Attack Of The Seawolf

by Michael Dimercurio

  the top of the structure where he could see clearly yet not be picked off from the deck. He pulled the covers off both ends of the sniper scope, unplugged the muzzle, checked the magazine and sighted in on the mooring lines amidships.

  It took two full magazines to cut the ship’s mooring lines so that the ship was free, drifting in the oily slip.

  “Hey, Commander,” von Brandt said as he climbed back down into the cockpit, “we’re underway. Shift colors and sound a long blast on the ship’s whistle.”

  “Not funny. I need to look, need to see the current and the ship’s position. If I’m gonna drive this thing out of here I need to visualize the slip.”

  “Okay, but make it quick. A snapshot.”

  Von Brandt wanted to raise third platoon. The escape plan called for a man to crouch in the aft escape trunk and maintain communications between the sail and the men in the engine room It wasn’t likely the Chinese would anticipate commandos trying to control the ship from the aft end. More likely they would heavily defend the control room, figuring it to be the key to the ship. But if the nukes aft could get propulsion they could take control of the rudder, and with Lennox in the sail and communications with the walkie-talkies, Lennox and the nukes alone could drive the ship away from the pier. It was all up to third platoon now, von Brandt thought as he tried the radio, knowing that the VHF signal could not penetrate the steel of the hull but would be heard by the SEAL in the escape trunk.

  “Stinky, this is Baron. You up?”

  No answer. Von Brandt crawled back on the top of the sail to get a look at the aft deck. Still no guards on deck, but there was also no sign of Petty Officer David “Stinky” Welsh. Probably too early for the engine room to be taken, von Brandt thought. He climbed back into the cockpit and looked out over the forward deck. Still nothing on deck.

  So far, at least from what could be seen from the sail, the operation had gone off as planned—until the armored column of P.L.A troops raced

  up the pier and screeched to a halt on the other side of the burned out hulk of the Udaloy. Four armored personnel carriers, three tanks and five units of self-propelled artillery began training their weapons on the sail while heavily armed P.L.A troops deployed from the APCs. Typical, von Brandt thought. He spoke into his lip mike:

  “Stinky, if you’re up, we’ve got company, man.

  Hurry the hell up with the nuclear power.”

  Lennox popped his head up for a moment then dropped back down, his voice coming over von Brandt’s headset.

  “Shit.”

  “Deep,” von Brandt added, setting up to shoot at the P.L.A troops.

  “Those troops will be opening fire any second.”

  “What troops?”

  “You didn’t see them on the pier? What’d you say ‘shit’ for?”

  “The frigate astern,” Lennox said.

  “Didn’t you see it? It’s getting underway …”

  “Tanks on the pier, a sub-killing frigate started up and pulling into the bay. A perfect end to a shitty day.”

  “Could be worse,” Lennox said.

  “How?”

  “We could have helicopters inbound,” Lennox said.

  Van Brandt was about to agree when the sound of helicopter rotors sounded from the distance, the chopping sound beating out a death knell for the operation.

  Lieutenant Phillip McDermitt was a red-haired, freckle-faced Irishman, slightly heavy for his height but the strongest in his platoon, leading his men in every physical activity the SEALs trained in. An Academy grad, McDermitt was single and known as a womanizer or a romantic, depending on the observer’s point-of-view. His radio handle was “He-She,” from an incident in Naples, Italy, when the gorgeous “lady” he had picked up for the evening had turned out to be a transvestite. Still hungover, he had told the story the next day, forgetting that SEALs have long memories.

  The nickname had stuck ever since, in spite of his move from the west coast to the east. Before his arrival at SEAL Team Seven a phone call had been received at Black Bart’s desk informing them that Lieutenant Phillip McDermitt was to be addressed properly. When he first reported to Morris’s office, in dress blues, at rigid attention, Morris had smiled and said, “Welcome aboard, He-She.” McDermitt had cursed but taken it like a man. He had no choice.

