Linus Clarke nodded, grateful to be breathing, no longer interested in protecting the secrets of Seawolf, prepared to talk to them all day, if that was what it took to stop them from choking him to death.
Meanwhile, in the next cell, there was something approaching mayhem. It had begun in the middle of the evening when a guard had entered the cell that contained Captain Judd Crocker, the much younger Shawn Pearson, Chase Utley, and Jason Colson. For no discernible reason he had clubbed the navigator to the ground with the butt of his rifle, misjudging the fact that while the captain was still handcuffed behind his back, his legs were free, and he slammed his right foot right into the guard’s groin.
Down went the guard, doubled over, writhing in agony. Judd, the full fury of his situation washing over him, almost kicked the guard to death. Three minutes later, when reinforcements arrived, he took out the first man into the cell with another stupendous kick to the groin. If his hands had been free, he probably could have flattened all six of them with the superhuman strength of the temporarily insane.
But his hands were not free, and now they had him alone, tied to a chair in one of the torture chambers, systematically beating him up. Only one of the Chinese guards had misjudged this situation, and he was on his way to hospital. The massively strong Judd Crocker had suddenly stood up straight and split the back of the chair from the seat. He spun around and carried the guard back with him, toppling the man over on his back. Then Judd too crashed backward, and the broken seat smacked right across the guard’s face, breaking his nose and fracturing his skull.
It took six men to subdue the enraged submarine commander, but now they had him where they wanted him, his hands tied above his head to iron rings, embedded for years in the ceiling. His feet were spread apart, lashed to rings in the floor, and blood seeped from cuts around his eyes and face. His body was battered, his face unrecognizable. And every time they went at him he still roared insults…“FUCK OFF, YOU SLIT-EYED LITTLE PRICK !! FUCK YOU AND FUCK CHAIRMAN MAO.…YOU HAVEN’T GOT A DECENT PUNCH BETWEEN YOU…FUCK YOOOOOOOOU!”
At which point the mighty Judd Crocker passed out, and they cut him down, leaving him to bleed alone for the rest of the night.
In the next cell Cy Rothstein was equally battered. He had heard the commotion and guessed it was either Judd or Brad Stockton, and knew that like him, the two American submariners would say nothing.
Indeed, they were trying the wet towel torture on Brad Stockton, who had passed out twice. He guessed correctly they would not want to kill him. And when, for the third time, the guard lieutenant had lifted up the cloth to check that he was still breathing, Brad had head-butted him with all of his force, slamming his forehead into the nose of the little guard chief, almost fracturing it, but not quite.
And now they were taking their revenge. Like Judd, Brad was lashed to the ceiling, taking a fearful beating. But he dealt with it in a different way from the captain. He just stayed silent and took the blows, until a smack with a rifle butt to the back of the head rendered him unconscious.
Thus far, Commander Li had only one American assistant.
2300 (Pacific Coast).
Tuesday, July 11.
On board the U.S. Navy’s Galaxy Air Freighter.
The 64 SEALs traveled in the rear of the gigantic aircraft as it inched its way across the Pacific. They were coming in to land now at Barbers Point, the U.S. Navy air base just along the southern coast from Pearl Harbor on the island of Oahu. The Galaxy came in from the northeast, the pilot facing toward the long rolling swells of the ocean, through which, just 23 days earlier, Seawolf had run with such effortless precision.
They were staying for only an hour, just to deliver an engine part and to take on sufficient fuel to last the Galaxy all the way to Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean. The next stop at Okinawa would be even more brief.
During the outward flight to Hawaii, three more officers were introduced, both lieutenants stationed with Team Three in Coronado. Bobby Allensworth, an unarmed combat instructor, had abandoned a life of petty street crime in the South Central district of Los Angeles and joined the Marines at the age of 18. He was a black kid who never knew his father, never had a chance. But the Marines gave him one, and he took it with both hands. Five years later he won a commission, and at the age of 29 they made him a lieutenant and gave him their blessing to join the SEALs.
