However, there were technicians who very much wanted a second shot at the American boat, and they wanted to tow the submarine out into the open ocean and try to remove the key systems from it.
For Zhang this was a ray of hope in the darkness and now, yelling on the increasingly hysterical conference line, he demanded they do as he ordered, tow the submarine out and then board it and have one more try at removing the critical parts.
Dr. Luofu Pang, the senior physicist and one of China’s most respected scientists, finally agreed, or at least he seemed to agree. “Admiral,” he said, “if that is what you order, then I am not in a position to tell the Navy what to do. And so be it.”
But he added, “I will, however, issue to you my final thought: any man who boards that submarine for just ten minutes will die. If you send in many of our expert technicians, we will lose them all. I deeply regret to inform you, sir, that this is not a practical proposition. And if you do issue an order that knowingly sends our best men to their immediate death, after an accident in which I have been personally involved, my advice must be properly recorded, and I shall take immediate steps to ensure it is.”
And then his voice hardened. “Admiral,” he said. “Forget it.”
Zhang knew bald-faced reason when he heard it. And he just said quietly, “Very well, Dr. Luofu. I am disappointed, as a military man. But I bow to the great scientist. Please do everything you can to ensure the safety of everyone in the area. And sink the submarine as you see fit.”
They were big words from, essentially, a big man. Admiral Zhang had not become the youngest-ever Commander-in-Chief of the People’s Liberation Army/Navy by some kind of fluke.
At this time, in the minutes before 10:00 on this Sunday evening, July 16, 2006, the big Navy yard began to react, its nuclear accident organization activating the predetermined plan to deal with such disasters—radiation monitoring and decontamination teams, fire and medical squads, wind and weather checks.
Back in the central area of the city they slowly learned there had been an accident on the base. The police moved quickly to evacuate and cordon off the immediate areas around the submarine, particularly downwind and into the city. Their principal concern was to avoid mass panic.
The police chief called his Beijing headquarters to inform them of the disaster, and already the media were trying to make contact with the Navy itself. It took only another few minutes before Admiral Zhang Yushu was on the line to Beijing, informing his government that somehow or another, the big American nuclear submarine in the Canton dockyard had suffered a serious nuclear accident while engineers were working on the reactor.
They already knew that the dockyard was heavily contaminated, but so far there was no evidence of radiation spreading to the city itself. The police felt it would be unwise to allow any flights into Canton airport until a proper assessment had been made over the next two days.
Back in Zhanjiang, Zhang had his own private worries. His first instinct was that his own scientists had somehow screwed the entire thing up. There must have been American reactor protection systems capable of dealing with this sort of problem. So the scientists had “done a Chernobyl”—deactivating safety systems in order to carry out some crass experiment of their own. Zhang shuddered. Surely not.
Maybe the Americans had an automatic booby-trap device fitted into the submarine, and they had known all along that it would ultimately self-destruct. Hence the polite, devious messages through the diplomatic channels. Being made to look a complete fool was a condition to which Zhang was not accustomed. Nor was he appreciative.
He summoned Admiral Zu Jicai and briefed him on the disaster in Canton. Jicai was thunderstruck, his natural calm evaporating in emotional turmoil. To Zhang’s repeated question—was Seawolf booby-trapped?—his answer was a qualified no. Both men knew they had the cooperation of one of the senior Americans, the executive officer, no less, Lt. Commander Bruce Lucas.
On one evening he had quite agreeably spent the night on board the submarine and had shown no sign of nerves that the ship might self-destruct. He had even been questioned about such a possibility. Both Zhang and Zu had read the report, and the American had assured them he had never even heard of any American warship being so protected.
Nonetheless, both Chinese admirals felt a certain contempt for the American officer who had given in to their demands for information about the inner workings of the great underwater ship. It was connected to the innate Chinese phobia about loss of face, pride in your standing and position. Like all Chinese military men, they had a grudging respect for men like Judd Crocker, Brad Stockton and the unfortunately deceased Cy Rothstein, men who were unshakeable, to the death if necessary, in their loyalty and patriotism.
