another chronic rise in the price per barrel. Brent crude was up $10, back to $64, having subsided from its peak of $72 as the Pondicherrys did their work in the Strait of Hormuz.
But Americans in the Midwest were paying four dollars a gallon at the pumps. And Texaco was intimating this could go to five in the weeks ahead, while the world’s VLCCs struggled to replenish supplies. Now the latest “spin” being placed on the news of China’s war with Taiwan was frightening the markets all over again.
What if the Chinese somehow seized control of the Malacca Strait? What would happen to Japan if the price of their fuel doubled again? They were still the world’s second-largest economy, and they needed fuel for everything. What price would they pay to survive? And where would this put the West?
Essentially this was a newsroom’s dream, free rein to terrify the populace, ratchet up the ratings and look wise. There were frowns, set beneath perfectly coiffed hairstyles and -pieces. There were expressions of deep concern and superior learning from men who had zero firsthand experience of politics, the military or the world’s financial markets. Save as onlookers.
“The question is, Where is this all going to end?” asked one of the network anchormen. “And what is the U.S. government planning to do about it? That’s what’s concerning every American here tonight.” He said it as if he had just plumbed the very depths of Socrates.
“What a total asshole,” observed Arnold Morgan.
Nonetheless the oil crisis remained exactly that. And the situation in Taiwan was out of control. Admiral Morgan knew only one thing—the United States had to get China out of the Bay of Bengal. The U.S. Navy had to lead the way in freeing up the oil routes both to the east and to the west.
He stood up and walked over to the window, staring out into the darkness. And he mused to himself in the silence of his profound intellect:
Whichever way you look at it, the financial fate of the modern industrial world right now lies in the hands of a dozen U.S. Navy SEALs, and may God go with ’em
.
1100. Saturday, June 2
.
U.S. Navy Base. Diego Garcia
.
Commander Donald Reid had temporarily handed over the wardroom in the recently arrived USS
Shark
to his
XO, Lt. Commander Dan Headley, and the Team Leader of SEAL Assault Team reunited somewhat surprisingly in this remote U.S. outpost in the Indian Ocean, had not yet progressed to their principal business.
Far from the steamy Bassein River Delta, their talk centered on a cool, sunlit afternoon in Maryland, two weeks previously, on Saturday, May 20, when a big gray colt named White Rajah had won the Preakness Stakes, by four lengths, over nine and a half furlongs, the second leg of the American Triple Crown.
White Rajah, bred in Kentucky by Rick Hunter’s father, Bart, raised from a foal under the supervision of Dan’s father, Bobby, thus joined the immortals who had thundered to victory in the 134-year-old classic: Man O’War won this, so did his son War Admiral. Then there were Whirlaway, Assault, Count Fleet, Citation and Native Dancer. Bold Ruler and his peerless son Secretariat, the greatest of all twentieth-century stallions, Northern Dancer, the Triple Crown winners Affirmed and Seattle Slew. They all won in Maryland.
White Rajah would retire to stud with a book value approaching $8 million. Breeders would line up to send mares to him at $50,000 each. And according to Rick there was a chance he would begin his new career at Hunter Valley Farms, the land of his forefathers, the land of his vicious grandpa, Red Rajah, who had once nearly bitten off the young Dan Headley’s arm.
“Been in touch with your dad?” asked the XO.
“Oh, sure. We fixed up some kind of a computer hookup right here a few days ago. I watched the race on one of the screens.”
“Hey, Ricky, that must have been really exciting.”
“Sure was. Even though I knew the colt had won. Christ! You should have seen him…heading into the last turn at Laurel Park…you know how damn tight it is…and it was a big field…bunched right up…the Rajah stuck in the middle…
“But they fanned out like always on that track, and there he was…two on his inside, three on his outside…holding his place…waiting for the split. Jorge hit him once, and he dug in…deep in the stretch he hit the front and at the eighth pole he was clear…drew right off…beat ’em by four lengths. No bullshit.”
“Fantastic, Ricky. Just fantastic. How ’bout the Belmont Stakes? They gonna let him take his chance in New York next week?”
“Dad says not. None of that family went twelve furlongs, and they think he only just saw it out at Churchill Downs. They don’t want to get him beat over a distance too far for him. I think they’ll put him away for the Travers at Saratoga, and if he wins take a shot at the Breeders’ Cup Classic. But they’re not gonna run him a yard over ten.”
“Yeah. Sounds right. The family really throws milers. But how come the owners don’t want to keep him and send him to stand at Claiborne?”
“Well, Dad’s put in a big offer, and of course he knows the bloodline. They been raising those big fiery bastards for years at Hunter Valley. I think the Rajah’s trainer thinks he’d be better among people who knew him as a foal. Guys who’re aware of the family’s tricky temperament. If he comes to Hunter Valley, the owners will probably hang on to four shares.”
“Guess so. And I guess my own daddy’s gonna end up in charge of him.”
