Authors: Patrick Robinson
The thick, reinforced walls of the turbine room had spared them the anxiety of listening to Rattlesnake take out the entire Chinese night patrol, but Rick was amazed by what he saw. He jumped over the two bodies, followed by Catfish, Bobby and Dallas, grabbed the rail and jumped the steps in two bounds. In front of him was the jeep, three more bodies lying around it, and one lying on it.
“What in the name of Christ?…” he muttered, just as Rattlesnake, Buster and the three rookies came charging in from the rough ground, Buster saying too loudly, “We had no choice…let’s GO-GO-GO…down to the marsh…do we take the jeep…?”
“Hell NO!” said Rick. “It’s too easy to follow. We’re better off in the dark, running on our own. Get my fucking attack board off my back, will you? We need the compass…. Okay…let’s go, that way…make a diagonal back to the fence at the jungle end…
GO NOW! ALL OF YOU! FOR FUCK’S SAKE, RUN
!”
And with that, the SEAL leader grabbed the M-60 from Rattlesnake and one of the rookies and tucked it under his arm, checking the belt to see what was left—about 36 rounds. He was the only one of them strong enough to handle it comfortably alone.
“DALLAS! Quick. Blow that fucking jeep up, willya? It’s faster than us and they may follow. Catfish’s got the grenades.”
But Catfish was off and running. Dallas, who had once considered an athletic career at 200 meters—an ambition abandoned only when he failed to make the 1992 U.S. Olympic team at the age of 14—could still run like hell, and he caught Petty Officer Jones in short order. He ripped the pin out of the grenade, and hurled it back at the jeep. Six seconds later, with the SEALs in full flight heading for the woods, it exploded in a fireball.
And it attracted the attention instantly of all four half-dressed but fully armed guards running out of the accommodation block. The light from the jeep illuminated the 11 black-hooded figures pounding across the rough ground making a southwest course toward the trees. And the frightened but disorganized Chinese instinctively opened fire. They were shooting almost blindly into the dark, in high but flickering light from the gasoline flames. But a bullet caught Buster to the right of his shoulder blade, paralyzing his arm, and knocking him flying to the ground.
The Chinese saw the SEAL go down, but they did not see Commander Hunter rumbling along 30 yards behind his men with the M-60 poised. Rick stopped, steadied the weapon, then opened fire at the four running Chinese, cutting them down, dead in their tracks in a bloody scream of anger and fear. Then he turned the machine gun onto the accommodation block itself and blew out all the side windows, in an attempt to discourage anyone else from giving chase.
Meanwhile Dallas and one of the rookies had the wounded Buster on his feet with both arms around their necks. But the pain in his right side was agonizing and he screamed as they tried to carry him to the trees. Rick Hunter finally caught up with them, ordered everyone to stop for 20 seconds, and then he injected a shot of morphine right into the stricken SEAL’s right shoulder.
“Let’s go…,” he said. “Fast as we can…Buster…
that shoulder’s gonna ease in a few minutes, old buddy. Don’t worry about it…” Buster Townsend, blood pouring down his back, nodded and smiled. “Thanks, guys,” he said.
And so they struggled on, plunging into the woods, glad of the dark, glad of the cover.
Behind them they had left abject chaos. The fact was that the Chinese Navy was fully aware the base was under attack. They had no idea, yet, of the scale of the attack. Nor indeed who was mounting it. They knew only that there appeared to be a gang of madmen running around murdering people.
The air was alive with the transmissions of cell phones as the comms rooms in the two warships talked both to each other and to the main control center of the base. The Commanding Officer of the Jangwei frigate was fastest into his stride. He hit the buttons to the destroyer suggesting they get helicopters into the air, with lights and pilots with night goggles. It was plainly essential to locate the killers as soon as possible.
The CO of the destroyer reacted equally quickly. Both of his helicopters were in a ground-crew service area, way over beyond the fuel farm. It was a workshop complex, with fuel pumps. But the choppers rarely used it, and the U.S. satellite trackers had scarcely bothered with it. The Captain knew they were there, and he moved fast to alert his air crew.
And this was just as well, because it was 0344 when the destroyer’s CO was on the phone, and his ship was just about 23 seconds away from being blown sky-high. And so was the frigate directly astern of him.
0345. Thursday, June 7
.
Haing Gyi Island, Burma
.
