Commander Li was thoughtful. “A breakout would of course be childish,” he said. “There is no escape from this island. At the slightest hint of trouble we would helicopter in reinforcements from Canton, if necessary move warships and patrol craft into the area. From the air, we could wipe them all out if we felt like it, or leave them to starve in the jungle. Remember, they only get off Xiachuan Dao if we say so.”
The interrogators compared notes. They were agreed on two things: Lt. Commander Cy Rothstein might not stand up to physical abuse, and Lt. Commander Bruce Lucas was very, very frightened. The sonar officer, Frank, was very young and might be intimidated if he thought there was no way out except to reveal the intricate details of his electronic systems.
“How about the officer in charge of the reactor?”
“Well, you remember the captain ordered him to tell us what we wanted to know after we executed the American seaman in Canton? He was very difficult, and it was necessary to punish him before he would even assist us in shutting down the reactor.”
“Do you think he learned a lesson, or will he continue to try to block our questions?”
“I think we have to work on the theory that he cracked last time and did what we asked.”
“Yes. But, of course, he was also under orders from his own captain to comply with our wishes.”
“Yessir. And we had to put someone to death to get Captain Crocker to agree to issue that order.”
“Then we will put someone else to death…and then someone else…and then someone else…until they obey.”
1300 (local). Sunday, July 9.
Zhanjiang Naval Base.
Admiral Zhang Yushu occupied the main desk in Zu Jicai’s office, as he always did on his visits, the Southern Commander deferring to his C-in-C. And now the two men sat together pondering the latest communication from the Chinese ambassador to Washington, His Excellency Ling Guofeng, a.k.a. Who Flung Dung, in a corner of President Clarke’s White House.
The official communiqué revealed that the first editions of the American Saturday newspapers were carrying a small inside-page story about the crippled Seawolf. There had, apparently, been a press release from the Navy Department at the Pentagon quite late on Friday evening.
The three newspapers studied by the ambassador had carried only four or five paragraphs, all under headlines along the lines of, “U.S. SUB GETS CHINESE HELP.” Only the New York Times carried the paragraph that stated that the U.S. Navy’s CNO had personally thanked Admiral Zhang Yushu. But the Washington Post had cross-referenced the story on the front page: “U.S. SUB STALLED IN CHINA.”
Admiral Zu thought it was all extremely good news. “Well, sir, they believe us, at least for the moment. There’s no sign there of any hostility, no sign even of American unrest. It is my view that our ambassador is doing a most excellent job.”
Admiral Zhang was not so sure. “I don’t trust them, my friend Jicai. I do not trust those men in the Pentagon one inch. And there are several things bothering me at this time.
“First, why did they take so long to issue a press statement — they could have done something last Wednesday. And why Saturday night, so late? That’s unusual. There are few people in the Pentagon on Friday night at nine-thirty, and even fewer in the newspaper offices. Why not issue it on Friday afternoon, when there are people everywhere? Or even save it until Monday morning? No, Jicai. This was deliberate. Very curious.
“Second, the New York paper mentions a personal word of thanks to me from the Chief of U.S. Naval Operations. Remember, this press release was written on Friday. It is now Sunday, and I have received no word of thanks from anybody. That makes it a lie.
“Third, I notice they do not mention Canton, as they would call the city. Why not? It’s almost as if they do not want their own newspapers to be aware of the whole truth. Why not say where Seawolf is? Maybe they do not want American journalists snooping around the Navy base in Guangzhou and finding out there is high security. If this press release were true, if they really believed there was cooperation, they would surely encourage their own reporters to come to Canton and see our two great nations working together to repair the submarine. Excellent public relations, excellent for them and for us. Excellent for future trade.
“I smell a very large rat, my Jicai. And he’s not even due here for two years.”
Admiral Zu smiled. “Are you sure you are not being a little too suspicious, Yushu? Perhaps they really do believe us, and are just wishing to remain our friends.”
