U.S.S. Seawolf am-4

by Patrick Robinson

  She also carried the long-range Hughes Tomahawk land-attack missiles with nuclear warheads. One of these things could probably knock down Beijing, never mind Canton. Under pressure they could take out a sizeable chunk of southwest China.

  And yet Captain Crocker was powerless, since he was not permitted to start World War III off his own bat.

  Nor was he in any position to fight it out with the destroyer, because if Xiangtan was sunk, there were plenty more warships to replace her. And in the end Seawolf would surely go down fighting.

  But the last signal from Pearl Harbor had forbidden him to open fire. SUBPAC was playing this one down for the moment, trying to reason with the Chinese Navy, expressing alarm that an American ship should have been apprehended in this way in international waters.

  The Chinese were, predictably, stonewalling: “So very sorry about this unfortunate incident. Extremely upset that you should have your ship carrying big thermonuclear weapons of war crashing into our peaceful destroyer, which was testing new engines in the South China Sea.…We have merely answered a request from your Commanding Officer for assistance.…We mean no one harm.…We will help to get your submarine going soon, then we will talk. Very, very sorry.”

  Midnight. July 5, 2006.

  Office of Southern Fleet Commander.

  It had been without question the happiest day of Admiral Zhang Yushu’s eventful life, more joyful than the magical day when he had married Lan, more hopeful than the day they had purchased their lovely summer home on the water, more exciting than the day he had been appointed to the highest possible command in the People’s Liberation Army/Navy.

  And now he strode around Admiral Zu Jicai’s large private office, banging his right fist into the palm of his left hand, throwing back his head and laughing, congratulating himself heartily on the great prize he had secured for China: Seawolf and her crew.

  Maybe one day the Paramount Ruler would feel obliged to return it to the Americans, but not before Chinese Navy scientists had wrung her dry for every last piece of technology the ship possessed.

  “Oh, my friend Jicai,” he exclaimed, “this is a wonderful day for us. A few hours from now, they’ll be here. Is everything ready, the biggest submarine jetty? We have a detention center for half the crew? Put the rest in civilian jail with military guards. Then we go to work on that ship, hah? This is beautiful, just beautiful.”

  Zhang was ecstatic, but he appreciated the strong element of luck that had put the submarine into his hands.

  However, he was a supreme pragmatist who knew what he knew. And right now he knew he had captive, perhaps for only one month, the last word in world submarine technology. He knew he would have among his prisoners men whose expertise in the field of sonar, radar, computers and weapons was the envy of the world.

  There would be, in his power, American engineers and technicians who could demonstrate every working part down to the last, the subtlest detail. He would have nuclear experts, electronics experts, missile experts, modern United States warlords who knew how to hurl a big ICBM farther than anyone in China had ever dreamed. And above all he knew he would have captive the top submarine commanding officer in the U.S. Navy.

  What he did not know was that among the captured officers of Seawolf was the only son of the President of the United States of America.

  4

  0300. Friday, July 7.

  Pearl River Delta. Nine miles southeast of the port of Macao.

  They changed course from zero-one-three to a more westerly three-three-four two miles off the headland of Zhu Zhou Island at the gateway to the delta, Xiangtan dragging her giant black steel prisoner backwards through the navigation lanes.

  Signals from SUBPAC during the past six hours confirmed to Judd Crocker only that the American cavalry would arrive too late. There could be no rescue now. And no one knew what their fate would be after this miserable, slow journey to the port of Canton.

  It was raining again outside the hull, and two Chinese Navy tugs came out of the darkness to meet the destroyer they had escorted outward the previous morning. The captains conferred briefly and the tugs took up positions on either side of Seawolf for the long push back up the river to the base.

  They could go more quickly now in the dead, flat, near-deserted water, and the Chinese destroyer pushed on immediately, increasing speed to seven knots all along the wide expanse of the Delta, which is 15 miles across in some places west of Hong Kong.

