The Shark Mutiny (2001) Page 33

  “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?”

  Dan chuckled at the sobriquet, an ageless boyhood term of endearment. But Rick Hunter continued seriously, “What happens if we do bump the bottom and we can’t find the goddamned channel? What then?”

  “Look, I realize you’ve been rolling around in the dirt strangling guards, killing terrorists and blowing things up all your life. But what I’m going to show you requires careful thought…now look here…this deep trench is very important because it’s a haven for a small submarine, moving through waters that are plainly too shallow to allow it free passage.

  “You want to get a channel into this main lane, which your guys have marked here; you want first to get into the trench where you don’t have to dredge. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Right. Now there are two ways into the trench. The long way, across here, maybe two and a half miles, dredging all the way, in water only fifteen feet deep. That’ll take months. Or, alternatively, you could take this three-mile detour, west of the island, in deeper water, and that way you only need to cut a channel three hundred yards long max, and you’re in the trench. What do you think?”

  “I’ll take the three hundred yards cut, any time, any day.”

  “And that’s what our oceanographers think the Chinese Navy will have done. Therefore your driver will take the ASDV around through the deeper water, and we think he’ll find the hole straight into the trench. When the water settles at, say, fifty feet, you guys go to PD and you’ll see the flashing light about a mile up in front. At which point you’re headed straight for the channel, and that’ll take you right in to where you wanna be.”

  “What happens if some bastard’s coming the other way down this narrow ditch?”

  “Edge hard to starboard. Drop down to the bottom and sit in the mud, act like a recently drowned pig. Whatever it is will go right by. If you hear anything, just lie very quietly on the bottom. Gently.”

  “You keep saying ‘quiet’ and ‘gentle.’ You suggesting I’m some kind of a gorrila, young Danny?”

  “Not really, but you’re the leader and you got a lot more in common with a gorilla than a sea wraith.”

  “Well, anyway. I’m not driving.”

  “Thank Christ. But what I was going to mention was the utter unlikelihood of your meeting another ship. I mean right now the latest satellite picture shows only two warships in there, plus a submarine, with two or three patrol boats running around some of the time.

  “We have no pictures of any boats running around after midnight at any time. Personally I think you will find the channel easily, and you will make your landing with no trouble. After that, you’re in charge. But my guys will get you out, Rick. On that you can trust me. That’s a promise.”

  “Who’s driving the ASDV?”

  “The best man in the Navy. He’s a specialist. You might even know him. He’s Lieutenant Mills, and he can maneuver that little ship anywhere. He’s calm, expert and very instinctive about danger. Better yet, he’s done it before. And you could not be in safer hands. He’ll get you in, and if there’s trouble, he won’t get caught. You can’t ask for more than that.”

  “Yes I can.”

  “What?”

  “Just for you and me to be sipping a coupla cold beers on my daddy’s side porch, listening to the music, watching the mares and foals moving across the paddocks in the evening. Instead of raising hell in some Chinese dockyard.”

  “Yeah, doesn’t that sound great right now? Guess it’s because we’re right around the corner from real danger. But it’s too late now to think of our own world. It’s too late. We’re in someone else’s world, big time. And we gotta make it happen.”

  Two hours later, Commander Rick Hunter stood before the team that would shortly embark for the eastern end of the Indian Ocean. They had taken over a brightly lit, concrete-walled ops room, with a five-foot-wide computer screen placed at the side of a long trestle table.

  The eleven SEALs who would accompany the Commander into Burmese waters were seated casually along the other side of the table with notepads and pens. Each man was issued a map of the delta of the Bassein River, plus various views, shot from the satellites, of the Chinese base itself. Everyone had a blowup of the geothermal power station that sat almost in the center of the dockyard complex.

  And behind the SEALs sat the additional, but critical, personnel: The XO, Lt. Commander Dan Headley, who would take the USS Shark in and supervise their escape; Lt. David Mills who would drive the ASDV inshor
e; Lt. Matt Longo from Cincinnati, the ASDV navigator; and Commander Rusty Bennett, who would not join the mission but whose guidance would be greatly appreciated.

  Behind them, the steel door was shut and locked. Two Naval guards remained on duty immediately outside, with four more patrolling the area beyond the main door to the otherwise-deserted building. No one, including the C-in-C of the Fleet, was permitted to enter. Even to exit the ops room, each SEAL needed to have his notepad personally signed by the Team Leader.

  No one was permitted a phone call. There was absolutely no further contact with the outside world. Nor would there be until they were back in the USS Shark at the conclusion of the mission. They were scheduled to sail at 2200 that night, Saturday, June 2.

  Commander Hunter immediately introduced his second-in-command, 28-year-old Lt. Dallas MacPherson, a wide-shouldered southerner from South Carolina who had started life at The Citadel, the state’s near-legendary military academy, but had switched after only a couple of semesters to the Naval Academy at Annapolis.