“Admiral Donchez?”
“Mikey,” Donchez said, his face crinkling into a smile.
“Been a long time. How’s life as a professor?”
As the younger Pacino approached, Donchez looked him over, inspecting him as if Pacino were a subordinate in the ranks. Or maybe more, as if he were Donchez’s own son, seen for the first time after a long absence. In fact, young Pacino had been the son of Donchez’s Academy roommate, Anthony “Patch” Pacino, who had died in a submarine incident years before. Since his birth Michael Pacino had been as close to a son as Donchez would ever have, and after the father’s death, Donchez’s feelings had intensified.
Still, the younger Pacino had never exactly seen Donchez as his mentor, perhaps still too full of the memory of the day that Donchez had told him of the sinking of his father’s submarine.
Pacino, over six feet tall and thin as ever, had just turned forty, his thick hair no longer jet black but graying. His lean face was tan, unlike the days he had commanded Devilfish, when he wore a pallor from being almost constantly submerged. He was dressed in khaki trousers, a starched white shirt, and a sport jacket, his striped tie cinched up tight to his neck.
Donchez looked for a moment into the younger man’s eyes, measuring him. Pacino’s green eyes at first stared back, then looked away. When Pacino held out his hand to Donchez his grip was strong and steady but moist with nervous sweat.
“What are you doing here, sir? And what’s with the civies? You’re still CINCPAC, aren’t you?”
“I came to see you, Mikey. And easy on that CINCPAC.
I don’t want the Superintendent finding out I came out here without notifying him.”
“You’re what, the number-three admiral in the Navy and you didn’t tell Admiral Phillips you were coming to spy on his little empire?”
“What would I be doing right now if I had told him?”
“Probably reviewing a dress parade after a long tour of the facilities.”
“Right. I don’t have time for that stuff, Mikey.
We’ve got a problem, I need you to help fix it.”
Pacino laughed uneasily.
“What’s a professor of fluid mechanics going to be able to do to fix an admiral’s problems? Come on, let’s get out of this cave.”
Pacino led Donchez down the stairs to the end of the tow tank room and out a door in the far wall to the door that opened outside to a small parking lot fronting a waterfront soccer field.
“So what really brings you all this way from Pearl Harbor, Admiral?”
“I had a stop at the Pentagon …”
They stopped at the midpoint of an arched bridge, looking down on the creek where it flowed past the athletic fields and into the Severn River. To the left, in the distance, the drawbridge of Highway 2 was up while a sailboat plodded slowly through. In front of them majestic houses overlooked the water from the far bank. To the right, the academic buildings gleamed in the sunshine, the black-uniformed midshipmen walking briskly in the few moments between classes.
“You ever miss going to sea, Mikey?”
“No,” Pacino said, his voice flat.
“What’s going on, Admiral … You tell me you came to see me about a problem, you have no time for tours or dress parades, then you ask me whether I miss going to sea. You trying to recruit me back to the service? And if so, why? Hell, the Cold War’s over. The Navy’s got
more hotshot young officers than it has submarines to command, and I’d never even consider coming back to the fleet without a sub of my own. And after I lost Devilfish no squadron commander would ever give me my own submarine again.”
“Okay, Mikey, enough fencing. I did come here to offer you command of a fast-attack sub, the hottest one we’ve got. The Seawolf. If you’re not interested, okay. You’ve got your family. You’ve got midshipmen to teach, research to do, toys to play with …”
“Admiral, why would you want me to take over the Seawolf’! Henry Duckett’s in command of her.”
“He is, but I’ve got other plans for Hank. We have an urgent SPEC-OP for the Seawolf and I need the best skipper for the job. You happen to be the only sub driver in recent history who knows how to handle himself in combat. So, you lost that rust bucket Devilfish? Don’t forget that I ordered you on that mission, and I bear more guilt for it than you do. The point of all this is that you are the best there is for what I need. The commander of this OP will report directly to me, I’ll report directly to the President. That’s all I can tell you unless you take the mission.”
The two were silent for a moment; finally Pacino spoke up.
