The Shark Mutiny Page 42

But before Shawn Pearson could run those calculations, Commander Reid exploded: “I WILL NOT HAVE THIS DEFIANCE…I AM THE COMMANDING OFFICER OF THIS SHIP, AND I WILL NOT HAVE HER TAKEN DELIBERATELY INTO A FATAL CONFRONTATION…. NOW STEP ASIDE, OFFICER OF THE DECK…I’M TAKING THE CONN…. XO, YOU WILL ALSO STEP ASIDE WHILE I ISSUE NEW, CORRECT ORDERS TO THE PLANESMAN. I WANT THIS SHIP TURNED AND RUNNING BELOW THE SURFACE IMMEDIATELY.”

  No one spoke. No one moved. And Shark kept running forward, fast, on the surface, toward the SEALs.

  Lieutenant Pearson broke the ice. “Sir, I do not think they could have reached the shoal before zero-five-four-zero. The approach from the channel through the marshes is very shallow, medium speed at best. But they could have rushed across the shoal. There’re always three or four feet there, even at low tide in the worst parts. Four miles would have taken them probably twelve minutes, so they should be right off Mawdin Point, running fast, west, at zero-five-five-two…right now I have zero-five-five-zero…two minutes from now there should be eight miles between us…closing at forty-seven knots. Probably see ’em from the bridge in around ten minutes.”

  Lieutenant Pearson spoke as if the CO were not even in the control room, never mind in control of the ship.

  And the XO turned once more back to Commander Reid, and said quietly, “I’m putting you on the sick list, sir. I think that would be best for everyone.”

  “XO, you are doing no such thing. I am taking command of this ship and I am turning around, and going below the surface, where I intend to remain. If the SEAL team arrives being pursued by the Helix helicopters, I will remain below the surface. Because, XO, unlike yourself and others in this room, I am governed by Navy regulations. Nuclear submarines do not travel on the surface in the face of the enemy. NOW STEP ASIDE.”

  Lieutenant Commander Headley did not move. He simply said, “Under Section one-zero-eight-eight of United States Navy Regulations I am relieving you of further duty. Since you have refused my offer of placement on the sick list, I am placing you under arrest. I am next in the succession to command. I am plainly unable to refer the matter to a common superior, and I am confident that your prejudicial actions are not caused by instructions unknown to me…”

  Commander Reid raised his arms in exasperation, holding them high and slightly to the front, like a Catholic priest before communion. “MY ‘PREJUDICIAL ACTIONS’! How dare you, XO. This entire episode has been caused by your childhood friendship with Commander Hunter. We all know you and the SEALs have been buddy-buddy ever since we arrived in Diego Garcia. And this has come down to loyalty. Your loyalty to those damn brutes in the rubber inflatables, against my loyalty to the one hundred seven officers and men on this nuclear submarine. YOU ARE A DAMNED CHARLATAN, Lieutenant Commander. And you may have fooled some of the crew. But you have not damned well fooled me. SO STEP ASIDE.”

  “COMMANDER REID. YOU ARE UNDER ARREST.” Dan Headley was not speaking kindly anymore. “Chief Fisher, go and round up six seamen and escort the former Commanding Officer to his room, where he will be confined until further notice….

  “NOW, Officer of the Deck, continue at the conn and continue this course with all speed…Lieutenant Commander Gandy, have comms try to contact the little boats…Lieutenant Commander Cressend, have Stinger missiles brought up, ready to be fired from the sail…Lieutenant Pearson, report to the bridge…I’ll be there in a few minutes…. That’s all.”

  Every man so addressed replied with a sharp “Aye, sir.” And then Lt. Commander Headley turned back to Commander Reid. “I would very much like to think you are just undergoing psychological problems, which may have been with you for a long time. However, the only alternative view available to me is that you are nothing short of a damned coward.”

  “Those are the remarks of an insolent and very misguided officer,” replied the ex-CO. “I have the lives of the one hundred seven officers and men on this ship very much on my mind. And I am aware that in order to save your friend Hunter, you are quite prepared to sacrifice the lives of every one of us.”

  “I suppose it would never occur to a man like you that we can fight and win this thing, down the Chinese helicopters flying out of their burned-out base. And then save the lives of perhaps ten of the bravest men ever to have operated on behalf of our country. I don’t suppose it would have occurred either to that French creep you so admire, or think you once were, or whatever crackpot thoughts go on in your mind.”