Bobby, was a supremely good athlete, a perfectly balanced amateur boxer with a right hook like a sledgehammer that had seen him into the finals of the Golden Gloves championships. He fought on the Marines team as a welterweight, but never considered turning pro. In his mind he was both a Marine and a Navy SEAL, and always would be. Bobby stood only five feet ten inches tall, but when he pinned on that golden Trident, he grew to be about ten feet. If he had a weakness it was a helpless sense of humor. He was always the first man to laugh, and Lt. Commander Hunter, who knew him well, said he should have been a comedian.
Bobby’s cohort on the trip was another comedian, a sharp, wisecracking New Yorker from Little Italy, Lt. Paul Merloni, whose momma had never forgiven him for changing his name from Paolo.
Paul went straight from Manhattan public school to the Naval Academy, where he finished third in his class. He was a lieutenant on the guided missile cruiser Lake Erie when he requested an opportunity to join the SEALs. His lifelong hobby had been judo, and he had a black belt before he was 19. The SEALs liked him, and he taught Bobby Allensworth the art of unarmed combat. The two of them once cleared an entire bar in a never-to-be-forgotten brawl after a Chargers football game. They returned unharmed, except for a swelling on Bobby’s knuckles sustained when he felled a 380-pound former defensive lineman with a lights-out right hook to the chin.
For this particular mission, Paul had one valuable asset—he had taught himself Cantonese while working with his judo instructors in Manhattan. He had practiced for years, and was almost fluent. Certainly he knew enough to lay up close to the prison compound when it was located and understand most, if not all, of what the guards were saying.
The third SEAL officer from Coronado was 34-year-old newly promoted Lt. Commander Olaf Davidson, who had been a team leader in Kosovo. Olaf, a huge six-foot-four-inch descendant of Norwegian fishermen in Newfoundland, had been a SEAL officer for 10 years, with no active command since the war in Yugoslavia. His specialty was boats, landing craft and the docking and operation of an SDV—swimmer delivery vehicle. Admiral Bergstrom considered him the best he had, and since it was almost certain the recon team would have to go in underwater, through the coastal shallows, wherever the jail turned out to be, the massive Olaf would hit the beach right behind Lt. Commander Rusty Bennett on the initial landing.
Two veteran petty officers were also among the final 20 SEALs who joined the flight from San Diego. One was Chief Steve Whipple from Chicago, a career naval engineer who had become a SEAL after earning a tryout as a running back with the Bears, but not making the grade. Chief Whipple, a six-foot-tall, tattooed hard man, had gone in with the SEAL team that took out Saddam’s biggest oil rig in the Gulf War. He was only 21 then, and now he was 36. An instructor in jungle warfare, he had trained men for combat all over the world. Bobby Allensworth considered Steve to be the arm-wrestling champion of the inner universe.
His colleague Chief John McCarthy was another veteran, originally from Washington State. He was a quiet, shy, whip-thin mountaineering instructor who had been clambering all over the highest peaks of the Cascade Range since he was 10 years old. He was also king of the grappling irons, a czar among rope climbers, and the resident assassin among marauding SEALs. If they had to scale wails to enter the jail, Chief McCarthy would lead the way, his big SEAL fighting knife inches from his right hand at all times.
There were also three British SAS men, seconded to the SEALs for this particular mission at the express request of Colonel Mike Andrews. There was Sergeant Fred Jones from Dorset and his corporal, Syd Thomas, a 36-year-old Londoner from the East End. These tw
o had worked deep behind enemy lines in Iraq in 1991, singlehandedly taken out two SCUD missile mobile launchers, and blown up two entire trucks full of Saddam’s elite commandos on the way out. Syd currently had a half-dozen SEALs falling about laughing at stories of his antics in the desert, particularly his daredevil exploit in “cutting a goat out of some towelhead’s herd, specially for our roast Sunday lunch, and Freddie went and set it on fire in the embers of the fucking blown-up truck…it was like eating old fireworks.”
The third SAS man was one of the youngest sergeants in the regiment, Charlie Murphy, an ex-paratrooper from Northern Ireland. Charlie had been a group leader in Kosovo, operating deep in the hills, trying to drive the Serbs out. He and three troopers cleared them out of one village, destroying three jeeps, a tank and two trucks. They then stayed on and helped the wounded Kosovar civilians, holding off a determined attack by 50 more Serbs. The operation was “black,” Special Forces, otherwise Charlie Murphy would have been awarded a Victoria Cross, Britain’s highest battle honor. As it was, Charlie’s war simply never happened.
