Seawolf Class

4

"As stated at the beginning of these proceedings, Lieutenant, this is a Board of Inquiry and not a court-martial. The findings of this board may be applicable in later judicial hearings, and may in fact be used in formal charges and specifications at a later date, but should not, of themselves, be taken as censure or disciplinary action.

"We are interested in learning all pertinent details of the military action of September twenty-third of this year, part of which was carried out under your command. You are not required to answer our questions, although we do, of course, enjoin you to cooperate fully with our investigation.

"You are free to have legal counsel of your choice present or to have one appointed for you by the office of the Judge Advocate General. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir, I do."

"Do you wish at this time to have legal counsel present?"

"No, sir, I do not." He'd decided there was no point. Either he'd made the correct decisions that night, step by step, or he had not. He'd committed no crimes, at least not under the articles of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, and doubted that a court-martial was in the works — unless, of course, he demanded one later.

His career was on the line, certainly, but a lawyer wouldn't have been much help here. He knew what he'd done that night, and why, and had no interest in concealing or twisting the facts to his favor.

"Very well. You may be seated."

Morton took his seat, a straight-backed chair alone in the center of a large expanse of emptiness in the sparsely furnished room. In front of him, behind a wide desk, three naval officers in dress whites — a commander and two four-stripers, captains — took a final shuffle through the papers before them, as though reluctant to begin. He had the impression that these proceedings were as unpleasant for them as it was for him.

The commander, seated on the far left as Morton faced the board, clasped his hands and leaned forward. His name was Kenneth Randall, and he wore the SEAL Budweiser above row upon row of brightly colored ribbons. "Lieutenant Morton," he said with grave deliberation, "we've so far covered the events of the VBSS up through the time when you and two of your men took control of the Kuei Mei's bridge. We would like to discuss now your decision to take the freighter's helm and ram the Chinese Kilo-class submarine then cruising off your starboard beam."

"Yes, sir."

"Would you tell us, please, in your own words, what happened?"

It was all in the report he'd already submitted, and in his opening statement to the board at the commencement of the inquiry two days before. But the formula had to be followed all the way through to the end.

"The wheel was turning free," he told them. "We were in a rough following sea, and my first thought was that we could broach to. I guess, considering what happened, that might have been a good thing… another way of stopping the freighter without actually blowing her up. But I didn't think about that at the time.

"My orders at that point were to contact SOCOM via the Pittsburgh's communications suite, but we were out of communication with the Pittsburgh. My interpretation of my orders was that I was to take such action as I deemed necessary to delay or prevent the delivery of contraband military cargo to the continental United States, either by destroying that cargo myself or by arranging for Coast Guard or other U.S. forces to take control of it."

"You've already explained that you were unable to establish contact with higher command authority," Randall said. "Tell us about why you decided to put the Kuei Mei's helm hard over to the right."

"Everything was happening at once. The Kilo surfaced just as we were sorting things out on the bridge, and she presented all sorts of complications to the mission, of course. She was pacing us maybe fifty yards off our starboard beam. We couldn't outrun her. She was probably already radioing for help, if her skipper'd figured out something was wrong aboard the freighter. I assumed she surfaced because she'd picked up sounds of gunfire on her sonar and popped up to investigate. Maybe she tried to radio the freighter and came up when we didn't answer. Anyway, I didn't see too damned many options. Sir."

The man sitting in the middle of the trio facing him looked up from his papers to meet Morton's eye. He was Captain Edward Chaffee, and he'd come all the way out to Coronado from the office of the Joint Chiefs at the Pentagon to sit on this board. He was, Morton sensed, the most critical of the three board members… and he was certainly the most senior. "And what, Lieutenant," Chaffee asked, "did you see as your options at the time?"

"Well, sir, I could have waited until the sub put a boarding party across. In that eventuality, I could have directed my men to fight them off, though they were already involved in close-quarters combat with the crew of the Kuei Mei. Or I could have ordered the VBSS party to E and E immediately."

"And why didn't you take that option?"

"Because it would have left my men sitting ducks on the water. There were still a number of heavily armed men on board the freighter, and the Kilo could have maneuvered to a position to take our CRRC under fire. We might have been able to slip away in the rain and heavy seas, but that didn't seem to be a viable choice at the time. In any case, the Chinese would have been able to secure the freighter and her cargo intact, leaving my mission only partially complete. Sir."

