“Arnie,” said Admiral Joe Mulligan, “the Chinese have been playing this down right from the start. Look at it from our point of view…SUBPAC gets a signal that Seawolf is immobile on the surface one hundred miles offshore in the South China Sea. That’s not good, but it sure ain’t life-threatening. We open up the lines to the Chinese Navy, which tells us they’ve had a request from the American captain for assistance, which they are providing…now NONE of that is life-threatening.”
“I wouldn’t believe those little pricks in a thousand years, Joe. Neither should you.”
“I understand. But all parties, including SUBPAC, have been playing it down, trying to work out a way to get the submarine free, and subsequently part on good terms with the Chinese. Arnie, it’s called diplomacy, and sometimes you gotta have it.”
“And some other times it’s called bullshit.”
Admiral Mulligan smiled despite himself. “Arnie,” he said, “can someone get me a cup of coffee?”
Admiral Morgan ignored him, and continued griping and moaning. “And then, having been given a total fucking runaround by Beijing for the biggest part of a day and a half, you phone me at midnight and tell me to get my ass into the office because you have something big to impart. Christ, Joe! You’ve had all day.”
“Arnie, how long have you known me?”
“Too long, asshole. I’m supposed to be asleep.”
“You’re not going soft on me, are you? Where’s the steely submarine CO I once knew?”
“Joe, you have raised me from my bed. We are the only two people in the West Wing of the White House in the small hours of the morning, and I am in deep shock at the general failure of the U.S. Navy to get this situation onto a fast track.”
“Arnie, I haven’t finished.”
“Oh…well, go on. It can’t get much worse, can it?”
“Yes, it can. Seawolf’s XO was Linus Clarke.”
The blood drained from the craggy face of Arnold Morgan. His mouth went dry, and “deep within him he felt a slow trembling sensation. He walked to his desk and sat down, folding his hands together in front of him. For a moment he. was literally speechless, struck dumb by the enormity of the CNO’s words.
After what seemed five minutes, he just said, “Does the President know?”
“No.”
“Do we yet know if they are off the ship?”
“Our information is that the ship is alongside in Canton, and that the crew has been taken off and incarcerated.”
“Holy shit,” breathed the President’s principal military adviser.
For a few more moments, neither man spoke. And then Admiral Morgan asked, “Do the Chinese know the identity of Linus?”
“No. We’ve always had procedures about what to do in this kind of emergency. Like get rid of all evidence, his papers, passport, etc. And provide him with new stuff that was kept sealed away throughout the voyage. I have checked, and the procedures have gone into effect. Linus has become Lieutenant Commander Bruce Lucas of Houston, Texas. The Chinese have no idea.”
“Well, I guess that’s something.…Okay, Joe. Let me just walk through the situation with you once again. I want to take a few notes.”
“No problem. Take your time.”
“Right. Now Seawolf is on patrol in the South China Sea, where she’s been for the best part of a couple of weeks. Out of Pearl, right? Under the command of the very capable Captain Judd Crocker, whose father served with me.”
“Correct.”
“We do not yet know the result of the mission, but knowing that particular CO it was probably going well.”
“Right.”
“Then, in the middle of the goddamned night, Seawolf apparently runs across the stern of China’s new guided-missile destroyer, and gets wound up in its towed array.”
“That’s what we’re seeing on the satellite pictures.”
“Right. Now why did Judd Crocker not just send a team over the side and cut the sonofabitch free? He would have had all the right gear on board.”
“Small-arms fire, sir.”
“You mean the slit-eyed Orientals opened fire on the team and stopped them?”
“Looks like it. Judd’s signal did not make clear whether there were bullets flying, or merely threats.”
“No reason to think Judd Crocker’s gone soft?”
“Negative. He’s probably the best submarine CO in the U.S. Navy.”
“I know he is. Which means there must have been bullets…But anyway, we now have Seawolf wallowing around with no propulsion, attached to the Chinese destroyer. So they make her fast, and we get a signal in from Judd that the submarine is being towed into the port of Canton. He did not clarify whether at that stage he considered his crew were prisoners.”
