Authors: Patrick Robinson
Rick checked the courtyard for American guns or equipment that might have been dropped in the general melee. Dan Conway and Buster Townsend led the orderly stampede down the half mile to the beach where Lieutenant Commander Bennett awaited them, still covered in mud, blood and gunpowder. With his face blackened and his “drive-on rag” spattered red, he looked like Crazy Horse’s half-brother after Little Bighorn.
The night was still hot, but, as if on cue, it began to rain again, and it was slanting, tropical monsoon rain that lashed down on them, refilling the long puddles in the courtyard and soaking the winding column of men that had formed behind the lead SEALs.
Dan and Buster led them to the north for a very slow 400 yards along a rough path hacked out of the under
growth by Olaf’s men an hour earlier, as soon as the jail had fallen into American hands. But the jungle was lower here as the land fell away toward the sea, and there was a lot of overhang, wet branches and undergrowth. The rain was belting down so hard it was forming small lakes instantly along the little track, and the SEALs up front, carrying the five stretchers right behind Buster, were slipping and sliding and cursing in the pitch dark.
Progress was painfully slow. It took 10 minutes to cover that first quarter mile, and nothing much improved when Dan changed course, now heading northeast. The terrain was, if anything, worse as the jungle thinned out above this particular stretch of beach. There were deep puddles and areas that were almost a quagmire, and they were unavoidable because nobody could see them until they were in them, up to their ankles in mud. It was very tough for the stretcher-bearers to keep their balance, and sometimes they didn’t. But no one capsized and 17 minutes after they had left the jail, the long column of Americans reached the beach.
“Christ, we thought you’d never get here,” said Lieutenant Commander Bennett, walking up to meet them. “Better hurry before the boats fill up with rainwater and sink.”
Dan Conway chuckled and followed the SEAL beach boss down to the water where the Zodiacs were moored on the sand, with their bows facing the short surf rolling in from the east. The little waves caused each boat to rise very slightly with the tide, but only the first three feet of the Zodiacs was in the water.
“Okay, guys,” called Rusty. “Let’s get one stretcher in each of the first five boats, and while we’re doing that, Buster, count out the next twenty-seven men and have them report to the last three inflatables in the line. I got two guys on each boat, the driver and one other to help with the launch…only the drivers go.”
Since everyone on the beach was in the Navy, it was a well-disciplined operation. Only the stretchers were diffi
cult, but the SEALs had done it before, and they laid each one flat on the temporary decking they had fitted to the frame before last night’s launch. They centered the stretchers forward, which would allow other passengers to sit or kneel in a line facing aft, holding on to the handles if the sea got up.
It was complicated, but by the time Rusty had the operation halfway complete, the three boats at the far end were loaded and ready. Lt. Commander Linus Clarke was in one of them.
Rusty sent them ahead. This was no time to hang around. It was already 0335 and it would be light in less than three hours, and that was really bad news, because if the Chinese wanted to wipe them out, they could bomb and strafe this beach with absolute impunity as soon as their helicopter pilots could see the evacuation taking place.
He walked down to the end Zodiac, which was now floating 30 feet out from the beach, its painter held by a SEAL standing up to his chest in the water. And he called out through the rain, “Okay, guys, start the engines and head on out…southeast for three miles, then sou’-sou’west, course two-zero-two for six…you gottit all on the GPS tracks…just remember what I told you…when you’ve been running at twenty knots for nine miles—nearly half an hour—
Hartford
lies right at that point…you’ll pick up her beacon…that’s all…GO NOW…and don’t fuck it up.”
All the SEALs loved the last phrase. It was a Rusty Bennett trademark, and since they all hero-worshiped the iron-souled lieutenant commander from the coast of Maine, each driver felt that it was a personal goodwill message to him alone. Which is, in a sense, what real leadership is all about.
Back on the beach, the remaining personnel heard the big powerful engines on the Zodiacs growl into life. And they heard the long straining beat of the motors as they fought to lift their heavy loads up onto the “stump” of the
wash. Then they heard the acceleration as the inflatables found their high-speed trim and literally flew over the calm water, all three together, racing beam on beam, bearing the President’s son and 26 other crewmen to safety.