“No doubt of that. And that’s gonna be real good news for you…if we get him, Bart’s giving your dad a breeding right to him. He told me.”
“One pop?”
“Hell no. Every year. First classic winner we’ve bred since 1980, and your dad gets to share the wealth. The Rajah hits in the breeding shed, your retirement is buttoned up safe.”
“Shit, Ricky. We gonna end up drinking cold beers in
the bluegrass, singing the music, and raising the yearlings.”
“Nah…not us. We got bigger things to do. That’s an ole man’s game. You and me gonna run the goddamned United States Navy.”
“Well if we are, we better get this next sonofabitch right or we might both end up dead. ’Specially you.” Dan Headley looked pensive.
He stood up and asked the steward for more coffee. “Have you looked at this mess?” he asked the SEAL boss. “According to the chart, there’s no way in except on a fucking Jet Ski.”
Rick Hunter chuckled. He’d spent a lot of his life chuckling with, or at, the son of his father’s right-hand man. When they were kids, Danny had always been the funnier one of the inseparable pair, and when they were old enough to sustain an interest in girls, it had usually been Danny who had attracted them most. Until they realized the potential of one day becoming the chatelaine of Hunter Valley Farms.
“Seriously, Dan, I can’t see how we can make it in there on the surface…straight up the middle of the channel. They’ll surely have a patrol boat. And there’s not enough water to bring even the ASDV in submerged.”
“I got a few notes right here, Ricky. Apparently there’s an unmarked channel in there, maybe forty feet deep, enough water to get a diesel-electric submarine into the jetties.”
“You mean right in the center of the tidal stream? Jesus, that’s only about as wide as the home stretch at Laurel Park.”
“Guess so.”
“I don’t need a submarine. Be better off on White Rajah. He knows how to stay straight.”
“Well, at least you’re not gonna be driving. Last time you and I tried to stay straight in the middle of the night
you hit a telephone pole with your dad’s truck and knocked out half the lights in Bourbon County.”
“Yeah,” said Rick. “But I was only eighteen years old.”
“Nonetheless, old buddy, your legend lives on. No one’s achieved anything like that with that particular pole since Arthur Hancock hit it in the middle of the night back in the 1960s.”
“Keep pretty good company, don’t I? The great Arthur Hancock and the future Admiral Rick Hunter. You want someone to put your lights out, you can’t do a whole lot better than us.”
“Well, I hope someone’s put ’em all out when you get into this Bassein River. You get caught, Chinese sailors slice off balls of aging Kentucky hardboot. First gelded SEAL reporting for duty, yessir.”
“Shut up, Dan, for Christ’s sake. You’re making me nervous.”
“Okay. No more jokee. Let’s have another look at that chart. Now, see this mark here, this is where your boss, Admiral Bergstrom, suggests we make the rendezvous point. We got one hundred sixty feet of water, and we can put
Shark
under the surface with room to spare. That’s 16.00N 94.01E, about twelve miles off the Burmese coast west sou’west of Cape Negrais.
“We launch the ASDV right there and steer one-two-zero straight into the mouth of the delta. It’s all of sixteen miles, and it’s going to take two and a half hours. That’s where it gets tricky, because you have to find the damn channel. We know it’s there, because we know they got a submarine in there. But we do not know where the hell it is, and right here we got a real issue.
“And a big question: Does it run north or south of this little island here…what’s it called? Thamihla Kyun. There’s a little deep water to the south, maybe sixty feet plus. But your men in Coronado think they dredged straight across this narrow shoal. It’s easier to drag silt
out of the shallows. Your guys think the channel’s right in there…. see? Right here…by this fifty-foot trench northwest of Thamihla.”
Commander Hunter stared at the chart. “Okay, but what if they’re wrong? We’ll just plow the ASDV straight into the bottom, and we might never get it out. How are we supposed to do this?”
“Very, very slowly, my lad. Using your sonar, sounding the bottom, carefully checking the surface picture whenever you dare. See this mark here? That’s a red can, flashing light every two seconds…I want you to take a visual on the periscope…the guys think you’ll pick up the main entry channel, right here…less than a mile east of the can. And that’s where you alter course. Speed three knots, steer three-five-zero for two thousand meters and change course at 15.53N 94.16E. At this point you are going to be in patrolled waters, and you’re gonna be awful careful, hear me?”
“Yessir, Danny. Jeez, you really know this submarine crap, right? I can see why your boss handed the insertion over to you.”
“Nearly. I had to ask him. I just didn’t want you going in there briefed by anyone except me. Kinda surprising how easily he agreed, though.”
“Guess he recognizes a young master.”
“Guess so. Just keep paying attention to what I’m telling you. We got another hour before lunch. Then the first formal briefing of your guys starts at fifteen hundred hours. I’m sitting in on it, so don’t fuck it up. Don’t want to have to keep correcting you. So listen.”
“How ’bout you listen for a minute, shithead?”