On an academic level, it was the limpet mine of Commander Rick Hunter, expertly clamped flat among the barnacles on the port side of the Luhai destroyer’s keel, that exploded first. Buster Townsend’s mine exploded two and a half seconds later. The viciously tailored “shaped” charges magnified the power of the detonation fivefold, and the limpets blew two gaping holes, one on either side of the keel, the blast slicing through the steel hull of the 6,000-ton warship.
Generally speaking this was all bad news for the People’s Liberation Army/Navy, but not quite as severe as it would become four seconds later when the Luhai’s torpedo magazine went up with a thunderous explosion, killing half of the ship’s company.
Any onlooker might have been dumbfounded at the scale of the explosion, stunned by the flames and billowing jet-black smoke. But it would nonetheless have been difficult to focus attention strictly on the destroyer, be
cause eight seconds after the torpedoes blew, the 2,000-ton Jangwei II frigate, moored dead astern, did a passable imitation of Hiroshima 1945, when the limpet mines fixed by Petty Officer Catfish Jones and Chief Mike Hook detonated with massive force right under the guided-missile magazines.
The little Jangwei, only 360 feet long, a ship that punched a lot harder than its size, paid the penalty for that and literally blew itself to pieces. The entire complement of guided missiles, the SSM 6 YJ-1 Eagle Strikes, the CSS-N-4 Sardines, the 1-HQ-7 Crotales, all contributed to the crushing explosion, and the docks shuddered, lit up with two towering fires that could be seen 10 miles away.
Only six men would survive in the frigate, only 50 out of 250 in the destroyer. Automatic fire alarms began to howl throughout the base, but they were drowned out by the colossal explosion in the fuel farm as one million gallons of diesel and jet fuel detonated into a raging furnace, courtesy of the Louisiana SEALs Rattlesnake Davies and the now-wounded Buster Townsend. Their carefully timed Mk-138 satchel bombs had blown apart a total of five holding tanks, and within moments the other seven had formed a gasoline inferno.
The roar from the fire almost, but not quite, drowned out the noise of the two other bombs blasting apart the fuel control center. In the middle of all this the coils of det cord, wrapped around the main electricity cables by Dallas MacPherson and Mike Hook, exploded with sufficient force to blow the manhole cover 60 feet into the air and permanently wreck the electronic fuel-control system.
And way over on the other side of the inlet, an unbelievable blast right by the main boiler in the basement of the control-and-communications center paid further tribute to the smooth black skills of Buster and Rattlesnake. The explosion literally caused the entire building to cave in, crushing all of its five occupants to death.
Residents of the base, at least those not gunned down in their tracks by the marauding U.S. Navy SEALs, believed they were witnessing the end of the world. Any other explanation seemed utterly inadequate. And the whole spectacularly awful scenario had erupted in under two minutes; out of nowhere. There was zero evidence of an attack either from the air or the sea. The place just seemed to be blasting itself to pieces.
Meanwhile, struggling through the woods on the north side of the base, the SEALs were still 1,200 yards from the edge of the marsh. Buster was losing blood, and he was still in pain despite the morphine. Rick Hunter ordered them to stop while he examined the wound, and to his dismay he discovered the bullet was still lodged in the flesh on the right side of Buster’s upper back, and he was losing blood fast.
He took Dallas MacPherson aside and told him to bring out the rest of the medical kit. Between them they had sticky and plain bandages, plus disinfected swabs for just this kind of wound, plus more disinfectant. But they had no groundsheets and they had to kneel Buster down, and he kept losing consciousness, and Rattlesnake held his head and splintered shoulder. Dallas held the tiny pinpoint light beam they had brought, and Rick Hunter gritted his teeth, and using a large pair of tweezers, designed for this particular task, gripped and pulled the bullet out.
Blood cascaded from the wound and Dallas tried to stop it with a strip he tore from his own shirt. Rick used a gauze pad soaked in strong disinfectant to clean it. And for the first time, Buster Townsend screamed, and Rattlesnake Davies, one of the toughest men ever to wear the trident, broke down and wept at the agony of his lifelong friend.
Rick Hunter kept going. He used another gauze pad and pressed it on the wound. Dallas fixed it tight with a roll of bandage that he wound around Buster’s chest, then stuck it down firm with the sticky tape. They stuck
another length of this around Buster’s upper arm, taping it tight to his side. Then Rick Hunter injected him with more morphine, and the SEAL climbed back to his feet, and Rattlesnake just said, “I’m taking him.”