When the next two boats, carrying stretchers, were ready in the water, held by SEALs, Rusty ordered them to leave. That way he had three out in front, two a couple of miles back on the same course, and there would be a group of three Zodiacs bringing up the rear. No one would be far from help if anything went wrong mechanically. Which it had better not, otherwise the engineers, who had meticulously prepared the Zodiac outboards, would probably end up on the wrong end of the modern-day equivalent of a thousand lashes. At least that’s what Lieutenant Commander Bennett told them would happen.
And now, as the last of the engines died away in the rainswept distance of the South China Sea, there was little more they could do but wait for an hour for the boats to return. The next time, the eight boats would take 72 more off, but by then it would be 0445. And there would still be 30 men on the beach, with no hope of escape before 0555, a few minutes before dawn. And then they would be running south for almost a half hour in gathering daylight.
“This,” muttered Rusty Bennett, “is going to be tight. Fucking tight. ’Specially as me, Rick and Ray Schaeffer will be in the last boat to leave.”
But the new column was arriving now, more than 100 men walking slowly toward the beach in the dark and rain, the SEALs, weapons at the ready, marching to the side, watching the jungle edges, even though they knew there could not be any more Chinese guards on the loose. Not unless there was a parachute drop they didn’t know about. Nonetheless, a stranger would have thought the crew of the late USS
Seawolf
was under close arrest, rather than U.S. Navy protection.
By the time everyone was on the beach, almost 20
minutes had passed since the last Zodiac had left. The jail was now deserted, and would remain so until the gassed personnel in the dormitory began to recover in the small hours of tomorrow morning.
Judd Crocker was still on the island, and would leave in the last boat carrying his crew members, sometime in the next 45 minutes. Like the final dozen men in the first eight-boat flotilla, Judd would be transferred to the USS
Cheyenne
, which now waited on the surface only six miles off the southern beaches of Xiachuan, in less than 100 feet of water.
He was talking to Rick Hunter right now, expressing his concern over the condition of Brad Stockton, who had been savagely interrogated, mainly because the Chinese thought he was the most senior man in the crew, aside from the CO.
“I wouldn’t worry too much, sir,” said the SEAL leader. “We have a Navy doctor who specializes in torture-type damage in each of the submarines. They’ll get him fixed up. Anyway, we’re making the transfer to the carrier within a very few hours, and there’s a full-blown hospital in there.”
Judd Crocker nodded, and Rick Hunter asked suddenly, “Was it bad, sir?”
“Well, it wasn’t great.”
“What did they want from the crew members?”
“They really wanted information. But they wanted it in a very specialized form…you know, they wanted a guided tour of the combat systems by Lieutenant Commander Rothstein. I expect you know this, but these are among the most complicated systems on the ship…and while they would certainly be able to copy them, make plans, and for all I know, remove certain parts, there’s nothing like having the man who works them in your corner.”
“No, I guess not…so those little bastards really wanted to get ahold of all of our specialists on the ship, and get them to spill the beans on all the subtleties of the
electronics—so they could make a submarine of the same standard as
Seawolf
…?”
“Lieutenant Commander, you have it right there.”
“Jesus Christ, cunning little bastards…but what I don’t know is how they managed to capture the submarine in the first place, sir…what happened?”
“Well, it might be classified, but since ten thousand Chinamen and more than one hundred crew and half of SUBPAC know, I guess there’s no harm in my enlightening the officer who rescued us…”
Rick Hunter chuckled in his deep, quiet Kentucky manner. “In any event, sir, you may count on my discretion…we’ll say it was passed on under the ‘need to know’ syndrome, since we’re not out of this fucking hellhole quite yet.”
Judd Crocker laughed. “May I call you Rick?”
“Of course.”
“Well, Rick, I am about to impart to you a brief shining example of a monumental snafu. On a dark night, way out there in the South China Sea, we managed to wrap our propeller hard around the long towed array of a six-thousand-ton Chinese destroyer.”
“Holy shit!”
“To the best of my recall, those may have been my own precise words when I realized what had happened.”
