Seawolf Class

22

"We still don't know that one of our subs is out there," Knowles said. "And this damned thing could alert every PLA destroyer and submarine within ten miles that we're here."

He was referring to the banger, the small sonar transponder that dangled now over the side of the patrol boat on the end of a twelve-foot cable. For the past ten minutes Knowles had been crouched next to the case that held the battery and the signaling key, dutifully tapping out the coded contact message in Morse. The pulses of sound bearing that message were spreading throughout the surrounding waters. If an American sub were in the neighborhood, she would hear it.

But so, too, would those ASW ships on the horizon, just eight or ten miles away.

Morton stood next to him, watching the ships on the horizon through his binoculars. "We'll give it another five minutes," he decided. "Then we'll wait an hour and try again." He looked at the sky. The sun was just setting behind the mountains to the west, and twilight was shadowing the ocean. There was still plenty of light, however. "We may have to wait for full darkness before the sub drivers'll come in close enough for a pickup."

"If they come in. If they're willing to surface to take on our wounded."

"Yeah, Wheel," Chief Bohanski said from the railing nearby, using the SEALs' slang term for the skipper of a platoon. "Suppose they decide not to come? I mean, figure the economics…a half-billion-dollar submarine, or sixteen SEALs and some Taiwan commandos? Kind of a no-brainer, ain't it?"

"It's the Seawolf operating in this area, isn't it?" Jammer Logan said with a grin. "That's three billion dollars or so."

"I thought she was in Hong Kong."

"I imagine she put to sea," Bohanski said, "when the current unpleasantness began."

"Let's hope so," Morton said. "Because if someone doesn't come get us — and I don't care if it's Seawolf or a garbage scow — it's a long hike back to Taiwan."

Morton continued to study the entrance to the narrows between Liehyu and Kinmen. The PRC ships there appeared to be in complete confusion. He couldn't be sure, but he thought that several surface vessels were taking the crew off the Kilo-class sub that had just surfaced.

"Man, that has to hurt," Logan said, using his own binoculars at Morton's side. "Shooting yourself in the foot that way."

"The PLA doesn't have the experience we do of surface ASW forces working close together with submarine assets. And there's nothing like a little invasion to make things real confused."

"It looks like goddamn goat-fuck over there. That's a technical term, you know."

"Roger that."

"Hey, Skipper?"

"Hmm."

"The chief has a good point. Why would they risk an asset like a nuclear sub in a place like this? They ought to send in a couple of Mark Vs, or some SDVs."

"Mark Vs, or just about any other surface special warfare asset we have, are going to be vulnerable to PLA surface ships… or aircraft, for that matter. And SDVs have a limited range, and they still couldn't get the wounded out." He lowered the binoculars and shook his head. "No, a sub is our best hope. It can pop up, take us all on board in a few minutes, and be underwater again before the Chinese know we're here."

But he wondered. It would still be best to wait for nightfall, of course, but he was just now considering the possibility that there were Chinese submarines out there as well as American. If that Kilo boat was the only one in the area, great. She wasn't going anywhere, except possibly to the bottom. But one Kilo suggested the possibility that there were other Kilos as well, or some of the older Chinese boats, Romeos and Whiskeys. And any of them could be creeping up close at this very moment, homing on the sonar pulses Knowles was tapping into the sea.

Chances were, though, that the Chinese subs were scattered far afield, setting up a blockade of the Strait of Formosa or positioning themselves to intercept the U.S. Seventh Fleet when it arrived. He was more concerned about that destroyer off to the east than he was about more Chinese subs. Even so…

He'd read an account of an operation during the closing years of the Vietnam War, in 1972. An American Air Force officer had been shot down several miles behind enemy lines, at the beginning of a major North Vietnamese invasion, the "Easter Offensive," as it was called.

As it happened, that officer, a lieutenant colonel named Hambleton, had possessed highly classified information pertaining to U.S. ballistic missile strategy. It was imperative to get him out, because if the NVA got him, they would be sure to turn him over to Soviet advisers, and the secret data he possessed would be compromised.

