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

  Lieutenant Commander Hunter would man the command post, which would be situated on a section of steep, wooded ground 40 yards southwest of the helicopter pad, just left of the track down which the prisoners had first marched. The recon team had spotted this ideal place because of its clear view of the main gates. Rick would be assisted by Lt. Bobby Allensworth, who would also act as his personal bodyguard, plus two other SEALs during the initial phases of the attack. They would provide the radio contact for all three teams. If there were any problems, Rick Hunter would decide on the length of delay.

  Only when the outer buildings were destroyed, the inner guards subdued, and the gates blasted open would Rick Hunter and his team move into the main courtyard of the jail and organize the exit of the prisoners down to Rusty Bennett’s beach.

  Right now, it was still pitch dark and raining like hell, and the equipment was arriving agonizingly slowly in the jungle clearing. But SEALs hate mistakes, hate leaving anything behind, hate unchecked lists, hate forgetting anything, hate surprises. Lieutenant Conway was working with a small waterproof laptop, checking everything under its subdued light, and Olaf Davidson was moving each piece of equipment to the appropriate team, each of which was now occupying a separate section of the clearing.

  Rick Hunter walked among them, whispering instructions to each leader, particularly in terms of the radio signals. The lieutenant commander wanted no words unless, as he put it, “the fucking roof’s falling in.” His preferred method of communication was quick bleeps from the hand-held sets, one for nearly ready, two for ready, three for minor problem, one long beep for crisis.

  It was almost 0030 before they were ready to move, which meant they were around an hour behind schedule, but that was built in to the mission. Colonel Hart knew they would be an hour behind, but he thought they would catch up once they were under way. And now Rick Hunter ordered everyone forward into the soaking-wet darkness, and they moved silently in different directions, each leader carrying his map of the jail, his map of the island, and his timing notes made so carefully by Rusty and the recons.

  The watchword was H-hour—“H” for HIT. They were expected to be in position one hour from now, and that would be H minus 15, or 15 minutes from the opening attack. Thus, right now they were looking at H minus 75, SEAL time.

  Down along the shore, Ray Schaeffer and Garrett Atkins led two other SEALs through the trees at the top end of the beach, and they walked with stealthy steps, a special SEAL walk, light, moving weight forward at the last moment, avoiding the breaking of small twigs. In full daylight they would have looked a bit like extras from the Pink Panther movies, but they traveled deceptively fast and made no sound. In addition to their personal weaponry, each of the four men carried two light plastic disposable antiarmor rocket launchers, the M136-Bofors.

  Their program was vital and simple. On the command, precisely at H-hour, Ray and Garrett would fire one shell each at the patrol boat. Each one would hit the port side, one below the waterline, one above. Depending on the damage, they would then fire two more. Of course, if the first two reduced the ship to matchwood, no further action would be necessary, although Ray would put two SEALs with their light machine guns within 40 feet of the end of the gangway, specifically to cut down any Chinese crew who were able to make a run for it. The objective was plain: to ensure that no one could possibly get a radio message off that ship. Being SEALs, that meant the total destruction of all radio equipment plus anyone who might be able to work it.

  And still they slipped through the edge of the jungle, watching the lights from the ship draw nearer. With 200 yards still to walk they swung deeper into the trees, following the route Rusty Bennett had suggested. Then they turned in, back toward the ship, coming at it softly, step by step, finding their position, looking straight at it from the cover of the foliage. Time was running out for the Chinese ocean patrol.

  The walk had taken them 40 minutes. It was H minus 35, and out on the edge of the jail’s precincts, the other members of their team, Lt. Commander Olaf Davidson and his veterans, were staring down at the two helicopters from a hillside southeast of the prison. Olaf knew that Colonel Hart was not in favor of timed detonations because once they were fixed they had to stay fixed. He instinctively agreed with that, realizing that if there was a hitch and they had to delay the start, they would have to deactivate the charge, which aside from being a PITA was also bloody dangerous, and they might get caught under the choppers.

