U.S.S. Seawolf am-4

by Patrick Robinson

  Lt. Commander Bennett was thoughtful. “I guess this entire operation depends on taking those watchtowers quietly.”

  “Correct. And we can’t use grapplers to get up the last bit, we’d probably hit one of the guards in the back of the head.”

  “Do you have a recommendation, Chief?”

  “Yessir. I think we should get four guys up there early. And I think we should use ladders. They’re quieter, and faster. The wall’s a consistent fifteen feet high, so we want four fifteen-footers, nothing bigger so it doesn’t jut above the parapet. There’s a four-foot strip right along the rear of the cell block flat roof. It’s in perpetual pitch dark, literally under the towers. The guards can’t see anything there. The boys can pull the ladders to the roof and then make a synchronized attack, straight up the sides of the towers, exactly where no one would dream of looking.”

  “Aluminum ladders rattle a bit,” said Rusty, somewhat wryly.

  “Not if they’re ultralight and bound in thick black cloth. Those guards aren’t sharp. They’re just up there, bored to death, trying to stay dry. Wouldn’t be surprised if one of ’em was asleep while the other guy worked the light. If we can wait for rain, sir, I have a high level of confidence in this. We’ll make it.”

  “I’m not sure we have much choice…and I agree with what you say. We have to take the watchtowers, and we have to take ’em quietly.”

  “The thing is, sir, if we can get those towers without anyone knowing, the guys can take out the patrol in the courtyard and then hit the guard room. The moment that explosion is heard, we slam the boat, the choppers and the comm room. With any luck, they may never get a signal away.”

  “Now that would be fantastic, because it would give us another hour to evacuate the place in peace.”

  “Not sure I’d go that far,” said the chief. “This thing’s likely to resemble a major war, at least for fifteen minutes.”

  “Right. And now we have just two priorities left — the big building opposite the choppers…we don’t know much about that, and we have to find out whether the patrol boat goes out in the evening…we know it goes in the early hours…meanwhile we have to keep watching that big building, and we should get down there when it’s dark. Luckily it is the farthest point from the main Chinese patrol.”

  And so, as darkness fell over the prison, the SEALs once more moved into the trees and made a circuitous route to both the complex and the jetty. It was raining again, which made their tasks less hazardous but no pleasure. Rusty, Rattlesnake and Buster found a position at the back of the building and quickly worked out that it was a dormitory for the guards. Rusty did not much like the idea of killing men sleeping in their beds, but if he left them they’d rush out and start killing Americans. As usual, on SEAL missions, there was no alternative to the harshest possible course of action. Anything less, you’re likely to end up dead yourself.

  They had a while to ponder the situation, keeping the stopwatch on the guards, checking the watch change at 2000. Outside the dormitory there was just one guard, and he was relieved every two hours, the door being mostly open with men obviously sitting around on their off-duty evenings.

  And then, at exactly nine minutes after nine, one of those million-to-one chances actually happened. The single guard suddenly began to walk right toward the precise piece of ground where the three SEALs were lurking. They all saw him coming. The distance was only 40 yards, and in the light from the building, they saw that his rifle was slung over his shoulder, and his right hand was unzipping his fly. The guy was just coming over for a pee in the undergrowth.

  The SEALs froze and the guard kept walking, straight at Rusty, who flattened himself into the ground facedown. The other two were four feet on either side of him, and there was no escape. They could not run, they could not slink back into the woods because they would be seen, and they certainly could not shoot him. The noise, would cause an uproar. Even stunning him or throttling him was no good because he would be missed.

  “Holy shit!” whispered Rusty. “He’s gonna walk right over us.” And he was perfectly correct. The guard, ready now to take aim into the bushes, actually stood on Rusty’s right leg. He probably thought it was a body, but Rusty did not move. The guard turned, startled, as if to call out, but he never made it. Rattlesnake was on him, cleaving a four-inch slit right across his throat, severing his windpipe, his jugular and his vocal cords with one devastating movement. The guard was dying before he hit the ground, but the one thing he could not do was call out. And now the SEALs had a major problem.

