"You realize, of course, that she's going to be pretty badly outnumbered… hunting for ten Kilos, plus that Akula if she's part of the PLA Navy."
"Well, that's what keeps the Navy life interesting. Think of it as a challenge."
"Will we have backup?"
"There will be other subs deploying to the Chinese littoral, sure," Gordon admitted. "But they'll have their own patrol areas and their own missions. And there are two L.A.-class boats with the Stennis CBG— the Salt Lake City and the Jefferson City. If things really heat up, the Kitty Hawk CBG will be operating north of Taiwan."
"If things heat up. Is it going to be war, do you think?"
"Up till yesterday I didn't think so. The Chinese have been rattling sabers at Taiwan since 1949. But after this morning and the attack on Chiang Kai-shek International… I just don't know. It doesn't look good. A lot is going to be riding on the Seawolf, on what she can learn, and on what she can do to persuade Beijing that a war right now is just not in their best interests."
A gray sedan with official government markings pulled up in the pier-side parking lot a few yards away, and a tall, slightly stooped man in khakis climbed out of the back seat. Garrett recognized him — Commander George Lawless, the Seawolf's CO.
"Captain," Lawless said, saluting Gordon. "Commander Garrett." He sounded preoccupied.
"Good afternoon, Skipper," Garrett replied. The protocol of the moment was fuzzy. Both men carried the rank of commander, O-5, but Lawless was captain of the Seawolf and Garrett's commanding officer… or he would be when Garrett reported aboard with his orders, which wouldn't be ready until tomorrow morning. Garrett wanted to establish a friendly footing with the man he would soon be working for, and calling him "Commander Lawless" seemed a bit too formal for the occasion. The informal "Skipper" seemed to fit the moment.
"I am not your commanding officer yet, Commander," Lawless said with a voice like ice. "When I am, I expect you to address me with proper respect."
"Aye aye, Commander Lawless," Garrett said stiffly, his voice held carefully neutral.
"I'm not exactly pleased at this intrusion on board my command," Lawless added. "A Seawolf rates an O-4 for the XO billet."
"Commander Garrett has specialized knowledge, Commander," Gordon said, "as I told you on the phone the other day."
"So you said. So you said. I still don't have to like it. Sir." He paused, as if considering something. "I'll tell you this, gentlemen. Jos Joslin is one of the best officers in this fleet. My men respect him. My crew is a well-oiled, smoothly operating, highly efficient machine. I will not tolerate any disruption to that machinery. Am I clear?"
"Quite clear, Commander," Garrett replied.
"I don't care what sort of sneaky-Pete shenanigans you're engaged in. On my boat you will serve as my XO, and you will maintain the high efficiency and standards of my crew. What boat were you exec aboard?"
"Cheyenne, SSN-773, from 'ninety-eight to 'ninety-nine."
That got a grudging nod from Lawless. "A good boat. Do as well on the Seawolf and we'll get on okay. Just one thing."
"Yes, Commander?"
"When you stand the OOD watch, you will not run my submarine into any other submarine or surface vessel. Am I understood?"
"Yes, Commander."
"Good." The man stalked off, passing through Seawolf's security checkpoint with a wave at the sentries standing guard there.
"Was that supposed to be a joke?" Garrett asked.
"If it wasn't, pretend that it was, Tom. Don't let them get to you."
"Shit. I'm never going to live the Kuei Mei down, am I?"
"Maybe not. Or maybe you'll do something positive, something so positive that it erases that memory."
"I suppose. I'm beginning to wonder if my career is worth this."
"It is," Gordon said. "Trust me. C'mon. I'm starved. Let's find someplace to eat."
"I'm not very hungry."
"Cut the crap, Commander. This base has everything. KFC. The Mammy Shack. Shakey's Pizza. McDonald's. Or we can go off-base for McSushi at the local Japanese McD."
"You do know how to cheer a man up." Garrett held his stomach. "Gah!"
"I take it you've already enjoyed the experience."
"Occasionally. Up at Atsugi. It's actually not that bad, but I think I'll stick with American food for now."
"Gringo."
"No, here it's gaijin," Garrett said. "And proud of it. Let's go hit the O-Club. It's pretty good here."
"Affirmative."
Before they left, though, Garrett stopped and took a last, long look at the USS Seawolf. Lawless was striding up the gangplank now, as a boatswain piped him aboard and a voice over the 1MC called out, "Seawolf, arriving."
In the submarine service, a man had to earn the dolphins he wore on his uniform. Enlisted personnel served on board for up to a year, rotating through each department, before they were eligible to pin on that coveted badge. Garrett had put in his months as an apprentice back on board the Pittsburgh, under then-Commander Frank Gordon. The entire wardroom had lined up to pound the dolphin pin into his chest, one after another in time-honored, bruising tradition. Grinning malevolently, Gordon had been first in line.
Garrett wondered how long it would take to earn his dolphins all over again.
The C-17 transport dropped smoothly out of the fast-gathering darkness, touching down on the main runway with a howl of reversing jet engines. Taxiing past the main terminal, the cargo plane, bearing USAF markings, wound its way toward the Taiwanese military base at the far end of the facility, parking at last in front of a ready line of needle-nosed, Chinese Nationalist F-5E Tiger II interceptors.
The rear ramp came down and twenty-four dungaree-clad men trotted down and out onto the tarmac, falling into double ranks, each shouldering his own seabag. They wore blue ballcaps, rather than white hats, but otherwise looked like any other group of U.S. Navy sailors.
Six officers in khakis accompanied them. Lieutenant Commander John Calhoun Morton was the senior officer. As Lieutenant Reese took the roll call, he turned and saluted the small contingent of men in camouflage utilities who approached them.
"Commander Morton?" the senior Chinese officer said. "I am your counterpart, Commander Tse Chung On. Welcome to China."
Morton suppressed a smile. Alone in all the world, the Taiwanese continued to insist that their China was the real China, holdout legacy of their retreat in 1949 to this island stronghold. It was, he thought, evidence of Taiwan's ongoing siege mentality.
"Thank you, Commander," he replied. "It's good to be here again."
The last time Morton had been in Kaohsiung, it was in 1997, and he'd been 2IC of a SEAL platoon deployed to Taiwan to assist the Nationalist Chinese in a training program. Nationalist China maintained a special warfare group called the Parafrogman Assault Unit, a team similar to the Navy SEALs in training, equipment, and operational technique. Nationalist parafrogmen often operated deep inside Mainland China as the active arm of both the Military Intelligence Bureau and Taiwan's Special Operations Command. Together with the Long-Range Amphibious Reconnaissance Commandos, Taiwan's other premier covert ops force, the parafrogs had long been the West's primary source of intelligence on military capabilities and deployments within the PRC.