Repeated efforts to reach Hambleton had failed, however. Helicopters had been shot down, and the crew of an OV-10 Bronco spotter plane was forced to eject behind enemy lines as well. In all, something like nine men had died trying to rescue one, and the command authority in charge of the rescue operation had all but written the officer off. After almost two weeks on the ground without food or fresh water, Hambleton was all but dead anyway.

One man, though, a Navy SEAL serving as an adviser to a team of South Vietnamese naval commandos, had refused to give up. He'd led a South Vietnamese team in and rescued one of the Bronco fliers. Then he and one South Vietnamese sergeant disguised themselves as Vietnamese and traveled upriver in a sampan, eventually reaching Hambleton and bringing him back. The odds were impossibly long, but the SEAL had done it, winning, in the process, the second of three Medals of Honor awarded to Navy SEALs in Vietnam.

The story — made into a movie starring Gene Hack-man years later — was one of those touchstones of SEAL history, a story every SEAL knew and remembered… even if Hollywood's version of things had rewritten the plot to eliminate the SEALs' part.

But the story also cast an interesting light on Jammer's question. How valuable was one man? Or sixteen? Or twenty-six?

How willingly should a submarine with 120 men on board risk itself for a handful of commandos?

There was no easy answer to that one. In wartime, sacrifices were made. In wartime, men were risked, and men were lost. But SEALs, ever since their inception at the beginning of the Vietnam era, and going back to the Navy Underwater Demolition Teams from which the SEALs had been formed, always operated under one rule of honor: They never left behind one of their own.

Navy submariners, Morton knew, operated under a similar philosophy. They took care of their own and would do anything possible to rescue stranded American military personnel.

"Better cease transmission, Knowles," he said. There was still no sign that the distant Chinese warships had noticed them, but he was growing increasingly nervous about the possibility of enemy subs in the area.

An American submarine might be willing to come here to pick them up, but he was damned if he was going to serve as bait for Chinese sub-hunters.

Twice in the past ten minutes Seawolf had slowed to less than twelve knots, giving the sonar shack a chance to listen for the acoustical homing signal from Blue Dragon, then accelerated once again in a short, sharp burst of speed. They ought to be very close now.

"Maneuvering, slow to five knots."

"Maneuvering, slow to five knots, aye, sir."

Garrett hit the speak button on the sound-powered phone. "Sonar, Conn. Get your ears on. What do you hear?"

"Conn, Sonar." There was a long pause. "Sir, we've lost the signal."

Damn! "Sonar, Conn, aye. Last bearing and range on Master Four-four?"

"Bearing two-nine-zero, range…close. About two miles, sir."

"Mr. Simms? What time is local sunset?"

"About eighteen-thirty hours at this latitude, sir." He glanced at the big clock on the control room bulkhead. "A few minutes ago, in fact. It'll be light for another forty minutes, though."

"Very well." He stepped up to the Mark 18 scope. "Up periscope."

He rode the scope as it slid up from its well, walking it about for a full 360 before bringing it to a halt on the indicated bearing.

The light was fading fast on the surface, which was one bit of good luck for the Seawolf, and there were no surface vessels close by. No… there was something. It looked like an armed trawler, a coastal patrol boat of perhaps two hundred tons, riding the swell perhaps a mile away.

"Radio Room, Conn."

"Radio Room, aye."

"See if you can raise Blue Dragon on their tactical frequency."

"Radio Room, aye aye, sir."

He watched the target a moment more. It appeared to be wallowing slowly in the swell, moving west toward the Xiamen shipping channel.

"Conn, Radio Room."

"Go ahead, Radio Room."

"Sir, we have Blue Dragon. They report they're in an armed trawler at—"

"We have them targeted. Tell them to prepare to transfer to the Seawolf. Tell them to move smart. We won't have much time."

"Aye aye, sir."

"You're surfacing, sir?" Ward asked.

"No choice," Garrett replied. "They have wounded."

"It's a pretty big risk."

Garrett was thinking of the last time he surfaced under the eyes of a hostile vessel. He'd come that close to court-martial that time. "Maybe. But our people up there are running out of options, and time."

