“ASW mortars, up forward, twelve-tube fixed launcher.”
“Parsons. Sonars, go.”
“It’s got a hull-mounted active-search medium frequency Laihai and a variable-depth dipper, also active in the medium freaks.”
“Mr. Vale, chopper, go.”
“Carries two Harbin Dauphins. They’ve got dipping sonars, the HS-12. Also a magnetic anomaly detector.
Has Whitehead torpedoes and up to four antiship missiles.”
Keebes clicked the controller. Another destroyer flashed on the screen, another periscope shot.
“Brackovic. Identify!”
“Udaloy-class DDG. Baddest destroyer in the bay.”
“Turner. ASW weapons.”
“Eight fifty-three-centimeter tubes with the Type 53 with active or passive homing. RBU 6000 mortar launcher.”
Keebes clicked the control and a periscope photo of a huge aircraft carrier came up, taken from such a low angle that it seemed as if the sub taking the picture would have to have been run over moments after snapping the picture.
“Schrader. What is it?”
“Kiev-class CV, obtained from Russia last year, formerly the Novorossiysk, renamed the Shaoguan.”
“What’s she got?”
“Hell, XO, what hasn’t she got?”
And so it went, Keebes clicking periscope shots and firing questions at the officers. The sheer number of Chinese surface ships was staggering. And nearly all of them could hurt a submarine. Hurt? They could blow the Seawolf into scrap metal between breakfast and lunch.
Especially the Shaoguan, the massive aircraft carrier out of Lushun, bristling with radars, sonars, missiles, torpedoes, ASW rocket-launched depth charges and, worst of all, helicopters and VTOL jets, nearly all of them sporting dipping sonars and depth charges and torpedoes. That one ship could fill the Go Hai Bay with enough ordinance to wipe them out. Add on the new Luhu and Udaloy destroyers, with some first-rate Ludas, seasoned with nearly twenty frigates, all built for speed and for killing submarines. Toss in thirty or thirty-five torpedo fast-attack patrol boats, a few dozen coastal patrol vessels, three
nuclear-powered attack subs and two ultra-quiet diesel-electric subs, and the Chinese Northern Fleet was a formidable force, indeed.
Seawolf had two major assets. She was quiet and she was invisible. But if that surface force got a sniff of her, she’d be just another shipwreck.
Pacino checked his watch. In less than twelve hours they would be on station at Point Hotel. It was time the officers and men got some sleep.
“Mr. Keebes, let’s wrap it up. Gentlemen, remember it’s one thing to look at a slide, another to get a half second look out of the real scope when the sucker’s bearing down on you with a zero angle-on-the-bow RBU. We’ll be manning battle stations at midnight so get out of here and get some rack.”
As the officers moved out, Pacino phoned the conn.
“Off’sa’deck, sir.” Ray Linden’s voice sounded calm.
“OOD, Captain. What’s our ETA at Point Hotel?”
“Sir, we’re showing about zero one ten.”
“Very well. Rig ship for ultra quiet And pass on to your relief that we’ll man battle stations at midnight.”
As Pacino put down the phone the Circuit One blared through the ship:
“RIG SHIP FOR ULTRA QUIET ALL PERSONNEL
NOT ACTUALLY ON WATCH, LAY TO
YOUR RACKS.”
Pacino made his way to the control room.
“Captain’s in control,” Linden announced as Pacino entered.
“Hello, Offsa’deck. Where does the ESGN have us?” He was asking about the inertial navigation system that kept their position updated between fixes from the NAV SAT
Linden leaned over the aft rail of the conn, over the chart table, and pointed with his finger to their estimated position. Pacino looked down at the chart.
They had come halfway across the bay. If they could proceed at flank. Point Hotel would be less than two hours away, but crawling like this would take them all day. Still, any faster in the shallow water of the bay might well raise a telltale wake and make excessive noise. Stealth was their only friend, surrounded as they were by the hostile P.L.A Chinese forces on all four points of the compass.