“Probably because he was uncertain himself.”
“Right. Now anyway, you guys open up the lines to the Chinese Navy, which informs you they have had a request from the American captain for assistance, and they are now giving that assistance, correct?”
“That’s what they said.”
“So the situation is now slightly confused. Crocker’s not protesting strenuously that he has been arrested in international waters, and the Chinks are just saying they are doing their best to help.”
“That’s it.”
“Well, then what?”
“Arnie, it gets a bit hazy from here. We alerted Langley immediately and they came in with a signal that a big company of Navy guards has been flown into Canton. Then Fort Meade adjusts the satellite and comes up with a picture of huge activity on the submarine jetty. It looks as if the crew has been taken off…then a coupla hours later the CIA hear from one of their field officers that almost a hundred American crewmen have been transported in Navy trucks to a civilian jail up in the northeast of the city, near that famous Canton landmark…what’s it called? The Mausoleum of the Seventy-two Martyrs.”
“Better make sure they don’t have to rename it for the One Hundred and Seventy-two Martyrs.”
“Anyway, that’s where we are. China is saying how peaceful they are and they will try to get our submarine working and back to sea. The crew are guests of the People’s Republic, and everyone hopes this incident will soon be over and forgotten.”
“Do you believe them, Joe?”
“Some. How about you?”
“None.”
“Hmmm. Okay, Arnie. I hear you” But let’s not lose sight of one thing: It’s not really in their interests to move to the brink of a serious confrontation with the U.S. And neither will they want to receive worldwide condemnation for rubbing out an entire American submarine crew. I am thus drawn to the conclusion that they may make some propaganda out of this. You know, poor peaceful Chinese with mad-dog American gangsters in their back-yard. But in the end they will wish to stay friends, and they will probably hand back our ship and her company. Perhaps with some kind of trade sweetener.”
“And a contribution to the Democratic Party’s election campaign.”
“Arnie, I am just trying to show you our mindset for the past twenty-four hours.”
“You want my advice?”
“Sure.”
“Shove your goddamned mindset straight down the tubes. And get a new one.”
“Huh?”
“Joe, seriously, lemme say this to you. The job of Chief of Naval Operations is very time-consuming. You have overall responsibility for running the biggest, most advanced operational fleet in the entire history of the world. You have an enormous day-to-day, hour-to-hour responsibility.
“My task in this world is different. I am here to think. To sit right here, in this room, and ponder the military activities currently happening on planet Earth. I spend all day reading, discussing, assessing and planning, trying to seek out weak spots, trying to second-guess our goddamned enemies. Which is why I am about to pontificate to you, right here in the West Wing at damned near two o’clock in the goddamned morning, what I consider the precise mindset of the Chinese.”
“Joe, you can get anything around here if you want it badly enough. ’Cept for goddamned peace and quiet.”
He picked up the telephone and was instantly connected to the 40,000-calls-a-day White House switchboard. And Joe heard the outlaw-sweet tones of the most feared man in international military relations.
“Hello, this is Admiral Arnold Morgan. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking this evening? Maryanne? Perfect. Nice name. Now, Maryanne, I am sitting here in company with Admiral Joseph Mulligan, the professional head of the entire United States Navy. And what we seek is not too complicated…one pot of coffee, and one plate of cookies.…Now I realize this is not in your job description…but I want you to find someone to achieve those two objectives…coffee and cookies. You may use my name, quote my wishes shamelessly to any underling you may find…you may cajole and threaten.
“I know, Maryanne, that the hour is late, but my problems are many, and my needs are simple…and it is because of these particularly stressful tasks that very clever young ladies such as yourself are employed…thank you for your indulgence…’bye.”
“Jesus, you old smoothie.”
“Even I can’t yell at people at this late hour and expect ’em to function…but I have faith in Miss Maryanne.”
Six minutes later, a well-groomed young man in a starched white jacket knocked and entered with a large pot of coffee, bone china cups and saucers, a large plate of Pepperidge Farm cookies, and a sizeable plate of chicken sandwiches.…“Thought you might be hungry, sir.”
