At this moment, in the gathering darkness, they were almost 200 miles offshore, and the two Chinese ships had already made a fast 120 miles before that. The range of Shantou at high speed was probably much nearer 1,800, maybe less, which meant 900 miles out and 900 back. And with 320 already under her belt, she could not have more than 1,480 miles in her fuel tanks.
And so Admiral Barry ordered the entire Battle Group to continue heading east for another 30 hours at 20 knots, 600 miles, every one of which would drain the Chinese frigate’s fuel supply. The admiral had shrewdly kept one of his tankers well to the east.
He doubted whether the destroyer had much more than 3,000 miles at these speeds, even if she’d started with full tanks. The issue was, would the Chinese high command be willing to risk their newest destroyer, all alone, way out in the Pacific, within striking range of an angry U.S. Navy CVBG?
“I wouldn’t, given the current climate between China and the U.S.,” was the considered opinion of the admiral. And with that, both Captain Freeburg and Commander Carl Sharpe agreed.
And so they all headed east for the next day and a half, running fast, draining the fuel out of the Chinese ships. Hour after hour they charged through the Pacific, driving the ships forward, knowing the carrier and her escorts were way out in front.
Somehow Greenville kept going right underneath Kaufman’s keel, still rattling along underwater in a thoroughly alarming way. But her turbines never faltered and she ran smoothly at 27 knots, her reactor running sweetly. God knows what she must have sounded like in the sonar room of the pursuing Chinese destroyer, but the ability of the 7,000-tonner to take a hit and keep going was a mighty testimony to the engineers at Newport News Shipbuilding in Virginia.
Down in the crew quarters, the SEALs had done their best to rejoin the human race, removing the camouflage paint, trying to wash off the grime, the blood and the sweat, removing their bandanas, trying to look again like trained U.S. Navy personnel, rather than hired killers and demolition men.
Several of the younger members of Greenville’s crew were quite anxious to talk to the hit squad that had freed their fellow submariners. But in the hours following a tense and dangerous mission it is unusual for the participants to have anything much to say, except to each other. Men who have killed ruthlessly in the service of their country often need time to adjust, to regain inner peace, reexamining their respective role in the operation. And the first place they tend to turn is to each other, to other participants who will understand the pressures, in the face of which they had all brought home the bacon.
The great saving grace about an operation like Xiachuan Dao was that the Chinese would most certainly have killed them had they not struck first. Nonetheless, all of the key SEALs in Operation Nighthawk were very much within themselves as the men of the USS Greenville attempted to get them home.
Most of the SEALs had been privately scared when the shell had ripped into the submarine’s casing. And the journey had been, from their point of view, somewhat worrying — locked in a damaged underwater ship, running through the dark and endless depths of foreign waters where the seas of China finally wash into the immense Pacific.
None of them knew much about submarines, and there’s something forbidding about being deep underwater if you are not used to it. Plainly one major leak, far less a torpedo, could wipe out the entire ship, condemning them to the endless black silence of the deep. And the SEALs’ iron discipline and amazing skills could not save them from that.
The fact that Greenville was obviously hit and hurt made matters considerably more tense, and tired as they were, it was difficult for anyone to sleep for long. Lt. Commander Rick Hunter had been in long conversations with Judd Crocker and was more or less approaching the point where he understood the massive safety systems in a nuclear submarine. He now understood that Xiangtan might open fire on them again, should they go to the surface, and that generally speaking it was a whole lot better to stay deep and comfortable. Greenville’s nuclear reactor would give them all the warmth, air and power they could need.
Buster Townsend had completed his first mission, two missions really, since he was active in the recon. He would never look at the world in quite the same way again, having gazed into the jaws of death on several occasions since he had first dropped into the water four days ago, right on Lieutenant Commander Bennett’s shoulder.
And now he sipped coffee in companionable quiet with his colleagues. The young SEAL from the bayous who had twice made the journey to Xiachuan Dao, who had marched across the island hauling the heavy gear, logged the guard movements in the jail and dodged the machine-gun fire to blow off the main cell door, was suddenly incapable of conversation.
Next to him sat his lifetime buddy, Rattlesnake Davies, who had cold-bloodedly knifed the Chinese guard who threatened the entire mission. Rattlesnake too sipped coffee, saying nothing.
Petty Officer Steve Whipple, the iron man who had carried 80 pounds of high explosive through the jungle, who had gunned down the Chinese guards on the hill and blown up the communication center, was talking, but only to his pal Catfish Jones.
Petty Officer Jones, another iron man who had carried the big machine gun, plus all of his other equipment, had also blown up the headquarters of the camp commandant, Commander Li. But at this time he talked only of baseball, wondering aloud how Steve could possibly waste his time in support of a team such as the Chicago White Sox.
“Jesus, you Atlanta Braves guys are getting goddamned pleased with yourselves,” muttered Steve. “But we’ll be back, maybe not this season, but next…”
“In your dreams.”
It was an unconscious attempt to return to something near normality after the mayhem and the death, the bombs, the guns and the knives. They made it seem like routine. But it never was.
Up in the wardroom, Lt. Paul Merloni was making a valiant attempt to act normally, with his customary edge of black humor. But wit came unusually difficult today for the New Yorker, who had shot down three of the Chinese outside guard patrol and then cut down the guard in the interrogation room, probably saving the life of Linus Clarke.
Paul was talking to Lt. Dan Conway, who was never effusive but now, in the grim aftermath of the operation, deep below the surface of the Pacific, was absorbed only with thoughts of getting out of here alive. Dan too had faced death, in the thick of the fighting in the jail, and more so when he rushed the entrance of the dormitory block hurling his grenades at Commander Li’s armed guards.
In the other corner sat Lt. Commander Rusty Bennett, looking surprisingly presentable, wearing a spare pair of Navy trousers and shirt, on the basis that he could not walk around covered in the blood of the watchtower guards. He was glad to be out of those clothes, and was already being treated as something of a celebrity by the young officers in the submarine. He had asked for special permission to bring Chief McCarthy into the wardroom, and now the two men who had scaled the towers and made the entire mission possible sat eating chicken sandwiches and trying not to think about what might have happened if their luck had run out high above the prison complex.
What each of them knew was that this mission was not yet over. They knew they were in a submarine that could not, for the moment, go to the surface. They also knew they had been hit by a Chinese destroyer that was still out there, still trying to get at them. And they listened with both ears for any shred of information which might illuminate the situation.