"Conn, Radio Room. Message transmitted and acknowledged."

"Down scope!" As the periscope slid back into its well, Garrett looked at Ward and added, "I'm gambling that one submarine looks pretty much like another, at least to a casual observer. Chief of the Boat!"

"Yessir!" COB replied.

"Who on board has the most experience with Stingers?"

"That would be me, sir. And possibly the MAA."

"Okay. I want you and Yolander on the deck detail, with Stingers."

"Aye aye, Captain!"

"And tell off a deck detail. We need to hustle those people off their boat and get them belowdecks on the double. I don't want to be on the surface for more than fifteen minutes. Got that?"

"Got it, sir."

"Maneuvering. Come to course two-nine-zero, bearing on Master Four-four. Make revolutions for ten knots."

"Coming to course two-nine-zero, bearing on Master Four-four, aye. Make revolutions for ten knots, aye."

"All hands, this is the captain. Make preparations to surface."

Seawolf turned slightly, moving northwest through the murky water. Garrett kept his eyes on the bridge clock. At ten knots she would cross a mile in about six minutes. Coming up close alongside the SEAL boat, however, would still require more art than science. Sea-wolf could precisely target the patrol boat with a pulse from her active sonar, but if the SEAL transmission hadn't attracted enemy notice, a pulse from Seawolf's powerful bow sonar was certain to do so.

He waited out the minutes.

Another worry played at the edge of his thoughts. He remembered the discussion in the mess hall about the Japanese ship Ehime Maru, the Greeneville, and Commander Waddle. If Seawolf surfaced at just exactly the wrong spot, she could send the SEAL boat to the bottom.

"Maneuvering. Slow to steerage way. Up periscope!"

He rode the scope to the surface and walked it around. There! Less than two hundred yards ahead!

"Maneuvering, come to one-nine-two. Ahead slow…make revolutions for five knots."

"New course one-nine-zero, aye. Make revolutions for five knots, aye." He stepped back from the scope. "Bring us up."

"Now surface, surface!" The deck tilted beneath his feet.

"Sir!" Bohanski shouted, pointing north. "Submarine periscope off the starboard quarter!"

Morton swung around, raising his binoculars. Yes! A periscope was dragging a thin, white wake through the water a hundred yards away, getting closer. But was it Seawolf? Or a Chinese sub? The radio call over their tactical channel minutes ago had sounded like a voice from heaven, but there was no reason to begin singing hallelujahs just yet.

The top of the submarine's conning tower appeared above the waves, slowly growing taller…and taller… and taller. Definitely an American submarine, with a conning tower as high as it was long. And at the base of the sail forward, against the deck, there was the sloping, streamlining foot that marked her as a Sea-wolf-class submarine.

"There's our ride home, Chief," he said.

"She looks mighty damned good from here, sir."

"She'll look better when we're on board. Is everybody topside?"

"They're bringing up the wounded guys now."

"Very well." He turned his binoculars toward the

Kinmen-Liehyu channel, peering through the gathering twilight. No sign yet that the surfacing Seawolf had been noticed.

But it wouldn't be long now.

"Crack the hatch!"

Garrett stood back as an enlisted rating named Caswell turned the wheel and pushed the hatch up and back. Water sprayed down from the opening overhead, but both men scrambled up the ladder and onto the weather bridge.

Damage control parties had repaired the sail, plugging the cannon-shell holes and draining the flooded portions. The ocean, Garrett saw with a small tug of relief, had cleansed away all traces of Captain Lawless's bloody death.

Seawolf had come about and was moving south now, beneath a flame-red sky. The Chinese armed trawler was seventy yards ahead, just off the starboard bow. Through his binoculars Garrett could see a number of men clustered on the boat's deck, black-clad, black-faced.

And some of them were waving.

He picked up the intercom handset. "Maneuvering, Bridge!"

"Bridge, Maneuvering, aye!"

"Come right three degrees. Slow to two knots."

"Come right three degrees. Slow to two knots, aye, sir!"