  Lt. Commander Bennett instantly took over. “Quick, one of you on each arm and drag him back into the woods. And for Christ’s sake don’t get covered in blood…steady, guys…keep going…get him well clear…”

  Forty yards later they stopped. “Hold it,” said Rusty. “Look, the biggest danger right now is that trail of blood…we have to get rid of it. Buster, get back up the hill and come back with a machete, pruning shears and the two trenching shovels, and one of those rubberized ground sheets.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  It took him nine minutes and he slipped back through the trees so silently that no one picked him up until he was back, standing next to Rattlesnake. “Jesus, Buster. Where the hell did you come from?”

  “Just practicing.”

  “Okay, guys…we can’t clean, this scrubland like a carpet, so we’ll obscure the blood instead. Cut some of that palm tree stuff with the shears and we’ll put it all over the grassy area where it happened. Right here it’s not so bad, just earth. They won’t know what’s happened to him and I doubt they’ll search before the morning. Meanwhile we’ll drag him down toward the beach and bury him deep. When we get there we’ll get his boots off and his cap and rifle and place it somewhere where it’ll be found…with a bit of luck they’ll just think he went for a swim and drowned, or deserted.”

  What had seemed like a quiet night had turned into a very dangerous situation, and they were all tired when they finished digging the grave and then walked the six miles back to the original rendezvous point. But it was midnight now and the eight SEALs had to go. They handed over the computer with its notes and diagrams to Lt. Commander Davidson, and told the holding team that with any luck they’d be back around 2300 at the assault beach as planned.

  Commander Davidson and his men had had a dull watch, never seeing anyone, but they did spot the patrol boat about a mile offshore around 2100. According to the combined data on the satellite and their laptop, it was due to go out again at 0100 until 0500. This was a good moment to set up the satellite dish and send the report back to Colonel Hart.

  Olaf and Catfish walked down to the water with Rusty and his men as soon as they had changed into their wet suits. They carried big palm fronds to cover up the footprints in the sand, and they shook hands on the dark soundless beach. It was still raining slightly as they moved into the water, carrying the attack boards, breathing through the Draegers, and there was still no sound as they glided into deeper water heading out to the ASDV that awaited them, issuing its friendly little sonar bleep every 30 seconds.

  0939 (local). Sunday, July 15.

  Office of Southern Fleet Commander.

  Zhanjiang.

  Admiral Zhang was thoughtful. He and Admiral Zu were looking at the daily report from Commander Li. It was mostly routine, mentioning any critical information they had been able to glean from the prisoners, and data on the general running of a temporary military facility. Costs, requirements, arrivals, and departures.

  However, at the bottom of the report, which came in on the fax at 0900, there was a final paragraph which ought not, really, to have exercised anyone unduly. It stated, “One of the Navy guards at the dormitory has gone missing. He did not report for duty at 0200, and his bed had not been slept in. At first light we conducted a thorough search, and unhappily discovered his boots, socks, trousers, cap and rifle on the beach. However, there was no sign of him, and we have therefore concluded he went for a swim,
late at night because of the heat, and either drowned, or deserted. We have alerted police at Shangchuan Dao to watch for a body along the western shore of the island, since that is where the tide would undoubtedly carry him.”

  Admiral Zu had read the entire report carefully, especially making notes regarding costs and requirements. Only as an afterthought did he remark, “They lost a guard last night. Apparently drowned or deserted. Found his clothes on the beach.”

  Admiral Zhang held out his hand. “May I see?”

  “Of course, last paragraph.”

  “Hmmm. That’s rather worrying. Because the man could have been an American agent, working against us. Somehow getting information on the prisoners back to the CIA.”

  “Ah, Yushu…you are seeing too many Americans.”

  “Am I?”

  “Well, a few days ago you did decide to rebuild an entire jail at Chongqing, just in case the U.S. elected to storm the island of Xiachuan and release their men.”

  “Yes, I did,” said the C-in-C. “And I have proceeded on that basis. The Americans will stop at nothing…we both know that, to our cost.”