"What about opening fire on the Chinese boarding party?" the third man behind the desk asked. He was Captain Samuel Polowski, and though considerably

Chaffee's junior in seniority, he pulled a fair amount of weight on the board. He was from the Naval Amphibious Base's SPECWAR division office and, though he was no longer in the teams, he wore the SEAL Budweiser.

The fact that two of the three men on the board were SEALs was comforting. They'd been there, at the sword's point. They knew what an op was like, what it was like to be under fire, what it was like to have men under you whose lives depended on your clear thinking. Morton knew Randall slightly; he had a rep for pulling through as 2IC on a rough covert op in Lebanon a few years back. Morton didn't know Polowski personally but knew his rep. He'd been CO of Team Three until his promotion several years ago, and before that he'd racked up an impressive list of decorations and commendations. Chaffee was the only real unknown.

He would also be the most political of the officers on the board, and the one Morton would have to convince.

But right now Morton wasn't sure what Polowski was getting at. "Sir?"

"You could have had your men open fire on the Chinese submarine from the decks of the freighter. They would not have been able to board under those circumstances."

"Well, sir, at the time that seemed like just the sort of provocation we'd been ordered to avoid. We were there to ascertain whether the Kuei Mei was carrying contraband cargo and to take appropriate action as directed by a higher command authority once our inspection was complete. Our orders did not encompass the possibility of getting into a firefight with a foreign national submarine. The idea was to avoid military confrontation. In any case, our ammo loadout was pretty light. We wouldn't have been able to sustain a firefight against any kind of odds for very long."

Polowski made a note on the paper in front of him. "I see. Go on."

"But it did look at the time as though the sub was going to put a boarding party across. If I didn't want to E and E, if I didn't want to fight, then all I could do was make it hard for the crew of the sub to get aboard. That's when I took the wheel."

"Were you considering outrunning the Kilo, Lieutenant?" Chaffee asked.

"Well, it crossed my mind, but I knew I wouldn't be able to play that game for very long."

"Why not?"

"Sir, the Kuei Mei was a Zhandou 59-class cargo ship, with a length overall of 328 feet, a beam of forty-three feet, and a deadweight tonnage of something like forty-seven hundred tons. Top speed of maybe twelve, twelve and a half knots.

"A Kilo-class submarine — the standard Russian export model — has a length of 241 feet, a beam of about thirty-two feet, and a dwt of twenty-three hundred tons on the surface. She also has a top speed of twelve knots on the surface… about twenty submerged. With two diesel engines to the cargo ship's one, half the tonnage, and three-quarters of the length, she has a lot more power-to-mass. With a narrower beam and a shorter loa, the Kilo is a lot more maneuverable. Only reasonable, of course. The Kilo is a combat vessel, while the cargo ship is, well…a truck."

"So you weren't actually trying to ram the Kilo?" Polowski said. "Just what was it you were you trying to do?"

"I'm not actually sure, sir," Morton replied. "I couldn't outmaneuver the sub, I knew that. Couldn't outrun her. I could make it hard for her to put a boat with a boarding party across… at least until the sub skipper got tired of playing games with me. I guess that's what occurred to me first."

"When you put the helm over," Chaffee asked, "were you trying to ram the Kilo then?"

Morton let his attention stray to the wall behind the board. Early morning sunlight spilled through two tall windows, framing an array of framed photographs— President Clinton, the Secretary of the Navy, the CNO — as well as a large print of a famous battle in the Age of Sail, the USS Constellation against the French Insurgente off the island of Nevis in 1799. There was a sense there of longstanding tradition, of military duty, and of the hierarchy of command responsibility.

His reply to the question, he knew well, could end his naval career. Whatever the details of the operation, of the freighter's cargo, of the overall political situation, the United States was not at war with the People's Republic of China. But the outcome of the incident— the Kuei Mei had sunk in heavy seas four hours after the collision — had provoked serious international repercussions between Washington and Beijing, and this after tensions between the two were already extremely serious.

"Sir," he said carefully, "I don't think I expected I could have deliberately rammed the Kilo. The best I could do was hope to buy some time, to keep them from boarding the freighter. There was a chance they would give up, I suppose. There was also a chance that other Chinese naval units could have been nearby, or that the Kilo would actually take the Kuei Mei under fire.

"I put the helm hard over to make the Chinese sub skipper veer off. I suppose I was trying to ram him, but given the respective capabilities of our vessels, I had no expectation of the attempt actually succeeding."