  Thus he placed two men with the light portable antitank launchers in prime position, less than 50 yards from the choppers. The first moment the operation went noisy, they would rip a high-explosive shell straight through the cockpit of each aircraft, both of which were full of fuel and would unquestionably explode in a massive fireball. The guys would want to stand well back from that one, especially as the blast might send up the fuel dump as well.

  Olaf watched his men move into place. Then he moved on through the rain and set the rest of the team up in two strategic locations. Group one would conceal themselves in a position opposite the southeast corner of the wall, ready to follow the first assault force through the main gate. Group two would provide covering fire and backup to the force that would attack the dormitory, where there could be resistance. Olaf ordered his men right around to the western hill, from where they could if necessary destroy the entire building. By the time they were settled, it was H minus 25.

  Dan Conway’s Team B had to move a lot of high explosive, and they were slower through the jungle than Olaf and Ray Schaeffer. There was a pile of satchel bombs, four of them containing special compressed gas with which to blast open the administration block. The regular high explosive was for the commandant’s quarters, which also held the communication center. The satchels weighed 40 pounds each, and they were life or death to this mission. There was a contingency plan for each one of them—What if two SEALs were gunned down on the way in? That would require two more, maybe four.

  There were four buildings to be hit, and whereas 8 bombs would do the job just fine, they had to bring 16, just in case. That was a 320-pound insurance policy against the lives of 170-odd Americans that Dan and his team carried. Fit as mountain lions, they hauled their burdens through the wet, clinging jungle. SEALs walked out in front with machetes, cleaving some kind of a path for Rocky Lamb, Rattlesnake Davies, and the gigantically strong Catfish Jones, who carried two satchels on his own, as did Steve Whipple. And the rain beat down, and the SEALs slipped and cursed softly, and they prayed that it would not stop pouring on this night of the Nighthawks.

  By the time Dan had deployed his team it was H minus 20, and they were almost ready. Lt. Paul Merloni, in company with three other SEALs, was the last man in place, completely concealed in a hollow opposite the north wall, right in the area where he would attempt to kill all four Chinese guards, or six if necessary. Olaf’s note had reported two extra guards on duty in the afternoon, but of course he had no way of knowing whether the same would apply after midnight. Nonetheless, the warning was there.

  Rick Hunter himself, traveling lightly, was established in position first, the big radio placed next to him by Lt. Bobby Allensworth. That radio was the link between Rick and all of the SEALs; through its VHF transmissions would flow all commands and minor plan changes. In a crisis the radio was the SEALs’ only lifeline, the only way they could access the carrier and send for help if the Chinese managed to bring in reinforcements. But the odds against that happening were heavy.

  Team A also had a long walk to the north wall of the jail. They were there a few moments before Paul Merloni was almost shot dead by Buster Townsend, when the Italian New Yorker hissed, “Velly good work, Mr. Buster…velly fine job…you like my sister? She velly clean…”

  Chief McCarthy almost exploded trying to stop laughing, not so much at Paul’s sophomoric humor, but at Buster’s instant assessment that this might be a real live Chinese person. They all needed a laughter break, even Rusty Bennett, and they chuckled silently t
ogether, standing under the trees, 100 yards from the north wall, still holding the seven heavily padded, black-covered ladders. Paul Merloni and two other SEALs had to leave immediately, since they were delivering satchel bombs to the members of Team A on the east side.

  It was H minus 16 when Rusty ordered them to close into the wall, as soon as the two-man patrol vanished around the northwestern corner. And both he and Chief McCarthy, with John and Bill, eased forward, crawling on their stomachs, while two other SEALs established a big machine gun aimed straight at the northwestern watchtower. The other machine gun was already in position, aimed at the northeastern watchtower, and also in position to open fire anywhere along the eastern wall. The three British SAS men were hiding 40 yards from that wall, faces blackened, gloved and armed, ready to go over the top. Three other young SEALs, each of them holding one of the 40-pound satchels, were hidden five yards to the left of the SAS men, ready to follow them over the wall 13 seconds later. Right now it was H minus 15.

  1300 (local). Sunday afternoon.