  “I realize that, Yushu. But I have tried to reason it all out on the basis of military probability. Ask yourself, how many people do you think it would take to overpower our forces? And how on earth would they get here? And how would they ever know the crew of Seawolf was even on the island in the first place?

  “And you could add, and how would they get everyone away? They’d need a major warship, and the water is too shallow, and anyway we’d know it was trying to come inshore hours and hours before it got here. In my opinion you are staring at a military impossibility. And Yushu, as always, you are staring very hard.”

  “It’s my job to stare very hard, Jicai. That’s my mission on behalf of the Chinese people. And this drowned naval guard, I don’t much like it…allow me to look at that last paragraph once more, please…”

  Zu Jicai handed over the fax once more, and again the C-in-C read it through, pacing the floor, a deep frown on his wide, stern face.

  “First of all, I would like you to get a full report on the drowned man; his home, his family, his background, his length of service…just to see if there is one tiny shred of evidence that he could have had contact with Americans.”

  “Very well. I think most of the guards are attached to the Southern Fleet, which means his complete record will be here at Zhanjiang. If that is so, we will have it in fifteen minutes.”

  Admiral Zu summoned an assistant, gave him the fax and instructed, “Call Xiachuan and get the name of the man mentioned in the last paragraph, then pull up his record.”

  The two admirals sipped some more tea and waited. Twelve minutes later the missing guard’s record came in. Admiral Zu scanned it, mentioning information as he read. “Well, he’s twenty-eight, married, with a young son. They live in Guangzhou…next of kin listed as his wife…parents live in your hometown of Xiamen. He was born and brought up there…served at sea in destroyers…so far as I can see, never been out of Chinese waters.”

  “How about his wife?”

  “Same. Comes from Xiamen. Not much education. Moved to Guangzhou when he received his last posting. No applications filed for any future career changes…he wouldn’t be a classic CIA spy candidate,” he added, an edge of wryness in his voice.

  Admiral Zhang smiled for the first time. “No. I agree there. However, something is worrying me. That report lists his clothes on the beach in some detail, right down to his socks. But it makes no mention of his military jacket or uniform shirt…”

  “So?”

  “Who goes for a swim in their shirt and jacket, having taken off their boots, socks, trousers and cap?”

  “Well, he may not have been wearing his jacket.”

  “True. And if that’s the case, it will be in his room.”

  “And if it’s not, what might you then assume?”

  “Nothing, really. Except that he could have been shot or stabbed, covered in blood, and the murderer dumped some of his clothes on the beach and then got rid of the body and the incriminating evidence of the bloodstained clothes.”

  “Sir, not even Lee Chang,” Admiral Zu said, referring to the famous Chinese film detective, “was as imaginative as you.”

  Admiral Zhang laughed. “I am only half playing the devil’s advocate,” he said. “But I really do wonder why a man goes for a late-night swim wearing his uniform jacket.”

  “Perhaps he wished to commit suicide, Yushu. And kept it on to help weigh him down.”

  “If he had wished to end his life, surely he would have tried to swim with all of his clothes on. Why take off his boots and trousers?”

  “Well, yes. I suppose so. But these are all just assumptions.”

  “I understand that, Jicai. But let’s get a call in to Commander Li…and have the man’s room searched…see if his jacket’s in there and maybe his shirt, too. Perhaps he just took those things off and walked out into the hot night down to the beach.”

  “Certainly, I will do it, sir. But I still cannot believe he was a CIA agent, nor that there is a homicidal maniac lurking in the jungle of Xiachuan Dao, killing armed, trained Chinese soldiers.”

  “Unless the Americans have already landed, Jicai.”

  “Landed!”

  “Well, stranger things have happened. And of course I know there is little chance of these things being true. But they could be, and we must run our checks on that basis. Not on what is likely to happen. But what could happen.”

  A further 15 minutes went by before Lee returned with a fax that read, “Room search completed. No uniform jacket. No uniform shirt.”

