U.S.S. Seawolf am-4 Read online

  The actual explosion of the Paveway was brilliantly contained by the iron grip of the American-built compartment, but the bomb wreaked fearsome damage internally, catastrophically rupturing the steel pipes of the primary coolant circuit in four places. The water system driving through the reactor under pressure of 2,300 pounds per square inch blew open, flashing off to steam instantly, blasting into the compartment.

  The pumps stopped as the control rods automatically dropped into the core to scram the reactor. Both of the big isolation valves, failing safe even after the explosion of the bomb, slammed shut, automatically sensing the cataclysmic drop in pressure in the circuit outside the steel reactor vessel. And now the reactor was being starved of the purified, pressurized water that takes away the heat caused by the fission of the enriched uranium-235 in the core. Control of the lethal fast neutrons was quickly slipping away as the core grew hotter and hotter and hotter.

  There was only one chance to save the reactor, and that was the automatic emergency cooler system built to cope with occasions such as this — catastrophic failure of the primary coolant circuit. This, too, has two big valves and is designed to suck in seawater — any water, for God’s sake — and drive it through the core, for its hydrogen content to fight the diabolical energy of the neutrons, the basic energy of an atomic bomb. And the water was life-giving in more senses than one: Its sheer cooling effect is designed to prevent the meltdown of the whole core.

  The incoming water is known as the “cold leg.” By the time it powers away from the mass of seething silver-colored uranium-235, it is outrageously hot, and will be driven out through the pipes of the second part of the system, the “hot leg.” But, thanks to the thoughtful activities of Judd Crocker and Mike Schulz while Seawolf was being towed into Canton, the isolation valve had been sabotaged to drift open, and now the ship had two hot legs, which represented a total disaster.

  The emergency cooler circuit was dead. And the Chinese in the machinery control room, already terrified by the tremor of the bomb’s blast, now saw to their horror how dead it was. They could see the core temperature rising spectacularly, racing upward toward inevitable meltdown. This was a Chinese Chernobyl.

  They struggled against it, praying to whatever god might be available on this Sunday night that the emergency system would suddenly kick in. But Mike Schultz had made no mistake. Nothing was kicking anything, except for the bomb, in the context of Chinese ass.

  Four minutes later, all indications of any possible salvation were lost, and the core temperature was now well above the danger level. Deep in the reactor room the residual radiation and heat were beginning to melt away the casing, and at 2148 the white-hot mass of uranium and stainless steel burned clean through the 15-foot-wide fortified bottom of the reactor vessel and dropped down onto the hull of the submarine.

  In a few seconds, it reduced that colossally strong five-inch-thick steel casing to melted butter and dropped into the waters of Canton Harbor. On its way it turned Seawolf into a death trap, the radioactive fallout filling the reactor compartment and beyond. The waters of the harbor would be lethally unsafe for a minimum of 40 years.

  Up in the control room, the scientists were fully aware of the scale of the disaster. There were radiation alarms sounding everywhere, and there was a weird glow in the water. The warning, “CORE MELTDOWN…CORE MELTDOWN,” had already echoed through the ship, where mass panic now ensued.

  The acting CO ordered “ABANDON SHIP!..WE HAVE CORE MELTDOWN!”

  There was a stampede to disembark as technicians, scientists, and seamen alike raced for the hatches and the gangways. Seawolf still floated, even with her reactor compartment flooded with seawater, but anyone who spent more than 10 minutes on the ship right now was a dead man, probably with a maximum of three weeks to live.

  Admiral Zhang’s dream of copying the great American emperor of the deep was over, and suddenly, in the space of just 15 minutes, they were in a desperate damage-control situation. The officer in command literally ran for his life, followed by the scientists, and he roared at them to keep running to the most distant of naval offices right out by the gate.

  When he arrived the office door was locked, and he blew the lock off with his service revolver. They all headed for desks and telephones and opened up a conference line to Fleet Headquarters at Zhanjiang, direct to Admiral Zhang Yushu.

