U.S.S. Seawolf am-4 Page 19

  “But,” as Admiral Zhang was apt to point out, “these are very temporary quarters. We’ll have the Americans in a new jail in the interior within a couple of weeks.”

  He was not of course making these observations out of any humanitarian considerations. In his heart he was afraid the American armed forces might attempt to free the prisoners. And he regarded Americans as freewheeling bullies who would stop at nothing, especially when they were superbly armed and trained. He did think they were a genuine soft touch when they were at a disadvantage and put under pressure…strangers to the sacrifice and hardships of revolution…but lethal, and utterly ruthless, when they were on top, as they usually were. Admiral Zhang hated America, as he hated the British for their long history of acutely arrogant behavior toward the ancient civilization of China.

  And now the ferry was moored alongside in the Navy yard. And through the bars of the end cell, Captain Judd Crocker could see between two buildings the lines of his men, each of them handcuffed behind their backs, moving slowly forward beneath the dock lights, embarking onto the ferry. He watched for almost an hour, and then the main door to the detention block burst open and four guards began unlocking the cell doors and placing handcuffs on the six senior men from Seawolf. The three junior seamen who also occupied the Mao cell block had left an hour previously, and Judd felt more certain than ever that he was about to join his full ship’s company for the first time since they arrived in Canton.

  And so Captain Crocker, Lt. Commander Bruce Lucas, Lt. Commander Cy Rothstein, Lt. Shawn Pearson, Lt. Andy Warren, and Master Chief Brad Stockton were marched down to the submarine jetty where Admiral Zhang and Commander Li stood at the end of the gangway. The guards marched them straight aboard and ordered them to sit down on the long shiny upper-deck benches, which were usually filled with tourists. Exactly opposite Judd was the ship’s engineering officer, Lt. Commander Rich Thompson, master of the nuclear reactor, his face puffy beneath both eyes where Zhang’s guards had beaten him.

  The two colleagues nodded to each other before noticing the tiny guard lieutenant who had cold-bloodedly murdered young Skip Laxton. “YOU WILL REFRAIN FROM SPEAKING!” he screamed. “And remember, there are twelve armed guards in each section here, that’s one for every three of you. You are no match for them. Do not try to escape or you will be shot instantly.”

  Deep inside the ferry they could hear the engines beginning to rumble to life, and on the dock they could hear the shouts of the shore crew as the lines were cast off. Through the tall square windows of the upper deck they could all see the lights begin to slip away as the ferry pushed out into the darkness of the Pearl River, heading south toward Hong Kong and God knew where after that.

  Back on the jetty Admiral Zhang and Commander Li were still deep in conversation, the commander having confessed himself bewildered at the C-in-C’s insistence that all of the prisoners should be transferred to Xiachuan Dao, rather than keeping the key men in jail at the base where the submarine was moored.

  “My reasons are many,” he said. “But the principal one is that I do prefer to have the entire crew isolated in one place. Because in that place I now have interrogation facilities, and when I require a key member of the American crew to work with us on the submarine, I can fly him back here in a helicopter for one or two days, depending on his cooperation.

  “Remember also, Li, I have my team of inquisitors making their observations at Xiachuan Dao, and that is important teamwork. As you know, in the field of interrogation it is vital to find the weak links — the men who will crack first. That way you can get a lot done very quickly. You don’t want to spend time interrogating the hard men in the crew, because they will tell you nothing, and if they do, it will be lies. You can waste a lot of hours doing that, and we do not have much time to spare.”

  “Yessir. I see. And there is of course the question of security here at Canton. As you know, we have suspected but never proved leaks of information. You are right, as always, my commander. Better to keep all the prisoners together, isolated individually, but under the constant attention of our interrogation team. Much better, sir. Very, very good.”

  “And you begin at first light tomorrow, Li. I shall miss you here for two weeks, but you will be doing very important work for our great nation. I would like you to dine with me, in the Great Room, before you leave. That will make a more pleasant final briefing before the helicopter ride to Xiachuan.”