The men in the Galaxy were not average people. And they rode together, slipping down through the cloudless sky into Hawaii with much on their minds, saying very little, each man trying to imagine what the jail would look like when it was finally located.
In the hold of the Galaxy was stowed an astounding volume of gear, big crates containing all the combat equipment they would use on this mission to split wide apart the military jail that held the Seawolves. There would be no Chinese prisoners taken.
Only 12 men would make the landing underwater, and each of them had packed their own custom-made, highly flexible neoprene wet suits. In fact, there were four extra suits in case of emergency. If these four men were not required, they would go in with the main team. Thus there were 16 pairs of extra-large SEAL flippers, all custom-made, all oversized for extra speed through the water, all bearing the student number awarded to each man as he passed the BUD/S course. The 16 had also packed at least two pairs of modern commercial scuba divers’ masks each, their bright Day-Glo colors carefully obscured with black water-resistant tape.
None of the swimmers would wear watches because of the possibility of a glint shining off the metal through the water alerting a sentry. Instead, the SEALs would swim in holding a specially designed “attack board” in front of them. This is a small, two-handled platform that displays a compass, a depth gauge and an unobtrusive watch. Thus the swimmer can kick through the water with both hands on his attack board with the details of time, depth and direction laid out right in front of his eyes.
Because the target was as yet unknown, it was possible that the SEALs might have to go in underwater, perhaps through a harbor. This meant a heavy supply of Draegers, the special underwater breathing apparatus that leaves no telltale trail of bubbles like regular scuba equipment. The Draegers contain about 13 cubic feet of oxygen at 2,000 pounds per square inch, enough to last a SEAL for maybe four hours. The genius of the device is a recycling system for the oxygen as it is exhaled, mostly unused. This eliminates the bubbles. On land the Draeger is heavy, 35 pounds. In the water it is weightless.
The principal weapon selected for the attack was the elite German Heckler & Koch MP-5, a small, deadly accurate submachine gun, priceless at close quarters, flawless at 25 yards, the SEALs’ most comforting friend. There were 60 of them crated in the hold of the Galaxy. In addition, all the SEALs would go in with their regular Sig Sauer 9mm pistol, in its strapped-down holster containing two extra 15-round magazines right above the flap.
The main assault team was scheduled to take in four machine guns, the “light” M-60 E3, which weighs more than 30 pounds with two belts of 100 linked rounds, ready to fire. But that’s only 20 seconds of sustained fire for the lone SEAL machine gunners, and extra assistance would be required to carry in 12 belts per gun, providing two minutes of sustained fire incase of total emergency.
There were eight carefully knotted black nylon climbing ropes with steel grappling hooks stored in one separate crate, along with a dozen pairs of powerful night-sight binoculars. Eight light aluminum ladders, between 12 and 18 feet high, with eight extensions, had been sprayed jet black, with a matte finish, and were stored in light, strong cardboard containers with handles, easy and not too heavy for a couple of SEALs to transport through difficult terrain. A decision on ladders or grappling irons would be made by Rusty Bennett’s recon team.
In special sealed cases was the SEALs’ supply of high explosives, starting with six limpet mines in case they were required to take out a couple of patrol boats. The mines, complete with “backpack” harnesses for swimming in, were packed together with their magnets and timed detonators. A couple of these little devils, strategically placed, could break the back of an aircraft carrier.
Another case contained a dozen Mk 138 satchel charges, a perfectly simple shoulder bag containing about 40 pounds of explosives, to be primed with a standard nonelectric M-7 blasting cap at the end of its fuse. Lean this innocent-looking rucksack up against the wall of a good-sized detached house, and that house will shortly be a memory.
