The Shark Mutiny

by Patrick Robinson

  Thus, shortly before 6 P.M. on the afternoon of Tuesday, June 5, 2007, the independent Republic of China, known internationally as Taiwan, returned to the rule of the “other China,” the Peoples’ Republic, the communist successors to Chairman Mao Zedong. It was the ultimate horror, the endless dread of the peace-loving, profit-worshiping populace of the defiant little island across the strait. And thanks to the guile of the smiling Admiral Zhang Yushu, Taiwan’s mighty friends in Washington had been powerless to raise a finger to save them.

  Which left Admiral Morgan in his dressing gown, sitting in the book-lined study in Kathy’s house in Maryland at 6 A.M., watching the news, sipping black coffee, with buckshot, in a mood that hovered somewhere between disbelief and rank poison.

  “Just so long as they don’t think for one moment they’re going to get away with this,” he growled. “They got the island. Needless to say they got the museum, which was why they went to war in the first place. And there’s not a damn thing we can do about any of it, short of going to war ourselves. But there’s a lot of ways to skin a cat, and we’re gonna make those little bastards regret the day they decided to fuck around with Uncle Sam.”

  “Sorry, darling, lay that on me again, will you?” Kathy O’Brien had slipped into the study bearing orange juice and hot croissants with preserves.

  The Admiral’s eyes were still glued to the screen, but he was hungry, having been there, on and off, all night. He said nothing but reached out absentmindedly for one of the croissants, and he let out a yell, it was so hot.

  “Jesus Christ!” he cried, adopting one of his favorite mock-wounded expressions. “What the hell is that? A pastry grenade?”

  Kathy was wearing a dark green silk robe, and she laughed as ever at the speed with which Arnold Morgan could coin original material.

  He turned toward her, smiling in appreciation of the woman he loved. “I shouldn’t think this burn’s worse than second degree,” he said pompously, shaking both his head and his right hand. “I shall require ice, cold water, towels and the home number of my lawyer. You did keep your insurance premiums up? I do hope so.”

  “You should of course have been on the stage rather than wasting your time trying to eliminate Red China,” said Kathy, expertly cleaving the croissant sideways with a serrated knife and spreading it with butter and strawberry jam. “Here, take this,” she added, offering the plate.

  “Well, why the hell didn’t the damn thing burn you?” he demanded.

  “Probably because I didn’t clamp my hand around the hottest part on top,” she replied. “Heat tends to rise, you know.”

  Arnold then firmly informed her that as the former master of a large nuclear reactor on a U.S. Navy attack submarine, he was acquainted with the rudiments of physics, even if he had temporarily forgotten the heat-retentive properties of the common croissant.

  She poured him some cold orange juice, and advised him to take the greatest care with the glass since he would probably get frostbite. But Arnold was no longer listening.

  “Jesus, Kathy, will you look at that?”

  She turned to the screen where the giant U.S. aircraft carrier John F. Kennedy could be seen listing slightly to starboard and moving slowly through the water.

  “The accident on board the JFK happened two weeks ago in Japanese waters,” the newscaster reported. “These dramatic pictures show her making under ten knots, limping toward the U.S. base at Okinawa. They were taken by our associate station in the western Pacific region, and according to our sources they caught the JFK forty-seven miles south of the American base.

  “The U.S. Navy has denied our request to put a camera team on board for the final miles of the journey, and they have denied us all requests for an interview to explain precisely what happened. Last night the Navy was showing no signs of any intention to clear up the mystery of what happened out there west of the Ishigaki Islands on the night of May twenty-second.”

  Admiral Morgan ate his croissant thoughtfully. Like the Navy, he was of course keenly aware of what had happened. Two Chinese torpedoes, fired from one single Kilo-Class submarine, had crippled the 88,000-tonner. Which made her the fifth Battle Group leader to become unavailable for the protection of Taiwan. Counting the Ronald Reagan Group, still in San Diego, Big John was actually the sixth.