  “You’ll damned well pay for this, Headley. I’ll have you court-martialed the moment we return to an American port.”

  “You may try; of course that’s your prerogative. I’d be surprised if you didn’t have a few questions to answer yourself, about the death of yet another SEAL you flatly refused to help. Charlie Mitchell was his name, and I can tell you now, Commander Bennett is not pleased.”

  At that point, Master Chief Fisher arrived with a group of seamen. “Take him below, Drew,” ordered the XO. “Lock him in his quarters until further notice. If he resists, carry him. Just get him out of my sight.”

  “And what am I supposed to do shut up in there until you feel inclined to release me?”

  “I neither know nor care. Why don’t you ask your dead friend Captain Grigory Lyachin. He’d probably help. I wouldn’t bother to contact Villeneuve. He’d probably tell you to commit suicide, as he did.”

  Commander Reid departed under escort, hissing venomously, “You out-and-out bastard, Headley.”

  0554. Bay of Bengal.

  Off Mawdin Point,

  West Coast of Burma.

  The two fast inflatables, throttles wide open, raced across the flat sea. Out to the east, the skies were colored rose-pink, but the sun had not yet risen out of the endless rice fields of the delta. No sun, no sign of the helicopters returning.

  They made a course change, heading now roughly west nor’west, two-nine-zero, directly toward USS Shark. If the submarine remained at the rendezvous point, they had a run of 15 miles and perhaps 40 minutes. But everyone hoped against all hope that Shark was on her way in to try to save them. One of the rookies was balancing, standing up in the inflatable, holding an aerial way above his head, while Lt. MacPherson attempted to raise the submarine’s comms room on the VHF radio. So far they were receiving nothing.

  They raced on for another mile, and then the lookout in the rear boat spotted them—the two Chinese Helix-A choppers battering their way across Burma’s western headland, slowly, making a search along the shore, under strict instructions now from the gathering of surviving officers at Haing Gyi to hunt down and destroy the criminals who had blown up the base.

  Instantly, Commander Rick Hunter shouted, “Man both the M-60s…don’t waste your ammunition by firing too soon…they’ll probably come in right on our six o’clock and then bank away…all three of us go for the cockpits first…then, Dallas, go for the rear doors…try to take out the gunners…Mike, you again go for the engines…I’ll keep banging away at the pilots. FIRE on my command.”

  Moments later, the Chinese pilots spotted the little boats, almost two miles away now, holding a steady course, separated by a distance of only 30 yards. Commander Hunter then ordered the boats to split up. “Just make sure neither helo can fire at both boats at the same time.”

  Thirty seconds later the Helix-As were on them, coming in low, dead astern. “FIRE!!” yelled Rick Hunter, and the SEALs opened up, but it was very difficult in the bucking inflatables. They drove them away, neither helicopter managing to get a clean burst of fire at the boats.

  But now they came around again, and the leader banked right, giving his gunner a clear shot, and he raked the water and then the inflatable with bullets, ripping four large tears in the rubberized hull, and hitting Commander Hunter in his upper thigh and one of the rookies in the chest. A blistering fusillade of bullets from Dallas and Mike Hook drove the other one away, but neither chopper was damaged, and with blood pouring from his wound, Rick Hunter swung his machine gun around and turned to face them again.<
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  But now the two pilots flew back to the east. One of their machine gunners was badly wounded, and they needed to caucus. That gave the SEALs three more minutes to restore order. Buster Townsend, using his good arm, tried to get a tourniquet around Commander Hunter’s thigh but it was not very successful, and the blood kept flowing.

  And then they saw it, the black hull of USS Shark barreling in over the horizon, a huge bow wave flooding blue water aft down the hull, splitting at the sail, and cascading off port and starboard.

  Commander Hunter, gritting his teeth, shouted, “Steer straight for the submarine. GO-GO-GO!”

  There was about a mile distance between them now, and they were closing at 47 knots. That represented only a little over a minute’s running time. Too long. The Helix-As were heading back toward them, and they had the hang of it now. They came in low at an angle, the machine gunners now firing at will.