  McDermitt was the first SEAL down the hatch of the aft escape trunk after Morris shot the Chinese guard who had been lying in ambush inside. McDermitt dropped the five feet to the bottom of the spherical escape trunk without using the ladder, his feet coming to rest on the body of the Chinese guard. For a moment he considered dropping the body inside the ship to see if it drew fire but decided against that, pushing the body aside with his foot, making sure the hatch to the deck below was clear. His chief, Lyie “Padre” Gerald, landed next to him as McDermitt tossed the grenade down to the deck and immediately began to climb down the ladder. A second later the grenade exploded.

  Lube Oil Vaughn had noticed the guards’ alarm when the first explosion had rocked the ship. For the first time in days, Vaughn felt a sliver of hope—a rescue mission had to be underway. He had kept a careful eye on the anxious guard, who seemed distracted enough to be overcome. Vaughn made eye contact with his reactor operator and electrical operator. Both men were obviously thinking the same thing, nodding at Vaughn knowingly. When the second explosion came, the guard was momentarily knocked against the jamb of the door to maneuvering, and without thinking, Vaughn launched himself toward the armed guard, wondering where the guard’s AK-47 bullet would hit him. The reactor operator and electrical operator were just behind him. The TO went

  low, grabbing the muzzle of the AK-47 while the EO came at the guard from his other shoulder In a crazy instant that extended into what seemed an hour Vaughn saw the guard’s throat coming closer, his fingers wrapping around it, the guard’s head slowly turning to look at Vaughn, his eyes registering what was happening to him.

  Time seemed to speed back up as the force of Vaughn’s body impacted the guard. The guard’s head hit the wall with a cracking noise, Vaughn plowed into the guard’s chest, the man’s weight dragged him toward the deck. By then the TO had a grip on the AK-47 and the EO was pulling the guard’s feet up, dumping him to the deck. Vaughn saw the AK-47 barrel rising, then turning back down toward the deck-the TO had the rifle and was aiming at the guard. For the third time in a minute an explosion filled the room, the rifle-muzzle blast inches from Vaughn’s face as the TO fired into the guard’s chest. Vaughn’s ears rang as he pulled himself upright. He grabbed the AK-47 from the TO, ready to shoot the next Chinese he saw, when the grenade exploded below the after escape hatch. Not five seconds after they had overpowered the one guard, the other guard on the upper level had lobbed a grenade.

  McDermitt shut his eyes for an instant after tossing a grenade to the deck of the aft compartment. It exploded directly below him, but it was a simple flash bang unit producing an incredibly loud explosion, a blinding flash and a roomful of smoke, but no other damage. Under the cover of the grenade’s smoke McDermitt came down the ladder two steps at a time, the other SEALs behind him. By the time the smoke cleared the seven SEALs of third platoon were in-hull and running from the impact point of the grenade.

  Four of them bolted for the ladder to the lower levels, where a two-man team would clear the middle level and a second team would secure the lower level of the aft compartment. McDermitt and Chief Gerald

  hurried for the walled-in room aft of the escape trunk—the maneuvering room that was the control for the entire propulsion plant and would be a key space to secure in order to get the Tampa out on its own power.

  As McDermitt approached the side-entrance door to the maneuvering room he saw the barrel of the Chinese AK-47 rifle coming down and forward, aimed right at him. McDermitt pointed his MAC-10, his finger tensed on the trigger guard as he ran toward the door and saw the edge of a head in the clearing smoke, and aimed for it … When the heavyset broad-shouldered man in black pajama
s, black ski mask, black vest and black submachine gun materialized out of the smoke of the grenade blast Vaughn nearly got off a round—when he realized that Chinese guards did not wear ski masks, did not stand over six feet tall and did not have eyes as blue as the ones staring at him.

  “Hold your damn fire,” the man’s voice boomed in a Mississippi accent, “we’re a SEAL team. We’re here to get this ship the hell out.”

  Vaughn felt like hugging the commando, who seemed to be sizing him up.

  “You the engineer?”

  “Yes.”

  “How fast can you start up the reactor and get ready to crank out power?”

  “By the book, an hour, for you, the main engines at full RPMs in a couple minutes.”

  The SEAL handed Vaughn a walkie-talkie and a Beretta pistol.

  “I’ll be back,” he said, and disappeared.

  “Have the scram breakers reset and latch all rods and pull,” Vaughn ordered.