  Inside the submarine, Judd Crocker handed over to Linus Clarke a brand-new identity: an American passport, bearing his photograph, issued under the name of Bruce Lucas, born in Houston, Texas, in 1972, son of oil company executive John Lucas and his wife Marie. Bruce’s service papers showed entry to the Naval Academy in 1990, promoted to Lieutenant Commander in 2004. Second tour of duty in Seawolf as Executive Officer. Torpedo specialist. The next-of-kin register listed his parents in the Houston suburb of Beaumont Place as those to be contacted in the event of accident.

  Bruce Lucas was also the name that had always been on his U.S. Navy dog tags. The laundryman had been correct.

  Well aware that the submarine was in the Delta, Judd Crocker broadcast to the ship’s company, outlining the predicament they were in and assuring them that SUBPAC had the matter well in hand. He explained that both Navy and government policy, under these circumstances, was to negotiate through diplomatic channels.

  For obvious reasons they did not want a really hot battle to develop, nor did they want any heroics. The Chinese had no right to the submarine, no right to arrest the crew. However, since the submarine was unable to move, and it did contain weapons of mass destruction, nuclear, not germ, well…the Chinese probably had a case for taking it into custody in their waters while the diplomats argued.

  “And that brings me to an extremely important point,” he added. “As many of you probably already know, Lieutenant Commander Linus Clarke, my Executive Officer, is the son of the President of the United States. He has been a career naval officer for all of his college and working life, and it sure was not his fault his dad decided to run for office and won. When that happened, Linus was already on his way up the ladder, a lieutenant on the carrier John C. Stennis. There was never any reason for him to give up his career just because his father was in the White House for five years.

  “But nonetheless, the Navy has a procedure for such matters, particularly if we find ourselves in an awkward spot like now, with Lieutenant Commander Clarke in a vulnerable position, and his father somewhat compromised. He thus has a brand-new identity that I would like you all to memorize.

  “He is no longer Linus Clarke. He is Lieutenant Commander Bruce Lucas of Houston, Texas. Please commit that to memory. Should we be interrogated, remember not to let either Linus or me or your President down. Our executive officer is Lieutenant Commander Bruce Lucas as of right now. His dog tags say it. His passport says it. His Navy papers say it. And our next-of-kin records confirm it. He’s never even met anyone who lives in the White House. He’s Lieutenant Commander Bruce Lucas. Understood? That’s all.”

  There really was little for anyone to do while Seawolf was under tow. Communications accessed the satellite every half hour seeking new orders from SUBPAC, and the cooks were providing a very few meals for those who felt sufficiently well. But generally, the submarine had turned into a ghost ship. Officers sat in the wardroom drinking black coffee. Most of the engineers and electronics teams sat around belowdecks, playing cards or dozing, and the turbines were not driving anything.

  The systems that provided air-conditioning and fresh water were working normally, and of course Lt. Commander Rich Thompson had the nuclear reactor, from which all power stemmed, running correctly. Master Chief Brad Stockton patrolled the boat ceaselessly, checking and encouraging the younger members of the crew.

  The key to the immediate future rested in the reception the Chinese Navy gave the Americans when finally they arrived in Canton. If they were treated reasonably and permitted to remai
n on board their ship while the diplomats argued, that would be perfect, because it would mean no damaging announcements admitting that the finest submarine in the U.S. Navy had been hijacked by the People’s Liberation Army and all the crew were held captive in Canton.

  That would cause outrage in the United States. There would be demands that the President act. It would be the 1980 Tehran hostage crisis all over again. And if the Clarke administration failed to frighten China into releasing the ship and its company, they too would be finished.

  As potential crises go, this one was well on its way, but SUBPAC and its masters in the Pentagon were not announcing anything until Seawolf arrived in Canton and the Joint Chiefs could see precisely how the cards fell.

  Meanwhile, Captain Crocker summoned Lt. Commander Mike Schulz, and the two of them went alone into the reactor compartment.