  Rick and Dallas both went for the rear door, and again they hit one of the gunners, but the Chinese fired four lethal bursts, and again they hit the lead boat, which was now shipping water. A vicious line of bullets ripped through the little craft, hitting Buster Townsend three times in the chest, and killing him instantly as he tried to bandage the Commander. One of the rookies was also killed, and Rattlesnake Davies took a bullet in his upper right arm.

  The SEALs could not possibly survive such an onslaught. And now both helos were on their way back again. Dallas and Mike Hook were still trying to clip in a new ammunition belt, and Rick Hunter, his hands sticky with blood, tackled them alone, blasting away at the cockpits. But this time the lead helo changed tactics, kept going forward and then swung hard to port, right across the bow of the sinking inflatable. Big mistake. Because it flew right into the range of one of Shark’s missile men, waiting patiently on the deck behind the twin dry-dock shelters, the only one not up on the sail.

  He aimed the five-foot tube straight at the helo, hit the buttons the infrared homing, heat-seeking Stinger needed, and then fired it dead straight at 600 yards range. It blasted out of the tube, almost knocking the operator flat, adjusted its flight, and then streaked in at Mach-2 straight at the Helix.

  It slammed into the starboard engine and blew the entire aircraft to shreds. The second Helix banked around, determined to loose off a depth bomb against the hull of the submarine. But he was not in time. The missile men up on the sail had two more Stingers in the air before it could adjust height and course, and the astounded SEALs watched both engines explode in one single raging fireball, right below the rotors, before it joined its cohort, crashing into the waves right off Shark’s portside bow.

  And now more boats were being launched off the deck to pick up the SEALs who were in the water and the crew of the second inflatable, which was still floating by some miracle, since its entire starboard side had been split open by the bullets.

  Rick Hunter and Rattlesnake were hauled out first, and assisted up on deck. Stretchers were produced immediately for both the wounded SEALs. Body bags were brought up for Catfish, Bobby, Buster and the young SEAL Sam Liefer. And they hauled Mike Hook, Dallas MacPherson, the two drivers and the four rookies back aboard.

  Commander Hunter was drifting in and out of consciousness now, and they strapped him into the stretcher while they lowered it through the hatch on its way to the medical room, where the Navy doctor and his assistants awaited him.

  Lieutenant Commander Dan Headley was also down there to meet his old buddy, but Rick was very weak and needed a blood transfusion. Buster’s tourniquet may have saved his life, because a bullet had hit within millimeters of the femoral artery, the one that almost always causes matadors to die, if the horn of the bull happens to rake through their thigh.

  He was awake for just a few seconds under the lights of the medical center when he saw Dan standing next to him.

  “I can’t believe this…. I thought the game was up,” said Rick.

  “You didn’t think I’d leave you to die, did you? You didn’t leave me.”

  “Hey, thanks, shithead,” muttered the SEAL Commander, as they wheeled him into the emergency area.

  And Now Lt. Commander Headley was alone with the consequences of his actions. He returned to the control room and ordered Shark back into deep water. Then he found a quiet corner to draft a signal back to San Diego, and it took him longer than he had spent saving the SEALs.

  In the end it read: “To: COMSUBPACFLT. 070700JUN. At 16.00N 94.01E. At 0540 this morning under Section 1088 Naval Regulations, I took command of the ship, and placed Commander Reid under arrest on grounds of psychological instability. Commander Reid refused request for assistance from U.S. Navy SEAL assault team operational in Bassein Delta. All senior executives in agreement with my actions. USS Shark subsequently carried out rescue. Four SEALs killed in action before we arrived to save remaining eight men, including badly wounded Commander Hunter. Two Chinese Helix helicopters destroyed with missiles. Submarine undamaged. Request immediate orders to return either Diego Garcia or San Diego. Signed: Lt. Commander D. Headley, CO USS Shark.”

  Dan put the signal on the satellite a little after 0700. He then appointed an official second-in-command, the Combat Systems Officer, Lt. Commander Jack Cressend. Then he retired to sleep until 0900, having been awake for almost 24 hours. To sleep, perhaps to come to terms with the word mutiny, and to await his fate.

  It was 1430 in Pearl Harbor when the communication from Lt. Commander Dan Headley landed on the desk of Rear Admiral Freddie Curran, Commander Submarines Pacific Fleet. In fact, it did not actually land; it just fell right out of the sky with a resounding thud, like a time bomb. Not in living memory had there been a mutiny in a United States warship on the high seas.

