“Where’s my coffee?” he wondered, grinning, faking absentmindedness.
“Christ, you’re impossible,” she confirmed. “Listen, do you want me to get Admiral Mulligan on the phone or do you not? His assistant called two minutes ago and asked you to get back to him secure.”
“Of course, and hurry, will you? Goddamned women fussing about coffee when the country’s far eastern fleet may be on the brink of destruction.”
“It’s you who stands on the brink of destruction,” retorted Kathy as she marched out of the door. “Because I may of course kill you one day.”
“Now what the hell have I done?” the admiral asked the portrait of General Patton. “And where’s the goddamned CNO if it’s that urgent?”
The pastel green telephone tinkled lightly, grotesquely out of character with its master. “Faggot phone. Faggot ring. I’d rather listen to a goddamned battleship’s klaxon.” He picked it up.
“Hey, Joe. What’s hot?”
And then Arnold Morgan went very quiet as the Navy’s top man in the Pentagon outlined the recent uproar in the Taiwan Strait.
“Taipei came in right away when it started, sometime before lunch today. They reported a small Chinese battle fleet about twenty miles off their southwestern naval base at Kaohsiung, hurling hardware every which way.
“The Taiwanese have a pretty big air base down there at P’ingtung and they sent up a couple of those Grumman S2E turbo trackers…worked the place over from twenty-five thousand feet, reported a lot of action, ordnance flying around, mortars and depth charges. They reported no missiles over their land, and they were not fired on.
“The only thing that surprised them was a big ICBM submarine, heading southeast, probably out of Xiamen, on the surface, flying the pennant of the People’s Liberation Army/Navy. They didn’t report any other submarine in the area, either on or below the surface. Which I thought was surprising, because the Taiwanese have turned those Grummans into real specialist ASW aircraft—new sensors, new APS 504 search radar, sonobuoys, Mark 24 torpedoes, depth charges, depth bombs, the lot. If there was another big sub in the Chinese ops area, they’da surely found it. Hell, we’ve sold ’em all our latest stuff. They have, legally, nearly as much as the Chinese stole…”
“And your conclusion, CNO?”
“I don’t know where our man is.”
“Well, they plainly haven’t hit him, or half the world would know by now.”
“Right. According to Taipei, the bombardment was over by fourteen-thirty.”
“So I guess he’s still there, lurking.”
“Well, he could hardly have followed them into the Taiwan Strait, Arnie. Not without a big risk. Too shallow. Maybe he hung around to the south, then picked up the Xia on her way to her ops area. I presume she’s conducting sea trials.”
“And our people believe she’s going to be based at the Southern Fleet headquarters at Zhanjiang, Joe…so she’s plainly on her way south, probably right off that base.”
“I guess we oughtta be grateful we’re undetected. Anyway, I’m just checking in. Thought you’d wanna be kept up to speed.”
“I’m grateful, Joe. By the way, you know my conclusion? The Chinese believe we’re out there watching. And if they get half a chance, I think they may actually hit our ship. And then say how goddamned sorry they were, but we really should have told them if we wanted to go creeping around their coastline.”
“Wouldn’t that be just like them? Devious Orientals.”
“Chinese pricks. ’Bye, Joe.”
Admiral Mulligan was oblivious to the compliment. The National Security Adviser never said good-bye to anyone except the CNO. He was too busy, too preoccupied to bother with that. Even the President was occasionally left holding a dead phone while his military adviser charged forward with zero thought for the niceties of high office.
“He just don’t pay no one no never mind,” was the verdict of Arnold’s permanently cowed chauffeur, Charlie. “Ain’t got time, man…ain’t got no-o-o-o time.”
020130JULY06.
20.50N 116.40E South China Sea.
Speed 25. Depth 200.
Course 250.
Lt. Commander Clarke had the conn as they ran through deep water more than 100 miles south of the Chinese Naval Base at Shantou. The Xia was showing no signs of stopping, turning, or slowing down, just heading resolutely southwest down the coast.
Judd Crocker’s team assessed that her ops area would be somewhere out around 20.25N 111.46E, east-southeast of Zhanjiang, Southern Fleet HQ. And there she would doubtless dive, before heading out to begin her deep submergence trials. But there she would also probably come up occasionally, access her satellite, report defects if anything urgent popped up, and perhaps rendezvous with a surface escort.
The first time she did that, night or day, Judd Crocker would personally take Seawolf deeper and slide with the utmost stealth under her keel. Dead under. Accurate to a few inches, unseen, undetected, pinging sonar all along the hull, drawing an automatic picture on the fathometer trace; the one that would tell the U.S. Navy scientists back in Washington whether or not China had the capacity to hurl a big missile at Los Angeles and hit it.
By any standards, Captain Crocker had been charged with the most stupendous task. Spying on a foreign submarine, listening and watching, recording and tracking, was one thing. Trying to get a real close look, straight up her skirt, as it were, was entirely another, even more so without being caught doing it. But it had been done before, notably by the Brits in the Barents Sea at the height of the Cold War in the late 1960s and early 1970s.