“I wish that were so, Jicai. And I agree there is much for the Americans and the Chinese to share. Unfortunately, I must quote one of our oldest proverbs to you: tongchuang yimeng…to sleep in the same bed, but to have different dreams.”
1100 (local). Sunday, July 9.
The White House.
Admiral Morgan and Colonel Frank Hart were deep in conference, and had been since 0800. Three times the admiral had called his old office at the ultrasecret National Security Agency at Fort Meade, Maryland, to inquire if there was any news on the whereabouts of the crew of Seawolf. But the agency had little to add. All anyone knew was that the prisoners had all been removed from the Canton jail and been taken to the naval base. Since no warship had been observed anywhere on the Pearl River, nor even moving across the Delta, the conclusion was that the men were still on the base, though precisely where was a mystery. The satellites were transmitting many excellent images, but the area seemed quiet and there did not appear to be a building that would hide more than 100 newly arrived prisoners.
It was the CIA that received the first break. Jake Raeburn from the Far Eastern Desk came through at 1105. He’d just heard from his field officer in Canton. Their man inside the dockyard had reported the prisoners had left, sometime on Saturday evening. No one knew their destination, but their information was they had headed downstream toward the Delta, under heavy guard, in a civilian ferryboat. So far as the local CIA man could ascertain, there were no American personnel left at the base. “He does have a report the evening ferry trip down the river for tourists had been canceled, so it sounds as if the Navy may have commandeered it.”
Admiral Morgan was grateful and asked Jake to keep Fort Meade posted, and to “tell ’em to beef up overhead surveillance along that stretch of the Chinese coast.”
To Colonel Hart he said, “We have to find them, Frank. We have to locate these guys in the next forty-eight hours, and right now I’m doing everything I can to throw the Chinese off the scent, make ’em think we believe their goodwill messages and have no intention of making any kind of an aggressive move.”
“Yessir. I read the stuff thoroughly. And so far only one thing bothers me…you know, where the press release says there was a personal message sent from Joe Mulligan direct to Zhang Yushu…did you actually send that message?”
“Hell, no.”
“I think you should.”
“Why?”
“Because that statement of courtesy, one senior naval commander to another, falls into the category of politeness and respect. The Chinese specialize in offering compliments, polite, restrained and sometimes obsequious. And they have no problem with insincerity. In fact, that’s a national pastime. But I sense that to mention a courtesy, and then deliberately not make it, might be seen as an insult or loss of face. They are very tricky about that, and I’d bet you anything Admiral Zhang will want to know if that courteous message from the White House actually arrived.
“If he’s a very suspicious type, he’ll be mystified at its nonarrival, and may even begin to doubt the validity of the whole thing. Send it and hopefully he’ll continue to think we’re all soft.”
Arnold Morgan knew sense when he heard it, and he said instantly, “Good call, Frank. I’ll jump right on it…KATHY!! NOTEBOOK!”
Ms. O’Brien appeared in a major hurry.
“Okay…take this down, will you? ‘Admiral Joseph Mulligan, Chief of United States Naval Operations, presents his compliments to the High Comma
nd of the People’s Liberation Army/Navy, and wishes to thank Admiral Zhang Yushu, Commander-in-Chief of PLAN, for his generosity in assisting the U.S. submarine Seawolf in her time of need. Please be assured that the U.S. Navy will pay for all costs incurred in the repairs, and be assured that if we are ever called upon to offer similar help to one of your ships, we will not hesitate to do so. Again, my thanks and best wishes. Admiral Joseph Mulligan, the Pentagon, Washington, D.C., USA.’
“Right, Kathy, call Joe’s office and have them dispatch that electronically directly to the PLAN Headquarters in Beijing…tell ’em they don’t need to bother Joe. It’s my orders, direct from the President. Tell ’em to do it NOW. If not sooner.”
“Yessir.” Kathy left.
“Okay, Frank…now, where do we stand?”