  The C-in-C was stunned, and he found himself in an argument with the on-the-spot nuclear physicists, who felt that the only way to cope with the catastrophe was to sink Seawolf right here, letting her subside and settle on top of the reactor core. Then somehow, they could isolate the area for possibly 500 yards and perhaps contain the water around the submarine, possibly with a dam, anything to stop the contamination from spreading into the city.

  However, there were technicians who very much wanted a second shot at the American boat, and they wanted to tow the submarine out into the open ocean and try to remove the key systems from it.

  For Zhang this was a ray of hope in the darkness and now, yelling on the increasingly hysterical conference line, he demanded they do as he ordered, tow the submarine out and then board it and have one more try at removing the critical parts.

  Dr. Luofu Pang, the senior physicist and one of China’s most respected scientists, finally agreed, or at least he seemed to agree. “Admiral,” he said, “if that is what you order, then I am not in a position to tell the Navy what to do. And so be it.”

  But he added, “I will, however, issue to you my final thought: any man who boards that submarine for just ten minutes will die. If you send in many of our expert technicians, we will lose them all. I deeply regret to inform you, sir, that this is not a practical proposition. And if you do issue an order that knowingly sends our best men to their immediate death, after an accident in which I have been personally involved, my advice must be properly recorded, and I shall take immediate steps to ensure it is.”

  And then his voice hardened. “Admiral,” he said. “Forget it.”

  Zhang knew bald-faced reason when he heard it. And he just said quietly, “Very well, Dr. Luofu. I am disappointed, as a military man. But I bow to the great scientist. Please do everything you can to ensure the safety of everyone in the area. And sink the submarine as you see fit.”

  They were big words from, essentially, a big man. Admiral Zhang had not become the youngest-ever Commander-in-Chief of the People’s Liberation Army/Navy by some kind of fluke.

  At this time, in the minutes before 10:00 on this Sunday evening, July 16, 2006, the big Navy yard began to react, its nuclear accident organization activating the predetermined plan to deal with such disasters — radiation monitoring and decontamination teams, fire and medical squads, wind and weather checks.

  Back in the central area of the city they slowly learned there had been an accident on the base. The police moved quickly to evacuate and cordon off the immediate areas around the submarine, particularly downwind and into the city. Their principal concern was to avoid mass panic.

  The police chief called his Beijing headquarters to inform them of the disaster, and already the media were trying to make contact with the Navy itself. It took only another few minutes before Admiral Zhang Yushu was on the line to Beijing, informing his government that somehow or another, the big American nuclear submarine in the Canton dockyard had suffered a serious nuclear accident while engineers were working on the reactor.

  They already knew that the dockyard was heavily contaminated, but so far there was no evidence of radiation spreading to the city itself. The police felt it would be unwise to allow any flights into Canton airport until a proper assessment had been made over the next two days.

  Back in Zhanjiang, Zhang had his own private worries. His first instinct was that his own scientists had somehow screwed the entire thing up. There must have been American reactor protection systems capable of dealing with this sort of problem. So the scientists had “done a Chernobyl”—deactivating safety systems in order to car
ry out some crass experiment of their own. Zhang shuddered. Surely not.

  Maybe the Americans had an automatic booby-trap device fitted into the submarine, and they had known all along that it would ultimately self-destruct. Hence the polite, devious messages through the diplomatic channels. Being made to look a complete fool was a condition to which Zhang was not accustomed. Nor was he appreciative.

  He summoned Admiral Zu Jicai and briefed him on the disaster in Canton. Jicai was thunderstruck, his natural calm evaporating in emotional turmoil. To Zhang’s repeated question — was Seawolf booby-trapped? — his answer was a qualified no. Both men knew they had the cooperation of one of the senior Americans, the executive officer, no less, Lt. Commander Bruce Lucas.

  On one evening he had quite agreeably spent the night on board the submarine and had shown no sign of nerves that the ship might self-destruct. He had even been questioned about such a possibility. Both Zhang and Zu had read the report, and the American had assured them he had never even heard of any American warship being so protected.