One of their COs got very close underneath a 10,000-ton Soviet Delta-class nuclear boat designed to carry submarine launched ballistic missiles (SLBM), and took soundings upward along the entire submerged part of the hull. He got away with it, too…but to complete the measurements he had to raise his periscope 100 yards off her port quarter for the photographs that would reveal the above-water height of the missile tubes.
He eased the periscope up, the tip of it only 18 inches above the flat, calm surface. His aim was a seven-second, three-exposure snatch. But an oil smear wrecked all that. To his horror, he saw an image too badly blurred for camera work. And that meant at least a 30-second delay while it hung out to dry in the hostile Russian air.
To his further horror, as the image cleared he saw a small crowd gathering on the Delta’s bridge. And they were pointing straight at his periscope, and his recording camera, the eyes of the West, the ultimate intruder.
A massive three-day ASW hunt ensued, conducted by most of the Russian Northern Fleet, but the British commanding officer essentially ran rings around the Soviets and got away with the required measurements scot-free.
Very few American commanders knew that story, and none of them knew the man who did it. But not many COs had been tasked with repeating the maneuver, as Judd Crocker now was.
Happily he was sound asleep as Linus Clarke sped southwest, astern of the Xia, covering 25 nautical miles every hour.
The watch changed at 0400. Captain Crocker came back into the control room, and Clarke handed over formally.
“You have the conn, sir.”
“I have the conn.”
Both men were surprised at the noise the new Chinese boat was making. At 25 knots you could hear her for a long way, but then she was traveling fast for her, whereas Seawolf was merely cruising, just a little over half-speed, right in her quarry’s deaf stern arcs.
As Admiral Zhang had remarked that morning, “If only we could find a way to adapt that American satellite technology we acquired from them. But alas, we seem doomed to failure on that one. As I seem doomed to failure to find and ‘accidentally’ sink the American prowler. They cannot fool me, however. I know they’re out there, still tracking my very beautiful new Xia.”
It was 4:00 A.M. now and the C-in-C could not sleep. He remained alone in his study, overlooking the water. He was still in uniform, but he wore no shoes. Outside it was ra
ining hard, with the onset of the South China monsoon season. Tomorrow there would be heavy mist out over the water.
But for now he just pored over his chart. The one that gave him all the depths after the 100-meter line south of Zhanjiang, the one that marked out clearly the operations area of Xia III.
At 0430 he tapped in a message to Zu Jicai, the Southern Commander, instructing him to place all 14 of his operational destroyers and frigates on one hour’s notice to leave for the Xia’s ops area. He instructed each ship to be on full ASW alert, laden to the gunwales with depth charges, depth bombs, torpedoes and, for those equipped with launchers, ASW mortars.
He ordered a satellite message to be delivered to the Xia’s CO that he was to surface immediately if he detected even the slightest suggestion of an American nuclear boat, and to report instantly to HQ. That way he could get his ASW fleet out there fast. That way the Xia would be safe. Even the American gangsters would not dare to hit her while she was on the surface in full view of the satellites.
He paced the room, slapping his left palm with his big ruler, running his fingers through his hair. “The trouble is, I have to rely on the American CO making a mistake. And since he is driving the top submarine in the American Navy, he probably makes very few.
“But if he does, I’ll get him. And what a moment that would be.” And in his mind he imagined the moment when he would speak to the C-in-C of the American military, sympathizing with the terrible loss of Seawolf.
But Mr. President, we are so sorry. However, if you send a big nuclear boat into any part of the South China Sea, especially so close to our coastline, to spy on our perfectly legal naval operations…then accidents can sometimes happen. What more can I say? If only you had told us you were coming, we would have been so much more careful.
Perhaps you will in the future. Again, our profound apologies, and deepest sympathies to the families of the brave men who died.
And for the first time in this longest of nights, a thin smile flickered across the broad face of the Commander-in-Chief of the People’s Liberation Navy.
Even though there was no reality; it was only in his mind.
3
030800JUL06.
20.00N 112.46E. South China Sea.
West of Hainan Island. Speed 6. Depth 300.
Course: racetrack pattern.
Seawolf’s quarry had slowed right down and gone deeper, and Linus Clarke seized the opportunity to take a fast look at the surface picture. He ordered the American submarine to periscope depth, but he didn’t see much. A tallow-colored mist hung low over the South China Sea, and visibility was down to a matter of perhaps 40 yards. He activated the lens into its all-seeing nighttime mode, but still there seemed to be nothing around. The seas were deserted, except for Seawolf and Admiral Zhang’s ballistic missile ship Xia, and she was two miles away, 500 feet below the surface.
These heavy mists are commonplace in July, around the 180-mile-long, tropical island of Hainan, home of yet another sprawling Chinese naval base in the northern town of Haikou. With the onset of the monsoon from the southwest, this was the heavy rain season, and the heat along Hainan’s spectacular beaches was ghastly, the humidity in the high nineties.
The operations area of the Xia was more or less where the brains onboard Seawolf had expected, 60 miles east of the Haikou base, 170 miles south-southeast of Fleet Headquarters, within easy reach of assistance and rescue, a process not entirely new to the Chinese Navy, given their track record of trying to run nuclear submarines.