For Bruce Lucas they had little time, and it was with a certain sadistic pleasure that Admiral Zhang picked up the telephone and opened up the line to Commander Li, who was just dining in his private rooms, above the comm center, outside the jail in Xiachuan.
“Good evening, Li,” he said. “I am sorry to call you so late, but you may not have been notified that there has been a major disaster at the Canton base.”
“No, sir. I have not been informed.”
“The American submarine has had a serious nuclear accident and contaminated most of the dockyard. It was apparently a reactor meltdown. Privately, I think our scientists may not have been quite competent to work on it without willing American assistance, and that they ran it too hot or something. However, we must be aware that the ship may have been booby-trapped to blow itself to pieces if it ever fell into foreign hands.”
“We did question Lieutenant Commander Lucas about this, and he professed to know nothing of such a scheme,” replied Li.
“However,” said Zhang, “he is clearly a cowardly man who may be dishonest, and I think you should have him removed to the interrogation room again as soon as possible, tonight. Keep him awake. Try the wet towel again, hah? That way we may get a serious answer.…Thank you, Li. Let’s speak tomorrow early before the prisoners are moved.”
2215. Sunday evening.
South China Sea. 21.12N 112.35E.
All three American submarines were now at periscope depth, making 8 knots through 150 feet of water, some 30 miles south of the assault beach. The depths on the fathometers steadily lessened. In all three boats, the attention of the commanding officers was fixed on the voices calling out the depth below the keel—the ever-increasing proximity of the soft sandy ocean floor as it sloped up to the mainland.
Minutes passed, and then…“Fifty-feet on the sounder.”
At 2250, Cheyenne was calling less than 20 feet under the keel; one more mile and they would surface, running in toward the landing beach. Cheyenne’s satellite comms had already established that the Xiachuan patrol boat was back on the jetty, and there was no sign of a further Chinese warship.
And so, in heavy rain and a light wind, the three Los Angeles-class boats came sliding out of the dark ocean into the hot, wet night air of the south China tropics. They pushed forward on the surface for another four miles, watching the ESM, checking that there was no shore-based radar along the desolate coastline, which there was not. And then they came almost to a halt, riding on an easy swell in 50 feet of water, four miles off the southern beaches of the island.
The SEALs were ready and began to climb out onto the deck, each one wearing heavy black camouflage cream on his face. Already on deck, members of the submarine crews were inflating the much bigger Zodiacs, priming the engines, checking the gas. Then, from the decks of Cheyenne and Greenville, 32 SEALs each expertly manhandled them into the water and climbed aboard for the three-mile power-assisted run into Xiachuan. The last mile they would paddle, just as Olaf Davidson’s recon team had done two nights previous.
Each of the big rubber boats was now commanded by one of the SEALs who had reconnoitered the island. Lieutenant Commander Bennett was in the lead, followed by Lt. Dan Conway’s boat, then Buster Townsend, then John. Chief McC
arthy would lead the four from Cheyenne, followed by Paul Merloni, Rattlesnake Davies and Bill.
Eight SEALs traveled in each boat, which was a tight squeeze because they all had to bring equipment: machine guns, ladders, satchel bombs, det-cord, antitank launchers, grappling hooks, grenades, and a box of flares to light the place up once they’d gone noisy. In addition, there were small hand-held radios, already primed to connect with the bigger one that would be carried by Lt. Commander Rick Hunter’s personal bodyguard and would act as the command post for each of the marauding SEAL teams. In addition, there was the navigation kit, compasses, GPS systems, medical supplies, and light aluminum stretchers.
The engines kicked into life, the noise surprisingly quiet for such powerful engines. But the word from the sonar and radar rooms was excellent. There were no Chinese ships within 25 miles, save for the parked patrol boat on the jetty at Xiachuan.