“You see, Joe, charm and diplomacy are sometimes necessary.”
Admiral Mulligan shook his head at the sheer blinding insincerity of the man. Even Admiral Morgan chuckled, but quickly added, “But not when you’re dealing with devious Orientals.”
“Okay, Arnie,” said Admiral Mulligan, munching cheerfully. “Lay it on me.”
The NSA walked across the room to his conference table and poured them coffee, firing a couple of rounds of “buckshot” into each cup — he never could remember the name Hermesetas, but he would have had it been that of a submarine. Then he walked over to a huge computer screen on his wall, the hard drive of which contained the up-to-date charts of all the world’s oceans. He switched on the system, punched in CHINA, then YELLOW SEA, then pulled up the northernmost point of that cul-de-sac ocean, the Bay of Liaodong.
“Right. Now here is where they built the new Chinese ICBM submarine, at this port up here, Huludao. Now we know how shallow the Yellow Sea is and we know the submarines, even newly built, leave there on the surface, running south down the coast of Korea, toward the deeper water.
“Now we wanna assume two things. One, Judd and his boys are on the case, following the new Xia III. Two, the Chinese suspect he might be around somewhere, which I have no doubt pisses them off royally.
“Anyhow, over the next few days there was quite a serious game of cat-and-mouse going on. We get some stuff on the satellite about a big depth charge and ASW mortar exercise off Taiwan. That was no exercise. Trust me. They thought they’d caught Judd, and they might’ve, but he got away.
“Now I’m guessing we have right here an even-more-pissed-off Chinese Navy. Look at the stuff from Fort Meade, look at these pictures from the South China Sea. Suddenly, up to the surface comes the new Xia. We photograph it from the satellite, right here on this chart. Three hours later we get a Fort Meade report of another big Chinese exercise, planes, choppers, ships everywhere, ten miles from where we saw the Xia. Again that was no exercise. Again that was Judd. Again he got away. By Christ, he’s hard to catch.
“Now, let’s assume he’s got what he came for, the photographs and measurements. But the Chinese still can’t find him. But they don’t give up. They actually send out their big new destroyer, Xiangtan, from Canton, into the area where Chinese Naval Intelligence is now guessing Seawolf might be. The main area search failed, right? So they decide to sniff out the inshore areas where a really cunning American CO like Judd might go. Where he would be least expected.”
Joe Mulligan stared at the chart of the southern coast of China and nodded thoughtfully.
“Then there’s a bit of a fluke,” said Arnold Morgan. “The fuckers trip over each other. And, lo and behold, the Chinese have the devil that’s been haunting them for several days.…Wily little bastards try to put us off the scent with a succession of hurt but helpful messages. Meanwhile they steal Seawolf—along with every goddamned thing they’ve already stolen — and now plan to torture our crew into revealing every last high-tech secret of the greatest attack submarine the world has ever known. What the hell else are they gonna do with it? Turn it into a fucking ferry to Kowloon?
“And that, Admiral, IS WHY I HAVE TO BE KEPT INFORMED OF EVERY LAST DUMBASS DEVELOPMENT THAT GOES ON IN YOUR DUMBASS NAVY CONCERNING CHINA…BECAUSE NOBODY ELSE GETS IT…EXCEPT ME.”
Admiral Mulligan took his life in his hands. “Is there even a remote possibility that you may be wrong, Arnie?”
“Fuck off, Joe. And don’t sound retarded even if you are.”
The big CNO almost choked with laughter on his tenth cookie, because the truth was, Morgan was right. “You think you know something, talk to Arnie, then you’ll know much, much more.” And he thanked God for him, and for their long, unbreakable friendship.
“Just think about it, Joe. Here we have one hugely pissed-off Chinese Navy, being given the runaround by the Americans. Finally, they get lucky. They have in their possession the submarine that will save ’em the trouble of this type of espionage for years and years.
“Joe, they are planning to copy that ship down to the last detail. If necessary they will torture key men in the crew to get the know-how, and it’s my guess we’ll never see either the men or Seawolf again.