"Bridge, this is Radar Watch. We're being painted. Search radar, at various frequencies. No weapon locks yet."

"Radar, Bridge. I copy that."

He heard a clatter from astern and turned in the cockpit. Sailors in bright orange life jackets were spilling out of the forward stores hatch and onto the deck just abaft of the sail. Ritthouser was supervising the extraction of four Stokes stretchers — coffinlike affairs that looked like they were made of chicken wire, used to transfer wounded personnel from ship to ship.

Two men, Dougherty and Yolander, carried bulky-looking pipes over their shoulders — Stinger antiair weapons. They took up positions well apart on the after deck, scanning the sky.

Seawolf faced three threats now: enemy submarines, surface vessels, and antisubmarine warfare aircraft. The closest known enemy sub was still ten miles away, as were the nearest surface ships. No aircraft had been reported on radar.

But aircraft could reach the Seawolf from over the horizon and from any quarter in a scant minute or two.

And they would be coming. And soon.

Seawolf gentled toward the Chinese trawler, closing the gap between them. Someone in the trawler's pilot house was doing his bit as well, edging the clumsy looking craft closer to Seawolf. Soon the trawler was off the starboard beam and ten yards off. Someone on the forward deck hurled a monkey fist. Someone on Seawolf's aft deck grabbed the line and began pulling it in, hauling in the heavier piece of line to which it was tied. In moments a line-handling party on Seawolf had the line secure to a deck cleat and was dragging the trawler in close alongside.

"Conn! This is Radar Watch."

"Go ahead."

"Sir, I have a target, designated Romeo One-five, bearing one-zero-eight, range five miles. Speed one-five-zero, on an intercept course."

Garrett turned his binoculars in the indicated direction, toward Kinmen. There it was… a Kaman SH-F2. Someone had picked Seawolf up on their surface radar and was coming to investigate.

"I've got Romeo One-five on visual. It's an ASW helo." He turned, leaning over the lip of the cockpit. "Deck there! Hostile aircraft approaching from the southeast!"

He saw Dougherty wave acknowledgment as both Stinger men repositioned themselves, facing port. Several SEALs had already leaped across from the trawler's forward deck and were helping to pass the Stokes stretchers back to the Chinese boat. Sailors from the Seawolf were helping other men across.

Garrett watched the incoming helicopter. The ASW torpedoes it carried had a much longer range than the Stinger antiair missiles. The one thing the Seawolves had going for them now was the fact that the Chinese were going to be damn careful this time. They'd just scored an own goal and nailed one of their own subs. They wouldn't be eager to do that a second time and would come in first for a close look.

The Stingers might be a surprise, too. Kilo-class boats were reported to have antiair missiles stowed in a launcher on the aft portion of the conning tower, behind the periscopes, but of all the submarines in the world, they were the only boats to have antiair capability. The Chinese helo crew wouldn't be expecting shoulder-fired AA missiles on an American sub. He hoped.

The helo dropped lower, skimming the waves a thousand yards off, turning slightly to reveal the PRC markings on its tail boom.

"I've got tone!" Dougherty yelled from the deck. That meant the heat-seeking head of the Stinger missile inside his launcher had picked up the helicopter's engine exhaust and now had locked on target.

"Take him down, COB!"

"Clear behind me!" Dougherty yelled. The Stinger launcher had a nasty back-blast, which would burn anyone standing behind the COB and likely send him tumbling into the sea as well.

A sharp hiss split the air, and the missile streaked out from Seawolf's aft deck, riding a white plume of smoke. The contrail reached toward the helicopter, swinging sharply as the target abruptly jinked to the left and popped a flare. For a stomach-twisting moment it looked like the missile was going to miss, decoyed by the hot-glowing flare.

But it was already too late, the missile too close. The contrail connected with the Kaman's tail boom and exploded with a white flash.

The helicopter staggered, then slewed into a hard spin as the tail rotor broke away in a cloud of debris. Tilting wildly, trailing smoke and burning fragments, the helo slammed into the water half a mile off the port beam.

