U.S.S. Seawolf am-4

  U.S.S. Seawolf

  ( Arnold Morgan - 4 )

  Patrick Robinson

  By the close of the twentieth century, China had gathered secret information concerning United States military surveillance and guided-missile technology. Now, in 2005, the technology is in production in China's new breed of submarine-based long-range-missiles. The dragon has stirred.

  Admiral Arnold Morgan, the President's National Security Adviser, cannot sit back and wait for China to perfect its new ballistic weapon. He dispatches the most lethal hunter-killer submarine in the fleet, Seawolf, deep into the China Sea.

  Seawolf eludes the Chinese until a catastrophicaccident suddenly puts the U.S. submarine at theirmercy; the crew vanishes, plainly captive. At the riskof starting World War III, Admiral Morgan ordersthe elite Navy SEALs to rescue the Americans at allcosts. Under cover of darkness, the SEALs move into the forbidden waters of the South China Sea. Theirorders are brutal: Do whatever it takes. Failure, unthinkable.

  U.S.S. Seawolf is epic in its sweep, meticulous in its authenticity, and breathtaking in its pacing. It is a terrifying and thrilling tale for our times.

  Patrick Robinson

  U.S.S. Seawolf

  U.S.S. Seawolf is respectfully dedicated to the men of the U.S. Navy SEALs, the fighting troops who always operate in harm’s way, and among whom valor is a common virtue.

  CAST OF PRINCIPAL

  CHARACTERS

  SENIOR COMMAND

  The President of the United States (Commander-in-Chief, U.S. Armed Forces)

  Vice Admiral Arnold Morgan (National Security Adviser)

  General Tim Scannell (Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff)

  General Cale Carter (U.S. Air Force Chief)

  Harcourt Travis (Secretary of State)

  Rear Admiral George R. Morris (Director, National Security Agency)

  U.S. NAVY SENIOR COMMAND

  Admiral Joseph Mulligan (Chief of Naval Operations)

  Rear Admiral John Bergstrom (Commander, Special War Command [SPECWARCOM])

  Admiral Archie Cameron (Commander-in-Chief, Pacific Fleet [CINCPAC])

  Rear Admiral Freddie Curran (Commander, Submarine Force, Pacific Fleet [COMSUBPAC])

  USS SEAWOLF

  Captain Judd Crocker (Commanding Officer)

  Lt. Commander Linus Clarke (Executive Officer)

  Lt. Commander Cy Rothstein (Combat Systems Officer)

  Lt. Commander Mike Schulz (Engineering Officer)

  Lt. Commander Rich Thompson (Marine Engineering Officer)

  Lt. Kyle Frank (Sonar Officer)

  Lt. Shawn Pearson (Navigation Officer)

  Lt. Andy Warren (Officer of the Deck)

  Master Chief Petty Officer Brad Stockton (Chief of Boat)

  Petty Officer Chase Utley (electronics)

  Petty Officer Third Class Jason Colson (Captain’s Writer)

  Petty Officer Third Class Andy Cannizaro

  Seaman Engineer Tony Fontana

  Seaman Recruit Kirk Sarloos (torpedoes)

  U.S. NAVY PERSONNEL

  Commander Tom Wheaton (Commanding Officer, USS Greenville)

  Captain Chuck Freeburg (Commanding Officer, USS Vella Gulf)

  Lt. Commander Joe Farrell (Hornet bomber pilot)

  U.S. NAVY SEALS

  Colonel Frank Hart (Senior SEAL Staff Officer, Mission Controller, USS Ronald Reagan)

  Lt. Commander Rick Hunter (Assault Mission Leader)

  Lt. Commander Russell “Rusty” Bennett (Team Leader Recon, Evacuation Beach, and Assault Team A)

  Chief Petty Officer John McCarthy (2 I/C Assault Team A)

  Lt. Dan Conway (Leader Assault Team B)

  Lt. Paul Merloni (2 I/C Assault Team B)

  Lt. Commander Olaf Davidson (Leader, Forward Landing Beach Group, and Assault Team C)

  Lt. Ray Schaefer (2 I/C Assault Team C)

  Lt. Bobby Allensworth (personal bodyguard to Lt. Commander Hunter)

  Petty Officer Catfish Jones

  Petty Officer Rocky Lamb

  SEAL Riff “Rattlesnake” Davies

  SEAL Buster Townsend (command radio operator)

