U.S.S. Seawolf

by Patrick Robinson

  Three minutes later the SEAL drivers came charging into the beach, a new note of urgency obvious in their attitudes as they cut the motors and hauled up the engines, while the SEALs in the shallows grabbed the painters and hung on to the boats. There was no need even to spin them around away from the waves now, because the ocean was like a pond.

  The lead driver came in yelling, “OKAY, SIR, LET’S GO…all equipment in the second boat plus three…seven in each of the others…we’re outta here.”

  The light was having a nerve-wracking effect on everyone. Surely the Chinese could not now be unaware, somehow, that a diabolical attack had occurred on their heavily manned jail, even if the SEALs had wrecked every possible communications system. No one expected a counterattack by night, but this was different. The cloak of darkness was gone, and everyone on the beach felt very vulnerable as the light grew stronger.

  The very least the Chinese Navy must do would be to send a couple of helicopters in to find out why they could not contact the jail anymore. If those choppers arrived in the next five minutes they would surely open fire on the fleeing Americans.

  “COME ON, YOU GUYS…LET’s GO! GO! GO!”

  The lead driver, veteran Petty Officer Zack Redmond, was growing more jumpy by the minute. And he was not alone. Olaf Davidson was in the water, manhandling the machine guns into the boats. Buster and Rattlesnake were up to their waists, shoving men up and over into the boats.

  When it was Rick’s turn he stood next to them and bent his left leg at the knee, and the two SEALs grabbed his tree-trunk shin and lifted. The world’s largest jockey thus vaulted over the gunwales like Bill Shoemaker at Santa Anita.

  It was a minute after 0600 when the last boat was pushed the few yards out deep enough to lower the engines. The beaches were completely deserted now, and as the five motors roared into life, all of the SEALs found themselves looking back at the tiny Chinese island on which they had fought with such superhuman courage.

  The black smoke over the jail had gone, and the place looked peaceful again, an idyllic tropical beach, with water turning more turquoise blue every minute. Nonetheless, they were all ecstatic to get away from it. Only Judd Crocker looked sad as he stared at the jungle and wondered where the body of Lieutenant Commander Rothstein had been buried, and if anyone would ever know his final resting place.

  The Zodiacs hurtled out into the bay, and now for the first time, the SEALs could look at the seaway between the two islands. Opposite, on the shores of Shangchuan Dao, the coastline was long and flat, with low mountains rising in the background. Xiachuan looked altogether more rugged. But the best news was the total lack of activity. Here on this bright Monday morning, there was still no sign of even a junk, far less a warship. And the U.S. Navy drivers opened the throttles and sped across the calm sea, making their course change after three miles, and then making a beeline sou’sou’west, straight toward the waiting submarine Greenville, in which most of them had arrived.

  0620. Monday, July 17.

  On board the Chinese destroyer Xiangtan.

  112.20E 21.30N.

  Course zero-eight-zero. Speed 30.

  Colonel Lee had held his ship at flank speed all the way from Zhanjiang, easily outpacing the much smaller frigate Shantou, which was currently some five miles astern.

  Lee had twice checked in with his own fleet commander, Admiral Zu Jicai, and had been told that Admiral Zhang had by no means altered his mindset. In fact, he was as determined as ever that the guns, missiles and torpedoes of Xiangtan should open fire on the Americans at the earliest opportunity, the earlier the better.

  Colonel Lee was bewildered. It was so atypical. After a lifetime in the Navy of China, he had never been told to open fire, not even when Taiwan was involved, or even Japan. This was totally out of character. China was a very old civilization and it had long ago learned that discretion was almost always the better part of valor.

  Letting loose high explosive at a modern-day trading partner with whom all-out war would be a massive disaster for China was not reasonable. And the Chinese prided themselves on reason. They might cheat, lie, steal, obfuscate the truth, evade and frequently commit the sin of omission. But lack reason? Never.

  And here was this great Chinese warship being ordered to march, effectively into the jaws of death, with guns blazing. In peacetime. In cold blood. In total madness, so far as Colonel Lee could tell.

  He turned to his XO, Lieutenant Commander Shoudong, and murmured for the umpteenth time, “I do not understand it.”

  The XO did not understand it either. But now he was becoming fatalistic, ever since the last call to Fleet Headquarters. And he said resignedly, “Sir, we are probably ten miles from the edge of the search area. Does this really mean that if we pick up a submarine, we just go straight in and start firing?”

  “That is precisely what it means.”

  “No warnings? No instructions to leave Chinese waters immediately? Not even a shot across her bow?”

  “No, Guan. None of that. My orders are to open fire, straight at her, with whatever means necessary to sink her.”

  “My God,” said the XO. “We better not miss, sir. Or she will surely obliterate us.”

  “Guan, she may do that even if we don’t miss.”

  Lt. Commander Anwei Bao, the combat systems officer, returned to the bridge and caught just the end of the conversation.

  “I have done as you instructed, sir. We are ready to open fire with all systems immediately…but there is just one thing, sir, I’d like to ask…”

  “Please do.”

