"Planes up five degrees. Set periscope depth, aye, sir."
They couldn't do a thing for the SEALs on board the freighter if they didn't have the sub's radio mast above the water, if they weren't available to pass on communications between the SEALs and SOCOM.
And if that meant risking detection by the Kilo, so be it.
"We can't wait any longer," Morton told the others, speaking over the tactical channel so every man in the VBSS team could hear him. "Execute Plan Bravo. Repeat, Bravo."
Morton's personal preference would have been to go for Alfa — to take the bastards down and take over the ship — but both training and professionalism dictated a safer course. They would retreat to the sea. To remain on board the freighter much longer was to invite the risk of being discovered and forcing them into a fire-fight. The freighter was still several days out from U.S. waters; once they reestablished contact with the 'Burgh, they would let SOCOM and Washington decide what to do with this mess. The trick, of course, was to get in touch with the sub again; there was no way to know what had gone wrong, or why the Pittsburgh was currently out of touch. She must have been forced to submerge… but why?
They would sort that out later. Right now it was imperative that the SEALs get off the freighter, preferably unnoticed and with their valuable intelligence coup intact. One way or another, the Kuei Mei would not be unloading her death-dealing cargo at Long Beach, for distribution to the street and drug gangs of Los Angeles, and that was all that mattered.
"One, Two" sounded in his earphone. "Confirm Plan Bravo. We're moving."
So Conyers and his team, assembled now on the freighter's port side, had the word and were returning to their CRRC. It was time for Morton and his people to do the same. "Let's get the hell out of Dodge," he told Vandenberg, crouched in the shadows at his side. They started moving toward the starboard companionway aft.
The eruption of gunfire was as spectacular as it was sudden, a sharp and thunderous clatter accompanied by stabbing bursts of muzzle flash, dazzling against the night. The first burst, from the port side forward, was matched almost immediately by a second burst from the port wing of the bridge, high above the main deck.
"Hammerhead One, this is Two!" sounded over his earphone. "We are compromised! We are compromised! We are taking fire!"
"Copy, Two! All Hammerheads, we are weapons free, repeat, weapons free! Support Hammerhead
Two!"
Powerful searchlights on the bridge wings snapped on, bathing the main deck in an actinic, blue-white glare. Raising himself above part of the base mounting for a deck crane, Morton snapped off the safety on his H&K, shouldered the weapon, and loosed a three-round burst at one of the lights. The searchlight flared, then died in a scattering cascade of sparks and hot, falling shards of glass. A shadowy figure behind the light shrieked something in high-pitched Chinese.
A stabbing blaze of gunfire from the bridge wing nearby sent rounds snapping over Morton's head and clanging wildly off the crane. He returned fire, his H&K chuffing off rounds in near silence, spent brass clinking at his feet as he targeted the shadowy gunman high above the deck. He thought he hit the guy but couldn't tell for sure. More gunfire erupted from the port side as Chinese sailors converged on Conyers and his team.
This was getting very nasty, very fast.
"Conn, Sonar! I'm picking up what sounds like gunfire from the freighter! It's pretty noisy up there!"
Shit. The balloon had just gone up.
The deck leveled off beneath Garrett's feet. "Leveling off at five-eight feet, Captain," the diving officer announced.
"Up periscope. Sonar! Bearing on Sierra One-one and on Sierra One-two!"
"Sierra One-one at one-seven-five degrees, range approximately one thousand. Sierra One-two at one-eight-one degrees, range approximately five hundred."
Sierra 11 was the freighter, 12 the probable Kilo. Right now the Kilo was between the freighter and the Pittsburgh, offset by a small amount.
The starboard periscope slid smoothly in its housing, rising in front of Garrett until he could snap down the handles and lean into the viewer. Swinging the scope to five degrees off to the east of due south, he peered into darkness, highlighted by the eerie green-yellow of starlight optics.
There she was, green-lit and stern-on, the Chinese freighter rolling slightly in the heavy swell. He could see the glare from a searchlight forward, mostly masked by the loom of the deckhouse, funnel, and masts.
"Communications!" he rasped. "Get me a channel to Hammerhead."
"We're picking up tactical chatter, sir."
"Put it on speaker."
Now that Pittsburgh's periscope-mounted radio mast was above the surface again, they could hear the communications chatter from the SEAL Team.
"Watch it! Shooter on the starboard bridge wing! Shooter on the starboard bridge wing!"
"I see him. He's down. Cover me!"
"Cyzynski! On me! Move it!"
The words were sharp and urgent, punctuated by rattling bursts of automatic gunfire and the shriek and chirp of ricochets.
"Conn! Sonar! Cavitation noises from Sierra One-two! He's slowing!"
"Helm! Come right forty-five degrees!"
"Helm right four-five degrees, aye aye, sir!"
"Conn, Sonar! I have ballast noise from Sierra One-two! He's surfacing!"
Garrett swung the periscope slightly to the right, looking for the surfacing sub. Ballast noise meant he was blowing his tanks, replacing water with air to take him to the surface. The fact that he was slowing suddenly meant that the American boat was in immediate danger of ramming him. The Pittsburgh was almost 110 meters long and had a submerged displacement of over seven thousand tons. She was currently traveling at eight knots — not fast at all, but you did not stop that much mass on a dime.
"Hammerhead One" rasped from the bulkhead speaker. "This is Two! We need fire support!"
From the sound of things, the SEALs on board the Chinese freighter were fighting for their lives.
And in the next few minutes the Pittsburgh might well be doing the same.
The second spotlight flared and died in a burst of broken glass and sparks. Morton keyed his mike. "All Hammerheads, execute Plan Alfa! Repeat, execute Alfa!" It was always dangerous changing horses in midstream, but if they continued trying to get back to their CRRCs, they risked being pinned down on deck in a deadly gunfight. It was time to go over to the offensive.
In Plan Alfa, Morton, Schiff, and Vandenberg were tasked with securing the Kuei Mei's bridge, which meant moving aft to the starboard companionway, then up a partially enclosed ladder. Schiff opened fire on full auto, spraying the bridge and bridge wings so Vandenberg and Morton could sprint for the partial cover of the deckhouse. A Chinese sailor stepped through an open door in the front of the house, an assault rifle at the ready. Morton triggered a three-round burst as he ran, not even slowing as the other man spun to the side and collapsed. Morton and Vandenberg paused at the ladder, waiting as Schiff pounded across the deck and joined them.
Up the ladder, then, rubber boots almost silent on the metal rungs. The ladder opened onto the first deck above the main deck. Another Chinese sailor with striped shirt and an assault rifle turned as they emerged from the ladder well. Schiff triggered his H&K twice, a double tap on semiauto that punched the sailor back, slammed him against the bulkhead, and put him down with a heavy thump that was louder than the soft chuffing of the sound-suppressed submachine gun.