  Nonetheless, both Chinese admirals felt a certain contempt for the American officer who had given in to their demands for information about the inner workings of the great underwater ship. It was connected to the innate Chinese phobia about loss of face, pride in your standing and position. Like all Chinese military men, they had a grudging respect for men like Judd Crocker, Brad Stockton and the unfortunately deceased Cy Rothstein, men who were unshakeable, to the death if necessary, in their loyalty and patriotism.

  For Bruce Lucas they had little time, and it was with a certain sadistic pleasure that Admiral Zhang picked up the telephone and opened up the line to Commander Li, who was just dining in his private rooms, above the comm center, outside the jail in Xiachuan.

  “Good evening, Li,” he said. “I am sorry to call you so late, but you may not have been notified that there has been a major disaster at the Canton base.”

  “No, sir. I have not been informed.”

  “The American submarine has had a serious nuclear accident and contaminated most of the dockyard. It was apparently a reactor meltdown. Privately, I think our scientists may not have been quite competent to work on it without willing American assistance, and that they ran it too hot or something. However, we must be aware that the ship may have been booby-trapped to blow itself to pieces if it ever fell into foreign hands.”

  “We did question Lieutenant Commander Lucas about this, and he professed to know nothing of such a scheme,” replied Li.

  “However,” said Zhang, “he is clearly a cowardly man who may be dishonest, and I think you should have him removed to the interrogation room again as soon as possible, tonight. Keep him awake. Try the wet towel again, hah? That way we may get a serious answer.…Thank you, Li. Let’s speak tomorrow early before the prisoners are moved.”

  2215. Sunday evening.

  South China Sea. 21.12N 112.35E.

  All three American submarines were now at periscope depth, making 8 knots through 150 feet of water, some 30 miles south of the assault beach. The depths on the fathometers steadily lessened. In all three boats, the attention of the commanding officers was fixed on the voices calling out the depth below the keel — the ever-increasing proximity of the soft sandy ocean floor as it sloped up to the mainland.

  Minutes passed, and then…“Fifty-feet on the sounder.”

  At 2250, Cheyenne was calling less than 20 feet under the keel; one more mile and they would surface, running in toward the landing beach. Cheyenne’s satellite comms had already established that the Xiachuan patrol boat was back on the jetty, and there was no sign of a further Chinese warship.

  And so, in heavy rain and a light wind, the three Los Angeles-class boats came sliding out of the dark ocean into the hot, wet night air of the south China tropics. They pushed forward on the surface for another four miles, watching the ESM, checking that there was no shore-based radar along the desolate coastline, which there was not. And then they came almost to a halt, riding on an easy swell in 50 feet of water, four miles off the southern beaches of the island.

  The SEALs were ready and began to climb out onto the deck, each one wearing heavy black camouflage cream on his face. Already on deck, members of the submarine crews were inflating the much bigger Zodiacs, priming the engines, checking the gas. Then, from the decks of Cheyenne and Greenville, 32 SEALs each expertly manhandled them into the water and climbed aboard for the three-mile power-assisted run into Xiachuan. The last mile they would paddle, just as Olaf Davidson’s recon team had done two nights previous.

  Each of the big rubber boats was now commanded by one of the SEALs who had reconnoitered the island. Lieutenant Commander Bennett was in the lead, followed by Lt. Dan Conway’s boat, then Buster Townsend, then John. Chief McCarthy would lead the four from Cheyenne, followed by Paul Merloni, Rattlesnake Davies and Bill.

  Eight SEALs traveled in each boat, which was a tight squeeze because they all had to bring equipment: machine guns, ladders, satchel bombs, det-cord, antitank launchers, grappling hooks, grenades, and a box of flares to light the place up once they’d gone noisy. In addition, there were small hand-held radios, already primed to connect with the bigger one that would be carried by Lt. Commander Rick Hunter’s personal bodyguard and would act as the command post for each of the marauding SEAL teams. In addition, there was the navigation kit, compasses, GPS systems, medical supplies, and light aluminum stretchers.

