“I understand it real well. That’s your problem.”
And with that, I went out to find my marine and the hotel.
Deputy Dog would have been just as happy if I’d gone back to the airport and returned to Jamaica. But that wasn’t my intent. I’d come to give the Chinese a kick in the pants, and I fully intended to do so.
The Panamanians would work out fine, as long as they didn’t have to deal with Deputy Dog. And I’d already figured out how to work around him.
When I entered the room, I recognized an old friend of mine, Gabriel Aznar. If I understood Deputy Dog’s accent, the gray-haired Aznar had recently been appointed head of the Panama Public Force’s counter-terror group.
“Gab” Aznar was a member of Panama’s special forces units before we went down and kicked out Noriega; I believe he’d even been in the States to train with some SEAL units. But I didn’t meet him until years later, when I was a civilian again.
Red Cell International undertook some contract work for a shipping company that made it expedient to deal with the Panamanian authorities. By that time, Panama had abolished its military, handing over most of its function to the national police force, aka the Panama Public Force. Aznar had been effectively demoted back down to lieutenant, despite his experience and seniority.
Luckily for all concerned, especially myself, the section he was posted to just happened to have jurisdiction over a small portion of the canal. I was able to provide Aznar with information that yielded a major arrest aboard a ship transiting the canal. The arrest led to the collapse of a fairly large drug operation run by Colombian terrorists, a win-win for all involved, especially Aznar, whose career was put back on the fast track.
Oh, it also greatly benefited my clients, but I see no harm in that.
Was Aznar grateful? To moi?
Let’s just say anytime we’re out for dinner or drinks, he buys.
I’d winked at him just before walking out on Deputy Dog. He winked back.
I called Danny from the car and asked him to run down Aznar’s contact information. Then I leaned over the seat and told the marine to take me to the Dorado Hotel.
“But, sir, you’re registered at the Bristol.”
“That’s why we’re going to Dorado.”
I gave him directions. The Bristol is a top-notch hotel in Panama City, a chic, high-profile place for chic, high-profile travelers. The Dorado is a cheap hotel catering exclusively to Panamanians, about the last place anyone would expect to find an American. The AC rarely works, the cable is nonexistent, and if you asked about room service the front desk would question your sanity. But to find a place farther below the radar you’d have to visit a cemetery.
Danny called back with the information on how to contact Aznar a half hour later. I called one of his aides at headquarters, gave him my sat phone number, and then went out shopping. He called me as I was counting out the change for a few energy bars.
“That was some show,” Aznar told me. “The deputy ambassador has been fuming ever since.”
I arranged to meet Aznar in an hour, then went about my chores. He was waiting for me at his headquarters, a bottle of Bombay Sapphire on the conference-room table when I arrived.
We exchanged toasts for a while. Then I suggested we go someplace more secure.
Aznar blinked a few times.
“We scan this place for bugs every day,” he said.
I put down my drink and walked over to the big clock on the wall. It was a battery-operated job, the sort you can pick up at Wal-Mart for $9.99, or in China for half that. I flipped it over, pulled out the battery, and tossed it to him.
“Look at that very closely. I’ll be outside, waiting.”33
The plan Deputy Dog had outlined involved half the Panamanian Public Force and the better part of a Marine Expeditionary Unit. It called for a coordinated attack on land and from the air. It might have worked once in a million years.
“Don’t you think this is overkill for a dozen attackers?” I asked Aznar, after he sketched it out for me.
“Of course.” Aznar shrugged. “It’s not my plan. It’s the minister’s.”
“Did you tell him it stinks?”
Aznar smiled. That wasn’t the way things were done in Panama, even after Noriega.
“First of all, I’ll go out on a limb here and tell you the marines aren’t coming,” I said. “I’m all the help you’re getting.”
“That ought to be more than enough.”
I smiled at him, then helped myself to the Sapphire.
___________________
29 Forgive me for being vague; it was located near the house of a friend of a friend.
30 I’m not allowed to tell you how many they have. But then again I got the number from Ken, so it’s probably not accurate anyway.
31Panama’s national police, which handles most defense duties. I’ll explain later.
32 The lawyers say we mustn’t use the word “arrest” since she was never actually arrested or charged with a crime. By that quaint notion, a good portion of the men and women in Cuban jails haven’t been arrested, either. Clearly, they’re there for the parties.
33 The bug was in the battery. I hadn’t scanned it; I simply got lucky, recognizing the clock right away from my previous travels in China.
They beat me with it once; ain’t gonna happen again.
( I )
According to the CIA’s intelligence—admittedly a contradiction in terms—the Venezuelan-Chinese plan called for the submarines to bring the raiding party close to the mouth of the canal. The fake guerrillas would take over a ship that was just entering the canal and proceed to Cristobal. There they would take hostages and seize control of the Gatun Locks about five miles farther west. A hostage crisis would ensue.
The Chinese would use diplomatic pressure and the threat to close down operations at the canal to keep the Panamanians from doing anything rash like rescuing them or calling the U.S. in to do the dirty work. As the crisis grew to a fever pitch, Chavez would present himself as a negotiator. The hostages would be freed and everything would be hunky-dory.