  Chief Petty Officer Steve Whipple (satchel bombs and machine gunner)

  BRITISH SAS PERSONNEL

  Colonel Mike Andrews (Commander, Bradbury Lines)

  Sergeant Fred Jones (Seconded SEAL Assault Team A)

  Corporal Syd Thomas (Seconded SEAL Assault Team A)

  Sergeant Charlie Murphy (Seconded SEAL Assault Team A)

  CIA COMMAND AND FIELD OPERATIVES

  Jake Raeburn (Head of Far Eastern Desk)

  Rick White (California Bank, Hong Kong)

  Honghai Shan (Chinese International Travel Service)

  Quinlei Dong (Canton Naval Base)

  Quinlei Zhao (Pearl River trader)

  Kexiong Gao (Pearl River trader)

  PEOPLE’S LIBERATION ARMY/NAVY

  Admiral Zhang Yushu (Commander-in-Chief)

  Vice Admiral Sang Ye (Chief of Naval Staff)

  Admiral Zu Jicai (Commander, Southern Fleet)

  Admiral Yibo Yunsheng (Commander, Eastern Fleet)

  Colonel Lee Peng (Commanding Officer, Xiangtan)

  Commander Li Zemin (Security Chief, Canton Naval Base)

  WHITE HOUSE STAFF

  Kathy O’Brien (private secretary to Admiral Morgan)

  COURT MARTIAL ATTORNEYS

  Lt. Commander Edward Kirk (for the Pentagon)

  Counsellor Philip Myerscough (for Lt. Commander Clarke)

  Counsellor Art Mangone (for Captain Crocker)

  PROLOGUE

  1330. Wednesday, April 27. 2005.

  Naval Air Tracking Station.

  West of Hsinchu, North Taiwan.

  Since first light, they had been observing the blue-water Fleet of the People’s Liberation Army/Navy moving menacingly back and forth in a classic “racetrack” pattern, 50 miles offshore. Twenty-two warships in total, including the new 80,000-ton aircraft carrier from Russia, so new it did not yet have a name.

  The Taiwanese had nervously tracked the destroyers of mainland China: the Luhus, the old Ludas and the new Luhai; they’d logged the surface-to-surface missiles unleashed in short fireballs by the Jiangwei frigates, just as they had done three times before in the previous 18 months.

  They had watched the fleet move ever nearer, then finally cross the unseen dividing line down the middle of the Strait of Taiwan and continue into Taiwanese territorial waters. Instantly the supervisors signaled Tsoying, their main naval base, and the automatic alert to the U.S. Pacific Fleet in Pearl Harbor flashed onto the satellite.

  Two hundred miles east of Taiwan, the American admiral on the giant U.S. Nimitz-class aircraft carrier John C. Stennis signaled his warships west. And the massively armed, 12-strong guided-missile fleet out of San Diego glowered, then turned their bows arrogantly back toward their friends on the independent island, which now felt the hot breath of the Chinese dragon.

  But at 1357 on that clear, cool April day in the Taiwan Strait, every alert there had ever been in the tracking stations of Taiwan faded into obsolescence. Mainland China suddenly fired a big, short-range land-attack cruise missile straight at the capital city of Taipei.

  The military tracking radars in Taiwan’s coastal station west of Hsinchu picked it up 45 miles out, hurtling in over the Strait at 600 mph, low-level, no higher than 200 feet, on a varying course around zero-eight-zero, right out of Fujian Province. At first they thought it was an aircraft overflying the Chinese fleet, but it was too fast and too low, making 10 miles every minute.

  There was no time to shoot it down, and decoys were useless against the kind of preprogammed inertial navigation system used in a Russian-designed M-11 cruise, which
this most certainly was. The military barely had time to assess the danger before the missile came screaming in over the coastline, plainly visible to any local citizen who happened to look upward.

  At the time there was heavy traffic all along the Taipei West Coast Freeway, and one military truck driver spotted it, couldn’t believe his eyes, and drove straight into a tourist bus, ramming it right through the central guardrail into the path of oncoming traffic and causing a 59-vehicle pileup in which 14 people were killed.

  Simultaneously, the emergency radio procedures desperately urged people to remain in their homes, if possible below ground, in the face of imminent missile attack. No one knew whether the cruise carried a nuclear-tipped warhead, but the danger of radiation was uppermost in the minds of the authorities.