Pacino pulled out the next chart, the small-area large-scale chart of the piers at Xingang. The Seawolf would be able to sail the channel without detection, but the channel narrowed near the pier to a width of a mere four hundred yards, barely enough to turn a supertanker around with eight tugboats. Further from the pier, where less maneuvering would normally be required, the width shrank even further to one hundred yards. Which meant, Pacino realized, he would have to drive Seawolf in an underwater roadway barely a shiplength wide. It would take only one ship to go by to ruin the entire operation. Could he drive the Seawolf that accurately, and maintain stealth, in that narrow a channel? Could he avoid colliding with a tanker above or a silty bottom below? And once he neared the tanker pier, then what?
He pulled the chart lamp closer to the chart. The deep channel ended at the twin-tanker piers and did not extend further north to the P.L.A piers, where Tampa was tied up. It was perhaps two hundred yards from the northern boundary of the supertanker channel to the P.L.A pier, a long underwater swim for the SEALs. How would his visibility be from that position, would he even be able to see the Tampal Would the type-20 periscope be detected from the P.L.A side? Or worse, from the tanker pier? Someone standing on the tanker pier would be only a few hundred feet from the scope. Seawolf would be a sitting duck if the scope were discovered, and then Tampa would have some company.
Pacino folded the chart. Nobody said it would be easy.
Pacino climbed into his bunk and shut his eyes. When sleep finally
came he saw the chart of the piers change from the gold-and-blue coloring of the chart to the brown-and-gray of a bird’s-eye-view of the pier, and he saw the Tampa, and his friend Sean Murphy, a revolver being held to his head-When the wake-up phone from the conn rang at 2300, he had blanked out the dream.
CHAPTER 14
SUNDAY, 12 MAY
0605 GREENWICH MEAN TIME
go had bay, XlNGANG harbor P.L.A navy pier 1A, USS tampa 1405 beijing time
How long, Sean Murphy wondered, could a man go without sleep? It had been days since the ship had been taken by the Chinese, maybe over a week. Since he had regained consciousness after being shot in the control room, he had been kept awake by one of two bodyguards. He had been confined to the tight quarters of his stateroom with the guards, not allowed to sit in a chair or lie on the bunk. He was kept sitting on the hard deck, the thin carpeting giving little cushion to the carbon-steel decking beneath. When his buttocks and back could no longer bear the pain of sitting or lying on the deck, he was allowed to stand, limping in the small stateroom. Even though his right arm was paralyzed from the bullet he had taken when the Chinese came aboard, his hands were cuffed behind his back. It had been painful from the first, but after endless hours jolting pains shot up his arms to his chest from the awkward position of the cuffs. That was before the numbness mercifully set in. A Chinese medic had bandaged the bullet wound, stopping the bleeding, but the round was still inside him, and he was convinced the wound had become infected. His skin felt hot, feverish.
No one had yet spoken to him in English. The torture so far had been relatively low-level—no one had beaten him or threatened him or interrogated him. He had felt an undercurrent of fear, fear that he would not hold up under questioning, fear of the torture, fear that he would break and tell them everything.
He had not been allowed to speak to his men or officers. The ship was oppressively hot and stuffy.
The fans were off but the ship’s lights were on. Either the battery was running, supplying only the lights, or the P.L.A had brought on shore power Were their voltage and current the same as the Americans’? No, improbable. Maybe the steam lines had been repaired enough for Lube Oil Vaughn’s turbine generators to be
steaming, supplying the ship’s distribution with power. But if they were, the air-conditioning and ventilation systems would be working. Which left the question—if the only electricity they had was the battery, how long could it last? Supplying only the lights, maybe a week, ten days max. Which meant that they soon would be out of power.
Murphy felt his eyes get heavy for the hundredth time. He let them shut, and in spite of his numb arms, he felt himself sinking into sleep. And just as he saw the first drowsy sleep images he felt the butt of the AK-47 rifle jabbing him in the ribs, in the spot sore from having been jabbed there before. He came awake with a feeling like a severe hangover, head heavy, stomach churning. God, how he craved sleep. For a moment he almost wished they would ask him something so he could tell them and be allowed to sleep.
But there was no one to ask him questions, just an ox of a guard who seemed to enjoy keeping him awake.