He put Buster’s good arm over his shoulder and held his wrist, and with his own arm around the wounded man’s waist, they pushed forward, walking as well as they could through the undergrowth of the Burmese forest.
“I’m glad we did that,” said Rick. “We’ve stopped the blood, stopped the infection, and it isn’t going to get worse before we reach a doctor.”
Moments later Mike Hook’s radio, tuned to the frequency, picked up the bleep-bleep-bleep of the homing device in the inflatables, now parked somewhere down by the Letpan Stream. “Got ’em, sir. They’re waiting.”
“Good job, Mike…we just gotta stay on this course,” said Rick. “It’s due west and right now the attack board compass has us headed two-seven-zero. We’re right on the money—gonna pop right out of these woods on the left-hand fork of the stream, right where Shawn drew the spot.”
“You want a couple of us to make a bolt for it?” asked Lt. MacPherson. “Just to let the boat drivers know we’re on our way—tell ’em we got a problem?”
“Good call. Why don’t you, Mike and one of the rookies take that other little radio and get down there. Bobby’ll handle the transmitter. And use your compass—you know they say it’s impossible to walk through trees in a straight line?”
“Okay, boss. See you in about fifteen minutes.”
070400JUN07. USS
Shark
. Bay of Bengal
.
16.00N 94.01E. Speed 3. Racetrack course. PD
.
The watch changed at 0400, and Lt. Commander Dan Headley still had the ship. No sign yet of Commander
Reid, who had remained distant throughout the SEAL operation at Haing Gyi. Dan Headley knew he was not coming, at least not formally, to take over the watch. Although he thought the CO might show up casually a little later. He had just seemed extremely relieved when the XO had requested that he handle
Shark
during the Special Forces operation.
At that moment Lt. Pearson came into the control room and said the CO wished to see him in his room immediately.
“Any clue why, Shawn?”
“None, sir. He just stuck his head out of the door when I was passing and said to tell you.”
“Okay…Officer of the Deck, you have the ship.”
“I have the ship, sir,” replied Lt. Matt Singer.
Dan Headley made his way down to Commander Reid’s room, and was surprised to find the CO unshaven and looking fraught, which he considered was several degrees worse than worried.
“Hello, sir,” he said. “What’s up?”
“We have a very serious problem,” replied the boss of USS
Shark
.
“We do?”
“We certainly do. And before I elaborate, I want you to understand that I am talking about a subject on which I am something of an expert.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Mercury, XO, is just coming into retrograde.”
Dan Headley had rarely, probably never, been quite that bewildered.
“No shit?” he said, lamely.
Commander Reid glared at his second-in-command. “Do you, XO, have any idea how serious that can be? ANY IDEA WHATSOEVER?”
“Who, me?”
“Plainly, Lieutenant Commander, I am addressing you.”
“Well, sir. I’m not quite sure what you mean.”
“MERCURY, XO! One of the greatest planets of the universe, will be in retrograde by dawn. MOVING BACKWARD. CAN YOU UNDERSTAND THE SIGNIFICANCE OF THAT, XO?”
Commander Reid’s voice was rising. And so were Lt. Commander Headley’s antennae.
“Astrology is what we are discussing, Mr. Headley. Astrology. The ancient study of cycles—created originally by the Chaldeans of Babylonia three thousand years before Christ. Babylon, XO, Iraq in the modern world.”
“Oh, Saddam’s mob. Guess I hadn’t figured them as students of the universe.”
“Maybe not, maybe not. But I am a student of the universe. And I must tell you that when the planet Mercury begins to turn in an apparent backward motion, things can become extremely difficult. It’s one of the ancient laws of the zodiac.”
“Sir, look, I am sure this is all very fascinating, but I’ve got twelve brave men trying to get out of a Chinese Naval base under the most terrible circumstances. Could we go into retrograde some other time?”
“XO. ARE YOU ACCUSING ME OF IRRELEVANCE? THERE IS NOTHING MORE RELEVANT THAN MERCURY IN RETROGRADE. I’M TALKING OF MATTERS AS OLD AS TIME, FOR GOD’S SAKE!”
“Sir, I’m talking about high explosives, the destruction of a major Chinese Navy installation. I’m talking about life and death.”
“And what could be more significant to that matter of life and death than the slow reverse motion of a mighty planet, stilled briefly in the heavens? MERCURY IN RETROGRADE, SIR! WE ARE ABOUT TO BE BOMBARDED BY THE TIMELESS, MADDENING EFFECTS OF THE PLANET THAT CONTROLS US!” And his voice rose even higher. “
CAN YOU UNDERSTAND THAT, XO
?”