  “Maybe it was for the best,” offered Kathy. “Maybe Taiwan is ultimately better off as a part of mainland China. And maybe the carrier would have been drawn into a real shooting war if she’d been in her regular patrol area. And there might have been God knows how many dead, and we could have been sucked right into a long conflict.”

  “Wrong,” replied Arnold, uncharmingly.

  “What do you mean, ‘wrong’? You’re not always right about absolutely everything.”

  “Wrong again,” replied Arnold, even more uncharmingly.

  Kathy poured them both some more coffee and awaited the short, bludgeoning lecture she knew was on its way.

  “Katherine,” he said, “a mighty navy, with nuclear weapons and a strike force of devastating guided missiles, has nothing to do with inflicting defeat and destruction upon another nation. It has to do with prevention. An all-powerful nation like ourselves has one useful purpose, and that’s to frighten the life out of anyone who might step out of line.

  “That’s why this world is mostly at peace. By that I mean there has been no global conflict for years and years. It’s Pax Americana, as I have often explained. Peace on our terms. If the JFK had been on patrol, with its full air force operational at the north end of the Taiwan Strait, China would not have attacked. They would not have dared, because we have the capacity to eliminate their ships, their aircraft, their Army, their military bases, their Naval bases, their goddamned cities, if you like, anytime we feel like it.

  “They attacked Taiwan because we were not there to scare ’em off. As we know, to our cost, they made damn sure we were not there. But it would not have happened if we had been.”

  “Well, I suppose not. But I still have never understood why the carrier was so far out of its operational area, and how the Chinese were somehow lying in wait. I know that’s what you think. But I don’t really get it. It was almost as if they lured the JFK into that bay. That’s what the media should be trying to find out.”

  “The media are probably going to find out that the carrier was hit. But I agree, it’s a real puzzle why the carrier was so far out of its area. I look forward to reading Admiral Holt’s preliminary report next week. So do a lot of other people.”

  061600JUN07. USS Shark. Bay of Bengal.

  15.53N 93.35E.

  Speed 15. Depth 100. Course 084.

  The aging black hull of the 5,000-ton Sturgeon-Class submarine moved slowly through the warm blue depths of the eastern Indian Ocean. She was just about at the end of her 2,000-mile journey from Diego Garcia, and she moved to the northeast, about 30 miles short of the great shelving Juanita Shoal, where the ocean floor suddenly rises up from 3,000 feet to 120 feet, to form a massive, almost sheer, underwater mountain wall of rock, shale and sand.

  Lieutenant Pearson, watching the chart, in constant communication with sonar officer Lt. Commander Josh Gandy, would order Shark well south of that particular hazard, while they made their way east to the rendezvous point at 16.00N, 94.01E, twelve miles off the coast of Burma.

  Lieutenant Commander Headley, now in sole control of the insertion of the SEALs, deliberately ordered their speed cut to 12 knots, which would put them on station at the RV point at 1800, approximately two hours before dark.

  For the past four days they had steamed steadily, submerged all the way through the near-bottomless waters that surround the southern shores of the Indian subcontinent. It had been the busiest underwater journey Dan Headley could ever remember, with frequent satellite communications, while Fort Meade and the Pentagon battled for information about the Chinese base on Haing Gyi Island.

  Lieutenant Shawn Pearson, like many navigators, was an excellent draftsman
, and he provided immeasurable assistance to the SEAL commander, making detailed scale drawings of China’s newest Naval complex. By the third day, they had it pretty well nailed down. They had located a tough-looking chain-link fence that guarded the southern border of the dockyard. They also had located a guardhouse on the southern perimeter.

  But as far as they could see, the fence ended abruptly at some dense woodland that protected the northwestern perimeter of the dockyard from the most treacherous-looking marshland area where the Letpan Stream splits and forms two wide channels. Each one runs straight through the swamp and out into the unnavigable Haing Gyi Shoal, which provides only four feet of water in some places at low tide.

  The new satellite pictures being beamed into the submarine were grainy and of very moderate quality, but Lt. Pearson’s sharp pencil drew hard, accurate lines through the chart of the swamp. And Shark was just about at her halfway point on her journey from Diego Garcia when Commander Rick Hunter had seen for the first time an excellent way out for his team.