And so they set off at a low growl, running fast at 20 knots, heading due north for the beach where Olaf and Catfish would signal them in. Rusty knew the light on the southern headland of Shangchuan Dao would be their guide, and he spotted it after eight minutes, a fast bright flash to starboard every five seconds. He checked his watch, and kept going, the other seven boats line astern. Six more minutes and he would signal to cut the speed, and he thanked God for the rain, which tended to deaden sound on the water.
At 23:45, they drifted silently to a halt and the SEALs took up the paddles, perching on the broad rubberized gunwhales of the Zodiacs and pulling long, quiet strokes through the water. No lights, no sound, guided only by the compass and the soft green glow of the numbers on Rusty Bennett’s GPS system.
At 23:55 Lieutenant Commander Bennett spotted his second bright light of the journey, right off their port bow, three quick flashes every 20 seconds, the agreed-upon signal…“There he is, it’s Olaf and Catfish right in there…”
He muttered in the dark, “Starboard four, two strokes,” and he felt the boat swing to port. “All pull now…six strokes and wait…starboard side, two…portside, one…all pull again ten strokes and easy…”
And then he felt the boat moving on its own as Olaf and Catfish grabbed the bow handles expertly and hauled the Zodiac inshore, through the shallows and onto the beach. The SEALs jumped out and grabbed the handles, two men peeling off from each boat to assist the next one in.
Rusty, now assuming command on the landing beach, ordered two crewmen to remain with each boat, a total of 16 valuable SEALs. But the getaway beach was a mile to the north, up beyond the jetty, the closest possible water to the jail. And the moment the patrol boat blew, the eight Zodiacs had to be floated out and driven with all speed right past the wreck to the point where Seawolf’s stricken crew would begin to arrive. And theirs had to be the shortest possible journey because of the wounded.
Meanwhile Hank and Al came ghosting out of the jungle, shook hands quickly with Lieutenant Commander Hunter, and led the way back to the point in the trees where they had cut sufficient undergrowth to form a muster point. Rusty Bennett supervised the unloading of the gear, and Lieutenant Conway was in charge of moving it up the beach into the cleared area.
Conditions may have seemed awful, pitch dark and driving tropical rain, but for this operation, conditions were perfect. The only lights anyone could see were on the distant patrol boat, moored at the jetty. And now Lieutenant Commander Hunter began to assemble his teams, three of them, 16 men in each.
Team A would be led by Rusty Bennett. Under his command would be Chief John McCarthy, the three British SAS men, Buster Townsend, two expert climbers, John and Bill, plus eight regular seamen. Their task was the initial assault, taking the watchtowers, scaling the walls, taking out the guard patrol inside the jail, blowing up the guardhouse and the main gates, and then moving in to assist in prisoner release. At this point Chief McCarthy would take over command while Rusty peeled off to command the exit beach.
Team B would be led by Lt. Dan Conway. His second-in-command was Lt. Paul Merloni, and the team included Rattlesnake Davies, Petty Officers Catfish Jones, Steve Whipple, and Rocky Lamb, plus Hank, Al, and eight other SEALs on their first mission. Their critical task was to attack the camp headquarters, and destroy all communications equipment; attack the combined administration and dormitory block, preventing any of its inhabitants from influencing events; and kill any guards patrolling outside the walls of the jail.
Team C would be commanded by Lt. Commander Olaf Davidson. His second-in-command would be Lt. Ray Schaeffer. They would be assisted by Lt. Junior Grade Garrett Atkins and a team of SEAL veterans because this group was the uncommitted reserve, and they had to be ready for anything, particularly in the event of a crisis. Their principal tasks were to destroy the patrol craft and the two helicopters, and thereafter to move right in close and provide backup to both Team A and Team B in the release of the prisoners. They were also in command of the medical supplies, plus the light-weight stretchers
Lieutenant Commander Hunter would man the command post, which would be situated on a section of steep, wooded ground 40 yards southwest of the helicopter pad, just left of the track down which the prisoners had first marched. The recon team had spotted this ideal place because of its clear view of the main gates. Rick would be assisted by Lt. Bobby Allensworth, who would also act as his personal bodyguard, plus two other SEALs during the initial phases of the attack. They would provide the radio contact for all three teams. If there were any problems, Rick Hunter would decide on the length of delay.
