Kathy put down the dark-blue sailor’s duffel bag and kissed him lightly on the forehead, which had the effect of someone firing a cannon in the room. Arnold Morgan came hurtling back to consciousness after four hours’ sleep, like all ex-submarine commanders, in about one-tenth of a second. He jolted upright, focused on Kathy, and smiled.
“Hey, you found me,” he said superfluously.
“Arnold, my darling, this is not good for you. You have to get proper sleep.”
“I’ve just had proper sleep, crashed right here at around oh-five-hundred.”
“When I say proper sleep, I mean something a bit more relaxed, with clean pajamas, clean sheets, and a bed, hopefully next to me. Traditional stuff.”
“Oh, yeah, right,” he said, not really listening. “Quick, get the Chinese ambassador on the phone and tell him to get his ass in here right now.”
“Arnold, I’m not doing one single thing on this Saturday morning until you rejoin the human race. I want you to get showered, shaved, and changed. You’ve been in the same clothes for more than two days.”
The admiral shook his head. “There’s a crew of very frightened guys on the other side of the world who’ve been in the same clothes for more than two weeks. Anyway, I haven’t got any stuff here, and I can’t leave.”
Kathy pointed at the Navy duffel bag. “In there, sir,” she said with heavy emphasis, “you will find one shirt, one tie, one pair of shorts, one pair of dark socks, a pair of shoes, a dark gray suit, cuff links, your favorite soap, razor, green shaving gel, deodorant, shampoo, toothbrush, toothpaste, and aftershave. You will now report to that grandiose bathroom down near the pool and sharpen yourself up. When you return, in twenty minutes, you will find coffee and toast here. Who Flung Dung, as you insist on calling him, will be approximately ten minutes from his ETA. Is that more or less understood?”
“Christ,” said Arnold Morgan, “you’re more bossy than all of my wives put together.”
“I’m also dancing attendance on a very silly person who has no idea how to look after himself and thinks he’s still in a ridiculous submarine.”
The admiral grinned, picked up the duffel bag, and retreated aft, toward the bathroom, moving fast, with the unmistakable upright gait of one whose working life had been spent in military uniform.
When he returned he looked immaculate. And he kissed Kathy, told her that he loved her beyond redemption, and steamed into the toast and coffee, preparing himself to treat his incoming Chinese guest with the utmost politeness—a trait that came approximately as naturally to him as to an Andalusian fighting bull.
At 10:00 sharp, the ambassador arrived, looking, as ever, pensive and worried, but still smiling and ingratiating.
“Hello, Ling, old buddy,” said the admiral. “How are you today?…Good…good…siddown…want some coffee or would you rather have tea? Tea? Excellent, excellent…KATHY!!”
Even Mr. Ling looked mildly surprised that the admiral had apparently dispensed with the telephone system and preferred to stand in the middle of the room and unleash a kind of roar.
“China tea for my old friend Ling,” he said, smiling when Kathy moved smartly back into the room.
“It’s on its way, sir.” She smiled back, a little too sweetly.
“Perfect,” he replied, offering the ambassador from Beijing an armchair in front of his desk.
“Now, sir, I did ask you for a formal statement from your government, and I forgive you for its lateness. I presume you have it with you?”
“Yes, Admiral, I do. Would you like to read it?”
“Absolutely,” replied the admiral as he took the offered piece of paper, which plainly had been prepared in Beijing and been transported to Washington in the diplomatic bag. The words were predictable.
It was with much regret that we discovered the destroyer Xiangtan was in a minor collision in the South China Sea with a nuclear submarine owned by the United States Navy. And we do of course regret that you did not see fit to inform us of a patrol in our waters by such a warship. However, accidents can happen, and it has been our pleasure to answer a call for help from your Captain Judd Crocker.
We have thus towed your Seawolf into the Navy yard at Canton and have been engaged in making her seaworthy again. We do think there has been some problem with the nuclear reactor and we are making tests to ensure it is running correctly, without radiation leaks, before the submarine leaves Chinese waters, sometime later this month.
Meanwhile, the crew are guests of the Chinese Navy, and we send this note of friendship to you in the hope that you would extend the same courtesies to our people, should the occasion ever arise.
The statement was designated as coming from the High Command of the People’s Liberation Army/Navy, and it bore the personal signature of the Commander-in-Chief of, the Navy, Admiral Zhang Yushu.
“Very nice,” said Admiral Morgan, nodding. “Extremely cooperative. That’s the secret of good international relations. Never look for trouble when there is no malice intended.”
The ambassador was dumbfounded. He sat staring at the Lion of the White House unable to believe his ears.
“We are trying, sir…” he began, but words almost failed him. “My government admires you very much here in America. Soon you will have your ship back. And I assure you your men are all very happy now.”
He sipped his tea, moistening his dry mouth. He was simply not able to comprehend the depth of the admiral’s change in attitude.
“That’s it for you, Ling, old pal. Now you pop off back to the embassy and keep me posted on the progress of repairs to Seawolf, there’s a good guy.…KATHY!!!…see the ambassador out, will you?”