  “We bolt through these woods at the back of the dockyard,” he’d told them, “until we reach the swamp, right here. According to Shawn’s map, that gives us a run of thirteen hundred yards, at which point we’re only a hundred yards from this deep tidal stream, and that’s where the guys are gonna be with the inflatables.”

  “Christ, sir,” said Catfish. “You sure there’s enough water in there to get the boats running?”

  “Shawn says yes,” replied the Commander. “According to his chart there’re one-point-three meters of water at dead low tide. For the truly ignorant that’s about four feet, and the boats draw less than a foot when they’re running.”

  “They draw more than that when they’re stationary,” said Catfish. “Those big engines drop down around two feet, more as she starts to come bow up.”

  “Catfish, baby,” said Rick. “There are guys in this submarine who can make those inflatables talk. They raise the engines, skid ’em along the surface, and then slowly drop ’em down, and whip ’em up on the stump, no sweat. Don’t worry about it. Those boats will get us out. I’ve just never been sure where to bring ’em in. But I am now.”

  “Aye, sir,” said Catfish. “And I agree it’s a damn good spot, right around the back of the island. It’s got to be deserted. Shawn says he can’t find even a track from the pictures.”

  “It’s probably full of fucking cobras, and creepy crawlies and Christ knows what else,” said Rattlesnake Davies.

  “Well, thank God you’re gonna be with us,” said Buster Townsend. “You can do your jungle thing, blow the heads off a few pythons and stuff.”

  “Seriously, guys. We’re in good shape for a run through country like that,” said Rick. “We’ll be in our wet suits and black trainers. We’ll have our gloves on, carrying just flippers clipped to our belts. We’ll have no heavy baggage, because the explosives will be gone and we’ll leave the Draegers behind. They weigh thirty pounds, and we don’t need ’em if we’re going back on the surface. Speed’s everything. And we’ll have our knives, machine guns and ammunition. Soon as we’re done, we’ll pull up our hoods and get going.”

  “You worried about that one hundred yards of green marked swamp before the channel, sir?”

  “Hell, no. It’s tidal there so there’ll be thick grass and probably rushes; we’ll run straight through it, but the guys in the boats are going to be less than one hundred yards away, and they’ll have ropes to help us if we need ’em. Plus, of course, the spare Draegers we brought in case we have to go over the side. We’ll get there. Don’t worry.”

  “When’s high tide?” asked Dallas MacPherson.

  “Right here on your chart,” said Shawn. “I’ve marked it zero-three-three-zero. The water should still be rising when you get to the water’s edge. That’s if your timing stays the same. You make your shore landing before midnight, after the warship operation. Then you have a three-hour shore mission, and a half hour to reach the embarkation point at zero-three-three-zero. That’s correct, isn’t it?”

  “If there’s a real chance of that fucking steam well going up,” said Dallas, “I’m likely to break the Burmese all-comers record down to that swamp. I’ll probably be there at about zero-three-zero-one.”

  All the SEAL meetings were like this, informal but completely relevant in every aspect. Each man was free to offer any opinion, or ask any question. Then, when the mission was under way, every man knew not only what he was going to do; he knew precisely what everyone else was going to do as well.

  Commander Reid had allocated a section of the submarine for the SEAL team to meet and it turned into a kind of locker room, a place where the leader lectured the guys, pored over the charts, discussed the mission, perfected the split-second timing that would spell success or failure.

  For the first two days of the journey from Diego Garcia, the problems were academic, but as the voyage wore on, there was a strange, underlying tension right below the surface. Everyone could feel it, particularly Lt. Commander Dan Headley and his old buddy Commander Rick Hunter.

  And everyone knew it all traced back to the night of May 16, out in the Strait of Hormuz when Shark’s commanding officer had refused permission for the ship to move in toward the ASDV and evacuate the SEAL team, with their dead leader and dying explosives expert. And then Charlie Mitchell had died before he could receive help, and every single member of the big group from Coronado believed that Commander Reid had personally signed the young SEAL’s death warrant. Commander Rusty Bennett, mission chief of the team that went into Iran, was extremely angry and felt that the entire tragic incident should be taken to the highest possible authority.

