Attack of the Seawolf mp-2

by Michael Dimercurio

  They had come halfway across the bay. If they could proceed at flank. Point Hotel would be less than two hours away, but crawling like this would take them all day. Still, any faster in the shallow water of the bay might well raise a telltale wake and make excessive noise. Stealth was their only friend, surrounded as they were by the hostile P.L.A Chinese forces on all four points of the compass.

  Pacino pulled out the next chart, the small-area large-scale chart of the piers at Xingang. The Seawolf would be able to sail the channel without detection, but the channel narrowed near the pier to a width of a mere four hundred yards, barely enough to turn a supertanker around with eight tugboats. Further from the pier, where less maneuvering would normally be required, the width shrank even further to one hundred yards. Which meant, Pacino realized, he would have to drive Seawolf in an underwater roadway barely a shiplength wide. It would take only one ship to go by to ruin the entire operation. Could he drive the Seawolf that accurately, and maintain stealth, in that narrow a channel? Could he avoid colliding with a tanker above or a silty bottom below? And once he neared the tanker pier, then what?

  He pulled the chart lamp closer to the chart. The deep channel ended at the twin-tanker piers and did not extend further north to the P.L.A piers, where Tampa was tied up. It was perhaps two hundred yards from the northern boundary of the supertanker channel to the P.L.A pier, a long underwater swim for the SEALs. How would his visibility be from that position, would he even be able to see the Tampa? Would the type-20 periscope be detected from the P.L.A side? Or worse, from the tanker pier? Someone standing on the tanker pier would be only a few hundred feet from the scope. Seawolf would be a sitting duck if the scope were discovered, and then Tampa would have some company.

  Pacino folded the chart. Nobody said it would be easy.

  Pacino climbed into his bunk and shut his eyes. When sleep finally came he saw the chart of the piers change from the gold-and-blue coloring of the chart to the brown-and-gray of a bird’s-eye-view of the pier, and he saw the Tampa, and his friend Sean Murphy, a revolver being held to his head. When the wake-up phone from the conn rang at 2300, he had blanked out the dream.

  CHAPTER 14

  SUNDAY, 12 MAY

  0605 GREENWICH MEAN TIME

  GO HAD BAY, XLNGANG HARBOR

  P.L.A NAVY PIER 1A, USS TAMPA

  1405 BEIJING TIME

  How long, Sean Murphy wondered, could a man go without sleep? It had been days since the ship had been taken by the Chinese, maybe over a week. Since he had regained consciousness after being shot in the control room, he had been kept awake by one of two bodyguards. He had been confined to the tight quarters of his stateroom with the guards, not allowed to sit in a chair or lie on the bunk. He was kept sitting on the hard deck, the thin carpeting giving little cushion to the carbon-steel decking beneath. When his buttocks and back could no longer bear the pain of sitting or lying on the deck, he was allowed to stand, limping in the small stateroom. Even though his right arm was paralyzed from the bullet he had taken when the Chinese came aboard, his hands were cuffed behind his back. It had been painful from the first, but after endless hours jolting pains shot up his arms to his chest from the awkward position of the cuffs. That was before the numbness mercifully set in. A Chinese medic had bandaged the bullet wound, stopping the bleeding, but the round was still inside him, and he was convinced the wound had become infected. His skin felt hot, feverish.

  No one had yet spoken to him in English. The torture so far had been relatively low-level — no one had beaten him or threatened him or interrogated him. He had felt an undercurrent of fear, fear that he would not hold up under questioning, fear of the torture, fear that he would break and tell them everything.

  He had not been allowed to speak to his men or officers. The ship was oppressively hot and stuffy.

  The fans were off but the ship’s lights were on. Either the battery was running, supplying only the lights, or the P.L.A had brought on shore power. Were their voltage and current the same as the Americans’? No, improbable. Maybe the steam lines had been repaired enough for Lube Oil Vaughn’s turbine generators to be steaming, supplying the ship’s distribution with power. But if they were, the air-conditioning and ventilation systems would be working. Which left the question — if the only electricity they had was the battery, how long could it last? Supplying only the lights, maybe a week, ten days max. Which meant that they soon would be out of power.