“Did you have the conn, sir?”
“Hell, no, I was asleep. I’d just come off watch.”
“How’d you find out?”
“Are you kidding? When something like that happens in a big nuclear boat, everything suddenly changes. You lose propulsion and it goes kinda quiet, the trim changes, and machinery sounds that you all live with all the time are suddenly different, even the angle of the boat is different…”
“Who had the conn, sir?”
“That, I am afraid, is classified. But the truth will in the end come out, I’m sure of that.”
“Do you think there will be a Navy inquiry?”
“Christ, yes. A full one first, listening to the evidence of everyone, plus his wife and his dog. That’ll take God knows how long. And there’ll be a recommendation, if they think someone failed in his duty: possibly that certain officers of
Seawolf
were guilty of gross negligence, perhaps even leaving their place of duty in the face of the enemy…”
“You mean they may court-martial you, sir?”
“They just might. Unlikely, but possible. Any commanding officer who manages to lose his ship faces deep trouble. But in the light of the evidence, I hope they will find me not guilty…”
“I would, sir.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant Commander. I hope they’ll be as understanding.”
“Well, if they’re not, I’ll come forward and tell ’em you took out the armed camp commandant singlehanded right there in the death cells.”
“Don’t do that, for Christ’s sake. Some left-wing politician would probably want me charged with murder under the new Act to Prevent Unreasonable Cruelty to Far Eastern Dwarves.”
Both officers laughed, although somewhat grimly.
0430
.
On board the destroyer
Xiangtan
.
111.29E 21.13N
.
Course zero-six-zero. Speed 30
.
Colonel Lee Peng was mainly concerned about his orders. Personally issued by the Commander-in-Chief, they were coldly specific: “Seek and pursue any suspicious vessel in the area six miles due south of Xiachuan Dao. You have authority to open fire on, and sink, any United States naval vessel in national waters, or, in hot pursuit, in international waters.”
And now he stood on the bridge, continuing a short
conference with his executive officer, Lt. Commander Shoudong Guan, and his combat systems chief, Lt. Commander Anwei Bao. And the discussion bore a somewhat fatalistic edge.
All three of the senior officers on board knew that the main trouble with the American Navy is that it is likely to hit back, very fast and very hard. They also knew that even if they managed to get helicopters up and were able to blitz the Americans with depth charges, depth bombs and maybe even torpedoes, an American SSN could still fire three or maybe even four torpedoes right back, hard and accurate. They’d keep well clear. And privately, all three of the Chinese officers thought that to open fire on a big, fast American warship of any kind was something very near to suicide.
Colonel Lee, however, was adamant. “The C-in-C left no room for manuever,” he said. “He told me to open fire and sink it.”
“Did he have a view about losing the best surface ship in our Navy?”
“No, Guan. He did not. He seemed not to listen, or at least not to hear. Then he told me the honor of my country was at stake. The only thing that mattered, both to him and to his masters in Beijing, was that we hit and sink a major American submarine. And he was certain there was at least one out there, possibly two…”
“Well, he may not know it, but I do,” replied Lieutenant Commander Anwei. “The Americans, if we find them, will hit back. Like mad dogs, probably. I think a lot of people may die out there this morning.”
“Have you considered the possibility of just ignoring everything and denying we ever saw anything?”
Colonel Lee smiled. But he said, “My old friend Guan, I must be honest. Yes, I have. But consider those consequences. It would be known that we saw something, possibly overhead, certainly among this very large crew. If we were to turn a blind eye in the face of the enemy, the entire senior command of this ship would be
‘disappeared,’ possibly jailed for life in national disgrace…I think we would all prefer to take our chances with American retribution, and return as heroes.”
“Hopefully not in a coffin,” replied Guan. “Anyway, we may not see anything.”
“Indeed.”
“Anyway, how do we look now, navigator…?”
“We’re fine, sir. Making very good time, just approaching longitude 111.30, just a little less than two hours to go, sir. This is a very fast ship. We’ll be in the area at a little before oh-six-thirty at this speed.”
1530 (local). Sunday, July 16
.
The Oval Office
.