“Let me understand this. Admiral. You’re willing to give command of the Seawolf to an old Piranhaclass sailor who’s been out of the fleet for two years, who knows nothing about the Seawolf class. To a man whose last submarine sank, never mind who was most at fault. The mission is so sensitive that you and the President are running it yourselves, and you can’t tell me what it’s about.”
Donchez said nothing.
“This wouldn’t have to do with the Chinese Civil War, would it? Except what would the Navy be doing with … unless you sent a sub into the waters close to Beijing … what’s the name of that bay … the Gulf of China?”
“Chihii, Gulf of Chihii. The Chinese call it the Go Hai Bay—” “And something went wrong with the boat you sent in?”
“Bingo.”
Pacino shook his head.
“This must be a rescue mission.”
“You’re close enough, Mikey. I need to know if you’ll change your mind? This is no academic discussion.”
Pacino let the dig at his current academic career go by.
“I’ve been away from the submarine navy too long, Admiral. There are a dozen skippers out there who could handle this mission. Sean Murphy, for one. His Tampa is one of the newest boats in the fleet and Murphy’s damned good. I ought to know, I roomed with that guy for four years here and almost five years after graduation. I’d say Tampa could do this better than the untested Seawolf. Sean’s boat is trained and ready.”
“Only one problem, Mikey. Sean Murphy and the Tampa are the ones being held captive.” Donchez decided he had to gamble in spite of his own rules of security. The risk had obviously been worth it, judging by Pacino’s shocked expression.
“The Chinese have had Tampa tied up at the Xingang piers outside of Tianjin for about sixteen hours. Intel indicates that the crew are being held onboard. The Seawolf made port in Yokosuka last night. Her captain and XO are on the way to D.C. now. I told them they’d be briefing Congress. I have a fast transport jet standing by at Andrews. I figure if you can get packed in an hour we can get Seawolf underway within twelve. What do you say, Mikey?”
For a moment Pacino said nothing. He no longer was registering Donchez’s words, nor seeing the vista of the Severn River in front of him. He was traveling a corridor of time, back to the moments he and Sean Murphy had shared as roommates, struggling against the hazing of their flrstclassmen. Back to the time that Murphy had risked dismissal from the Academy to go A.W.O.L. to see Pacino at the memorial service for Pacino’s father, when only a plea from the senior ranks of the Navy had been between Sean Murphy and life as a civilian. Back to happier times, the double-dates in town. Murphy crashing his car and Pacino picking him up in D.C.” Pacino speeding back to Annapolis to avoid having them both placed on report. Back to the moment before graduation when Pacino had had to pour Murphy into his dress whites, Sean being too hungover to stand on his own from the celebrating they’d done the night before. Back to the following year in Boston when the two of them had been at MIT, getting master’s degrees in mechanical engineering, but also prowling the bars of Boston in search of action. Back to the times of frustration and triumph in the nuclear power pipeline, the prototype nuclear plant training that had them working shift work twelve hours a day, seven days a week until they were qualified as reactor supervisors. Back to the three years they had spent on the USS Hawkbill during thei
r division officer tours. Back to the day Pacino had been Murphy’s best man when he married Katrina, and to the day months later when the roles were reversed as Pacino married Hillary.
And now Murphy was a hemisphere away looking down the barrel of a Chinese rifle, and Sean Murphy’s wife might soon be a widow and his children fatherless.
After a moment Pacino realized Donchez was looking at him, waiting.
“What are we waiting for, Admiral?”
Donchez pulled a document from his pants pocket, sheets stapled together, the large stamp in black letters reading “ORIGINAL.” He handed it to Pacino. Buried in the official message were the words
“REPORT
FOR TEMPORARY DUTY AS COMMANDING
OFFICER USS SEAWOLF SSN-21.”
“These are your orders. I’ve already talked to Hillary.
Get home and say good-by to her. I’ve had Tony pulled from school—he’ll be waiting for you. I’ve got uniforms on the jet for you. Just pack your shaving kit, maybe see if you can dig up your old dolphins.