  Murphy felt his eyes get heavy for the hundredth time. He let them shut, and in spite of his numb arms, he felt himself sinking into sleep. And just as he saw the first drowsy sleep images he felt the butt of the AK-47 rifle jabbing him in the ribs, in the spot sore from having been jabbed there before. He came awake with a feeling like a severe hangover, head heavy, stomach churning. God, how he craved sleep. For a moment he almost wished they would ask him something so he could tell them and be allowed to sleep.

  But there was no one to ask him questions, just an ox of a guard who seemed to enjoy keeping him awake.

  A sudden noise came from the passageway outside.

  The guard stood and checked the door, then came to attention. The man who entered the room could only be an interrogator. Murphy decided. The guard motioned Murphy to his feet, but he was too weak. Even after repeated jabs in the ribs, all Murphy could do was roll on the deck.

  Finally the interrogator pulled him up by his soaked armpits, propping him against the bulkhead.

  Murphy thought he was losing consciousness. The room swirled around him. The interrogator pulled over the swivel chair and sat Murphy down in it. Murphy looked up at the interrogator, whose Mao jacket showed no insignia or rank or ribbons. He was tall for a Chinese, Murphy thought idly. His face was cut from flat planes, his high cheekbones and thin lips making him appear severe. His build was not slight, not heavy, efficiently muscled like a decathlon athlete’s body. His eyes were neither menacing nor friendly — just dark, glassy.

  The interrogator pointed to Murphy’s wrists. The guard unlocked the cuffs. For a moment Murphy was unable to move either arm. He tried to move the left first, finally pulling it up in front of him, the limb stiff and burning and tingling as circulation returned. He massaged the right arm with the left, the injured side of his body still numb and unmoving. The interrogator opened the stateroom door a crack and shouted, the Chinese dialect sounding oddly melodious and lilting, the sounds incongruous with the man’s severe demeanor.

  Within seconds another guard brought a steaming mug. The interrogator handed it to Murphy.

  It was tea. Murphy tried to drink it; the tea burned his parched lips. He looked up at the interrogator, who dismissed the guard. The interrogator sat on the bunk so that his head was just below the level of Murphy’s.

  He looked at Murphy and spoke, his English sounding vaguely British.

  “My name is Tien. Leader Tien Tse-Min. I apologize if you have been treated badly. It took me some time to get here — all the confusion of this absurd revolution, you know, and the guards are stupid. Am I to understand you are the commanding officer of this vessel?”

  Classic Good Cop technique, Murphy thought, hating himself for wanting to thank the bastard for easing up on him. For the last week the words from the Code had been running through his mind: I will give no information or take part in any action which might be harmful to my comrades … When questioned … I am bound to give only name, rank, service number, and date of birth. I will evade answering further questions to the utmost of my ability … The Code was like the Ten Commandments, an ideal ethical code, but who could live up to it? He thought back to a lecture at Annapolis by a Vietnam veteran, an aviator admiral named Ferguson, who had been shot down over Hanoi. He had been a plebe, and his roommate, Michael Pacino, had gotten up in front of the whole Brigade of Midshipmen to ask the admiral what he thought of the Code of Conduct. The upperclassmen and the Academy brass were ready to keelhaul him for asking such a wiseass question to so senior and venerated an officer
about such a hallowed subject as the Code of Conduct. But Ferguson had taken the question.

  “What do I think of the Code?” he’d said. “I think it’s a bunch of nice words written by old ladies who have never been in combat or taken prisoner. “I am bound to give only name, rank, service number, and date of birth.” Let me tell you, guys, if Charlie wants to get some information out of you, by God you’re eventually going to tell him. A man can take only so much pain before he breaks. That’s any man. Folks, you saw my sketches of the torture gear, and with that stuff, I guarantee it, you’re gonna talk. We tried to establish our own code. We’d resist for two beatings, two sessions. Then, halfway into the third beating we’d start giving the gooks a made-up story. They asked me who was in command of my aircraft carrier. After two torture sessions I told them it was Vice Admiral Mickey Mouse, and his Chief of Staff was Captain Donald Duck. That held them down for about a day, until they realized I’d made fools out of them. It only took them another two beatings to get the real information, but at least we made them work for every bit they got. The Code of Conduct assumes you’re held by civilized folks serving tea and asking if there’s any information you’d care to betray your country with. Bullshit, son. That answer your question?”