  Office of Admiral Morgan.

  The White House.

  The admiral was on his way back from the Pentagon, and inside his office there were only two people, Kathy O’Brien and the President of the United States, who was, by any standards, totally distraught.

  In the mind of the most powerful leader in the West, there was but one image, that of his only son Linus in a Chinese torture chamber, possibly having his fingernails ripped out or electrodes attached to him, all the grisly ideas used in both factual and fictional accounts of interrogation in Far Eastern countries.

  And all he could think of was the terrified face of his little boy, and he couldn’t fight his own fears any longer, and his great shoulders heaved as he wept uncontrollably at the desk of his National Security Adviser.

  Kathy had her arms around him, and she was desperate to stop the complete disintegration of the Chief Executive, desperate that no one should come in and see him like this. She had locked the door, and she was saying over and over, using his Christian name for the only time in her life, “No, John, please don’t. You mustn’t be this upset. Arnold says we have the matter in hand…he’s certain the SEALs will free him tonight.…Arnold will be back in a few minutes…he’s already left the Pentagon.…Just please don’t give in, sir…we have to have faith…I don’t know where I’d be without mine.”

  The President made a huge effort, and he took from his pocket a large white handkerchief and wiped his tear-stained face dry, trying to regain his composure, trying to fight from his subconscious the reflection of Linus as a little boy. “Are you a Catholic?” he asked Kathy.

  “Yessir. I am. My Irish family has been for centuries. How about you, sir?”

  “I wish I were,” he replied. “They seem to gain a greater strength from their religion in times of trouble.”

  “Oh, I think that’s to do with faith, sir. The stronger your faith, the easier it is.”

  “But I was brought up to have faith. I just somehow wish it were the Catholic faith.…Kathy, what would your priest tell me to do right at this moment?”

  “I cannot be sure, sir. But he would certainly mention that you must trust in the Lord, and that the Lord loves Linus as well as you, and that in the end he will keep him safe.”

  “But he does not keep everyone safe, does he?”

  “In his own way, he does. But that’s part of faith. You have to have it. That’s what trusting in the Lord is. And you must pray for him…my priest would tell you that…just one still, small voice…but it will be heard…I know that’s true, sir…you must pray…I am sure of that…why don’t we just pray now for the safe deliverance home of Linus…here, now, together. Two voices might be better than one…”

  “Two still, small voices?” he smiled.

  “Yessir. Here and now…and I think we should kneel.”

  And so they did, and Kathy O’Brien said the words of a prayer she had been taught…and she recited them quietly. And then they prayed silently, until Kathy said, “Please, God, bring him home safely…with all of the others…in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.”

  As if on cue, the Archangel Gabriel from the Pentagon arrived outside the door and thundered on it with his right fist. Kathy stood up and opened it, and Admiral Morgan charged in, his left fist raised.

  He glanced down at the President, but seemed not to notice that the great man was on his knees, and snapped, “This is it, sir. We got the bastards on the run now. You want the good news or the even better news?”

  “I’ll take the good, then the even better.”

  “Right. Now, the Russian news agency is reporting a major nuclear accident in the Navy yards at Canton. That’s the end of Seawolf, and it has plainly caused the most gigantic diversion in the South China Sea. Our pilot is safely back in the carrier.

  “Next, the Special Forces are in, right now surrounding the jail, everything is in our favor, and everything is in place. This is a classic SEAL operation. They attack in ten minutes, and I shall personally be astounded if the submarine crew is not free and on its way home in the next two hours. How’s that?”

  “I’d say pretty darned good. But tell me, why the overwhelming optimism?”

  “Well, sir. Hitting the submarine was very difficult, but now we know the Chinese have something to be massively concerned about. I suspect all of their energies are being diverted to the disaster in Canton. In addition, the recon and then the insertion of the big Special Force were always the most dangerous. It’s getting in and remaining unseen that’s so critical. Once the guys are in, safe, and armed to the teeth with all the explosive they need, it’s dollars to doughnuts they’ll succeed against an unalerted enemy. And that’s the way I like it.”