Linus Clarke ordered Seawolf back into the depths. The sonar was quiet, and on the lower decks the men played poker between watches and ate steaks for lunch in the time-honored tradition of serving the best food in the U.S. military to the men who serve underwater, in the crowded, windowless ships, constantly in harm’s way during the course of their duties. Tonight being Monday, they were showing a rerun of an old football game between the Giants and the Redskins from the ship’s sizeable library of sports videos. A sweepstakes was being run, five dollars a chance for the nearest guess at the date of the game, winner take all. The competitive nature of Monday Night Football dies hard, even 300 feet below the surface of the South China Sea.
The evening was full of promise, except for one piece of potentially bad news. “Einstein” reckoned he had the sweepstakes buttoned up. He’d recognized the picture of the Washington running back on the videocassette cover, and claimed he’d used to go to the Redskins games with his father on his birthday. If he could just get the year right, he was home and hosed. Trust Einstein. Golden sonofabitch.
Still, if they ever had to fight, Lt. Commander Rothstein, the combat systems officer, would be their man at the sharp end, and in a sense they would be in his hands. The best hands, they all knew. No one could outthink the tall, cool intellect of the missiles. That was why Captain Crocker had specially requested him for the officer complement. Nonetheless, it was still a bitch that he’d probably wrapped up the football sweepstakes before the game even started. Let’s all hope he gets the year wrong.…Fat chance. That running back only played two seasons…and fucking Einstein has been a Redskins fan since he was born.
Despite the fact that he was built like a running back himself, Judd Crocker would miss the game tonight; he hoped to get some sleep. Linus Clarke wanted to see the game and volunteered for the midnight watch afterward, assisted by Brad Stockton and Kyle Frank, who would both be on duty.
And the night passed predictably. They stayed in contact at three miles distance with the Xia; the Redskins mowed down the Giants; and Einstein won the sweepstakes with the date of his birthday. Tony Fontana, who was next closest by only three weeks, came grumbling down the companionway muttering, “Sonofabitch…he even remembered it was an afternoon game played in bright sunshine…if we’d both got the date right, he’da done me on the fucking time of day. Sonofabitch. I mean, Jesus, how could we have picked a game played on Einstein’s sixteenth fucking birthday?”
Everyone in earshot fell over laughing at the indignation of the engineer from Ohio, and Rothstein graciously offered Tony his five bucks back, admitting he had been on a strong inside track right from the start. Fontana took it, too. Quickly.
Meanwhile, the track of Xia III appeared to be south-westward, along the coast of China. She was still deep, and relatively silent, for her, and at 2300 still seemed to be in no hurry, moving forward at only around seven knots. The CO came wide off track to 7,000 yards, and swung onto course two-seven-zero to follow her, slowly and carefully, at the same speed.
By the time Linus came back to the conn, Judd Crocker had Seawolf running silently in the Xia’s stern arcs again, three miles back, moving easily through the warm calm waters. Up on the surface there was steady rain sweeping across the seascape, the warmth of the air causing the sea fret to gather into a pale, luminous haze right above the water, lit by the moonlight. It would have been quite ghostly had anyone been up there sightseeing. But all around the two steel predators in the deep, there was nothing, hardly a sound, and no one was looking.
Seawolf’s XO had an uneventful watch, but he’d been awake for 12 hours straight, and he was tired out by 0400 on this July Fourth holiday morning, except, of course, that neither he nor any of the crew was entitled to holidays out here. Judd came back to the conn for the watch change, wished Linus a happy Fourth, and told him to go get some sleep.
And once more the new watch took over the ship two hours before dawn would break over the South China Sea. Frank had been aware of no other ships in the area. And Xia III still ran slowly west-sou’west, three miles out in front. The navigator reckoned she’d covered only about 28 miles all night.
It was difficult to maintain a mental state of urgency as he rested through the stillness of the uncluttered night, but Judd Crocker was trying to get himself up for this. His mission was clear, the prime part of his mission, that is: to establish the length of the vertical missile tubes on the Chinese ICBM submarine. And his opportunity could com
e at any time, maybe at dawn, if she surfaced. That would be the time to conduct the most dangerous project he had ever known. If he screwed it up and the Chinese ship heard him, they would plainly get on his track and send for their cavalry, China’s aircraft, fast-attack ships, destroyers, frigates, helos, and God knows what, and try to sink him. And they were within 200 miles of two substantial PLAN bases—less than an hour’s flying time for a good patrol aircraft, and helicopters loaded with Russian sonobuoys.
Judd Crocker was playing for higher stakes than Einstein and Fontana. It was no wonder that he had been unable to raise any enthusiasm for Monday Night Football.
Dawn came flooding across the misty water from out of the eastern reaches of the Pacific shortly after 0540. The rain had stopped. The sonar room still had strong tabs on the Xia, and Seawolf was working her way along at periscope depth, making a long covert approach, waiting in case the Chinese submarine should surface. Judd thought this could happen at any time, and kept himself ready for urgent action. After all, she was only on workup and might not stay dived for extended periods.
U.S.S. Seawolf Page 9