What would happen to the guerrillas?
Most likely they were considered not just expendable but nonreturnable. It was possible that a deal would be arranged to bring them back to Venezuela and somehow manage to escape. But my feeling was that they were going to be shot at the end of the crisis. They were just too much a liability to have around.
I suspected that the “hostages” who would be taken were really members of the Chinese Red Army, and the simplest damn solution to the entire affair would be to blow both them and the tangos up. But of course then every talking head from Beijing to Washington would be crying on TV about the innocent slaughter. So the only alternative was to stop the operation in its tracks.
I saw two possibilities, not counting Deputy Dog’s plan. The first was to give them a real surprise when they hit the dock—replace the Chinese who were there with our guys. Then when they came expecting to tiptoe in with a nudge and a wink, we’d kick them in the balls.
This would have been my preferred method had Deputy Dog not been involved. The Panamanians would have been fighting on their own home turf, from easy to defend positions, with tactical as well as strategic surprise on their side. We could also surround the enemy without too much difficulty, taking over the ship ourselves as soon as they were headed toward shore.
But Deputy Dog’s plan called for a force to engage the guerrillas in the canal itself, before they landed. We’d never get a chance to launch our surprise. Even if Deputy Dog’s overly complicated plan worked—complete with feints, encirclements, an aerial invasion, and probably a refreshment stand, all presumably while television cameras were rolling—stopping the ship in the canal was a major risk. Deputy Dog had chosen to make his assault at a very narrow spot right near a lock. If the guerrillas sank the ship, removing the wreckage would take weeks if not months. And the political fallout would be the same.
&
nbsp; So the best alternative was behind door number two: get them while they were still on the submarine.
Which explained what Aznar and I were doing packed into two small fishing vessels twenty miles off the Panamanian coast at nine-thirty that night.
Our navy had been tracking the Chinese submarine at long-range with the help of a Navy Orion antisubmarine warfare (ASW) aircraft and a robotic underwater device that is controlled by a mother submarine34 for at least a week. Now as we were being rocked by a suddenly roiled ocean, a petty officer aboard the Orion passed a long pinpoint location on where the Chinese boat was.
You’re probably thinking that, given all the high-tech doodads at our disposal, intercepting the submarine was easy. But the little boat Aznar was able to commandeer couldn’t go very fast; twenty-four knots with the wind at its back was probably its top speed. This was in sharp contrast to the Chinese submarine, which was doing close to thirty knots and could go even higher.
We also didn’t want to make it obvious to whoever was working the sonar on the Chinese boat that we were following them. In fact, we wanted to seem like we were hardworking Panamanian fishermen, out after dark hauling in our daily bread.
The Atlantic didn’t cooperate. The sea that had looked so calm from Fidel’s hospital tonight swelled practically as high as that roof. The wind added a bit of cold spit, mostly in my face as I studied the waves with my night glasses.
I know what you think I was thinking: Lassoing this submarine is going to be a piece of cake.
But actually, I was thinking exactly the opposite. Back in my salad days, we used to train for submarine extraction all the time. We’d stretch a line across the path of the submarine’s advance. The submarine would slow its speed until it was going just fast enough to maintain a constant depth (and, naturally, its course). To make sure the submarine knew where we were, we’d use sonic “clackers” that allowed it to range and home in on our signal. Wham-bam-thank you, ma’am, the line would grab on the periscope (or vice versa); we’d be hauled to the conning tower, get handholds—before you knew it, we’d be basking in the sun, mission accomplished, a babe on each arm.
Well, this is fiction. In reality . . . we’d have only one babe apiece.
Heh.
The exercises were conducted under relatively good conditions—no one was shooting at us or the sub. Everyone was pick of the litter at what they did, and everyone—not just the SEALs, but the men aboard the submarines—was highly trained and pulling together. Even so, those exercises were difficult physically and filled with plenty of opportunity for Mr. Murphy to work his magic.
What we were trying to do here was several times harder. For one thing, the submarine wasn’t going to be homing in on our signal—if things went right, they wouldn’t know we were there. For another, the submarine wasn’t going to be traveling at a snail’s pace. For another—
Mercifully, my train of thought was interrupted by a communication from the aircraft.
“Contact is slowing,” said the petty officer tracking the Chinese submarine. “Same bearing. Mile and a quarter from you. Wait—looks like he’s going to spin around.”
That was what we were waiting for. The submarine was doing what we call a “box square,” pulling a routine maneuver to check to see if anyone had snuck onto its backside while it wasn’t looking. This is somewhat more difficult than looking over your shoulder as you walk past a dark alley, but the principle is the same. To do it, the submarine would have to physically slow down—not quite stop, mind you, but the closest we were going to get.
“Get the men into the rafts!” I told Aznar.
“OK, Dick. Good hunting for us.”
I moved next to the boat’s captain and turned my mike back on.
“Orion, how are we doing?” I asked.
“You need two degrees starboard. You’re three miles out.”
We made the correction. The captain backed off the motors gently—any abrupt action now might tip the Chinese off that we were interested in something more than nocturnal flounder. At the back of the boat, Aznar and his men slipped into the rafts, drifting on the water.