  “Thank you, sir. I would, as always, be honored.”

  0500 (local). Saturday, July 8.

  Office of Admiral Morgan. The White House.

  He sat alone, on the telephone for the fourth successive hour, unsurprisingly without a secretary, waiting for some word from the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square, London, trying to locate the private secure number of the American naval attaché. First they did not believe it was him, then they had to call him back in Washington, then they were cut off. Then he called back and spoke to a new operator who did not believe who he was, and also had to call back.

  The latest development was two requests for him, Arnold Morgan, “to bear with me.” Right now the line was silent, and the President’s National Security Adviser was fuming. Three minutes later a voice came through and said, “You’ll get Colonel Hart on the following number…”

  Admiral Morgan scribbled it down and punched in the numbers on his secure line. It rang twice in London, where it was now 1010, and a voice said, “Colonel Hart’s office.”

  “Will you put me through to him? This is Arnold Morgan in the White House.”

  The call was, in a sense, a breakthrough. The former Marine Colonel Frank Hart, known in the Corps as “Fagin,” had been in a backwater for some years. Once a stalwart of Naval Intelligence and a two-year lieutenant in the SEALs, he became embroiled in some of the well-meant, in some ways brilliant, exploits of the Reagan Administration in foreign policy.

  When some of these activities came to light, the left in both the press and Congress, in a grotesque exhibition of false righteousness, went after everyone involved. The main accusations were of lying, playing fast and loose with the Constitution.

  There was a tirade of “Did the President know?…Did the Secretary of State know?…How dare these people act as if they were above the law.…Hang ’em…Shoot ’em…Jail ’em…Drive ’em from office…” It was like the Wild West with statute books. Careers were ruined, lives and families blighted.

  But very rarely, perhaps never, did anyone ask the other questions, such as, Were these people acting in the supreme interests of the United States of America? Were they carrying out policies that the massively elected President believed were essential for the security of the nation in the darkest days of the Cold War? Was the entire exercise underpinned by a strata of goodness, of honorable men doing their level best for America and its citizens, against the threat of advancing Soviet communism?

  The answer to all of those questions was undoubtedly yes. The only question to which the answer would have been no was, “Did any one of them commit one single act that could have been ascribed to a desire for personal gain?” No. Nothing more was proven except that they acted out of a sense of patriotism. Perhaps highly developed, maybe even overdeveloped patriotism. But nonetheless patriotism. Which was more than could have been said for some of their accusers.

  Colonel Hart, a slim, hard-eyed, handsome man, a graduate of Annapolis, had been swept up in the maelstrom of all this. They never put him on trial, like some of the others, but his military and possibly his political career were essentially over when President Reagan left the White House.

  However, there was an incident during a televised congressional inquiry that almost made him immortal. Colonel Hart, in full uniform, faced one of his accusers and said, almost menacingly, “Sir, I don’t know what you do when you see the flag of the United States of America. But if you like, I’ll show you what I do.” And he placed his cap upon his head and executed a ramrod-straight Marine Corps salute. Men w
ho had fought in three global wars found themselves shedding a tear for the colonel.

  An awful lot of people never forgot that moment, and two of those people were Arnold Morgan and the current President, who both considered that the colonel had been dealt a very unfair hand.

  Afterward Colonel Hart was quietly seconded into the diplomatic branch of the Senior Service. He worked first as a deputy naval attaché in the embassy in Buenos Aires. There followed tours of duty in both the Middle East and Europe before, in October 2004, he was appointed naval attaché in London.

  There were many who thought he had the right credentials for a major ambassadorship in the not-too-distant future. But this fateful phone call from Admiral Morgan signified a sudden, unexpected swing in the career of Colonel Hart.

  “Hello, sir,” he said firmly. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Too long, Frank,” replied the admiral. “How they treating you?”

  “Better than you, sir. No one’s made me get into the office at five in the morning.”

  “Happens all the time when you’re close to the seat of power.”