“They’ll either jail ’em, after some trumped-up trial, or they’ll just go missing. It’s such a vast country, so fucking mysterious, we’d never be able to find ’em.”
“Well, if that’s your take on it, I’ll just get up and go, and you can give the President a quick call and announce the impending death of his only son. Good luck.”
Admiral Morgan laughed, nervously for him. “Siddown, Joe. I’m not saying we acquiesce to any of this. I’m just trying to lay down the Chinese mindset. A worst-case scenario, I admit. But if we’re gonna tackle it, we may as well face up to it. Of course, if I am wrong, then it’ll sort itself out and no one will be hurt. But I’ve got a real creepy feeling about the Chinese, and I do not like anything I’m hearing over the past few days.
“Anyway, there’s going to be just one outcome today, as far as we’re concerned. The President’s gonna tell us to get Linus back. Somehow. I hope.”
0900. Saturday. July 8.
Cell Block Mao. Canton Naval Base.
The commotion outside attracted the attention of all six of the American prisoners. And each man stood at the bars of his cell as the main door was kicked forcibly in, swinging back hard against the stone wall to allow Commander Li to make his entry. He was followed by four more American prisoners, apparently transferred in the past hour from the civilian jail out by the mausoleum.
Judd Crocker watched them come in, handcuffed in a line, all very junior members of the crew — Seaman Recruits — led by Kirk Sarloos from the torpedo room. Behind him came young Nathan Dunn from Alabama; followed by the black engineer from Georgia, Carlton Fleming; then one of the cooks, Skip Laxton, 19, from Vermont.
Each man nodded to the officers as they passed and were then roughly shoved into the last four cells at the end of the line. At which point Admiral Zhang Yushu marched through the still-open door, turned to Captain Crocker and said icily, “Tell your men they will cooperate with my technicians in a tour of the ship later this morning…and do it NOW, Captain Crocker. RIGHT NOW!”
“Fuck off, Zhang. You’re wasting your time and mine. I’m not obliged to do anything. A
nd when we finally get out of here, you might find yourself a pariah in the international community for breaches of the Convention.”
“Do not tempt me, Captain Crocker, to ensure that you never get out of here.”
“SCREW YOU — you fat Chinese bastard.”
“GUARD! Remove that man from cell number, nine…now have him kneel on the floor right in front of his most insolent captain…”
They brought Skip Laxton out, and the tiny lieutenant knocked him to the floor with a rifle butt. “NOW KNEEL DOWN WITH YOUR FOREHEAD ON THE FLOOR, HANDS BEHIND YOUR BACK!”
The groggy American did as he was told, and once more, the Commander-in-Chief turned to Judd Crocker and told him to command his men to cooperate with the Chinese authorities in a scientific tour of the ship later that morning.
“YOU WILL ORDER IT NOW!!” he roared.
“The hell I will,” replied the CO.
At which point Admiral Zhang Yushu nodded imperceptibly to the guard lieutenant, who aimed his service revolver and shot Skip Laxton dead, clean through the back of the head. In stunned silence the American officers watched the slumped body, the dirt spreading red beneath young Skip’s forehead.
“You cheap-shit barbaric little murderer,” shouted Brad Stockton. “When this gets out, you’ll face a world courtroom as a war criminal. That was MURDER!”
“And it’s not the end, either,” said Admiral Zhang. “I am proposing to kill one of your men every time your captain denies my request. Because of your importance, and some of your other officer colleagues, you will all be spared for the time being. But I do not care if I have fifty of your more junior men killed. I’ll do it…until you see reason. I am, you see, playing for extremely high stakes, the entire future of my country. The death of a few American pirates does not interest me one way or the other.
“Now bring out the next man…the one with the black face…and have him kneel just in front of Captain Crocker…now, sir…will you inform your men that they must cooperate?”
“Very well,” said Judd. “Since I am from a higher civilization than you, I have no choice…Men, you will accompany Admiral Zhang’s technicians back to our ship with me, and you will tell him truthfully what he wants to know. And Li, you little asshole, I hope you enjoy your fucking tree roots for lunch.”
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