  “Mike,” said the CO, “I don’t know what’s going to happen when we get to Canton. But there must be a chance the Chinese are going to try and get complete details of this submarine. I have some unwritten orders from the CNO in the event we fall into enemy hands. And it involves that isolating valve on the emergency cooling system. The one we both looked at in New London. I want you to activate it right now, so there will be no indications of failure when it fails.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” replied Lt. Commander Schulz.

  And so the Americans lurched on up the channel, the big steel hawser taking the strain as it had done for almost 150 miles now. They cleared the more agricultural reaches of the Delta, still moving north as fast as the destroyer and the tugs could drag and push them.

  But it was three o’clock in the sweltering afternoon when they eased into the narrowing river and made their way into the submarine jetty. Judd Crocker decided there was no point in sealing themselves inside, and he and Master Chief Stockton opened the hatch and went up onto the bridge.

  They blinked in the fitful sunbeams that now penetrated the rain clouds, and they blinked at the chilling sight that awaited them. A 200-strong armed naval guard was in formation on the jetty as they pulled alongside. The tugs edged Seawolf in, her 350-foot-long portside against the dock.

  The Chinese used their own gangway to board the American ship. Immediately 20 of the guards crossed onto the casing and took up positions, still with their arms at the ready, in groups of five, covering the four main hatches. There was no way off the submarine, and in a matter of moments, the brutal reality of the situation was rammed home to both men staring down from the bridge.

  A Chinese naval officer walked across the gangway carrying a bullhorn and he aimed it high, straight at them. Then in immaculate English he read out a written statement to Captain Crocker and his men:

  “My name is Commander Li Zemin. I am in charge of all security at the Canton Naval Base of the People’s Republic of China. We believe your submarine to be carrying formal weapons of war, including a nuclear capability. These foreign weapons are strictly banned in the waters of the South China Sea. They are banned by the Paramount Ruler of the Republic, and here in China we insist that our laws and customs are obeyed.

  “The crew of this ship is thus under arrest under the laws of the People’s Republic and you will begin disembarking, enlisted men first, then your petty officers and junior officers, with the high command of the ship disembarking last.

  “We are in touch with your government, which denies you ever had orders to come so close to our shores. We thus hold you responsible, each man personally, for this most unfortunate breach of the peaceful trade routes of China. In due course you will face trial, and this may mean a long term of imprisonment.

  “Meanwhile, you will begin vacating the ship. But you will leave the nuclear plant running, and you will permit your chief nuclear engineering officer to remain in the reactor room in order to confer with our Chinese naval scientists.

  “Needless to say, should anyone offer any armed or physical resistance whatsoever, he will be shot instantly, plus a minimum of two of his colleagues. Now open the doors and begin filing out with your hands above your heads. You will be unarmed. Any man found carrying any weapon will be instantly executed.”

  It had taken Admiral Zhang Yushu all morning to write that speech, and he was immensely proud of it. “Show those arrogant bastards who’s boss now, right, Jicai?”

  Up on the bridge, Judd Crocker felt the wintry realization of their plight. There was no way around this. Unbelievably, but irrevocably, he and his crew were prisoners of the Chinese, and the way Commander Li was talking, that was liable to be so for a long time. Thoughts surged through his mind. What would the Pentagon do? What about the government? What about the President? How long would this nightmare last?

  Whichever way he sliced up the problem, the Chinese were in the saddle right now. And at 17 minutes after 3:00 on that Friday afternoon, the commanding officer of USS Seawolf ordered the ship’s company to vacate the submarine and to surrender to Commander Li’s men in the precise manner he had ordered.

  Beyond the jetty, he could see a line of 10 open Navy trucks, each one surrounded by more armed guards and drivers. Admiral Zhang had been flying them in all day, in small military aircraft from both Zhanjiang and Xiamen.

  And now the door was opened and the CO saw the young Californian seaman recruit, Kirk Sarloos, lead the men out, his hands high behind the back of his head. There was something almost surreal about this, almost as if it could not be happening. But it was happening, and it was happening badly. A guard stepped forward and slammed the butt of his rifle into the small of Kirk’s back, knocking him hard toward the gangway. It was a long time since any of the Americans had witnessed gratuitous violence, some of them never. But there was no doubt that they were about to discover the realities of captivity in a country with a human rights record bordering on the plain barbaric.

