“Bunkin’ okay?”
“Tight, but we’ll make it work. How is it up in officers’ country?”
“Sweet. Especially the massage girls.” Harch flashed a grin. “Let’s pull the troops together after breakfast, Mast’ Chief. 0830.”
“Um, got it. Where?”
“XO said here is okay. Let ’em clean up, wipe down the tables. Then filter back in. Set us up for that big-screen TV.”
Harch left and Teddy exchanged glances with Knobby Swager. Maybe they’d find out where they were going. “At long damn last,” the first class muttered.
He passed the word along to Moogie, the other team leader — Swager was Team One, Moogie Team Two — and by 0820 everyone was mustered. He looked carefully at each man as they sat or leaned about. The platoon was embarked on two subs, as planned, but something had happened to the diver delivery vehicles en route. What, exactly, they had no need to know, apparently; but the DDVs were out of the picture for the operation.
Which would make it hairier. His guys were about as physically fit as a human body could get, but with all the gear they were towing and wearing, a five-mile swim was the absolute most you could expect and still leave them in shape to fight. The scooters would help, but they were range-limited too. The subs would have to crowd the beach. Which meant they’d be in shallow water, more vulnerable.…
And they had just fifteen operators, divided into two crews. There was a command and control element aboard the battle group flagship. Commander Laughland, Teddy presumed, had briefed the best course of action to the group commander. He’d also have a quick-reaction force on a short leash, in case things went south.
True, one SEAL platoon wasn’t that many men. But they weren’t trying to occupy the island, just get in and out undetected. In action, an enemy often took a SEAL detachment for a much larger force anyway. They trained for superior firepower and extreme violence of action. Usually, that obscured their reliance on organic assets — what they carried in with them. They weren’t the Army, with heavy artillery and unlimited logistics.
Teddy sighed and looked them over again. Echo Platoon, but not the old Echo. Only a few left from the White Mountains. Knobby Swager, yeah, and Moogie, and Mud Cat, his old 249 gunner. The rest were new. Swaggering young dicks, full of napalm and testosterone. But most seemed to have their shit wired. Any who hadn’t, he’d bottom-blown before they deployed.
Seemed like not that many years ago he’d been one of them. Now he was the master chief. Supposed to teach them. Look out for them. Be an example.
That was a fucking laugh.
He was talking to Mud Cat, who was massaging his hand — he’d taken a bullet through his palm on the same godforsaken mountain Teddy had fallen down — when Harch charged in. “Attention on deck!” Teddy yelled, and those who weren’t on their feet bolted up.
The lieutenant waved them down and handed Teddy a USB stick. “Seats, everyone. Jeezus! Okay, we got the PLO. Critical time frame, critical mission. We need to get in and take action.”
Building on the warning order, the Patrol Leader’s Order detailed both the mission and each team member’s individual responsibilities. SEALs operated differently from more conventional units. In a way, Teddy thought, they were more like the Raiders had been, or at least the way Carlson had envisioned them. You told them what you wanted done, but not how to do it.
Harch stroked his mustache. “Time to let everybody in on where we’re going. Not that I didn’t want to before. One cell phone intercept, we can forget surprise. Everyone ready for a hairy-ass, balls-to-the-wall direct-action mission?”
When the hoo-ahs and whistles died down he said, “All right. Lights, please.” Swager handed him the remote for the screen, and the first slide came up. The legend OPERATION WATCHTOWER was superimposed on a chart of the South China Sea.
“Within days, combined U.S. and Vietnamese forces will land on the Chinese-held Spratly Islands, east of Vietnam. To cover them, act as a diversion, and prepare for the next step in an island-hopping campaign to the mainland coast, we will raid this objective.”
An overhead shot, blue and white and green: a reef-fringed island, shaped like an off-center valentine. The tan oblong of an airstrip slanted across its eastern coast, jutting into reef at both ends. Squared-off jetties surrounded artificial boat basins. Someone had devoted years and millions of dollars into turning a few acres of scrub and shoal into a major military base.
Harch said, “Yongxing Island, also known as Woody Island. Roughly a mile by a mile. Population counts differ, but there’s probably around fourteen hundred civilians, originally fishermen, servicing the military presence in one way or another. Military personneclass="underline" originally around three hundred, but since the start of the war, we expect they’ve been reinforced — probably an assault-slash-defense battalion of the 164th Marine Brigade. There’s one runway, long enough to service the Sukhoi Su-30 multirole strike fighter. They’ve been observed operating here, but it’s not clear whether they’re permanently deployed. There’s also a small naval base and refueling pier.
“Our object of interest, though, is this smaller island”—the image zoomed in, and the men around the room stirred and coughed—“north of Woody. The old charts call it Rocky Island, but we’re not sure of the Chinese name. It was recently connected to the main island by a concrete causeway.
“Formerly uninhabited, Rocky’s been sealed off and turned into a signal and intelligence monitoring center. Note the antennas in this slant photo, and, near the edge, the tallest, the vertical ones. High-frequency monitoring arrays, for gathering radar and radio intel.
“From here, they can reach out a thousand miles in every direction, covering most of the South China Sea. Note also the dome-shaped, Quonset-type buildings. A common PLA prefab design, for barracks and other military functions.”
Harch turned away to cough. “From these overheads, plus traffic analysis, Intel estimates the watchstanders and garrison numbers at at least two hundred, mostly sigint specialists. With both radar and elint capabilities, this is the enemy’s main listening post on their south coast. Making it difficult, if not impossible, for any allied force to approach without being subject to detection, tracking, and air attack from fighters based at the strip.”
Teddy raised a hand. “Master Chief,” Harch said, not very eagerly.
“Sir, these antennas, plus the Quonsets — looks like they’re spread out pretty far. How long is this island? The small one.”
“About a quarter mile, Master Chief.”
Teddy didn’t like it. Over a thousand effectives, and the Chinese 164th Marines were an elite unit, trained in both assaulting and defending islands. But even assuming the SEALs could elude them, how were fifteen guys going to destroy all these structures, antennas, processing stations? They’d have to spend a full day just placing explosives. The garrison wouldn’t think highly of that.
But the platoon commander had resumed. “We think these huts, here, and here, are where monitoring and processing take place. DIA suspects the data’s transmitted direct to Beijing, via a submarine cable between Yongxing and the mainland.”
Harch gave them a few seconds to contemplate the image. Despite his skepticism, Teddy found himself setting up a strategy. Land half the team on the causeway, with machine guns and light antitank capabilities. Once they lit up the night, both as a blocking force and a diversion, the rest of the platoon would insert over the northern beach, which looked like a steep gradient. They should be on top of the antennas and buildings in short order.
But seven hundred marines on the main island, three hundred more on Rocky itself… beside him Swager twisted his mouth, apparently coming to the same conclusion. “Not enough guys, not enough time,” he muttered.