  He and Commander Hunter had spent much time on it when Assault Team One finally returned to DG. And Lt. Commander Headley was more worried than either of them, because he had made the decision to save the SEALs at all cost and been overruled by his own CO. Dan Headley was unused to being overruled. Indeed he had been informed that his appointment as Executive Officer on the Sturgeon-class ship was because of an unspoken concern about the mind-set of the Captain.

  Both the SEAL leaders and the XO felt they could not count on the CO to make the right decision if the combat troops came under serious threat. It was always possible that a fast unorthodox rescue might be required, and no one believed they would receive the correct degree of support from the Captain.

  Reid had delegated all details of the insertion to Lieutenant Commander Headley, cautioning him only about hazarding the submarine. Any deviation from the strict, agreed orders of position and timing would almost certainly be met by a rigid adherence to the rules by the CO. The XO had seen it, and he was extremely concerned. Rick Hunter, briefed by Rusty Bennett before he left by air for Coronado, was making a conscious effort not to let it play on his mind.

  “Danny,” he said, “I’m trying to get my mind straight. I’m trying to lead these guys in to accomplish an unbelievably difficult objective. I cannot allow the possible conduct of this nutcase CO to occupy my thoughts. It’ll get in the way of the real stuff. I just haven’t the time.”

  But then, two nights previously, an incident had taken place that had truly unnerved Dan Headley, and the only colleague he had confided in was Rick Hunter.

  It had started a half hour before the Captain’s normal appearance in the control room around 2000. He had asked the XO to come to his office/cabin to confirm their ETA at the rendezvous point off Burma. Entering the room, Dan had been quite startled to find it lit by just a single candle, in a holder on the table.

  “Hello, sir,” he had said cheerfully. “Bit dark in here, isn’t it?”

  The Captain’s reply had been, in Dan’s view, pretty weird. “XO,” he had said, “sometimes I feel the need for some spiritual guidance. And I am usually able to find it in communication with a fellow traveler.”

  Dan Headley had looked quizzical. But the CO had not wanted to elaborate, and the number-two officer on USS Shark did not feel like pressing the
matter further. He returned to the control room and gathered up his partially completed plans for the insertion, and decided to take them down for Commander Reid to peruse for a few minutes before moving up for his watch.

  But when he arrived outside the CO’s room, the door had been slightly open, and he could not help but hear the voice of the ship’s boss talking inside to someone. But the stilted quality of the language was most unusual.

  “Gregory, I am trying to reach you again. I feel you very close but someone stands between us…I think an American officer…please tell him to go, Gregory. Then we can communicate as we did before…Captain Li Chin…I believe we must talk before I am forced to follow you…wheverever that may lead…”

  Dan Headley did not know who was in the room with Commander Reid, and he was not absolutely certain of the words he had heard. He was pretty sure about Gregory, but there was no Gregory aboard Shark as far as he knew, and if there had been, he would have been called Greg. Forget Gregory.

  Still, maybe he was just on the line to someone. God knows who. But Captain Li Chin. What the hell was all that about? Li Chin, thought Dan Headley. That’s a fucking Chinaman! For a brief moment he actually wondered if the CO of Shark was some kind of a spy, maybe in touch with an agent. But then he thought, Steady, Dan, he can’t be a spy. He’s been a career Naval officer for thirty years, commanding nuclear submarines for ten. He’s an oddball, no doubt about that. But he can’t be a spy.

  At this point, he doubted whether he had heard the conversation correctly. He was dead sure of the Gregory name, but the more he pondered, the more he doubted the part about Captain Li Chin. Nonetheless, he had not felt much like making an embarrassing entry carrying the plans for the SEAL insertion, and he had tiptoed quietly away, back up to the control room. And there he had sat thoughtfully for at least 15 minutes, running over the conversation he had heard, and carefully committing it to his notebook, in the manner of a lifelong Naval officer, as if ensuring an accurate entry in the ship’s log.