A sudden noise came from the passageway outside.
The guard stood and checked the door, then came to attention. The man who entered the room could only be an interrogator. Murphy decided. The guard motioned Murphy to his feet, but he was too weak. Even after repeated jabs in the ribs, all Murphy could do was roll on the deck.
Finally the interrogator pulled him up by his soaked armpits, propping him against the bulkhead.
Murphy thought he was losing consciousness. The room swirled around him. The interrogator pulled over the swivel chair and sat Murphy down in it. Murphy looked up at the interrogator, whose Mao jacket showed no insignia or rank or ribbons. He was tall for a Chinese, Murphy thought idly. His face was cut from flat planes, his high cheekbones and thin lips making him appear severe. His build was not slight, not heavy, efficiently muscled like a decathlon athlete’s body. His eyes were neither menacing nor friendly—just dark, glassy.
The interrogator pointed to Murphy’s wrists. The guard unlocked the cuffs. For a moment Murphy was unable to move either arm. He tried to move the left first, finally pulling it up in front of him, the limb stiff and burning and tingling as circulation returned. He massaged the right arm with the left, the injured side of his body still numb and unmoving. The interrogator opened the stateroom door a crack and shouted, the Chinese dialect sounding oddly melodious and lilting, the sounds incongruous with the man’s severe demeanor.
Within seconds another guard brought a steaming mug. The interrogator handed it to Murphy.
It was tea. Murphy tried to drink it; the tea burned his parched lips. He looked up at the interrogator, who dismissed the guard. The interrogator sat on the bunk so that his head was just below the level of Murphy’s.
He looked at Murphy and spoke, his English sounding vaguely British.
“My name is Tien. Leader Tien Tse-Min. I apologize if you have been treated badly. It took me some time to get here—all the confusion of this absurd revolution, you know, and the guards are stupid. Am I to understand you are the commanding officer of this vessel?”
Classic Good Cop technique, Murphy thought, hating himself for wanting to thank the bastard for easing up on him. For the last week the words
from the Code had been running through his mind: I will give no information or take part in any action which might be harmful to my comrades … When questioned … I am bound to give only name, rank, service number, and date of birth. I will evade answering further questions to the utmost of my ability … The Code was like the Ten Commandments, an ideal ethical code, but who could live up to it? He thought back to a lecture at Annapolis by a Vietnam veteran, an aviator admiral named Ferguson, who had been shot down over Hanoi. He had been a plebe, and his roommate, Michael Pacino, had gotten up in front of the whole Brigade of Midshipmen to ask the admiral what he thought of the Code of Conduct. The upperclassmen and the Academy brass were ready to keelhaul him for asking such a wiseass question to so senior and venerated an officer about such a hallowed subject as the Code of Conduct. But Ferguson had taken the question.
“What do I think of the Code?”
he’d said.
“I think it’s a bunch of nice words written by old ladies who have never been in combat or taken prisoner.
“I am bound to give only name, rank, service number, and date of birth.” Let me tell you, guys, if Charlie wants to get some information out of you, by God you’re eventually going to tell him. A man can take only so much pain before he breaks. That’s any man. Folks, you saw my sketches of the torture gear, and with that stuff, I guarantee it, you’re gonna talk.
We tried to establish our own code. We’d resist for two beatings, two sessions. Then, halfway into the third beating we’d start giving the gooks a made-up story. They asked me who was in command of my aircraft carrier. After two torture sessions I told them it was Vice Admiral Mickey Mouse, and his Chief of Staff was Captain Donald Duck. That held them down for about a day, until they realized I’d made fools out of them. It only took them another two beatings to get the real information, but at least we made them work for every bit they got. The
Code of Conduct assumes you’re held by civilized folks serving tea and asking if there’s any information you’d care to betray your country with. Bullshit, son. That answer your question?”
Pacino had nodded and taken his seat while the hall full of malevolent upperclassmen hissed him.
Murphy stared into the interrogator’s eyes.
“My name is Murphy. Sean Murphy. Commander, United States Navy. I’d tell you my service number, but why the hell would you care?”