"I see," Chaffee said. "What happened next?"

"The Kilo was veering off, as expected, turning to starboard well inside our starboard turn. She then appeared to shudder, as though she'd run aground or hit something. We didn't learn until later, of course, that she'd accidentally hit the submerged Pittsburgh.

"Anyway, she swung back to port. The Pittsburgh's conning tower struck the Kilo's after control surfaces and apparently jammed her rudder in a hard-left configuration. At that point we couldn't have avoided her if we'd tried. The Kuei Mei's bow struck the Kilo about halfway between her bow and her sail. We rode up over her forward deck partway, then slid back off. As we did so, the Kilo's forward port diving plane tore into the Kuei Mei's starboard hull forward, opening a gash into both the forward and after cargo holds, and she began sinking by the bow.

"At some point in there, we lost power in the engine room, which, of course, was still under Chinese control. I think they figured out something was wrong down there when we hit the sub, and cut the engine. By that time, I'd decided our mission was effectively concluded, and it was time to evade and escape."

"What led you to believe your mission objectives had been reached?"

"Sir? At that point, I wasn't entirely certain what our mission objectives were. Destroy the cargo? Sink the ship? Wait for the Coast Guard? We couldn't call for specific orders, but it felt as though the Kuei Mei was sinking. If she was, that would take care of the cargo."

Randall paged through a stack of typewritten sheets. "In your debriefing, you said that you ordered two of your men to return to the aft cargo hold to plant explosives. Correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why?"

"To make certain that the cargo was destroyed, even if I was mistaken about the extent of the damage to the ship."

"And why did you change your mind?"

"My men reported that the after hold was flooding. Entering the hold to place explosives would have presented an unacceptable — and unnecessary — risk to them and would not have materially affected the success of the operation. The fact that the hold was filling with water confirmed my earlier feeling that the ship was sinking. I told them to pull out and fall back to the port-side rendezvous point for E and E."

"And yet, a few minutes later," Chaffee went on, "you changed your mind again and returned to the hatch leading to the aft hold in order to drop explosives inside."

"Yes, sir."

"You seemed to be changing your mind a lot that morning. Why?"

"Two of my men reported that they were pinned down on the forward deck by enemy fire. I reasoned that the Chinese forces still aboard the ship knew they were under attack by a naval commando force and were attempting to organize an effective defense, possibly to hold us in place until reinforcements could arrive from the submarine alongside. There wasn't a lot we could do tactically to drive them off or to discourage their attack on the two missing men.

"I did believe it possible, however, that the Chinese crewmen still aboard the freighter knew that their cargo included explosives and munitions — ammunition for the assault rifles and rocket-propelled grenades at the very least. If they thought the cargo was exploding — better yet, if I could make the cargo explode— they might become… discouraged and abandon ship."

"And that is, in fact, what happened, isn't it, Lieutenant?" Randall asked.

"I believe so, sir. When the explosives went off, I saw several of the crewmen jumping overboard in some haste. At the same time, though, we came under fire from a boarding party off the Chinese sub."

"And that's when Machinist's Mate Hanson was wounded?" Polowski asked.

"Yes, sir."

The three officers at the table began a low-voiced conversation among themselves then, which lasted several minutes. Morton let his gaze travel past the photographs on the wall to one of the windows. Outside, the gray buildings of the U.S. Navy Amphibious Base at Coronado squatted under a bright, California morning sun. A formation of dungaree-clad Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL trainees — BUD/S recruits — jogged past on their way to another round of calisthenics and indoctrination under the sharp-barked commands of their instructors. Four years ago Morton had been one of their number, jogging in the hot, California sunshine, bench-pressing creosote-soaked telephone poles with other BUD/S recruits, battling the cold Pacific, the mud, the bone-numbing exhaustion….

Had it been worth it?

"Very well, Lieutenant," Chaffee said at last. "We have no further questions at this time. Your report covers the remaining aspects of the operation — your withdrawal from the Kuei Mei, and your subsequent extraction by the USS Pittsburgh—in adequate detail. You may withdraw while the board considers its verdict."

There was something about that word, verdict, that chilled the blood. This wasn't a court-martial, true, and yet…

He stood. Since this was indoors and he was not covered, he did not salute, but he came to attention. "Aye aye, sir." Turning crisply, he strode toward the large, wooden double doors which were flanked by a silent pair of Marine guards and left the room.