  “Then he died with his shirt and jacket on,” said Admiral Zhang. “Either in the water, or at the hands of a murderer. Perhaps from a foreign power?”

  “Of course, he could have been murdered by one of his colleagues, sir.”

  “Yes. He could.”

  “And so, what would you like me to do about it now?”

  “My friend Jicai, nothing more. However, this disappearing guard is on my mind, and it is likely to stay there. I am thus making all haste to have the American prisoners removed from this vulnerable island.”

  “You mean you really did activate the renovation of the jail in Chongqing?”

  “I did. Six days ago.”

  “And the jail is ready to receive prisoners?”

  “Tuesday. But I have decided to move them at first light on Monday morning, that’s tomorrow. They will travel by road and it will take two days to get there, up through the mountains. And then my worries are over. Because they will be in a place where no one will ever find them. Not in a hundred years.”

  9

  Two days before the SEAL reconnaissance team took off for Xiachuan Dao, the first half of Admiral Morgan’s two-pronged attack on the Chinese Navy had moved into operational mode.

  It was Wednesday, July 12, 12 noon, the precise moment the SEALs began to arrive on the flight deck of the Ronald Reagan. But this was 8,000 miles away, in a time zone 16 hours earlier, in the sunlit Southern California city of San Diego. John Bergstrom was going to the zoo.

  Deep in the sprawling cultural center of Balboa Park, less than three miles from his Coronado base, the King SEAL had already paid his respects before the great Veterans War Memorial. And now he strolled along Zoo Drive, heading essentially for the monkey house, directly opposite the bears.

  He wore white shorts, a dark blue tennis shirt, no socks and expensive-looking boat shoes. In his right hand he carried a plastic shopping bag in which there was a brand-new cassette player, still in its original heavy white cardboard packaging. A deeply tanned man with smooth, just graying hair, Admiral Bergstrom was an imposing figure, lean and confident, the kind of man accustomed to being obeyed.

  Sitting on a bench outside the monkey house, surrounded by tourists, was not a natural setting for him. But that was his position right now, in the great scheme of the upcoming attack on the Chin
ese Navy. And he sat impassively, awaiting the arrival of Richard White, a 43-year-old investment executive at the Bank of California in Hong Kong. Richard White, like the admiral, was not quite what he seemed after 20 years of covert operations for the CIA in the Far East. Not even the board of the California Bank knew anything of Mr. White’s activities.

  When he arrived, the admiral knew, there would be a third party, Mr. Honghai Shan of the China International Travel Service. He and Richard White were traveling back to Hong Kong together, but it would be the Kowloon native who would carry the cassette player through the notoriously difficult Chinese customs at Hong Kong International Airport.

  The rendezvous would take place on the bench, beneath the swaying excitement of the zoo’s Skyfari, the aerial tramway that trundled through the treetops above the lions every 20 minutes. Here Richard White would accept the package and introduce Admiral Bergstrom to the brave American agent whose work for the official “external arm” of the Chinese tourist industry made him immune from the Hong Kong customs.

  Honghai Shan’s parents, both schoolteachers, had been murdered by Madame Mao’s Red Guards in the Cultural Revolution, and he had worked as a CIA liaison man since he was a boy. Three years from now, he and his wife would retire to a hillside house in La Jolla, courtesy of a grateful intelligence agency.

  They arrived separately, the American first, sitting on the bench immediately and starting to read the Wall Street Journal. He said softly, from behind the newspaper, “Hi, Admiral. Rick White. Shan’ll be here momentarily.”

  John Bergstrom made no indication of recognition. But three minutes later, a perfectly dressed Chinese businessman, wearing a light cream suit in the 90-degree heat, walked slowly forward and joined them, sitting on the far end of the bench, studying his zoo guidebook, presumably searching for pandas.

  Still behind the wide pages of the newspaper Rick White spoke again, almost in a whisper. “Admiral, this is Honghai Shan, a deeply trusted man. We are traveling back to Hong Kong together. I will take the package all the way, but when we disembark the aircraft, Shan will go alone, carrying it with him. He will drop it off to me at my office.”