"As I'll ever be, Skipper," Hanson said through hard-clenched teeth. "Let's do it!"
"Over we go!"
Holding tight to Hanson's body from behind, and with Young and Ciotti's help, Morton manhandled the wounded SEAL upright next to the railing, got his legs over the side, and jumped.
It was a short fall. The Kuei Mei's freeboard was normally less than three meters, and the freighter had settled a lot in the last few minutes. They hit the icy water with a splash, plunged beneath the surface, then rose again, Morton struggling and kicking to get Hanson's head above the surface. He yanked on the pull ring on the man's swim vest, triggering the CO2 cartridge, then inflated his own vest and hooked them together with a canvas strap. Above them, Ciotti, Young, and Schiff tossed their now useless weapons overboard, then leaped in after them.
Morton concentrated on swimming, using a one-handed sidestroke to drag himself along, with Hanson in tow. He thought the SEAL was unconscious; the pain of the impact to his leg when they hit the water must have been horrific. He kept pulling, cresting wave after wave, trying to put as much distance as he could between them and the freighter.
Conyers and the rest of the team ought to be out there somewhere, but they would be next to impossible to spot in the dark and rain. Then Schiff, swimming next to him, pulled out a chemical light stick, snapped it, and waved it into a green, phosphorescent glow, holding it above his head.
A moment later, as a wave carried him up to its crest, he spotted a dim, answering glow that way. "I see them!" he gasped, spitting out saltwater. "There!"
Moments later several more SEAL swimmers appeared, gathering in the rear guard and escorting them back to the remaining CRRC. The rubber duck was far too small to carry all fourteen SEALs, but they managed to get Hanson up and out of the water and lying in the bottom of the boat, where HM1 Saunders could start administering first aid. Four others stayed in the boat, keeping a lookout for any sign of the Pittsburgh, while the other eight clung to the safety lines slung along the rubber duck's side.
"Now we find out if the 'Burgh stuck around!" Conyers shouted as he dropped a transponder lead over the CRRC's side. Morton could only nod. Exhaustion was weighing him down like a freezing, leaden blanket, and the cold was finally penetrating his wet suit, leaving him weak, his teeth chattering.
Just like BUD/S, he told himself. Just like training. SEAL recruits, officers and enlisted men alike, went through some of the most grueling training on Earth to wear the gaudy SEAL Budweiser emblem with its eagle, trident, anchor, and flintlock pistol. Men were pushed to their absolute limits of endurance and beyond. Right now, he felt like he had toward the end of Hell Week, sitting in freezing mud up to his waist, teeth rattling in his skull, too tired to go on.
But he'd lasted it out. He would last this out. Just a little longer…
The transponder sent out a pulsed sonar signal that the Pittsburgh would hear. If she was still in the area… if she hadn't been badly damaged by her brush with the Kilo, she would pick up the signal and home on it. If… if…
And if they found her… what then? The 'Burgh wasn't supposed to surface, but the team had lost half of their diving gear when the other CRRC had been lost. That would hamper recovery. They would have to buddy-pair it going down, sharing re-breathers.
Shit! He wasn't thinking! What about Hanson? The SEAL was unconscious. They would have to request that the sub surface to take him aboard. SEALs did not leave their own behind.
"Sir!" Hernandez called from inside the raft, pointing. "Sir! There!"
Morton had to haul himself higher up the side of the CRRC to see, but it was worth the effort. There, just visible through night and rain and spray, a white periscope wake was expanding, boiling wider, giving way to the upthrusting slate-gray cliff of a submarine conning tower. He made himself look hard to make sure it wasn't wishful thinking, that he wasn't seeing the Kilo suddenly surfacing forty yards away, but that submarine — with sail-mounted planes and smoothly rounded hull — was definitely and undeniably a Los Angeles-class boat.
She wasn't supposed to surface… and her skipper was taking a hell of a risk doing so. Morton turned to look back and found he could just barely make out the outline of the freighter against the night, backlit by the Kilo's searchlight. Garrett had deliberately maneuvered the Pittsburgh around to place the freighter between him and the Chinese sub. The SEALs, seeking only to stay clear of the sub, had hit on the same strategy and found themselves quite close to their ride indeed.
The hatch to the forward escape trunk, located just behind the sail, opened, and work-jacketed sailors started spilling out, putting a light on the swimmers and waving them on. Someone threw a line.
They were going to make it after all.
Just like BUD/S, Morton thought. All except for the part where the op turns into a damned cluster fuck…
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."