  “As a matter of fact, that’s the way I like it, too,” added the President as he prepared to return to the Oval Office. “By the way, Kathy, you don’t have a direct line up there, do you? Because it sure seems like you do.”

  “No, sir. Not direct. But he does hear us.”

  “Yes, Kathy. I guess he really does.”

  H minus 13.

  Outside the Jail on Xiachuan Dao.

  Tonight there were two Chinese guard patrols outside the jail. One consisted of four men who walked “two walls” in front of the two-man patrol; thus one patrol never saw the other, since they each arrived at diametrically opposite corners at the same time. In fact, Rusty had noted that after about one hour, the four-man group did tend to catch the other up, and then would quite deliberately wait until the gap between them was again correct.

  Tonight, in the heavy rain, it was taking each group 53 seconds to walk along the 50-yard-long north wall. The shorter east and west walls then took only 43 seconds, which meant that tonight there was a window of only 43 seconds for the four SEALs to cross the track completely out of sight of the guards, scale the wall and drag the padded ladders up behind them.

  It was plenty of time, but Lieutenant Commander Bennett knew the closer to the wall the four climbers hid, the more time they would have. And now he urged his three colleagues forward again, into the long grass, only 60 feet from the base of the prison wall.

  And as he did so, he hit the radio buttons to Lieutenant Commander Hunter, one short sharp bleep, almost ready. It was H minus 12, and the rain kept pouring down. Up in the watchtower he could see the four men in the reflected glow of the big searchlights that swept the prison yard. It looked even wetter up there. Just moving around the corner from the east was the four-man patrol, and the SEALs held their collective breath, flat in the grass. The Chinese passed, walking firmly, rifles over their shoulders, looking ahead, and using, Rusty noted for the first time, a flashlight to illuminate the wet ground, with its now deep puddles. He also noted that they were not using the beam to sweep across the rough low jungle on the righthand side. Which was excellent news. The north side of the jail was the darkest by a long way, out of range of any light.

  Rusty watched the guard walk on toward t
he end of the wall. Then he hit the radio button twice…ready. Instantly the single bleep from Rick Hunter came back…GO.

  “This is it, guys…we’re outta here.” Rusty’s words were typically SEAL, militarily unorthodox, sharp, to the point, with overtones of buddies, not officer to men. And with that they picked up their ladders, and raced silently across the rough ground, Rusty and John running diagonally west, Chief McCarthy and Bill to the other end of the north wall. They reached it in four seconds.

  All four 15-foot ladders were placed against the wall within.0001 of a second of each other, and the SEALs climbed them in the dark at the pace they had been taught, fast but not too fast, no mistakes. They reached the top of the wall in 12 more seconds, rolling flat over the narrow parapet onto the jail’s long flat roof, into the pitch dark beneath the watchtowers. Each SEAL lay stone silent below the tower guards for 10 seconds, and then they reached back over the outside wall and pulled up their padded ladders.

  Less than half a minute had elapsed since Rick Hunter’s beep, but now they had to wait until the two-man patrol passed by. It would be in just a few seconds, but they did not want to be working right above the heads of an armed foot patrol. The plan was to let the guards get back around to the west wall before they scaled the second half of the climb to the towers.

  Timing was critical. Rusty Bennett peered over the wall, watching the guards walking by. In his hand he held his little radio, tuned to the frequency of Chief McCarthy.

  The final guard turned the corner, and Rusty hit the button. John McCarthy’s radio light blinked. They each counted to five and placed the four ladders softly against the upper wall surrounding the guards at the top of the tower. And then they set off, climbing more slowly, more carefully through the rain, one man on each side of the crow’s nest where the Chinese worked the lights.

  At the top, there was no more hesitation. Rusty Bennett could see the nearside guard with his back to him, and he pushed off the top rung, his fighting knife ready, jumped over the waist-high wall, rammed his arm around the man’s head and sliced his throat almost in half. Three feet away Bill did exactly the same to the second man. There was no sound, but the mess was awful as two Chinese jugulars pumped out blood onto the floor.