Only when the outer buildings were destroyed, the inner guards subdued, and the gates blasted open would Rick Hunter and his team move into the main courtyard of the jail and organize the exit of the prisoners down to Rusty Bennett’s beach.
Right now, it was still pitch dark and raining like hell, and the equipment was arriving agonizingly slowly in the jungle clearing. But SEALs hate mistakes, hate leaving anything behind, hate unchecked lists, hate forgetting anything, hate surprises. Lieutenant Conway was working with a small waterproof laptop, checking everything under its subdued light, and Olaf Davidson was moving each piece of equipment to the appropriate team, each of which was now occupying a separate section of the clearing.
Rick Hunter walked among them, whispering instructions to each leader, particularly in terms of the radio signals. The lieutenant commander wanted no words unless, as he put it, “the fucking roof’s falling in.” His preferred method of communication was quick bleeps from the hand-held sets, one for nearly ready, two for ready, three for minor problem, one long beep for crisis.
It was almost 0030 before they were ready to move, which meant they were around an hour behind schedule, but that was built in to the mission. Colonel Hart knew they would be an hour behind, but he thought they would catch up once they were under way. And now Rick Hunter ordered everyone forward into the soaking-wet darkness, and they moved silently in different directions, each leader carrying his map of the jail, his map of the island, and his timing notes made so carefully by Rusty and the recons.
The watchword was H-hour—“H” for HIT. They were expected to be in position one hour from now, and that would be H minus 15, or 15 minutes from the opening attack. Thus, right now they were looking at H minus 75, SEAL time.
Down along the shore, Ray Schaeffer and Garrett Atkins led two other SEALs through the trees at the top end of the beach, and they walked with stealthy steps, a special SEAL walk, light, moving weight forward at the last moment, avoiding the breaking of small twigs. In full daylight they would have looked a bit like extras from the Pink Panther movies, but they traveled deceptively fast and made no sound. In addition to their personal weaponry, each of the four men carried two light plastic disposable antiarmor rocket launchers, the M136-Bofors.
Their program was vital and simple. On the command, precisely at H-hour, Ray and Garrett would fire one shell each at the patrol boat. Each one would hit the port side, one below the waterline, one above. Depending on the damage, they would then fire
two more. Of course, if the first two reduced the ship to matchwood, no further action would be necessary, although Ray would put two SEALs with their light machine guns within 40 feet of the end of the gangway, specifically to cut down any Chinese crew who were able to make a run for it. The objective was plain: to ensure that no one could possibly get a radio message off that ship. Being SEALs, that meant the total destruction of all radio equipment plus anyone who might be able to work it.
And still they slipped through the edge of the jungle, watching the lights from the ship draw nearer. With 200 yards still to walk they swung deeper into the trees, following the route Rusty Bennett had suggested. Then they turned in, back toward the ship, coming at it softly, step by step, finding their position, looking straight at it from the cover of the foliage. Time was running out for the Chinese ocean patrol.
The walk had taken them 40 minutes. It was H minus 35, and out on the edge of the jail’s precincts, the other members of their team, Lt. Commander Olaf Davidson and his veterans, were staring down at the two helicopters from a hillside southeast of the prison. Olaf knew that Colonel Hart was not in favor of timed detonations because once they were fixed they had to stay fixed. He instinctively agreed with that, realizing that if there was a hitch and they had to delay the start, they would have to deactivate the charge, which aside from being a PITA was also bloody dangerous, and they might get caught under the choppers.
U.S.S. Seawolf Page 36