  The Chinese marched the Americans off the ship in groups of 10, herding them toward the trucks, throwing the occasional kick, the occasional punch, the occasional slam of a rifle butt. Not many of the crew made the trucks without some painful reminders, and the towering engineer from Ohio, Tony Fontana, received a massive blow to the head with a pistol for calling the Commander a “slit-eyed, fourth-rate Chinese motherfucker who ought to be working in a goddamned laundry.”

  Then one of the deck crew laughed and was knocked unconscious for his trouble. Things were looking very bad from where Captain Crocker stood.

  The evacuation took an hour before Commander Li, in the company of eight guards, entered the ship and ordered the two Americans off the bridge. He instructed them to stand unarmed in the control room while his men took down details of their names and ranks.

  He formally told the CO that Seawolf was now confiscated by the Navy of the People’s Republic. The American crew had been taken to a civilian jail within the boundaries of the City of Canton, but the “High Command” of the ship, which would include the senior engineering officers, would be detained in the naval compound, while the “extraordinary engineers of China become familiar with the submarine.”

  It was five o’clock in the afternoon before Judd Crocker, Bruce Lucas, Cy Rothstein, Shawn Pearson, Andy Warren, and Brad Stockton were individually marched out at gunpoint and driven to a cell block designed for Navy discipline but currently unoccupied. It was a low gray single-story building with small, high windows that had probably not been, cleaned since the Revolution. A smiling portrait of Mao Zedong was painted on the end wall.

  Each cell was tiny, filthy, eight feet wide by nine feet long, with a full-length steel-barred door, like something from an old Western movie. There was a stark wooden bench, a bucket, and no water. And one by one the guards pushed the men inside and slammed the doors shut and locked. The six cells were adjoining and faced a dirt-floored outside corridor that went right around. There were four empty cells at the end of the corridor now occupied by Judd and his men, which probably meant that there were 10 more cells in the back. Judging by the silence, they were empty.

 
; As the last door slammed on Brad Stockton, Commander Li came briskly through the outside door and walked slowly past all six of the Americans.

  “These are temporary quarters,” he said. “You will be moved tomorrow with the rest of your men. But first you will meet the most distinguished Commander-in-Chief of the People’s Navy, who will discuss with you the terms of your stay here…and the degree of technical cooperation we expect from you.”

  At this point Captain Crocker spoke for the first time. “Commander, we are obliged to provide you with our names, ranks, and serial numbers, under the terms of the Geneva Convention of 1949. We are not obliged to provide you with anything further. Those are the rules of war, and are generally adhered to by all countries. Civilized countries, that is.”

  “Two things, Captain Crocker,” snapped Commander Li. “First, my country had been a very substantial civilization for four thousand years when your people were still eating tree roots. Second, we are not at war, which I suggest makes the Geneva Convention irrelevant.”

  “You are treating my men as if we were at war.”

  “Perhaps a different kind of war, Captain Crocker. Be ready to meet our exalted Commander-in-Chief, Admiral Zhang Yushu, in one hour. I think you will find him…persuasive. In terms of pure science, of course.”

  1800.

  Office of the Southern Fleet Commander.

  Canton Navy Base.

  Admiral Zhang Yushu occupied the big chair and desk normally reserved for the Southern Commander, Admiral Zu Jicai. Gathered around him in this great carpeted military office, seated on huge, carved wooden antique “thrones,” was the very backbone of the Navy of China. To his right sat his friend Jicai, under whose command Seawolf now fell.

  Admiral Yibo Yunsheng, the Eastern Fleet Commander, had just flown in from Shanghai. A former commanding officer of the old strategic missile submarine Xia, Yibo was a wise and tested warhorse of the Chinese Navy, and Zhang put great trust in his words.