Attack of the Seawolf

CHAPTER 19

Chief von Brandt hauled the heavy sniper rifle in one arm and Commander Lennox in the other as he ran forward, dodging the piles of metal and shrapnel lying on the Tampa’s oily deck. Baron von Brandt was barely in his thirties, a short man with a deep tan and the round face of a mischievous schoolboy. Baron was also an electronics technician by training, but his value to the SEAL team, aside from his marksman’s skills, was his ability to fly any aircraft, including helicopters, jets, ultralights, and even supersonic interceptors or multi-engined transports. He had been given the assignment of gaining the high ground and setting up a sniper station. On a submarine, of course, the only high point was the bridge at the top of the sail, nicely cleared out by Morris’s first RPG shot. But there was no guarantee that the bridge had been permanently cleared of armed Chinese. The tunnel to the control room could admit any number of guards from the upper deck of the forward compartment to the bridge cockpit, which meant a guard might be waiting for them on the bridge. Lennox would have to cover him on this one, von Brandt thought. The sniper rifle was too long and bulky to be of much use in taking out a close-range guard, and von Brandt would need to keep the sub’s deck clear until Lennox was safe in the bridge.

Von Brandt noted in his peripheral vision that the blown-off superstructure of the Udaloy would allow a firing position from the pier to the deck of the submarine. So they would have to reach the cover of the bridge in a hurry. As they got to the seaward side of the sail von Brandt pushed Lennox in front of him to the rungs of the steel footholds welded to the flank of the sail, the ladder from the cylindrical deck to the bridge above. Lennox began to climb the sheer side of the tall fin, clumsily holding his MAC-10 while climbing.

“Keep your finger in the trigger guard,” Baron said into his lip mike, “and be ready to take out anyone in the cockpit!”

Lennox’s choked voice acknowledged as he reached the top of the ladder and trained his muzzle right and left. His large body then vanished over the side of the cockpit.

“Anything?” Baron asked as he climbed the rungs of the ladder.

“It’s clear,” Lennox said, voice steadier.

Von Brandt jumped over the lip of the sail and ducked into the cockpit. At this height the heat from the destroyer’s fires was intense. He peered into the shadows of the cockpit, looking for a hidden guard.

None.

“Shut the hatch,” von Brandt ordered, pointing to the hatch to the control room below. Lennox pulled up the grating under their feet and pushed the heavy hatch until it shut.

“I can’t dog it from above,” he said.

“The operator is only on the interior.”

“Leave it. We’ll know if we’re getting company.

You stay low and wait. The only time I want your head to come up over the edge of the sail is when we’re ready to go.”

Von Brandt peered out over the lip of the sail for ward, then to either side. The deck of the ship was deserted. All three platoons had vanished down the hatches of the ship. Slowly Brandt climbed to the top of the sail from the aft bulkhead of the cockpit, keeping low to 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 pajamas, 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.