  The rods were already coming out of the core as the muffled sound of automatic rifle fire sounded from the lower levels of the aft compartment. The reactor power meter’s needle came off zero and rose

  to forty percent. The steam in the headers filled the space with roaring heat and the sound of the turbines whining at thirty-six hundred RPM aft of maneuvering was the sweetest sound Vaughn could remember hearing.

  CHAPTER 20

  SUNDAY, 12 MAY

  1858 GREENWICH MEAN TIME

  go had bay, XlNGANG harbor P.L.A navy pier 1A, USS tampa 0258 beijing time

  Ensign Ted “Buffalo” Sauer, the leader of the first platoon, was worried as he glanced at the forward deck of the Tampa. The first problem was the slick sonar dome of the ship at the bow—its surface was incredibly slippery, the combination of smooth plastic, slimy buildup from the ship’s days in port and the oily scum from the Chinese bay on top of the slime. The dome would be tough to climb, the only available path right up the centerline. But that would cause their insertion aboard the Tampa to be a single-file climb, leaving them naked. That led to the second problem, the guards on the deck. One guard had been smoking a cigarette, leaning on the forward leading-edge of the sail. At least one other guard, perhaps two, was visible on top of the sail in the bridge cockpit, and they had an excellent firing position for killing off the first platoon.

  Buffalo could only hope Morris would come through, and that the Javelins would fly straight and not forget to explode.

  Buffalo pulled his MAC-10 out of his vest while still floating in the bay and unplugged the muzzle, motioning to Chief Buckethead Williams to do likewise.

  The sudden roar of the Javelin explosion on the destroyer to their

  right slammed their eardrums, the mushroom cloud lighting up the sky. The platoon ducked underwater, waiting for the second impact.

  Soon the second Javelin hit, the crippled destroyers filling the sky with pulsating fireballs. The second detonation, stronger than the first, blew flames and shrapnel onto the deck of the Tampa, even knocking one of the guards by the sail overboard. Buffalo and Buckethead opened fire on the guards, shooting in three round bursts, and Buffalo dropped the two remaining guards on the deck.

  It was then that the RPG exploded on the port lip of the cockpit. Buffalo could see one guard drop to the deck. He didn’t wait for the second. He motioned the platoon on, and as he kept his machine gun aimed at the deck, four of his shooters made their way slowly up the slick slope of the bow, gaining ground at the more level hull near the hatch. They crouched under the cover of the sail, rapidly pulling gear out of their combat vests. The SEALs were vulnerable but it had to be done. When the four shooters from his platoon had their weapons deployed, he and Buckethead tucked their guns in their vests and climbed the slope of the sonar dome. Once on deck, Buffalo pulled out his ski mask, radio and MAC-10, replacing the clip with fresh ammunition. He tested his radio, then ordered the platoon to go below.

  As usual on a SEAL OP the commander of a unit went first—SEALs did not believe in leading from the rear. Buffalo took the ladder rungs two at a time and dropped silently to the deck, leveling his machine gun at the approaches to the ladder. The space seemed deserted. He was in a narrow passageway running fore-and-aft.

  At six feet five inches tall and two hundred and fifty pounds, “Buffalo” (short for “Water Buffalo”) Sauer was the proverbial gentle giant, except on an OP. His moniker and radio handle came from his inordinate need for water—drinking, not swimming, although some thought the latter was linked in some mysterious fashion to the former,

  and hence his joining up with the SEALs. Unlike Morris, Buffalo Sauer seemed quiet to passive on the outside, but Morris and those around Sauer knew that that had nothing to do with the toughness inside, all of which Sauer needed now.

  He ordered the assembled platoon to go, and covered the ladder way to the hatch above while the men proceeded up the stairs to the middle level. As he joined them he thought he heard something in the captain’s stateroom, some sort of struggle, but his orders were to stick to the plan. The upper level of the forward compartment was Commander Morris’ assignment To stay here would put the team in danger of being in the path of Morris’ bullets. Buffalo continued down the steep staircase to the middle level, emerging into a narrow passageway that ran the length of the compartment.