The SEALs preferred method of blasting anything to smithereens is plastic explosive called C4. It looks like white modeling clay, and can likewise be molded into any shape. C4 works off regular M700 time fuse, the thin green plastic cord full of gunpowder that burns at around one foot per 40 seconds. You can split the end with a knife and light it with a match, but SEALs hate light at night and much prefer the M-60 fuse lighter, a little plastic device with a spring-loaded pin, like a shotgun. It makes only a soft thud, and right after that you start to hear the sizzle of the black powder burning along to the cap. This is an excellent time to run like hell. There was a lot of C4, and a lot of time fuse in the hold of the Galaxy.
There were also several crates of detonating cord, packed in regular 500-foot spools. “Det-cord” is known to Special Forces throughout the world. This stuff looks like regular time fuse, except it’s a little thicker, a quarter-inch in diameter, and instead of burning at one foot per 40 seconds, it explodes at roughly five miles per second, because it’s stuffed with some diabolically high explosive called PETN. SEALs love det-cord because they can wrap it around anything and join up different, separate lengths all to explode at the same time.
In addition to the military hardware there were cases of first aid materials, codeine, morphine, battle dressings, and bandages. There was insect repellent, water purification tablets, lactate solutions, catheter kits for IVs, and groundsheets. The SEALs have never left a man to die. If a colleague is badly wounded, they treat him and carry him out, no matter what. If they’re trapped, they dig in and fight until there’s no one left, but this, of course, normally applies to the enemy.
Other cases contained their communication equipment, which included a small, two-second “shriek” device to the satellites. There were three fairly heavy regular radios with enough range to reach the aircraft carrier, but these would almost certainly not be used because of the risk of interception. Only in the most dire emergency would the SEAL teams fire up one of these. Dire emergency to these men means the threat of certain, imminent death. There was also a case containing state-of-the art GPS systems, 20 of them, because the terrain and countryside surrounding the jail were at this stage unknown to them.
The recon team would also go in with camouflage nets to shield them while they watched, plus trenching tools to dig and bury waste and machetes to hack their way through any bad jungle they ran into. There would be the usual supply of waterproof ponchos. And, of course, two laptop computers for the SEALs who would lie in the forest recording the movements of the Chinese guards. No one is as observant as a trained Special Forces soldier.
The SEALs did not disembark in Hawaii. The refueling was completed rapidly, and the Galaxy was back in the air by midnight, growling its way west, 25,000 feet above the Pacific wilderness, through retreating time zones that would make this an endless night for the sleepi
ng Special Forces bound for Okinawa.
When they landed it should be 9:00 A.M. on Wednesday, July 12. But of course it would not be. Instead it would be 9:00 A.M. plus 16 hours, which made it precisely one o’clock in the morning the next day, Thursday, July 13. To complicate matters even further, it was at that time midday on Wednesday in Washington. And right there, complicated matters were moving almost as fast as the time zones.
1200. Wednesday, July 12.
Office of Admiral Morgan.
The White House.
“I DO NOT FUCKING UNDERSTAND IT!” raged Arnold Morgan. “WE HAVE BILLIONS OF DOLLARS’ WORTH OF EQUIPMENT FLOATING AROUND THE STRATOSPHERE, SUPPOSEDLY ABLE TO READ THE GODDAMNED WORTHLESS FUCKING HEADLINES IN THE WASHINGTON POST. AND THEY CANNOT FIND MORE THAN ONE HUNDRED FUCKING SAILORS WANDERING AROUND SOME FUCKING BEACH IN THE SOUTH CHINA SEA…”
The admiral reflected mightily, pacing his office. “FUCK ME!” he added, glaring at the portrait of General Patton on the office wall. “YES!” he confirmed. “YOU MIGHT WELL LOOK SERIOUS, GEORGE. BILLIONS AND BILLIONS OF GODDAMNED DOLLARS’ WORTH OF STUFF—ADMINISTERED BY MORONS.”
And he glared some more around the completely empty room. “AND WHO IS THE CHIEF FUCKING MORON? THE LEADER OF THE GODDAMNED PACK…MORON FUCKING SUPREMO! GEORGE FUCKING MORRIS, THAT’s WHO. ADMIRAL GEORGE R. MORRIS, C-IN-C MORON SQUADRON, FORT FUCKING MORON, MORONLAND.”
U.S.S. Seawolf Page 26