He expected a slap, a punch in the face, or perhaps a nudge in his bullet wound. At the very least, a shove back down to the hard deck. But Tien just smiled.
“Actually, Commander, we know all about you. The ship’s office, you know. Has all the personnel files, complete with photos and backgrounds. We know who the officers are, who the weapons chief petty officer is, who the chief engineer is. I take it you forgot to burn those records with the other secret papers.”
Murphy said nothing. Tien went on.
“I only ask, Commander, because we intend to repair your ship so you can leave port and return home.”
Murphy realized he was being manipulated. He tried to keep his face impassive, but apparently, in spite of himself, his expression had eased for a moment, giving Tien an opening.
“Yes, that’s right. We just want to do what we can to repair your damage so you can drive out on your own power. After all, at a time such as this, we hardly need world public opinion against us, not when the thugs of the White Army are advancing on our People’s government. How would you feel, sir, if Mexican troops had Washington surrounded? Before we complete your repairs, we have only one requirement of you. You know now how concerned we are with world opinion, and with our image with your own government.
I do not know why your Navy sent you to spy on us, but I certainly hope it was not for the benefit of the White Army. I digress. I merely want you to record a statement. A statement to go on record that elements of your military ordered your ship here to spy on us, and that this shows the support of America for the Japanese-sponsored White Army. You will call for an end to this violation of international law and ask for help for my nation, telling how humanely we have treated you, and how we will be releasing your ship.”
So, Murphy thought, here it was. And it now seemed obvious that the P.L.A and the Chinese government would try to make the most of the opportunity of catching the Tampa violating her territorial waters. He also had to at least consider the possibility of release, and how he was obligated to his men to do what he could to save their lives.
But the Code—I will make no oral or written statements disloyal to my country and its allies or harmful to their cause. How could he make a statement damning his command or his country?
“I’ve taken the liberty of having one of your officers make the same statement I want you to make,” Tien said.
“Of course, we could use his statement, but we both know it would be much more effective coming from you. In thi
s situation, Captain, we need each other.”
Tien stood then and opened the stateroom door. A guard wheeled in a television set and video tape player on a stand. The unit was plugged into an outlet and the tape was rolled. Murphy tried to keep the emotions out of his face, but when he saw Chuck Griffin’s miserable face on the screen, he gave it up.
Griffin, of all people. Griffin, the most “conservative” member of the wardroom, an advocate of the use of military force in international crises. Griffin, in fact, had argued just a week ago that the United States should enter the war on the side of the White Army and use any means necessary to subdue Beijing. Now his face showed fear. His eyes were no longer young, they were eyes that had seen physical torture. He looked emaciated, as if he had lost at least fifty pounds. There were no discernible marks on his face, but it looked like he had been
made-up. Pancake makeup could cover bruises and cuts. Griffin’s face wore the look of a broken man as he read off the confession:
“… our heavily armed and battle-ready nuclear attack submarine was ordered into the territorial waters of the peaceful nation of the People’s Republic of China. I deeply regret the naked act of aggression that the U.S. Navy has committed in this clear violation of international law in support of the Army of White Aggression …”
Murphy knew Griffin would never be reading that statement unless he had been tortured beyond human endurance. Every man had his breaking point, himself included. The terrible question was, when …? Finally, after going on for twenty agonizing minutes, the tape ended. Griffin’s voice sinking to a whisper as the picture dissolved into snow.
“I’ve had the text written for you on a TelePrompTer,” Tien said.
“Fighter Sai, bring in the camera.”
Murphy watched as the guard set up the video camera and the TelePrompTer and the lights. A boom microphone was suspended over his head. The TelePrompTer flashed up with text, the large letters spelling MY NAME IS COMMANDER SEAN MURPHY.
The lights came on, the video camera was trained on Murphy’s face, and leader Tien Tse-Min smiled at him encouragingly. Murphy took a breath, looked into the camera, and began … “I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America and to the Republic for which it stands—” He never felt Tien’s fist crashing into his face, just the odd vision of the camera and lights and TelePrompTer slowly fading away from him, sinking into a thick blackness.
Attack Of The Seawolf Page 14