The doors opened onto a broad passageway with high ceilings and an institutional green and white linoleum floor. Opposite was an office suite, busy with computer keyboards and sailors in whites, fronted by a reception desk and an arrangement of sofas, chairs, and low, bark-the-shins tables. A soda machine stood sentry on one wall.

Lieutenant Mark Halstead was leaning on the reception desk, chatting with the attractive civilian woman behind it in his most wolfishly charming manner. He looked up as Morton emerged from the inquiry room.

"Well, Jack? How'd it go?"

"Good as can be expected. I guess it all comes down now to whether they're looking for a sacrificial lamb."

"Try not to bleat too loudly, then." He grinned. "You know, I prefer the role of wolf. Silent and deadly."

"I hear you, swim buddy."

Mark Halstead was Morton's best friend. The son of a Vietnam-era SEAL — one of that war's three SEAL Medal of Honor recipients — Halstead had followed in his dad's swim-fin prints, joining the Navy and graduating BUD/S just in time to take part — a highly classified part — in Operation Desert Storm. He'd come home furious about the lack of decent intelligence support in that conflict, gone mustang, and become an officer. As a SEAL platoon commander, he'd been involved in several highly classified ops since then.

His current assignment at the China Lake Naval Weapons Testing Facility had scotched his chances for skippering Operation Buster, the Kuei Mei op, but he'd thrown his weight behind Morton, suggesting to a number of brass hats at NAVSPECWAR that Jack Morton was the man for the job.

And the deal had come through. Unfortunately, Morton wasn't entirely sure now that it had been a good thing.

But that certainly wasn't Mark's fault. Luck of the draw, in a universe sometimes frustratingly perverse.

Halstead walked over to the machine, fed it money, and came back with a couple of cans. Morton popped the pull tab of his with a hiss and took a swig.

"So what do you think it'll be?" Halstead asked after a moment. "Make nice to China? Or tough it out?"

"Damfino. I never claimed to understand politics. Or politicians."

"Hear hear. The PRC has been spoiling for a fight lately. We might as well get it on. Why stop with their embassy?"

"The idea is not to have a war with them," Morton said. "What is it that's worth fighting about. Taiwan?"

"Sinking one of their merchant ships could be considered an act of war," Halstead observed. He had a twinkle in his eye, though, and a bantering lilt to his voice.

"Don't I know it!" Morton jerked his head, indicating the council going on behind closed doors now. "That's what I figure they're talking about now. Am I a hero for standing up to the Chinese dragon? Or another scapegoat, somebody else to apologize for to the Chinese ambassador?"

"Things have been getting pretty damned tight with the PRC," Halstead said, all levity gone. "You know, if we don't stand up to them pretty soon, if we don't draw a line and say 'no further…' "

He let the thought trail off, unfinished, but it was a topic both men — most SEALs — had discussed frequently of late.

China had been decidedly more aggressive these past few years, especially in confrontations with the government of Taiwan. A major crisis had been brewing a few months back, when Beijing fired several test missiles into Taiwanese waters, rather pointedly demonstrating that they could take their rebellious province, as they thought of Nationalist China, under fire any time they desired.

But the real crisis with Washington had begun in May of that year. The escalating NATO air campaign against Serbia in the Balkans had proven less than effective, and after considerable dithering, air strikes had been directed against targets deeper and deeper within major cities, instead of out in the hinterlands. One promising target had been the Bureau of Supply and Procurement in downtown Belgrade; with laser-guided bombs dropped from stealth F-117s, Washington hoped to bring the war home to Milosevich and his thugs without causing civilian casualties.

A mission had been duly dispatched. At least three bombs had struck the target in the middle of the night.

Unfortunately, the target turned out to be not the nerve center of Milosevich military logistics network but the Chinese Embassy. Working from maps two years out of date, a CIA analyst had managed to bomb the embassy of a country Washington was at that moment negotiating with, hoping to build a solid international front against the Serbs. Thirty people had been in the embassy compound during the attack; three had been killed. Most Chinese assumed the attack was deliberate, pointing to the fact that their flag had been clearly visible above the building; none seemed to understand — or be willing to understand — that such details as a flag flying at night were invisible to the electronic surveillance systems employed by an F-117, which might release the bomb some miles away from the target.