  Rear Admiral Curran just stared at it for a few moments, and tried to decide whether to have Shark routed back to Diego Garcia to rejoin the Harry S Truman Carrier Battle Group. Or to order the submarine to make all speed home to its base in San Diego, a distance of more than 12,000 miles—three weeks’ running time.

  As far as Admiral Curran was concerned, most of the U.S. Navy was already in the area of the Indian Ocean and the Arabian Sea, so it was scarcely imperative to get USS Shark back on station. And right now he was holding not so much a hot potato as an incandescent potato, and that three-week cushion would give everyone time to decide a reasonable course of action.

  It was clear from the signal that Shark’s XO had acted with the highest possible motives, and there was no doubt that the veteran Commander Reid was something of an oddball. But Christ! thought Admiral Curran. Mutiny is mutiny, and it took place in a United States warship on the high seas. And he hit the secure direct line to the Pearl Harbor office of CINCPACFLT, Admiral Dick Greening, and read him the signal.

  The Commander-in-Chief of the Pacific Fleet gulped. Twice. “Mother of God,” he said. “Mutiny?”

  “Well observed, sir. I’d come to a similar conclusion myself.”

  “I assume you’ve ordered the submarine back to San Diego.”

  “I was about to do so. And I will have done it in, say, fifteen minutes.”

  “Okay.”

  Admiral Curran’s signal was carefully worded…“Lieutenant Commander Headley. Received your signal 1430. Return USS Shark San Diego immediately. Admiral Curran. COMSUBPAC.”

  Dan Headley read it minutes later. “Wonder if they’ll give me a job at Hunter Valley?” he pondered. “Because if the Navy court-martials me for mutiny, it’s all over in dark blue. This is probably my first and last command. Kinda unusual end to an otherwise exemplary career.”

  Meantime the surgeon operated on Rick Hunter’s ripped thigh. The bullet had mercifully not damaged the femoral, but it had wreaked havoc with all the other blood vessels. And the doctor stitched carefully for three hours, after a major blood transfusion for the mighty SEAL leader.

  It was several hours before Rick could sit up in his bed and make any sense. During the late afternoon he listened to Dan Headley’s account of the mutiny in the privac
y of the sick bay.

  At 1800 he decided to send in his own short satellite signal to Coronado. It read: “SEAL mission on Haing Gyi Island accomplished. Naval base plus two PLAN warships destroyed. Four of our platoon killed, including Lt. Allensworth, Petty Officer Jones and Buster Townsend. We also lost combat SEAL Sam Liefer. Both Riff Davies and myself were wounded. We would all have died but for the actions of Lt. Commander Dan Headley. Signed: Commander Rick Hunter, on board USS Shark.”

  That signal went straight in to SPECWARCOM and arrived on the desk of Admiral John Bergstrom in the small hours of the morning. Its result was to put the Navy of the United States of America into one of the biggest quandaries it had ever experienced: whether to court-martial for mutiny a man who was not only an outstanding commander but also a plain and obvious hero.

  13

  Lieutenant Commander Headley had offered Commander Reid every courtesy, including the freedom to send in his own signal to CINCPACFLT in Pearl. It went, of course, directly to Admiral Dick Greening and portrayed the actions taken by Shark’s XO as nothing short of “making a mutiny.”

  It stated: “My command was removed by my own Executive Officer in the most shocking and totally unjustifiable manner. The XO was tacitly supported by other senior officers in the crew, but not verbally. They merely failed to object to this plain and dangerous breach of Navy regulations. I am thus drawn to the opinion that Lt. Commander Headley stands guilty of making a mutiny, and ought, by rights, to be court-martialed forthwith. Signed: Commander D. K. Reid, Commanding Officer, USS Shark.”

  “That,” pondered the Commander-in-Chief, “is not the message of a man looking for peace.” And in that moment he understood that battle lines were about to be drawn, despite the obvious danger that press and public opinion might consolidate behind the hero who had saved the embattled SEALs, and against the right and proper Commanding Officer of the nuclear submarine.

  And so, as USS Shark made her way home across the wide Pacific Ocean, the High Command of the United States Navy was forced to acknowledge the probability of a court-martial: a court-martial that could very well split opinion in half, both in the service and in the entire nation, if the press managed to grasp its significance.