  “Ah, hell, I thought it was unique. Thought this might be a major call, a real address-changer.”

  “It is. You’re probably going to hate it.”

  “Well, sir, since I am trying to work out the intricate military problem of which of us here attends a dinner being given by the First Sea Lord on July fifteenth, you’d better get right to it…”

  Arnold Morgan laughed at a former brother officer wrestling with the kind of minutiae that routinely drive military men crazy. “Frank,” he said, “would you consider taking up an active command, being seconded to the SEALs?”

  “Who, me?” said the colonel lamely.

  “Have I got a wrong number here?”

  “Christ, Arnold. I’m sixty years old.”

  “What do you want? A birthday present?”

  “Sir, I’m trying to be serious. I don’t think I’m fit enough to get involved with those guys.”

  “Frank, I’m after your brain, not your goddamned muscles.”

  “Oh, that’s rather different. What is it?”

  “I have a major SEAL team being assembled. Maybe as many as fifty guys. They’re going to be operating out of a carrier way out in the Far East. John Bergstrom is putting the team together personally right now in Coronado. But we need a hard, experienced commander who will have a grip on the somewhat volatile political situation. We’re looking for a supreme staff officer who will hold this thing together. There’s probably going to be some heavy decision-making with little or no time for consultation.”

  “Time frame?”

  “Now. You’d have to leave for Washington now.”

  “I’d have to clear it with the ambassador.”

  “That’s done. Presidential level.”

  “And with the CNO, Admiral Mulligan. He’s still my boss.”

  “Done. Chairman of the Joint Chiefs level.”

  “And with the office of the Secretary of State, like all diplomatic appointments or terminations.”

  “Done. Presidential level.”

  “Jesus, sir. You’re not joking, are you?”

  “Not this time, Frank.”

  “I don’t have much choice, do I, sir?”

  “Not much. Because if you funk it, no one will think that much of you. Worse yet, no one will think that much of me. Because you happen to be my idea.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Gather up your gear and have a driver take you straight to the Royal Air Force base at Lyneham. There’s a military aircraft there right now. It’ll bring you straight into Andrews. Then a helicopter to the White House. Come to my office. Soon as you can.”

  “Sir, what about my wife and family?”

  “Whatever she wants. I’ll put six men on the move right now. I’ll talk to her myself as soon as you’re in the air.”

  “Yessir. My answer is affirmative.”

  “As I knew it would be. Thank you, Frank.”

  And the admiral replaced the telephone, muttering to himself, “I wonder how many of those goddamned little lawyers who tried to disgrace him would have stepped up at the age of sixty to command a SEAL operation in what has to be a theater of war.”

  2330. Saturday, July 8.

  Pearl River Delta.

  Lt. Shawn Pearson, Seawolf’s navigator, was trying to memorize their route. The ferry had been running south through the hot, muggy night for four hours now, and they ought to be somewhere down at the mouth of the Delta. Through the big starboard windows he could see shore lights, possibly four miles away, and he guessed correctly the port of Macao, but he did not discern a change in course.

  The ferry ran on south through calm seas. Shawn guessed she was making around 17 knots. There was barely a swell, but he could hear the distinctive slash of the spray from the bow wave hitting the still, flat water. It always sounds slightly louder when there is no chop, and he knew they had not yet reached the open ocean.

  It was another hour before he sensed a gradual swing to starboard, possibly to a course of two-three-zero, and there was a noticeable increase in the motion of the ship. So far as Shawn could tell, they must be running down the coast toward either the huge tropical island of Hainan, where he knew there was a big Navy base, or toward China’s Southern Fleet headquarters, just to the north at Zhanjiang. So far as his excellent memory could recall, there was nothing significant between there and Canton.

  Outside, peering through the windows, Shawn could see no land beyond the black expanse of moonlit water. No one had spoken a word since they had left the Navy yard, and the guards patrolled tirelessly, walking between the long benches, glaring at any member of the American crew who was still awake.

