"There's our ride home, Chief," he said.
"She looks mighty damned good from here, sir."
"She'll look better when we're on board. Is everybody topside?"
"They're bringing up the wounded guys now."
"Very well." He turned his binoculars toward the
Kinmen-Liehyu channel, peering through the gathering twilight. No sign yet that the surfacing Seawolf had been noticed.
But it wouldn't be long now.
"Crack the hatch!"
Garrett stood back as an enlisted rating named Caswell turned the wheel and pushed the hatch up and back. Water sprayed down from the opening overhead, but both men scrambled up the ladder and onto the weather bridge.
Damage control parties had repaired the sail, plugging the cannon-shell holes and draining the flooded portions. The ocean, Garrett saw with a small tug of relief, had cleansed away all traces of Captain Lawless's bloody death.
Seawolf had come about and was moving south now, beneath a flame-red sky. The Chinese armed trawler was seventy yards ahead, just off the starboard bow. Through his binoculars Garrett could see a number of men clustered on the boat's deck, black-clad, black-faced.
And some of them were waving.
He picked up the intercom handset. "Maneuvering, Bridge!"
"Bridge, Maneuvering, aye!"
"Come right three degrees. Slow to two knots."
"Come right three degrees. Slow to two knots, aye, sir!"
"Bridge, this is Radar Watch. We're being painted. Search radar, at various frequencies. No weapon locks yet."
"Radar, Bridge. I copy that."
He heard a clatter from astern and turned in the cockpit. Sailors in bright orange life jackets were spilling out of the forward stores hatch and onto the deck just abaft of the sail. Ritthouser was supervising the extraction of four Stokes stretchers — coffinlike affairs that looked like they were made of chicken wire, used to transfer wounded personnel from ship to ship.
Two men, Dougherty and Yolander, carried bulky-looking pipes over their shoulders — Stinger antiair weapons. They took up positions well apart on the after deck, scanning the sky.
Seawolf faced three threats now: enemy submarines, surface vessels, and antisubmarine warfare aircraft. The closest known enemy sub was still ten miles away, as were the nearest surface ships. No aircraft had been reported on radar.
But aircraft could reach the Seawolf from over the horizon and from any quarter in a scant minute or two.
And they would be coming. And soon.
Seawolf gentled toward the Chinese trawler, closing the gap between them. Someone in the trawler's pilot house was doing his bit as well, edging the clumsy looking craft closer to Seawolf. Soon the trawler was off the starboard beam and ten yards off. Someone on the forward deck hurled a monkey fist. Someone on Seawolf's aft deck grabbed the line and began pulling it in, hauling in the heavier piece of line to which it was tied. In moments a line-handling party on Seawolf had the line secure to a deck cleat and was dragging the trawler in close alongside.
"Conn! This is Radar Watch."
"Go ahead."
"Sir, I have a target, designated Romeo One-five, bearing one-zero-eight, range five miles. Speed one-five-zero, on an intercept course."
Garrett turned his binoculars in the indicated direction, toward Kinmen. There it was… a Kaman SH-F2. Someone had picked Seawolf up on their surface radar and was coming to investigate.
"I've got Romeo One-five on visual. It's an ASW helo." He turned, leaning over the lip of the cockpit. "Deck there! Hostile aircraft approaching from the southeast!"
He saw Dougherty wave acknowledgment as both Stinger men repositioned themselves, facing port. Several SEALs had already leaped across from the trawler's forward deck and were helping to pass the Stokes stretchers back to the Chinese boat. Sailors from the Seawolf were helping other men across.
Garrett watched the incoming helicopter. The ASW torpedoes it carried had a much longer range than the Stinger antiair missiles. The one thing the Seawolves had going for them now was the fact that the Chinese were going to be damn careful this time. They'd just scored an own goal and nailed one of their own subs. They wouldn't be eager to do that a second time and would come in first for a close look.
The Stingers might be a surprise, too. Kilo-class boats were reported to have antiair missiles stowed in a launcher on the aft portion of the conning tower, behind the periscopes, but of all the submarines in the world, they were the only boats to have antiair capability. The Chinese helo crew wouldn't be expecting shoulder-fired AA missiles on an American sub. He hoped.
The helo dropped lower, skimming the waves a thousand yards off, turning slightly to reveal the PRC markings on its tail boom.
"I've got tone!" Dougherty yelled from the deck. That meant the heat-seeking head of the Stinger missile inside his launcher had picked up the helicopter's engine exhaust and now had locked on target.
"Take him down, COB!"
"Clear behind me!" Dougherty yelled. The Stinger launcher had a nasty back-blast, which would burn anyone standing behind the COB and likely send him tumbling into the sea as well.
A sharp hiss split the air, and the missile streaked out from Seawolf's aft deck, riding a white plume of smoke. The contrail reached toward the helicopter, swinging sharply as the target abruptly jinked to the left and popped a flare. For a stomach-twisting moment it looked like the missile was going to miss, decoyed by the hot-glowing flare.
But it was already too late, the missile too close. The contrail connected with the Kaman's tail boom and exploded with a white flash.
The helicopter staggered, then slewed into a hard spin as the tail rotor broke away in a cloud of debris. Tilting wildly, trailing smoke and burning fragments, the helo slammed into the water half a mile off the port beam.
The deck crew and SEALs cheered. They were swaying the first of the casualties across to Seawolf's deck now.
There was no time for celebrations, however.
"Conn! Sonar!"
"Sonar, Conn. Go ahead."
"We have company, Captain. Sierra One-eight-seven is making revolutions now for forty knots, bearing one-five-five and on an intercept course. Sounds like he's in a hell of a hurry." A beat. "Captain, we're redesignating Sierra One-eight-seven as Master Four-five."
"Sonar, Conn. That's four-zero knots?"
"Four-zero knots, aye, sir.
Which meant that Sierra One-eight-seven — no, Master Four-five now — was not a diesel-powered Kilo. Its combination of stealthy characteristics and high speed could only mean one thing.
The Chinese Akula was out there, closing now, and fast.
The question was how long it would take the Akula to get a firing solution. Seawolf had minutes now, no more, before she could expect a torpedo salvo from the enemy.
"Deck there! Hurry it along, on the double! It's time to get the hell out of Dodge!"
They were bringing the second wounded man across now.
"Get the rest of them across, Jammer," Morton said. "Sergeant Zhu? With me."
He led Zhu below decks to the mess deck, where the prisoners remained trussed up hand and foot. He drew his SEAL knife and jammed it, point down, into the wood of the mess table.