  Everyone in air traffic control at CKS International Airport, four miles from the traffic pileup, watched the missile streak across Taiwanese airspace, both onscreen and from the big viewing windows. It seemed to make a slight course adjustment and then rocketed across the city of Taoyuan. It was still making 600 mph and maintaining height as it cleared the railroad terminal, passing dead overhead the new McDonald’s off Fuhsing Road.

  Right now it was 120 seconds from Taiwan’s capital and all the military could do was warn the populace to take cover. They informed the U.S. and United Nations Headquarters that they were under immediate missile attack from China, and at 1406 the cruise came in sight of Taipei.

  But, to the astonishment of the military, the missile kept right on going, straight across the center of the city, over the Tanshui River and on to the second-largest container port in the country, Keelung, up on the northeast coast. But it did not stop there, either, but headed right on out into the Pacific, where it crashed and blew up 30 miles off Taiwan’s coast.

  The Taiwan military protested in the strongest terms to Beijing, seeking assurances that there were no more missiles on the way. The Prime Minister himself contacted Beijing directly, to deliver an icy warning to China’s Paramount Ruler that Taiwan’s armed forces would fight to the last inch of their ground to preserve their independence. And, if they had to, Taiwan would hit back at China with U.S.-built guided missiles, which were far superior to anything the Chinese had in their current arsenal.

  “We may go,” the Prime Minister concluded. “But we’ll take Beijing with us. That I promise.”

  The Chinese neither apologized nor gave any assurances that such a thing would not happen again.

  0900 (local). Wednesday, April 27, 2005.

  Office of the National Security Adviser.

  The White House, Washington.

  Admiral Arnold Morgan was listening with mounting fury to the reason why the Chinese ambassador to Washington was not able to report to the White House in the next 20 minutes.

  “He’s in a conference, Arnold,” insisted his secretary. “They won’t even put me through to his assistant. They say they’ll get a message to him and he’ll call you in a half hour. He’s actually speaking with the General Secretary of the Communist Party, who you know is in town dining with the President tonight.”

  “Kathy O’Brien, upon whose very footsteps I worship the immediate airspace,” growled the NSA. “I want you to listen to me very carefully. I do not care if Comrade Ling Fucking Guofeng, Honorable Ambassador to our nation, is in direct spiritual contact with Chiang Kaishek, or speaking at this very moment to the deranged ghost of Mao Zedong or any of those other goddamned coolies who rose to power. I want him here in twenty minutes, otherwise he will be Ling Fucking Guofeng, FORMER ambassador to our country. I’LL HAVE HIM DEPORTED BY SEVENTEEN-HUNDRED TONIGHT.”

  “Arnold, I will pass on your wishes to the highest possible authority.”

  Seventeen minutes later, Ambassador Ling was escorted into Admiral Morgan’s office.

  “Siddown. This is serious. And listen.” The admiral was not in a gracious mood.

  The ambassador sat, and said with the utmost courtesy, “Would it be out of order, Admiral, for me to wish you good morning?”

  “Yes, it would, since you mention it. I’m more concerned with the fact that a few hours ago, your goddamned pain-in-the-ass country almost caused a fucking war.”

  “Admiral, surely you are not referring to that insignificant incident in our Taiwan Strait?”

  “Insignificant? You crazy sonsabitches threw an M-11 cruise missile straight over the city of Taipei. You call that insignificant?”

  “Admiral, I have received a most reliable communiqué that it was a mere accident. The missile somehow became out of control…in any event it failed safe, and flew into the Pacific. Quite harmless.”

  “Ling, I don’t believe you. I think you guys have taken up a new twenty-first-century sport called Frightening the Taiwanese to Death—I mean, you had a battle fleet in their territorial waters at the precise time the missile came in. What the hell did you expect them to think?”

  “Well, I can appreciate their anxiety.”

  “Ling, what would you have done if the Taiwanese had had a little more time, and our Carrier Battle Group had been a lot closer? How about if the Taiwanese had started throwing missiles back? And we decided to take out a couple of your Navy bases, maybe knock out a few of your missile sites? What then?”