Just then the phone rang, the admiral’s secure line from Fort Meade, and the conversation was brief.
“You did? Uh-huh…uh-huh…gotta be right. We don’t know when it sailed, right? No…guess not. Okay…keep me posted.”
The admiral banged down the phone. No good-byes today. No courtesies, except to Yushu.
“They think they picked up the ferry, Frank. Caught it on the overheads making its way back up the Pearl River around twenty-one hundred local.”
“Might be significant, might not,” replied the ex-London naval attache. “Because right here, in these Canton guidebooks you gave me, I’m showing an evening ferry trip downriver and back by twenty-two hundred. That could be just the regular tourist voyage.”
“Hell, Frank. I forgot to mention it. That ferryboat trip was canceled at short notice.”
“Then we just located the transport at least for our guys, right?”
“Right. And now we can get some kind of a handle on the distance — like the ferry probably took off at around twenty hundred. They plainly wanted it before twenty-two hundred and took possession around eighteen hundred…here’s the ferry terminal…here’s the Navy yard…it’s only a couple of miles.”
“And if the damn thing got back by twenty-two hundred Sunday, that means its journey took twenty-six hours,” added Admiral Morgan. “Give ’em a couple of hours on station, to disembark the crew and refuel, and we’re looking possibly at twelve hours out and twelve hours back…how fast do ferryboats travel?”
“On reasonably flat water, probably better than twelve, slower than twenty…”
“Well, if we settle for say fourteen…because they probably got as far as the ocean where they run into a bit of chop…that means they took the guys somewhere fourteen times twelve away…what’s that…one hundred and sixty-eight miles?”
“The merit of that number is not its accuracy, sir,” said Colonel Hart. “It’s the knowledge that they could not have gone a whole lot farther than that. The weakness of the number is that the ferry may have stayed on station a lot longer, maybe allowing the Chinese officers to dine aboard, maybe using it as an office. And of course we don’t know which way it went when it reached the bottom of the Delta. It could’ve gone east, right around Hong Kong, and then up the coast or even to an island. Alternatively, it could have gone west…maybe as far as these two little islands right here. What are they called?…Shangchuan Dao and Xiachuan Dao…that’s about the limit of the ferry’s range, given the twenty-six-hour envelope for the whole journey.”
“Fact is, they could have pulled in anywhere along that coastline…”
“Yessir. Bat I’d say they at least reached the mouth of the Delta and went out into the sea, one way or another…otherwise they’d have gone by road.”
“Good point. I’d better tell Fort Meade to concentrate the overheads on this stretch of Chinese coast right here…from Macao to these fucking little chop-suey islands…and then along here from Hong Kong east to…what’s this place called?…right here…Humen…hey, that’s familiar. I think there’s a Navy base there…check that big book over there, Frank…”
The colonel flicked expertly through the pages of Jane’s Fighting Ships, and located the Southern Fleet Naval Base at Humen. “You’re right, sir,” he said, heading back toward the computerized charts on the admiral’s big screen.
“How far’s Humen from the ferry route just south of Hong Kong?”
“Around eighty-five miles…maybe a little more. But it looks like deeper water, and the coastline is desolate…”
“Well, I guess the Chinese could have some kind of jail facility along there to keep prisoners…but they might have a real facility in Humen, in the base itself…and that’s the worst possible news for us.”
“Right, sir. You mean we can’t just storm a Chinese naval base?”
“Not with SEALs…and if we used Marines we’d need thousands of them, and it would be like a declaration of war on China. Hell, we can’t do that.”
“Well, right now, sir, we cannot do anything, because we don’t know where they are.”
“No, Frank. But we have to find them…” And he broke off, picked up his secure line and growled, “Get me Fort Meade in a big hurry.”
Midnight. Sunday, July 9.
The Jail on Xiachuan Dao.