  “Does anyone know any background to this? Why we apparently are prepared to risk an out-and-out conflict with the United States?”

  “Well, there is the matter of the submarine that blew up in Canton last night. I suppose that may be implicated. But the Americans did not blow it up. I thought we did, our own scientists.”

  “Well, that’s the official line, but you never know.”

  “And what are we doing heading for the shallow waters around the two islands up ahead?”

  “Now that’s a real mystery. I have no idea.”

  “And why do they think we’re going to find another American submarine due south of Xiachuan? There’s no one on that island.”

  “I have not been told that, either. Just that we are likely to find one, and then to destroy it.”

  0629. Monday, July 17.

  South China Sea. 112.34E 21.31N.

  “Green-two-zero, sir. Submarine on the surface.” Buster Townsend, leaning forward, peering through the binoculars, had USS Greenville in his sights. She stood about a mile farther to the south than they thought, with two American frigates from the Ronald Reagan CVBG about four miles beyond.

  Despite the heavy protection, everyone was growing nervous about the evacuation in Chinese national waters in broad daylight. On board the Los Angeles—class attack submarine, they literally could not wait to get under the surface.

  The SEAL drivers headed straight toward it, bringing the Zodiacs expertly alongside, forward of the sail, where the crew had lowered climbing nets. Everyone in the inflatables was a highly trained SEAL who knew everything about boarding submarines in the worst possible conditions, right down to banging on the hull with their fighting knives underwater in order to be let in. The only non-SEAL in the Zodiacs was Captain Judd Crocker, and he was a submarine commanding officer. He’d manage.

  Greenville’s crew grabbed the first boat and as soon as it was empty hauled it up, deflated it, and sent it below. Heavy loose gear was just ditched, even the engines. The five boats were dealt with in 90 seconds flat. And the submarine accelerated rapidly away to the south, still on the surface.

  The navigation officer, up on the bridge with the CO, heard the report: “Conn-ESM. Racket. X-Band. Military. Bearing two-six-zero. Approaching danger level.”

  Commander Tom Wheaton picked up his binoculars and looked out to the darker western horizon, but could see nothing. But from the ESM repor
t, he knew this radar was most likely to be a Chinese warship, and it was about to come over the radar horizon. At which moment he would be caught in flagrante, an American submarine on the surface in Chinese national waters, his worst nightmare. He could expect no mercy. He could expect hot lead within the next 20 minutes.

  Now, Commander Wheaton was not empowered to get into combat. However, he did not have sufficient water to dive the submarine, so he would have to concentrate on making his getaway on the surface. The nearest water deep enough to dive was still four miles ahead. He could be underwater in about 18 minutes, with the two frigates blocking for him.

  On board the destroyer Xiangtan.

  “Bridge-Radar. New surface contact. Track two-three-zero-one. Bearing zero-eight-zero. Range thirty-five thousand meters…two more surface contacts, close together. Tracks two-three-zero-two and two-three-zero-two. Bearing zero-nine-one. Same range. Indicating to weapons control.”

  “Radar-Captain. Good. Gimme course and speeds as soon as you can.…Navigator, plot their positions. I want to know if the Americans are outside the twelve-mile limit. ACTION STATIONS…SURFACE.”

  “Wheel-Captain. Steer zero-eight-three.”

  Seventeen tense minutes dragged by. Then, silhouetted against the morning sun, the clear shapes of the American ships were sighted, the small black square of Greenville’s sail to the left, and the bulkier hulls of the two frigates to the right.

  “The submarine can’t dive,” replied Colonel Lee. “Not here. There’s only just about one hundred feet under the keel…my orders are specific. Follow her. And then sink her. But I am opening up the line again to Fleet Headquarters, probably for the last time.”

  12

  Commander Tom Wheaton, in a long naval career stretching right back to Annapolis, had never encountered anything quite like the situation in which he now found himself. A lifelong submariner, he’d crept around some highly dubious waters in the service of his country, some hot, some cold. But he had never been faced with an onrushing foreign destroyer coming straight at him, in water insufficiently deep for him to dive, much less to make a sharp, judicious getaway, and in foreign national waters where he was not supposed to be. Greenville’s mission was, after all, merely to arrange safe passage for American prisoners who had in some instances suffered Chinese torture.

  Commander Wheaton considered that this had all the makings of a small war, and he opened up his encrypted line to the captain of Kaufman, the 4,000-ton Oliver Hazard Perry-class guided-missile frigate from the Ronald Reagan CVBG.

  He too was seriously concerned at the sight of an onrushing Chinese destroyer, and understood Greenville’s quandary about diving in this shallow water, about 110 feet. But the immediate aim was that the submarine should get the hell out of the way.

  In the conn below, Commander Wheaton’s only wish was to “get underwater, and leave the frigates to cover my ass.” He was unsure of the reliability of the charts, and he normally took a relatively cautious view of driving 7,000 tons of American steel straight into an unmarked sandbank. He had no need to remind himself of one simple equation: “Mass multiplied by velocity squared equals a whole lot of inertia. When it’s seven thousand tons times even ten knots, it’d knock us to pieces.” But this was no time for caution.