A half hour later, the admiral was back in the Situation Room for the 1100 meeting. All the key men, both political and military, were there. And they were quite startled when the chairman announced that he had been working on a press statement to be issued from the Navy Office.
“You don’t think this merits a presidential broadcast?” asked Dick Stafford, the President’s speechwriter.
“It merits whatever we say it merits, Dick,” replied the admiral. “However, there are a couple of ground rules we have to stick with. The first is that any sign of panic, fear, weakness or worry betrayed by any of us will cause the press to go fucking berserk. We’ll get scare stories…U.S. Navy fears Chinese have kidnapped Seawolf and crew.
“Any such reports will convey our total disbelief in the Chinese statement, put them on full alert for a possible United States attack or rescue attempt, and cause them to put whatever they are doing on an even faster track than it is now. Any such reports, from our standpoint, would be counterproductive in the extreme.”
“And…?” said Dick Stafford.
“I want the entire thing played right down. Today we are going to make a press statement before someone makes it for us—I mean the Russians know about this, probably someone in Taiwan, there’s news correspondents in China, probably in Canton. Something’s gonna leak real soon…that the biggest nuclear attack submarine in the U.S. Navy is somehow tied up in a Chinese dockyard, and no one knows where the crew is, and no one’s talking. That’s the biggest newspaper story in the world this year, trust me.”
“What kind of announcement, Arnold?” asked the President.
“A small general press release from the Navy Department in the Pentagon. Nothing fancy. Nothing scary. Here, I just wrote it, lemme read it out:
“’The U.S. Navy submarine Seawolf experienced minor mechanical difficulties during a patrol more than 100 miles off the coast of mainland China. The Navy of the People’s Liberation Army responded to a call for help from the American captain and assisted the 9,000-ton ship to a dockyard, where routine repairs are being carried out.
“’All of the American crew are safe, and are currently guests of the Chinese Navy until they complete the work. Seawolf is expected to resume her patrol in the Far East, visiting Taiwan, in the next 10 days.
“‘The U.S. Na
vy Department is grateful for the Chinese cooperation, a direct result of the strong military and commercial ties forged by President Clinton. And a personal message of thanks has been sent by Admiral Joseph Mulligan, the U.S. Chief of Naval Operations, to Admiral Zhang Yushu, the Commander-in-Chief of the Chinese Navy.’”
The President smiled. Admiral Morgan shook his head and added, “I never told that many lies in that few words in my life. Here, Dick…get ahold of this before someone strikes me dead.”
“Damned clever, that,” said General Scannell. “If the newspapers don’t smell a rat and they print that story as is, the Chinese will merely believe their subterfuge has worked.”
“Precisely,” said Admiral Morgan. “And that may buy us three or four extra days. With so many lives on the line we ought to be able to command them to print it. But under the Constitution we do not have that right. As usual, democracy favors the assholes.”
This caused a burst of laughter to break out from all around this right-wing table of right-wing thinkers. And it was the President himself who restored the grim reality of the situation.
“Arnold, can we know what the military plan is right now? I agree, by the way, with your media strategy…my own involvement would only heighten the chances of the press whipping up a frenzy we don’t need.”
“Sir, I should perhaps inform everyone that you and I burned a little midnight oil last night after John Bergstrom had left. As a result of that, I appointed a rather controversial figure to command our rescue operation…Colonel Frank Hart, who will serve as the SEALs staff officer and mission controller on board the aircraft carrier.”
A few eyebrows were raised at this, although the admiral had run it by Harcourt Travis and Bob MacPherson in the early hours of the morning.
“My reasons were obvious. Colonel Hart, an ex-SEAL team leader and former Marine Corps officer, has a lot of experience in dealing with foreign governments on military matters. He is a born decisionmaker, he is used to working alone, and he understands this type of operation better than any one of us. He may have to think very fast once we get moving. He may even have to abort the mission in a split second before a lot of people get killed. We must have someone of his caliber. And he’s my choice. He ought to be here by now…where the hell is he?”
“And the actual operation…can we know?” asked Harcourt.
“Yes. John Bergstrom is putting together a team of approximately fifty of his combat-ready SEAL troops, taking men from several different active platoons. They leave for our base on the island of Okinawa midday Tuesday. The first minute we locate the jail where the guys are being held, we send in a twelve-man recon team, using a submarine and an SDV. In thirty-six hours they’ll have that jail well documented.
“As soon as they’re safe aboard, we check that Seawolf’s reactor is running. Then we launch the Hornet to take out the submarine. When that mission is achieved, under the cover of the mass panic in Canton, we send the SEALs into the jail. They overpower the guards, smash up the comms, blow up the helicopter and get the guys out, by Zodiac, SDV and submarines.”
“You think we can actually pull this off? Seriously, Arnold?” asked Harcourt.
“Well, we need three things for success. First, we gotta find the goddamned jail. Second, we must have the nuclear reactor running. Third, we must have commanding officers who will get the three submarines close in, possibly making the last three miles on the surface.”