  Pacino had nodded and taken his seat while the hall full of malevolent upperclassmen hissed him.

  Murphy stared into the interrogator’s eyes.

  “My name is Murphy. Sean Murphy. Commander, United States Navy. I’d tell you my service number, but why the hell would you care?”

  He expected a slap, a punch in the face, or perhaps a nudge in his bullet wound. At the very least, a shove back down to the hard deck. But Tien just smiled.

  “Actually, Commander, we know all about you. The ship’s office, you know. Has all the personnel files, complete with photos and backgrounds. We know who the officers are, who the weapons chief petty officer is, who the chief engineer is. I take it you forgot to burn those records with the other secret papers.”

  Murphy said nothing. Tien went on.

  “I only ask, Commander, because we intend to repair your ship so you can leave port and return home.”

  Murphy realized he was being manipulated. He tried to keep his face impassive, but apparently, in spite of himself, his expression had eased for a moment, giving Tien an opening.

  “Yes, that’s right. We just want to do what we can to repair your damage so you can drive out on your own power. After all, at a time such as this, we hardly need world public opinion against us, not when the thugs of the White Army are advancing on our People’s government. How would you feel, sir, if Mexican troops had Washington surrounded? Before we complete your repairs, we have only one requirement of you. You know now how concerned we are with world opinion, and with our image with your own government.

  I do not know why your Navy sent you to spy on us, but I certainly hope it was not for the benefit of the White Army. I digress. I merely want you to record a statement. A statement to go on record that elements of your military ordered your ship here to spy on us, and that this shows the support of America for the Japanese-sponsored White Army. You will call for an end to this violation of international law and ask for help for my nation, telling how humanely we have treated you, and how we will be releasing your ship.”

  So, Murphy thought, here it was. And it now seemed obvious that the P.L.A and the Chinese government would try to make the most of the opportunity of catching the Tampa violating her territorial waters. He also had to at least consider the possibility of release, and how he was obligated to his men to do what he could to save their lives.

  But the Code — I will make no oral or written statements disloyal to my country and its allies or harmful to their cause. How could he make a statement damning his command or his country?

  “I’ve taken the liberty of having one of your officers make the same statement I want you to make,” Tien said. “Of course, we could use his statement, but we both know it would be much more effective coming from you. In this situation, Captain, we need each other.”

  Tien stood then and opened the stateroom door. A guard wheeled in a television set and video tape player on a stand. The unit was plugged into an outlet and the tape was rolled. Murphy tried to keep the emotions out of his face, but when he saw Chuck Griffin’s miserable face on the screen, he gave it up.

  Griffin, of all people. Griffin, the most “conservative” member of the wardroom, an advocate of the use of military force in international crises. Griffin, in fact, had argued just a week ago that the United States should enter the war on the side of the White Army and use any means necessary to subdue Beijing. Now his face showed fear. His eyes were no longer young, they were eyes that had seen physical torture. He looked emaciated, as if he had lost at least fifty pounds. There were no discernible marks on his face, but it looked like he had been made-up. Pancake makeup could cover bruises and cuts. Griffin’s face wore the look of a broken man as he read off the confession:

  “… our heavily armed and battle-ready nuclear attack submarine was ordered into the territorial waters of the peaceful nation of the People’s Republic of China. I deeply regret the naked act of aggression that the U.S. Navy has committed in this clear violation of international law in support of the Army of White Aggression …”

  Murphy knew Griffin would never be reading that statement unless he had been tortured beyond human endurance. Every man had his breaking point, himself included. The terrible question was, when …? Finally, after going on for twenty agonizing minutes, the tape ended. Griffin’s voice sinking to a whisper as the picture dissolved into snow.