Dan Headley was at a loss. But at that moment the phone rang. The CO grabbed it and handed it over immediately. “Sir”—Lt. Singer’s voice was almost as urgent as Commander Reid’s—“can you come back? The SEALs have a problem. Buster Townsend has been badly wounded. They’re being hunted down by helicopters, sir. It’s bad. Please come back up here.”
Dan Headley’s heart missed at least two beats, maybe three. “Sir, excuse me. We have a problem.”
“PROBLEM? PROBLEM? OF COURSE WE HAVE A PROBLEM! WE’RE IN RETROGRADE. AND WHICH PLANET IN THE GREAT SCHEME OF THE UNIVERSE DO YOU THINK CONTROLS ALL TRANSPORTATION AND COMMUNICATION ISSUES?…”
“Me? I’m not really sure about that, sir. But I gotta go.” And with that Dan Headley charged out of the door, and long after he had turned the corner for the companionway, he heard the CO shout, “MERCURY, SIR, MERCURY! AND WHERE THE HELL DO YOU THINK IT WAS ON AUGUST 14, 2000? ANSWER THAT, DAMN YOU.”
Dan heard that, all right. It was the day the
Kursk
hit the bottom of the Barents Sea.
We got a problem okay. But it’s not some hunk of fucking rock flying backwards around outer space. It’s sitting right back there in that little room—Reid in Retrograde is a lot more like it
.
Inside the control room, there was an atmosphere of extreme concern. Lieutenant Singer was on the line to comms. The satellite signal just in from the driver of the lead inflatable was brief and forbidding.
It read: “
070410JUN07. 16.00N 94.19E—SEAL team delayed in escape from Haing Gyi. Townsend walking wounded. PLAN has helos up searching shoreline to Letpan Stream. Nine SF trapped in high woods unable to reach boats. Attempting new RV downstream. Inflatables not located. Chinese base history. Hunter
.”
Master Chief Drew Fisher had the conn, and Lt. Com
mander Headley read the signal carefully. Lt. Singer handed him one of the 10-inch-wide scale maps on which Lt. Pearson had drawn in the details of the triangular island, and they assessed the situation.
There was a distance of 1,000 yards downstream of the rendezvous point along the edge of the marsh. Right there the map showed a wide inlet of water running right into the shore. Shawn’s map showed trees almost 40 feet high all the way. There was no doubt Rick would make his way along there and make a rush for the boats. Since the helos had plainly not yet located the inflatables, there was obviously high grass cover in the marsh. The problem was probably the inlet—everyone would have to break cover in there, and then attempt to charge out through the shallows across the Haing Gyi Shoal. Three miles.
“Mother of God,” whispered Lt. Singer. “They haven’t got a prayer on the open water.”
“You mean the helos?”
“Yessir.”
“Actually, they have two chances, Lieutenant. To break cover in secret, unseen by the helos. Or to shoot the fuckers down. They have three standard M-60s, right? One already in each boat, one with the team.”
“You need to be a bit lucky to down a helo with one of those, sir. But I know it’s been done plenty of times, and they do have six belts of ammunition in each boat.”
“Where would you rather be, Lieutenant? On the ground with the guys holding the ammunition belts, or in a helo being machine-gunned by Commander Hunter?”
“On the ground with the Commander, sir. No question…. But what are we going to do?”
“Tell comms to get a signal in. Tell the boat driver to let us know the moment they’re under way. We’re going in to get ’em.”
“Christ, sir. There’re only about thirty-five feet of water this side of the big shoal.”
“I don’t actually give a fuck if there’re only two feet. We’re not leaving them.”
“
I’m afraid that decision will be made by me
.” And all three men in the control room turned to see Commander Reid standing there, very calmly, in marked contrast to his demeanor of just a few moments ago.
“Debrief me, XO. I need to appreciate the precise situation if you are planning to endanger the lives of my entire crew, and indeed of USS
Shark
itself.”
Lieutenant Commander Headley walked over to him, and his tone was icy. “This is the map of the island, sir. The X there marks where the boats came in to embark the SEALs. This mark is where we anticipate the team will move, in order to embark farther downstream. There are PLAN helos up, but they have not yet discovered either the boats or Commander Hunter’s team.”