We’ll have some poopy suits waiting for you on the boat. I’ll meet you at your place and take you to the airport. I’ll brief you in detail on the jet. I’ve had the Pentagon take care of your boss here. As of zero nine hundred this morning you no longer work here.
You’re back in the Navy now.”
Pacino nodded, held out his hand to Donchez, then turned and walked quickly to the row of cars parked near the soccer field.
Donchez watched Pacino drive away, thinking about Pacino’s handshake. There could be no mistake about it. The handshake he had given Donchez before he left was just as firm, but this time it had been dry as a bone.
Donchez threw the stub of his cigar into the creek and walked to the rental car, for the first time feeling that the Tampa was now much closer to freedom than she had been just an hour before.
CHAPTER 8
THURSDAY, 9 MAY
1845 GREENWICH MEAN TIME
western pennsylvania altitude: thirty-eight thousand feet
Captain Michael Pacino sat in the deep upholstery of the Gulfstream’s wide seat staring out the window at the clouds below, thinking back to the scene at the house when he had told Hillary he was going back to sea. He had expected anger or tears from her, but she had looked at him with deep understanding. Her words still rang in his ears … “I’m scared to death of losing you, Michael, but I’ve seen what happens to you when you’re not at sea. You haven’t really been the same, not since—” Not since Devilfish sank, he had thought—”—and there’s something you need to finish out there, isn’t there?” She had seen right into him, past his eyes to the rusting wreck of his last submarine.
She had held their son Tony as Donchez’s staff car had pulled away, young Tony still crying, trembling in his mother’s arms. The only thing that had kept Pacino from turning the car around was the thought of Sean Junior crying in Katrina Murphy’s arms at the word of his father’s death, just as Pacino had when told that his father had gone down in the Stingray so many years ago.
Pacino’s jaw clenched. Suddenly he couldn’t wait to get to Yokosuka and take command of Seawolf. His hands seemed to itch for the feel of periscope grips, his ears for the sounds of torpedo launches. He stared out the jet’s window, not seeing the rolling countryside
outside, but the blue waves of the endless stretches of the Pacific. It had been too damned long.
In front of him was a table with a half-dozen large three-ring notebooks scattered on top of nautical charts of the Go Hai Bay. The interior of the new jet was cold, the air conditioning system improperly adjusted. The cool air had raised goosebumps on Pacino’s exposed arms. He scarcely noticed.
As promised. Admiral Donchez had provided the new khaki uniforms in Pacino’s size. Pacino had ransacked a steamer trunk full of old uniforms in the basement of the house, but the old garments still stank of the Devilfish. He had found the velvet display case holding his Navy Cross earned “in classified action under the polar icecap onboard the USS Devilfish.” He had tossed the case back to the bottom of the trunk in disgust … over one hundred and thirty men had died in the Devilfish incident, he had gotten a damned medal … He had salvaged his old submariner’s dolphin pin, the brass emblem solid and heavy in his hands, the scaly fish facing toward the center where an oldfashioned diesel boat plowed through the waves. The pin had once belonged to his father, “Patch” Pacino.
Donchez had given it to him years before when he had first qualified in submarines. After the Devilfish incident, the dolphins were practically all that he had left from his old submarine. Everything else had gone down with her to the bottom.
Donchez’s voice brought Pacino back from his thoughts.
“Mikey, this trip is the only chance I’ll have to brief you. After that you’re on your own. The first thing we’ve got to get through is the weapons load out
The base is standing by to load the Seawolf with weapons and it’ll take at least five, six hours to get that done. I don’t want the mission delayed to load weapons.
So let’s go over the mission, commit to the load out and I’ll radio the request to Yokosuka. When we’re done with that we’ll go over the capabilities of the Seawolf and brief you on the crew.”
“Fine,” Pacino said, his voice wooden, suddenly wondering if he was really up to taking over command of the world’s most advanced submarine and, within an hour, submerging it to sail into hostile waters to rescue another submarine.