  He sent a two-man team into a door leading to the petty officers’ quarters, a second team to the port crew berthing rooms, while he and the remaining men continued aft along the passageway to its termination at the crew’s mess. For a space that should be holding the entire ship’s crew, the level so far had been life less, as had the upper level. It wasn’t possible that all the guards had been killed when he and the platoon had come aboard … or could the Chinese have evacuated the ship before the SEALs got there?

  Buffalo and Buckethead slowly approached the mess, one of the largest spaces aboard, roughly the size of a small restaurant. The last time Buffalo had raided a 688-class ship the men in the mess had been watching a movie. Taking it had been easy. But now the room could be a holding pen for several dozen prisoners, guarded by ten or more armed Chinese. Buffalo looked into Buckethead Williams’s eyes. No question, the man was pumped, his forehead broken out in sweat, his pupils dilated.

  For a moment Buffalo wished he could just lob a stun grenade into the mess. He had considered it when he and Morris had drawn up the assault

  plan but Morris had vetoed it. The prisoners would be suffering from lack of food, respiratory infections and weakness.

  A stun grenade that would paralyze a Chinese guard for a half hour might well kill a man suffering from pneumonia and starvation.

  As Buffalo neared the end of the passageway, he could see men in the crew’s mess. He waved Buckethead in behind him as he accelerated into a sprint and ran into the room.

  The next seconds seemed hours, the effect of the shot of adrenaline as he crashed into the room, a world of slow motion. Every bench was full of seated men, all wearing blue coveralls, most with their heads on the table tops. The floor space between tables was crammed with bodies, also wearing the blue submariner’s coveralls. Their faces were paper white, thin, emaciated. A memory was keyed in his mind; the faces reminded him of the pictures he’d seen depicting the prisoners in Nazi death camps. The next impression that hit him was the awful stench. The men had been in a sweatbox for days, sitting in their own filth. It was like a stockyard.

  Buffalo looked up to the aft bulkhead. Along the wall a row of Chinese guards stood at semi-attention, all wearing Mao jackets and liberty caps with the red star in the center. The guards’ faces were starting to move in reaction to the entry of the SEALs. The next sound Buffalo heard was automatic rifle fire, the cough of a close MAC-10. The sound was coming from his own gun, his body reflexively aiming and firing. The chests of the guards spotted red as the bullets smashed into them. Surprise had neutralized them—for a moment.

  He heard a rapid series of shots from over his right shoulder, gunshots tha
t were not the rapid blips of the silenced MAC-lOs but the deep-throated barking of an AK-47. He pivoted, bringing up his weapon, and saw a guard standing against the forward bulkhead in the blind corner along the port side. The guard was emptying his clip, shooting every round he had, not at the SEALs but at the helpless, prostrate men

  on the deck and at the tables. Buffalo, in a rage, leveled his MAC-10 at the guard, and fired ten rounds into the man’s chest, knowing he should have budgeted only three but the fury of the moment had taken over. He had a brief impression of the other SEALs targeting the guard, the man’s chest exploding, yet he continued to fire into the prisoners, as he sank to the deck. At least a dozen men had been hit or killed.

  Buffalo started to call Doc Sheffield to attend them while he and Buckethead took the remainder of the middle level deck. The call was interrupted by the sound of rifle fire coming from the starboard side of the middle level. Officers’ country. He reloaded, checked Buckethead and ran forward to the passageway and toward the door to the wardroom. He took a deep breath, allowing himself just a moment to try to clear his mind of the awful scene he’d just left and prepare himself for what was coming.

  Jack Morris shielded his eyes as “Cowpie” Clites’ acetylene torch burned through the side of the forward escape trunk. They were forced to cut through it rather than exit by the lower hatch, which led down to the crew’s mess. With the hostages being held there, an entering team would be shot by the guards. Finally, Clites and “Pig” Wilson pulled in the circle of steel cut by the torch. Morris stepped into the navigation room, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the comparative brightness of the compartment’s fluorescent lights. He felt the strange sensation of his mind fissioning into two separate but parallel parts, one side focused on the action of the present, a second on recording and analyzing. The forward compartment, as Morris knew from his raids on other 688-class submarines, took up roughly the forward forty percent of the submarine.