  The engines kicked into life, the noise surprisingly quiet for such powerful engines. But the word from the sonar and radar rooms was excellent. There were no Chinese ships within 25 miles, save for the parked patrol boat on the jetty at Xiachuan.

  And so they set off at a low growl, running fast at 20 knots, heading due north for the beach where Olaf and Catfish would signal them in. Rusty knew the light on the southern headland of Shangchuan Dao would be their guide, and he spotted it after eight minutes, a fast bright flash to starboard every five seconds. He checked his watch, and kept going, the other seven boats line astern. Six more minutes and he would signal to cut the speed, and he thanked God for the rain, which tended to deaden sound on the water.

  At 23:45, they drifted silently to a halt and the SEALs took up the paddles, perching on the broad rubberized gunwhales of the Zodiacs and pulling long, quiet strokes through the water. No lights, no sound, guided only by the compass and the soft green glow of the numbers on Rusty Bennett’s GPS system.

  At 23:55 Lieutenant Commander Bennett spotted his second bright light of the journey, right off their port bow, three quick flashes every 20 seconds, the agreed-upon signal…“There he is, it’s Olaf and Catfish right in there…”

  He muttered in the dark, “Starboard four, two strokes,” and he felt the boat swing to port. “All pull now…six strokes and wait…starboard side, two…portside, one…all pull again ten strokes and easy…”

  And then he felt the boat moving on its own as Olaf and Catfish grabbed the bow handles expertly and hauled the Zodiac inshore, through the shallows and onto the beach. The SEALs jumped out and grabbed the handles, two men peeling off from each boat to assist the next one in.

  Rusty, now assuming command on the landing beach, ordered two crewmen to remain with each boat, a total of 16 valuable SEALs. But the getaway beach was a mile to the north, up beyond the jetty, the closest possible water to the jail. And the moment the patrol boat blew, the eight Zodiacs had to be floated out and driven with all speed right past the wreck to the point where Seawolf’s stricken crew would begin to arrive. And theirs had to be the shortest possible journey because of the wounded.

  Meanwhile Hank and Al came ghosting out of the jungle, shook hands quickly with Lieutenant Commander Hunter, and led the way back to the point in the trees where they had cut sufficient undergrowth to form a muster point. Rusty Bennett supervised the unloading of the gear, and Lieutenant Conway was in charge of moving it up the beach into the cleared area.

  Conditions may have seemed awful, pitch
dark and driving tropical rain, but for this operation, conditions were perfect. The only lights anyone could see were on the distant patrol boat, moored at the jetty. And now Lieutenant Commander Hunter began to assemble his teams, three of them, 16 men in each.

  Team A would be led by Rusty Bennett. Under his command would be Chief John McCarthy, the three British SAS men, Buster Townsend, two expert climbers, John and Bill, plus eight regular seamen. Their task was the initial assault, taking the watchtowers, scaling the walls, taking out the guard patrol inside the jail, blowing up the guardhouse and the main gates, and then moving in to assist in prisoner release. At this point Chief McCarthy would take over command while Rusty peeled off to command the exit beach.

  Team B would be led by Lt. Dan Conway. His second-in-command was Lt. Paul Merloni, and the team included Rattlesnake Davies, Petty Officers Catfish Jones, Steve Whipple, and Rocky Lamb, plus Hank, Al, and eight other SEALs on their first mission. Their critical task was to attack the camp headquarters, and destroy all communications equipment; attack the combined administration and dormitory block, preventing any of its inhabitants from influencing events; and kill any guards patrolling outside the walls of the jail.

  Team C would be commanded by Lt. Commander Olaf Davidson. His second-in-command would be Lt. Ray Schaeffer. They would be assisted by Lt. Junior Grade Garrett Atkins and a team of SEAL veterans because this group was the uncommitted reserve, and they had to be ready for anything, particularly in the event of a crisis. Their principal tasks were to destroy the patrol craft and the two helicopters, and thereafter to move right in close and provide backup to both Team A and Team B in the release of the prisoners. They were also in command of the medical supplies, plus the light-weight stretchers