“And what if they are discovered by a Chinese Navy patrol?”
“We’re hoping the disaster in Canton will totally overwhelm the entire Chinese Navy. If we get detected long-range, it’ll still take them more than two hours to get anywhere near us, because Canton will be right out of action and it’s a long way to Zhanjiang. It will still take ’em a damn long time to get to us…just means the SEALs will have to fucking hurry.”
“What are the odds against success?”
“The odds are not against. Ten bucks gets you twenty we’ll make it. It’s the surprise element. That and the fact that the Navy dockyard in Canton is going to be a nuclear wipeout.”
“What does Admiral Bergstrom think?” asked the President.
“He thinks we can pull it off. Otherwise he would refuse to send his precious SEALs in.”
“Joe?” said the President, looking directly at Admiral Mulligan.
“We’ll make it, sir. We’re sending in the best we got.”
The President arose. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said. “Please don’t think I am unaware that most of you are doing this for me. And please tell the guys my personal thoughts and prayers will accompany them every yard of the way…may God go with them.”
And everyone heard his voice break when he added, “If they could just bring him back safe…”
And they all saw the great man brush his right sleeve across his eyes as he walked with immense dignity from the room.
Midday (local). Saturday. July 8.
CO’s Office. SPECWARCOM.
Coronado. San Diego.
Admiral John Bergstrom arrived back in California at 0700, showered and changed at the base, having slept all the way on the military flight from Washington.
And now he was in overdrive, surrounded by three assistants, operating on the phone lines to Little Creek, Virginia, and to his own platoons right here on the Pacific Coast. He also had a phone open to Bradbury Lines, Herefordshire, England, headquarters of the British Army’s fabled SAS regiment, which worked in tandem with the SEALs more often than most people realized.
The SAS commander, Colonel Mike Andrews, was sympathetic to the idea of three of his troopers playing a part in this highly classified American mission. He liked it for the camaraderie it would build between the regiments, and he thought it would be a tremendous shared experience in terms of strategy and operational methods. Also, he knew the politicians would love it, because the Conservative Prime Minister of the day had a relationship with President Clarke much like that between Margaret Thatcher and Ronald Reagan. Spiritually close. Philosophically unbreakable.
But most of all, he thought his men could really help Admiral Bergstrom, whom he knew, liked and respected. He had men who had fought and killed in Northern Ireland, Iraq and Kosovo, among other places. Iron men who had moved through rough terrain like panthers, experts with knife, gun and explosive. Men who had operated under the harsh SAS Rule OO1—kill or be killed, with only a split second to decide. Mike Andrews’s boys would be priceless in the Chinese tropical jungle. And both he and Admiral Bergstrom knew it.
“Only one minor hurdle, Admiral,” he said. “They would have to volunteer. I could not order them in to fight on behalf of a foreign power—not even you. And if they did volunteer, I’d have to clear it with the Ministry of Defense, probably as high as the Chief of Defense Staff. However, I do not anticipate a problem. I’ll be back inside three hours. Same phone number? Excellent. ’Bye.”
Admiral Bergstrom had already made up his mind who would lead the team in for the assault on the jail, wherever it was: Lt. Commander Rick Hunter, a former team leader from Little Creek, six feet three inches tall, not one ounce of fat on his steel-muscled 215-pound frame. Rick was a native of Kentucky, a big, hard farm boy from the Bluegrass State, son of Bart Hunter, a well-known breeder of thoroughbred racehorses out along the Versailles Pike near Lexington.
Bart naturally thought his son was insane to select a career that might bring him face to face with death on a regular basis when he should have been home on the farm, raising the yearlings, preparing them for the Keeneland sales. However, watching baby racehorses slowly grow up, studying pedigrees, talking to vets and spending a lifetime with other local “hardboots,” all talking about the same subject, simply did not do it for Rick.
He dropped out of Vanderbilt University in Tennessee, where he was a collegiate swimming champion, and a year later he enrolled at the United States Naval Academy in Annapolis. From there he had never looked back, climbing the ladder of command and f
inally being accepted as a Navy SEAL, a job to which he brought outstanding talents. As a third-generation farmer, he was naturally a brilliant marksman with the strength of a full-grown polar bear. He was also a tireless swimmer and an expert in demolition, unarmed combat, and landing craft. As Bart Hunter’s oldest son, he was used to exercising authority on the 2,000-acre horse farm. Men sensed that and turned to him as a natural leader.
A couple of years earlier he had led a sensational SEAL mission deep inside Russia. The operation had been “black,” nonattributable, and few people knew anything about it. But John Bergstrom knew, and he was also aware that after such a mission it was customary not to use the same personnel again, but rather to use the men to train up the next generation.
However, in this case, the rules were somewhat different. This one must succeed. And direct from the presidential level, he had been told he must use the very best men. Lt. Commander Hunter was the best he had ever had. He was going to end up an admiral…maybe sitting in this very chair.
U.S.S. Seawolf Page 21