The bombing had to be one of the most disastrous intelligence gaffes in the history of warfare.

As a result, anti-American feeling in the People's Republic had been running at a fever pitch, and each day seemed to bring about new breakdowns in relations between the two countries. Demonstrations, rock-throwing, and flag-burnings at the U.S. Embassy in China. Angry rhetoric at the UN. The incident in the northern Pacific appeared to have brought the two nations to the brink of war, and Beijing's saber-rattling had recently gone so far as to suggest publicly that the U.S. West Coast would not long be beyond the reach of Chinese nuke-tipped missiles.

The world appeared to be on the verge of another round of nuclear superpower confrontations, and inevitably the Teams would be in the thick of things.

The better part of an hour ticked slowly past on the big, round clock on the wall behind the secretary's desk. Morton and Halstead talked some, but much of the time passed in worried silence. Morton caught himself wondering about the verdict… and what the delay meant. What was it supposed to be… that the longer the jury was out, the better the chances for the accused? He wasn't certain that applied in this case. Either he'd done good, so far as the Navy and the SPECWAR community were concerned, or he hadn't. If they were taking this damned long to make up their minds, there had to be a problem.

Shit….

One of the doors opened and a Marine sentry looked out. "Lieutenant Morton? They're waiting for you, sir."

"Thank you."

"Break a leg, amigo," Halstead told him. "Just keep the getaway car warmed and ready, in case I have to make a break for Mexico."

"Roger that."

Morton reentered the room and came to attention in front of the desk. The three senior officers did not appear to have moved from their places. They were continuing to confer among themselves and didn't take any immediate notice of him.

Jack Morton was a student of history in general, of Navy history in particular. He couldn't help thinking about an old, old naval tradition that went back to the time of Nelson and the Age of Sail.

In those days, in the Royal Navy, an officer who went before a court-martial board surrendered his sword at the beginning of the proceedings. At the end of the board's deliberations, the officer was called back in to hear their judgment. If, when he walked in, his sword was lying on the desk with its hilt pointed at him, he knew that the inquiry had been decided in his favor. If the sword lay on the table with its point toward the accused, he knew the case had gone against him and he was facing censure, disgrace, professional ruin… or worse.

It was a shame, he thought, that the tradition was no longer in effect. It would have saved him some unpleasant moments there, standing rigidly at attention while waiting for them to finish.

The huddle broke at last, and Chaffee cleared his throat. "Ahem. Lieutenant Morton. It is the judgment of this formal Board of Inquiry that, in regard to the events of the early morning of twenty-three September of this year, while you were engaged in the tactical evolution of Operation Buster as commander of First Platoon, SEAL Team One, you did endeavor to carry out your orders to the best of your abilities, acting in the finest traditions of the naval service." He paused, looking uncomfortable. "Speaking now off the record, Lieutenant, I will say that, while, ah, some on this board questioned the, um, zeal with which you carried out your orders — a zeal which resulted in the unfortunate sinking of a commercial vessel of a foreign power with whom we are not currently at war, as well as extensive damage to one of their warships — your orders at the time offered little leeway in the honorable, prompt, and expeditious carrying out of those orders. This board does not hold you responsible for that sinking, which must be classified as an act of God.

"Speaking on the record, again… it is, further, this board's conclusion that you, Lieutenant Morton, acted with distinction, decision, and bravery under fire in effecting the recovery of two of your men, one of whom was wounded in the action. We intend to pass to higher command authority this board's recommendation that you receive an official commendation for your action."

"He means we're putting you in for the Silver Star, Jack," Randall said, grinning.

Chaffee glared at the junior member of the board but continued without allowing himself to be sidetracked.

"Congratulations, Lieutenant, on a job well done. This Board of Inquiry is closed."

"Thank you, sir."

"You are dismissed."

"Aye aye, sir!"

Turning, he strode from the room, heels clicking on the hardwood deck.

"You dodged the bullet," Halstead said when he saw Morton emerge from the room. "Son of a bitch, you dodged it!"

"I guess they were full up on lambs this week." He rubbed his stomach. "I don't know about you, friend, but I need a drink!"

"I'm there!" Halstead blew a kiss to the receptionist. "Catch ya later, blue eyes!"

Together, they marched down the passageway and out into the bright California sunshine.

Morton found himself trembling as hard as he'd been trembling with cold and exhaustion in the North Pacific. He'd survived.

Damn, it was good to be alive….