  “Admiral, I do not think that would have been very wise, for either the Taiwanese or yourselves. We are no longer the backward, militarily unsophisticated nation you once considered us. These days we have missiles to match your own, in both power and range. Serious intercontinental ballistic missiles. ICBMs, Admiral. Made in China. You would do well to remember that.”

  “Ling, the most you guys have ever done is to employ a group of devious little spies and sneak thieves to try and steal from us. But when you get the stuff it’s always too advanced for you to adapt. You’ve had more missile test failures than even I can count. You always think you can match us for military hardware and technology. But you never can. And you never will. Any more than we’re any good at chicken chow mein.”

  Ambassador Ling ignored the insult. “Admiral,” he said, “your assessment of our capabilities was probably accurate for many years. But no longer. We have effective long-range missiles now. We are as big a threat to you as you have always been to us.”

  “Maybe. But we don’t go around launching cruise missiles to fly over the capital cities of other countries, terrifying the populace, edging nations into war. So I’m warning you and your government, right here and right now: You wanna play hardball with the US of A over the nation of Taiwan, you better take a damn close look at the rule book. Because when we decide to play, we play for keeps.”

  Ambassador Ling did not answer immediately. Instead he looked thoughtful, academic, like the professor he once was. And when he spoke it was quietly, and carefully considered.

  “Nonetheless, Admiral,” he said, “should it come to an ICBM contest between us, I wonder if you would really care to swap Taiwan for Los Angeles.”

  1

  Friday, October 7, 2005.

  Pacific Ocean. 120 miles west-southwest of San Diego, California.

  The darkness crept ever westward through low, overcast skies, and the gusting northwest breeze whipped white crests onto the long wavetops. At this time of the evening, in the 20 minutes of no-man’s time between sunset and nightfall streaming in over the immense ocean, the Pacific takes on a deeply malevolent mantle. Its awesome troughs and rising waves glisten darkly in the last of the light. There’s no bright, friendly phosphorescence in the bottomless waters out here. To stare down at the black seascape, even from the safe reassuring deck of a warship, is to gaze into the abyss. Oh Lord, your ocean is so vast, and my boat is so small.

  Eight hundred feet into the abyss, way beneath the twilight melancholy of the surface, USS Seawolf thundered forward, making almost 40 knots, somewhere south of the Murray Fracture Zone. The 9,000-ton United States Navy attack submarine was heavily into her months of sea trials, following a massive three-year overhaul.
Seawolf was not at war, but a passing whale could have been forgiven for thinking she was. Forty knots is one hell of a speed for a 350-foot-long submarine. But Seawolf had been built for speed, constructed to lead the underwater cavalry of the Navy, anywhere, anytime. And right now she was in deep submergence trials, testing her systems, flexing her muscles in the desolate black wilderness of America’s western ocean.

  Powered by two 45,000-horsepower turbines and a state-of-the-art Westinghouse nuclear reactor, Seawolf was the most expensive submarine ever built. Too expensive. The Navy was permitted to build only three of her class—Connecticut and USS Jimmy Carter were the others — before budget restraints caused the cancellation of these jet-black emperors of the deep. Over a billion dollars had been spent on her research and development before Seawolf was commissioned in 1997.

  Now, after her multimillion-dollar overhaul, the submarine was, without question, the finest underwater warship in the world, the fastest, quietest nuclear boat. At 20 knots there was nothing to be heard beyond the noise of the water parted by the bulk of her hull. She could pack a ferocious wallop, too. Seawolf was armed with a phalanx of Tomahawk land-attack missiles that could travel at almost 1,000 mph to a target 1,400 miles distant. She could unleash a missile with a 454-kilogram warhead and hit an enemy ship 250 miles away. She bristled with eight 26-inch torpedo tubes, launching bases for big wire-guided Gould Mark 48s, homing if necessary to 27 miles. Highly effective, these weapons offered a kill probability of 50 percent, second only to the British Spearfish.

  Seawolf carried sonars estimated as three times more effective than even the most advanced Los Angeles-class boats. She used both TB16 and TB29 surveillance and towed arrays. For active close-range detection she used the BQS 24 system. Her electronic support measures (ESM) were nothing short of sensational. Any ship anywhere within 50 miles could not move, communicate, or even activate its sonar or radar without Seawolf hearing every last telltale sound. She was not a gatherer of clan-destine information, she was an electronic vacuum cleaner, the last word in the U.S. Navy’s most secretive, private, advanced research.