“Okay, the mission first. Of course, you can tailor this to suit yourself. First you’ll get into the Go Hai as quietly as possible. At Point Hotel, off Tianjin’s Xingang harbor, you’ll come up to periscope depth and take a look at the situation. If nothing has changed since the last KH-17 fly over the plan goes forward. Seawolf will hover at periscope depth and put the three platoons of the SEAL team out the escape trunk. When the SEALs are locked out they’ll swim over to the Tampa, taking with them Kurt Lennox—” “Who’s he?”
“Murphy’s exec. He was on leave in Japan when Tampa got the word to insert into the Go Hai. He’s integral to the plan. He’ll be the one who will know the details of how we plan to get Tampa out, and he’ll coordinate your escape plan with Murphy. He’s also our insurance in case they’ve removed the officers and crew from the ship. In which case he’ll be the only one who will be able to drive the ship out—the SEAL team sure as hell won’t know the first thing about conning a nuke sub out of the bay. Then we at least get the ship back, and we’ll try to figure out something else to get the crew back.
“The SEAL team’s job will be to knock out the pier guards and get aboard the Tampa, overpower the Chinese inside and get the crew onstation for the underway, then lay topside to cut the lines to the Chinese ships. Here’s where you may need to improvise. Somehow the Chinese destroyers will need to be distracted so Tampa has time to warm up her engines and get underway.”
“Improvise?” Pacino said.
“Distract the destroyers?
My ideas on distracting the Chinese will involve some large-bore weapons. Admiral. I hope you’re ready for that.”
“Up to you. Once Tampa is underway you’ll have to escort her out. I’m guessing she’ll still be able to start up, get underway and submerge. If she can’t, the backup plan is to get as many men out of the hull as possible and get them aboard Seawolf, then get out of there. I’m hoping that won’t be the case—the mission has almost zero chance of success if that happens, plus we’ll probably lose you and Seawolf too. I’m tempted to order you to get the hell out of there without Murphy and his crew if the Tampa is disabled. I won’t order you to do anything specific. You’ll be the guy up-close. You’ve got a free hand. Your only requirements are to get Tampa away from the Chinese with minimal loss of American lives and American equipment.”
“Okay, so let’s say Tampa gets down and I’m escorting her out. The Chinese will be waiting for us at the entrance to the bay …”
“Yes. I expect the
entire Chinese Northern Fleet to be waiting for you at Lushun. Including their new aircraft carrier, the Shaoguan, the Kiev-class carrier they bought from the Russians. Anyway, Tampa’ll be a lot louder underwater than you are, so once again you’ll have to create another diversion to allow Tampa to get out of the Lushun/Penglai Gap. I’m assuming Tampa won’t be able to shoot any weapons, that her systems are disabled. If she can fire, so much the better, but worst-case, you’ll be the only one with firepower.”
“This will be like stealing the crown jewels while they’re under heavy guard.”
“So, what weapons do you want?” Donchez pushed one of the thick binders in front of Pacino. Inside, each page had a laminated photo of a weapon with its capabilities summarized beneath. Pacino thumbed through the volume as Donchez went on.
“I can’t give you nukes, Mikey. We don’t have any, and the President
wouldn’t authorize it even if we did. But you’ve got your choice of conventional Javelin cruise missiles, ship attack or land attack, the new ASWSOW standoff missiles, and Mark 50 torpedoes. You can carry up to fifty weapons. You’ll also be outfitted with fifteen Mark 80 SLAAMs.”
Pacino was looking at the photograph of one of the Javelin cruise missiles. Beneath the title were the words BLOCK III JAVELIN—DELAYED
ENCAPSULATION.
“What’s this, Admiral?”
“The Block III Javelin … They came up with the idea of having the waterproof capsule of the cruise missile float just beneath the water’s surface for a certain time-delay before the missile launches itself out of the capsule.”
Pacino liked that.
“Before, when you’d launch a cruise missile, a plume of smoke would point to your launching position. With this weapon you could eject it and get out of the area by the time the missile launched, all without giving away your position.”
Attack Of The Seawolf Page 9