One man, though, a Navy SEAL serving as an adviser to a team of South Vietnamese naval commandos, had refused to give up. He'd led a South Vietnamese team in and rescued one of the Bronco fliers. Then he and one South Vietnamese sergeant disguised themselves as Vietnamese and traveled upriver in a sampan, eventually reaching Hambleton and bringing him back. The odds were impossibly long, but the SEAL had done it, winning, in the process, the second of three Medals of Honor awarded to Navy SEALs in Vietnam.
The story — made into a movie starring Gene Hack-man years later — was one of those touchstones of SEAL history, a story every SEAL knew and remembered… even if Hollywood's version of things had rewritten the plot to eliminate the SEALs' part.
But the story also cast an interesting light on Jammer's question. How valuable was one man? Or sixteen? Or twenty-six?
How willingly should a submarine with 120 men on board risk itself for a handful of commandos?
There was no easy answer to that one. In wartime, sacrifices were made. In wartime, men were risked, and men were lost. But SEALs, ever since their inception at the beginning of the Vietnam era, and going back to the Navy Underwater Demolition Teams from which the SEALs had been formed, always operated under one rule of honor: They never left behind one of their own.
Navy submariners, Morton knew, operated under a similar philosophy. They took care of their own and would do anything possible to rescue stranded American military personnel.
"Better cease transmission, Knowles," he said. There was still no sign that the distant Chinese warships had noticed them, but he was growing increasingly nervous about the possibility of enemy subs in the area.
An American submarine might be willing to come here to pick them up, but he was damned if he was going to serve as bait for Chinese sub-hunters.
Twice in the past ten minutes Seawolf had slowed to less than twelve knots, giving the sonar shack a chance to listen for the acoustical homing signal from Blue Dragon, then accelerated once again in a short, sharp burst of speed. They ought to be very close now.
"Maneuvering, slow to five knots."
"Maneuvering, slow to five knots, aye, sir."
Garrett hit the speak button on the sound-powered phone. "Sonar, Conn. Get your ears on. What do you hear?"
"Conn, Sonar." There was a long pause. "Sir, we've lost the signal."
Damn! "Sonar, Conn, aye. Last bearing and range on Master Four-four?"
"Bearing two-nine-zero, range…close. About two miles, sir."
"Mr. Simms? What time is local sunset?"
"About eighteen-thirty hours at this latitude, sir." He glanced at the big clock on the control room bulkhead. "A few minutes ago, in fact. It'll be light for another forty minutes, though."
"Very well." He stepped up to the Mark 18 scope. "Up periscope."
He rode the scope as it slid up from its well, walking it about for a full 360 before bringing it to a halt on the indicated bearing.
The light was fading fast on the surface, which was one bit of good luck for the Seawolf, and there were no surface vessels close by. No… there was something. It looked like an armed trawler, a coastal patrol boat of perhaps two hundred tons, riding the swell perhaps a mile away.
"Radio Room, Conn."
"Radio Room, aye."
"See if you can raise Blue Dragon on their tactical frequency."
"Radio Room, aye aye, sir."
He watched the target a moment more. It appeared to be wallowing slowly in the swell, moving west toward the Xiamen shipping channel.
"Conn, Radio Room."
"Go ahead, Radio Room."
"Sir, we have Blue Dragon. They report they're in an armed trawler at—"
"We have them targeted. Tell them to prepare to transfer to the Seawolf. Tell them to move smart. We won't have much time."
"Aye aye, sir."
"You're surfacing, sir?" Ward asked.
"No choice," Garrett replied. "They have wounded."
"It's a pretty big risk."
Garrett was thinking of the last time he surfaced under the eyes of a hostile vessel. He'd come that close to court-martial that time. "Maybe. But our people up there are running out of options, and time."
"Conn, Radio Room. Message transmitted and acknowledged."
"Down scope!" As the periscope slid back into its well, Garrett looked at Ward and added, "I'm gambling that one submarine looks pretty much like another, at least to a casual observer. Chief of the Boat!"
"Yessir!" COB replied.
"Who on board has the most experience with Stingers?"
"That would be me, sir. And possibly the MAA."
"Okay. I want you and Yolander on the deck detail, with Stingers."
"Aye aye, Captain!"
"And tell off a deck detail. We need to hustle those people off their boat and get them belowdecks on the double. I don't want to be on the surface for more than fifteen minutes. Got that?"
"Got it, sir."
"Maneuvering. Come to course two-nine-zero, bearing on Master Four-four. Make revolutions for ten knots."
"Coming to course two-nine-zero, bearing on Master Four-four, aye. Make revolutions for ten knots, aye."
"All hands, this is the captain. Make preparations to surface."
Seawolf turned slightly, moving northwest through the murky water. Garrett kept his eyes on the bridge clock. At ten knots she would cross a mile in about six minutes. Coming up close alongside the SEAL boat, however, would still require more art than science. Sea-wolf could precisely target the patrol boat with a pulse from her active sonar, but if the SEAL transmission hadn't attracted enemy notice, a pulse from Seawolf's powerful bow sonar was certain to do so.
He waited out the minutes.
Another worry played at the edge of his thoughts. He remembered the discussion in the mess hall about the Japanese ship Ehime Maru, the Greeneville, and Commander Waddle. If Seawolf surfaced at just exactly the wrong spot, she could send the SEAL boat to the bottom.
"Maneuvering. Slow to steerage way. Up periscope!"
He rode the scope to the surface and walked it around. There! Less than two hundred yards ahead!
"Maneuvering, come to one-nine-two. Ahead slow…make revolutions for five knots."
"New course one-nine-zero, aye. Make revolutions for five knots, aye." He stepped back from the scope. "Bring us up."
"Now surface, surface!" The deck tilted beneath his feet.
"Sir!" Bohanski shouted, pointing north. "Submarine periscope off the starboard quarter!"
Morton swung around, raising his binoculars. Yes! A periscope was dragging a thin, white wake through the water a hundred yards away, getting closer. But was it Seawolf? Or a Chinese sub? The radio call over their tactical channel minutes ago had sounded like a voice from heaven, but there was no reason to begin singing hallelujahs just yet.
The top of the submarine's conning tower appeared above the waves, slowly growing taller…and taller… and taller. Definitely an American submarine, with a conning tower as high as it was long. And at the base of the sail forward, against the deck, there was the sloping, streamlining foot that marked her as a Sea-wolf-class submarine.