The deck crew and SEALs cheered. They were swaying the first of the casualties across to Seawolf's deck now.

There was no time for celebrations, however.

"Conn! Sonar!"

"Sonar, Conn. Go ahead."

"We have company, Captain. Sierra One-eight-seven is making revolutions now for forty knots, bearing one-five-five and on an intercept course. Sounds like he's in a hell of a hurry." A beat. "Captain, we're redesignating Sierra One-eight-seven as Master Four-five."

"Sonar, Conn. That's four-zero knots?"

"Four-zero knots, aye, sir.

Which meant that Sierra One-eight-seven — no, Master Four-five now — was not a diesel-powered Kilo. Its combination of stealthy characteristics and high speed could only mean one thing.

The Chinese Akula was out there, closing now, and fast.

The question was how long it would take the Akula to get a firing solution. Seawolf had minutes now, no more, before she could expect a torpedo salvo from the enemy.

"Deck there! Hurry it along, on the double! It's time to get the hell out of Dodge!"

They were bringing the second wounded man across now.

"Get the rest of them across, Jammer," Morton said. "Sergeant Zhu? With me."

He led Zhu below decks to the mess deck, where the prisoners remained trussed up hand and foot. He drew his SEAL knife and jammed it, point down, into the wood of the mess table.

Seven pairs of eyes stared at him, with expressions ranging from fury to terror.

"Tell them we're leaving them now, Sergeant. I'll leave this knife so they can free themselves."

The plastic binders on their wrists could not be broken or untied. They had to be cut. It would take one of the prisoners a few minutes, at least, to free himself and the others.

And by then the SEALs and their allies would be gone.

Shangxiao Hsing Ling Ma had been hovering over the sonar officers for some minutes now, as if to wring every scrap of information out of them by the sheer emotional force of his presence. They'd easily picked up the sounds of the enemy submarine minutes ago, as it sprinted at forty knots, stopped, sprinted again, stopped… as though searching for something.

Headquarters had reported the presence of enemy commandos ashore in Fujian Province. Hsing assumed the American submarine Seawolf must be attempting to pick them up.

The American captain was clever. He'd torpedoed the hapless Tiger Leaping, then raced for the sound of her broken hull. Red Star and Monsoon had followed… apparently assuming that the American had continued north through the Xiamen-Liehyu passage.

With a radio mast above water, he'd picked up the news minutes later. A helicopter at the north end of the channel had spotted Jijie Feng—the Kilo-class Monsoon—close by the fleet bombarding Kinmen. Someone had panicked — heads would roll for that! — and loosed an ASW torpedo. The Monsoon had been hit and badly damaged. She'd surfaced at once, and the crew was being taken off save for the damage control parties on board, but she was out of the hunt for now.

The American sub had surfaced, apparently to make its rendezvous.

The range was extreme — over twenty-five kilometers — but it was worth a shot.

"Fire number one!" he ordered. "Fire number two!"

It would at least frighten the Americans, and they might even get lucky.

"Bridge! Sonar! Torpedoes in the water, Set-53! I have two, repeat two contacts, bearing one-five-five, originating Master Four-five, range thirty-two thousand yards, speed forty-five knots."

Set-53 was a standard 650mm torpedo, with a range of fifty-four nautical miles at a speed of thirty knots, or twenty-two miles at forty-five knots. Thirty-two thousand yards was a hair under sixteen nautical miles.

At that range and forty-five knots, it would take over twenty minutes for the torpedoes to arrive. Seawolf had time.

But not much.

"Bridge, Radar!"

"Go ahead, Radar."

"One of the surface ships is getting under way, sir. Designate Romeo One-six. Bearing zero-nine-four, range thirty-seven thousand. Intercept course at twenty-five knots."

"Bridge, Sonar. We confirm that. Redesignate Romeo One-six as Master Four-six."

The Luda-class destroyer; a hulking, sharp-edged brute. He could see the mustache of her bow wake in the gathering gloom.

She had spotted the Seawolf and was thundering on, an all-out charge.

Correction. Seawolf didn't have much time at all….