  Commander Wheaton decided to vanish, even at a low speed. Every time he looked to the west, the Chinese destroyer grew ever closer.

  And the CO of the USS Greenville was not the only anxious man. On the bridge of Xiangtan, Colonel Lee was in direct communication with Admiral Zu Jicai, and the Southern Commander was sufficiently concerned to order “caution, for the moment.”

  He went to see Admiral Zhang again, and at the risk of irritating the all-powerful C-in-C even further, he said, simply, “Xiangtan is nine miles west of a surfaced American nuclear submarine. There are two American frigates close by. Do you continue to want Colonel Lee to open fire on her?”

  “Immediately,” replied Zhang, not even glancing up from the papers he was reading.

  Admiral Zu glanced around helplessly, and just said, “Sir, you are not only my immediate superior, you have been a friend for almost all of our lives. I implore you to think very carefully before you make me order this.”

  “I’ve thought. Say no more, Jicai. Tell Colonel Lee to sink the American submarine, right here in Chinese national waters where she has no right to be. RIGHT NOW!”

  And so the Southern Fleet Commander walked slowly back to his office and picked up the telephone again.

  “Colonel Lee. My orders from the C-in-C are to sink the American submarine immediately.”

  And the commanding officer of Xiangtan replied, in deep Cantonese dialect, “Aye, sir. But I should warn you, there is an entire United States Carrier Battle Group in very close proximity. We are looking at two of her guided missile frigates at this very moment. We shall be committing suicide.”

  “Then you are ordered perhaps to die for your country.…Make no mistake, Colonel Lee…you are to take whatever extreme measures are necessary to put that American submarine on the floor of the South China Sea. Maximum honor to you and your crew.”

  And so Colonel Lee walked back to his high chair in the ops room and ordered Xiangtan’s 157-millimeter Russian-built guns into action on Track 2301.

  “Fire at will,” he said. “And God help us all.” And the first of a salvo of 10 shells screamed in toward the Greenville.

  It was 0641 when the biggest gun on the Chinese destroyer opened fire. The first shell went right by.

  “Over. Down four hundred. SHOOT!”

  “Bracket. Up two hundred. SHOOT!”

  Greenville was in the process of diving. The upper lid of the conning tower was half-shut when the third shell exploded with deafening impact right inside the sail.

  Greenville shuddered, and above the casing seven more shells came whistling past, with that unmistakable WHOOOOSH—WHOOOSH—WHOOOSH of naval ordnance. The Americans were lucky to take only one hit, because there were three very near-misses.

  Commander Wheaton knew nothing about them, but he did know that something extremely large and explosive had just gone off right above him. “Christ!” he thought. “That’s a goddamned shell. That bastard’s shooting at us. I just hope to God the pressure hull’s not breached.”

  “Helm-Captain,” he said, steadily. “KEEP HER GOING DOWN.”

  “Upper lid shut and clipped, sir.…”

  “There’s a lot of noise coming from inside the sail.”

  “Was that one bang or two?”

  “I think only one…try the periscope?”

  “Go ahead.…”

  “Damn. It’s not moving, sir.…”

  “How about the radio mast…”

  “That’s not moving either. Nothing.”

  “Upper lid’s fine, sir…we’re not shipping water.”

  “Right. Shut the lower lid…and make your speed ten…steer one-eight-zero…”

  “Sounder shows thirty feet below the keel…”

  Commander Wheaton turned to his XO. “This is not absolutely perfect. We’re just about blind. The bow sonar is all we got left and there’s so much noise coming from the inside of the sail I doubt that’s gonna be much good to us. Fact is we can’t see, we can’t use radio, and we can’t hear much.”

  By now Judd Crocker had made his way up to the conn, and found himself in the slightly awkward position of outranking the commanding officer. This meant that if he spoke at all, he must do so with extreme care, and great courtesy. Because, IF, as the top submarine commander in the U.S. Navy, Judd issued an order, it would mean, in the myriad of complicated laws of the Silent Service, that he had assumed command, relieving Tom Wheaton of his duties.

  But Judd knew the CO personally, which made it easier, and he just said, “Well, Tom, at least we’re still breathing.”

  “Actually, sir, at most we’re still breathing.”

  “That shell wreck all the masts?”

  “Looks like it. W
e’re blind below the surface, and I got no radio aerials—but thank God, we’re not leaking. The reactor’s fine and we have propulsion.”

  “But if we want to have a look around, we have to go all the way to the surface?”

  “Yessir. ’Fraid so.”

  “Well, we better not do that, Tom, in case that fucking destroyer has another whack at us.”

  “We sure hadn’t.”

  “I guess if push came to shove, we could just go ahead and sink the bastard,” said Judd, whose proximity to the free-wheeling warriors of SPECWARCOM had plainly had a profound impact on his psyche.

  Commander Wheaton smiled grimly and replied, “Well, sir, we have been fired upon, so it would be self-defense, if anyone questioned us.”