“You’re right on beam,” said the petty officer. “Half mile.”
I waited until the submarine was about two minutes away, then I turned to the boat’s captain. “Exactly as we planned. No matter what happens, you hold your course. Understand?”
“Sí.”
“Gracias.”
The two divers who’d been chosen to help me were waiting at the crowded fantail of the boat. I trotted back, strapped on my oxygen tank, put on the fins, and went off the side.
It’s a popular misconception that submarines sail deep beneath the ocean depths. They certainly dive deep when they have to. But a diesel submarine like the Song spends much of its time relatively close to the surface. There it can use its periscope and even raise its radio mast if it needs to.
The Chinese submarine was sailing at roughly ten meters below the waves—thirty feet. Not very deep if you’re a frogman.
The water was black. The cold I’d felt on deck was even worse.
I liked that.
My two Panamanian divers were a short distance from me, swimming with small wrist lights that made it easy to spot them.
The submarine had no such lights. But it was big, dark, and created a hell of a current as it moved toward us. I signaled to the others to fan out along the nylon line we were carrying.
Our goal was simple. The periscope would snag the line and bring us alongside the submarine. We’d place some small charges on the hull, then wait until they went boom, sixty seconds later.
Actually, we wouldn’t wait. We’d swim like hell, so the percussion wouldn’t kill us. Even underwater, if you’re too close to something that blows up, you tend not to have that problem, or any problem in the future.
But continuing with the plan: the sailors inside the submarine would hear the explosions and say, “What the fuck?”
In Chinese, of course.
If we did it right, it would sound as if there had been a malfunction in the main ballast tank. The submarine commander, trying to avert a massive catastrophe, would surface for an inspection. Then we’d have real fun.
Assuming we did it right. If we didn’t, we’d be swimming in the ocean picking our toes for two or three hours. More motivation than I needed.
The way I had calculated it, we should have jumped into the water no more than 150 feet from its bow as it came toward us. It should have practically hit me in the face within thirty seconds of my entering the water.
But it didn’t. Not at thirty seconds, not at sixty, not at 120.
I was beginning to smell FUBAR. Had our line missed? Had the submarine veered starboard or port? Had it dived below us?
Was the mistake ours? Were we too high or low?
I checked the depth meter. I was at precisely the depth the Orion had told me the submarine was sailing at. We’d been at the right heading. Where the hell is the damn thing?
I swam a little left, and then a little right. I didn’t want to go up too much farther than I was, and going deeper didn’t make much sense, either.
Damn Chinese. Can’t they get anything right?
I’d just about sworn off lo mein for the rest of my life when I felt my midsection try to leave my body. For a split second, I didn’t know what the hell had happened—then I realized the line had snagged the submarine.
In the next second, a huge black shadow appeared behind me, so close I could almost reach out and touch it.
Almost. Because along with the shadow was a serious eddy of water that pushed me to the side. Fighting it was like trying to swim up Niagara Falls.
I’m a strong swimmer—stronger than you, I’m willing to bet—but even I was like a minnow against this tide. I put my head down and paddled ferociously, losing ground. Then suddenly the current reversed direction and I was sucked directly toward the black hull. I landed hard against the vents on the free-flooding cavity,
the ridge that runs along the upper hull of the boat to allow it to sink below the waves.
At least I think that’s where I hit. I slammed against the submarine so sharply that I was dazed for a few seconds. Luckily for me I hit my head, so no real damage could occur.
Somehow—probably out of unconscious desperation—I grabbed one of the gates.
We’d actually caught a break, because although the submarine had been traveling fast relative to us, it was barely moving in relation to everything else. It had stopped dead in the water, possibly to make it easier for the sonar specialists to figure out what those tiny outboards above them meant.
Or maybe they’d heard the ringing in my ears.
One of my Panamanian helpers came up on my right, tapping me on the shoulder to ask if I was OK. I gave him a thumbs-up, then signaled for him to climb onto the conning tower. Once there, he set up a pair of weighted lines to make it easier to get back on the sub after the explosion. He draped the lines nearby, taking one and working himself out along it to wait for the fireworks.
(The other Panamanian had hit his head on the hull rather hard. Either just before that happened or just after, he’d released the snaps that held him to our snag line and was pushed away by the current. He ended up hundreds of yards away and was lucky to be picked up by one of the boats later on. He had a hell of a story to tell; too bad the blow against the submarine killed his memory of it. Apparently not blessed with a Neanderthal skullplate like yours truly, he suffered a hell of a hangover.)
I opened my rubber sack and took out my explosive charges. I rigged them on a pair of suction cups—crude contraptions modeled after the devices SEALs sometimes use to board ships—set the timers, and backed away.
You’re probably wondering why the charges weren’t a lot larger—not just small enough to sound as if they’d come from the submarine itself (as opposed to depth charges or torpedoes, which would make it think it was under attack and therefore likely to dive to safety). You’re thinking: Hell, Dick, you’ve gone to all this trouble. Why not sink the damn submarine and be done with it.
RW15 - Seize the Day Page 30