The Americans were now divided into groups of six, and each group was trying to sleep on the concrete floor of a cell that measured twelve feet by ten feet. The walls were stone. There was no window, but the door contained a large barred area two feet wide by three feet long, beyond which in the gloomy passage sat two armed Chinese guards on four-hour watches. Their instructions were explicit: “W anyone speaks, we are ordered to shoot the first man inside the bars.”
The Americans believed him. And no one spoke. But, quite suddenly, the door to the main cell block opened, and the main lights were switched on and flooded in on the American crew members.
The guard lieutenant who had shot Skip Laxton stood halfway down the passage and announced, “We are now beginning the process of separation and interrogation,” and he walked back to the first cell, ordered one of his men to open it, and shouted, “Lieutenant Commander Bruce Lucas and Lieutenant Commander Cy Rothstein…step outside IMMEDIATELY!”
Instantly Judd Crocker was on his feet pushing his way forward and screaming at the guard lieutenant, “Where are you taking these men? Don’t think I’ve forgotten about you, you murdering little bastard…”
He half-expected to be beaten to the ground for his trouble, but Judd thought it was important to let his men know he was still in fighting order. He was, however, quite surprised at the Chinese officer’s calm, smiling reply.
“Captain Crocker, I admire your spirit as the leader of these men. But it would do you well to remember, you are not on board Seawolf at the moment. Here you are just another criminal, and you may face trial a long time before I do.”
Then he walked slowly to the next cell and demanded the immediate presence of Lt. Kyle Frank, who was dragged out protesting. But like everyone else he was still handcuffed, essentially powerless in the face of six armed guards.
The three Americans were then marched along the passage and out the door, the roars of Judd Crocker bellowing out behind them: “WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU TAKING THOSE MEN, YOU LITTLE FUCKER? YOU’LL ANSWER FOR THIS, I SWEAR TO GOD, IF ANYTHING HAPPENS TO THEM…”
Before he closed the door behind him, the guard lieutenant looked back inside and said with a wide smile, “Captain Crocker, please be quiet. You have been completely abandoned by your government. They, too, understand your criminal, unauthorized acts. They have given us permission to treat you as we would any other criminal. Good night.”
And the captain felt upon him the melancholy chill of loneliness such as he had never experienced before. He could not believe what the lieutenant had said, but in his weakened state, starving, parched with thirst, his wrists throbbing from the chafing of the handcuffs, he had, for the first time, doubts. What if the Chinese were telling the truth? What if the U.S. Navy was furious with him for being detected? What if they believed it was he who had wrapped the prop around the towed array? Maybe the sacrifice of hi
m and his crew was the only way out for the American government, save for some kind of war with China? “That little bastard sounded pretty damn sure of himself…Jesus Christ!”
Bruce Lucas, Cy Rothstein and Kyle Frank were marched across the courtyard through the warm rain and into the big, deserted building in the southwest corner of the jail complex. Inside there was one room to the right-hand side through which they could see a half-dozen Chinese guards. To the right was a long, brightly lit corridor down which they were directed. At the end were three or four rooms, each brightly lit, each containing two or three chairs. Each of them was disgustingly filthy, the walls and floor stained a deep ocher brown, the unmistakable marks of blood.
And now the Americans were separated, each of them ordered into one of the rooms and told to sit until further notice. Thirty minutes later the door to Cy Rothstein’s room opened and through it came Commander Li, in company with two guards, carrying only their machine guns and dressed just in dark blue uniform shorts and shirts, with white socks and black shoes. A fourth man wore a white laboratory coat, and he carried with him a large sheaf of papers.
He and the commander occupied the two chairs, while the guards took up station in the corners of the room in full sight of Cy Rothstein.
“Now, Lieutenant Commander,” said Li. “You are the combat systems officer of the submarine Seawolf, I believe?”
Cy said nothing.
“Silence is futile. We have plainly examined all of the ship’s documents. We know you are the combat systems officer…please, do not be foolish.”
Cy still said nothing, at which point Li ordered one of the guards to remove the American officer’s handcuffs.
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