  The captain and the chief of the boat were both sleeping, but Lt. Commanders Bruce Lucas and Cy Rothstein were wide awake. Indeed, it was “Einstein” who asked permission to speak and requested water for the men. Surprisingly, Shawn thought, the guard nodded curtly and spoke in rapid Chinese to a younger man who yelled more incomprehensible Chinese out to the viewing deck.

  Ten minutes later, two of the ferry’s original stewards returned carrying four white buckets of water and some big plastic beakers. Since all the prisoners were manacled behind their backs, two Chinese guards walked down the length of each bench, one carrying the bucket, the other offering water to each American, holding the beaker to his mouth, tipping it, spilling it, almost choking the recipient, but allowing plenty of time for a few good gulps.

  It wasn’t the most elegant drink they had ever had, nor the most hygienic. But it was wet and cold, and all they would get for many more hours.

  And all through the small of hours of Sunday morning, July 9, they pushed on southwest in moderate seas. Most of the crew slept, but Lieutenant Pearson considered it his duty to keep awake to try and get some kind of a handle on their position. So far the Chinese security had been red hot. There had not been a moment in time when even a two-word conversation had been possible without incurring the wrath of the guards. But Shawn thought and hoped things might ultimately become a little more slack in the following days, and it was his job to know approximately where they were.

  His watch had been taken, along with everyone else’s, on their first day of captivity, but through the windows on the port quarter of the ferry he could just see a rose-colored hue to the sky, and he guessed it must be around 0600, maybe a half hour before sunrise. He had detected a slight decrease in speed and he had guessed at Macao around midnight. Six hours running at possibly 13 knots average would put them more than 70 miles along the South China coast from the mouth of the Delta. Shawn grappled for clarity, trying to remember the charts he had studied so often as Seawolf had made her way through the waters just south of here. But he could remember just two islands, one of them quite big, the other to the west, much smaller. The names escaped him. All he could think of was Sichuan Dao, in memory of his favorite Chinese restaurant back home in San
Diego. Hell, it was something like that, anyway.

  A half hour later, the sun had fought its way out of the Pacific Ocean and was firing already warm, bright beams straight through the upper deck. And as it did so, the beat of the engines changed, and the ship began to make a hard turn to starboard. Shawn could see a sharp navigational light flashing every five seconds on a distant headland. He was not of course to know it was positioned on the offshore island of Weijia, 400 yards south of Shangchuan Dao, which he had mistaken for a Chinese restaurant.

  He could now see land all along the starboard side of the ship, but they seemed to be heading away from it at an oblique angle. Judging by the sun, Shawn guessed a northerly course of three-four-zero, but he was not able to see out of the port side because of a bulkhead.

  And now the engines had slowed right down, possibly to a speed of only seven knots. Shawn guessed the captain was creeping through some badly charted shallows. He could see land up ahead through the open deck area, and it looked like a long flat shoreline, with a mountain range rising out of the jungle, possibly a half mile from the beach. He tried to get his bearings, confused by the fact that there was more open sea to the right of the land.

  His best guess was that they were between islands, one to the right and one to the left, with the Chinese mainland a few miles to the north. He assessed that they were 80 to 90 miles along the coast from Macao, and that these must be the islands he had in his memory. The restaurant to starboard, the little one to port. But it was the little one to which they were slowly moving, through the sandy shallows.

  Xiachuan Dao, virtually uninhabited for several hundred years, guardian of a military jail in which unspeakable cruelties had been enacted, lay dead ahead, its brightly lit torture chambers still intact after all these years.

  6

  0930. Saturday, July 8.

  Office of Admiral Morgan.

  The White House.

  Kathy O’Brien gazed at the unshaven, dishevelled figure of the man she loved. The admiral was sound asleep at his desk, leaning back in the big leather Navy captain’s chair, breathing deeply. It was a wonder he hadn’t frozen to death, since the air conditioner had been turned up and running flat out since midnight. The admiral liked it cold.