  “I’ve had the text written for you on a TelePrompTer,” Tien said. “Fighter Sai, bring in the camera.”

  Murphy watched as the guard set up the video camera and the TelePrompTer and the lights. A boom microphone was suspended over his head. The TelePrompTer flashed up with text, the large letters spelling MY NAME IS COMMANDER SEAN MURPHY.

  The lights came on, the video camera was trained on Murphy’s face, and leader Tien Tse-Min smiled at him encouragingly. Murphy took a breath, looked into the camera, and began … “I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America and to the Republic for which it stands—” He never felt Tien’s fist crashing into his face, just the odd vision of the camera and lights and TelePrompTer slowly fading away from him, sinking into a thick blackness.

  CHAPTER 15

  SUNDAY, 12 MAY

  1720 GREENWICH MEAN TIME

  GO HAD BAY POINT HOTEL

  USS SEAWOLF

  0120 BEIJING TIME

  Seawolf glided to a halt twenty-five yards east of Pier 3 in the deep supertanker channel, only two hundred yards south of Pier 1A, the P.L.A Navy berths — the location of the Tampa.

  “Captain, ship’s speed, zero point two knots and slowing,” the battle stations OOD, Tim Turner, reported. “The ship is ready to hover.”

  “Offsa’deck, commence hovering, depth band seven eight to seven nine feet.”

  “Hover, seven eight to seven nine feet, aye, sir.”

  Turner turned toward the ballast-control panel and gave the orders to the Diving Officer and the Chief of the Watch.

  Pacino looked like a modern-day pirate in his black coveralls, black crepe-soled boots and with a black eyepatch over his right eye designed to keep his periscope eye night-adapted. The darkened control room was rigged for red, only small red lamps lighting plot tables, and only the glow of the instruments and firecontrol consoles illuminating the space.

  The only sound in the control room was the low growl of the ventilation fans blowing cool air into the space and the high-pitched whine of the gyro forward of the ship control panel. The plot officers and attack center officers waited, no new data coming in for them to plot, with the ship motionless and the targets tied up at the pier. The SEALs were in the upper level passageway waiting for Pacino’s order to lockout. Pacino looked at his watch. Almost 0125. Time to scan the situation on the
surface.

  “Lookaround number-two scope,” Pacino called out.

  “Speed zero, depth seven nine feet,” the Diving Officer announced.

  “Up scope.” Pacino rotated the hydraulic control ring in the overhead, the ring clunked into the UP position and the stainless-steel pole climbed out of the well, the large optic control module finally coming up and stopping. Pacino stepped up to the module, lifted off his eyepatch, snapped down the periscope grips and put his eye to the cold rubber of the eyepiece.

  Even in low power the adjacent pier looked dangerously close. The supertanker berth was empty, but the bollards and cleats for tying up ships seemed so close he could reach out and touch them. A lone sentry in the distance was walking toward him down the pier.

  Otherwise, the supertanker pier was dead.

  Pacino scanned the sky to find the moon. The night seemed cloudy and overcast but the moon peeked out of openings in the heavy clouds to the south, opposite the direction of the P.L.A piers. Not good — moonlight could shimmer on the water, silhouetting the scope and giving him away. He turned the scope view to the P.L.A piers two hundred yards to the north. He could see the inboard Udaloy, the outboard Luda and the seaward-side Jianghu tied up at the pier — but no sign of the Tampa. He clicked the view to high power, magnifying the view by twenty-five times, and made out a black square-shape in the water against the flank of the inboard destroyer Udaloy. The shape could possibly be the Tampa’s rudder.

  He pulled a trigger on the right periscope grip and magnification changed from 25x to 50x, bringing the Udaloy’s hull so close that he could see two P.L.A sailors leaning on the railing smoking. For a moment he kept the two men in the view, the periscope reticle filled with the forms of the midnight watch-standers.