It had been without question the happiest day of Admiral Zhang Yushu’s eventful life, more joyful than the magical day when he had married Lan, more hopeful than the day they had purchased their lovely summer home on the water, more exciting than the day he had been appointed to the highest possible command in the People’s Liberation Army/Navy.
And now he strode around Admiral Zu Jicai’s large private office, banging his right fist into the palm of his left hand, throwing back his head and laughing, congratulating himself heartily on the great prize he had secured for China: Seawolf and her crew.
Maybe one day the Paramount Ruler would feel obliged to return it to the Americans, but not before Chinese Navy scientists had wrung her dry for every last piece of technology the ship possessed.
“Oh, my friend Jicai,” he exclaimed, “this is a wonderful day for us. A few hours from now, they’ll be here. Is everything ready, the biggest submarine jetty? We have a detention center for half the crew? Put the rest in civilian jail with military guards. Then we go to work on that ship, hah? This is beautiful, just beautiful.”
Zhang was ecstatic, but he appreciated the strong element of luck that had put the submarine into his hands.
However, he was a supreme pragmatist who knew what he knew. And right now he knew he had captive, perhaps for only one month, the last word in world submarine technology. He knew he would have among his prisoners men whose expertise in the field of sonar, radar, computers and weapons was the envy of the world.
There would be, in his power, American engineers and technicians who could demonstrate every working part down to the last, the subtlest detail. He would have nuclear experts, electronics experts, missile experts, modern United States warlords who knew how to hurl a big ICBM farther than anyone in China had ever dreamed. And above all he knew he would have captive the top submarine commanding officer in the U.S. Navy.
What he did not know was that among the captured officers of Seawolf was the only son of the President of the United States of America.
4
They changed course from zero-one-three to a more westerly three-three-four two miles off the headland of Zhu Zhou Island at the gateway to the delta, Xiangtan dragging her giant black steel prisoner backwards through the navigation lanes.
Signals from SUBPAC during the past six hours confirmed to Judd Crocker only that the American cavalry would arrive too late. There could be no rescue now. And no one knew what their fate would be after this miserable, slow journey to the port of Canton.
It was raining again outside the hull, and two Chinese Navy tugs came out of the darkness to meet the destroyer they had escorted outward the previous morning. The captains conferred briefly and the tugs took up positions on either side of Seawolf for the long push back up the river to the base.
They could go more quickly now in the dead, flat, near-deserted water, and the Chinese destroyer pushed on immediately, increasing speed to seven knots all along the wide expanse of the Delta, which is 15 miles across in some places west of Hong Kong.
Inside the submarine, Judd Crocker handed over to Linus Clarke a brand-new identity: an American passport, bearing his photograph, issued under the name of Bruce Lucas, born in Houston, Texas, in 1972, son of oil company executive John Lucas and his wife Marie. Bruce’s service papers showed entry to the Naval Academy in 1990, promoted to Lieutenant Commander in 2004. Second tour of duty in Seawolf as Executive Officer. Torpedo specialist. The next-of-kin register listed his parents in the Houston suburb of Beaumont Place as those to be contacted in the event of accident.
Bruce Lucas was also the name that had always been on his U.S. Navy dog tags. The laundryman had been correct.
Well aware that the submarine was in the Delta, Judd Crocker broadcast to the ship’s company, outlining the predicament they were in and assuring them that SUBPAC had the matter well in hand. He explained that both Navy and government policy, under these circumstances, was to negotiate through diplomatic channels.
For obvious reasons they did not want a really hot battle to develop, nor did they want any heroics. The Chinese had no right to the submarine, no right to arrest the crew. However, since the submarine was unable to move, and it did contain weapons of mass destruction, nuclear, not germ, well…the Chinese probably had a case for taking it into custody in their waters while the diplomats argued.
“And that brings me to an extremely important point,” he added. “As many of you probably already know, Lieutenant Commander Linus Clarke, my Executive Officer, is the son of the President of the United States. He has been a career naval officer for all of his college and working life, and it sure was not his fault his dad decided to run for office and won. When that happened, Linus was already on his way up the ladder, a lieutenant on the carrier John C. Stennis. There was never any reason for him to give up his career just because his father was in the White House for five years.
“But nonetheless, the Navy has a procedure for such matters, particularly if we find ourselves in an awkward spot like now, with Lieutenant Commander Clarke in a vulnerable position, and his father somewhat compromised. He thus has a brand-new identity that I would like you all to memorize.
“He is no longer Linus Clarke. He is Lieutenant Commander Bruce Lucas of Houston, Texas. Please commit that to memory. Should we be interrogated, remember not to let either Linus or me or your President down. Our executive officer is Lieutenant Commander Bruce Lucas as of right now. His dog tags say it. His passport says it. His Navy papers say it. And our next-of-kin records confirm it. He’s never even met anyone who lives in the White House. He’s Lieutenant Commander Bruce Lucas. Understood? That’s all.”
There really was little for anyone to do while Seawolf was under tow. Communications accessed the satellite every half hour seeking new orders from SUBPAC, and the cooks were providing a very few meals for those who felt sufficiently well. But generally, the submarine had turned into a ghost ship. Officers sat in the wardroom drinking black coffee. Most of the engineers and electronics teams sat around belowdecks, playing cards or dozing, and the turbines were not driving anything.
The systems that provided air-conditioning and fresh water were working normally, and of course Lt. Commander Rich Thompson had the nuclear reactor, from which all power stemmed, running correctly. Master Chief Brad Stockton patrolled the boat ceaselessly, checking and encouraging the younger members of the crew.
The key to the immediate future rested in the reception the Chinese Navy gave the Americans when finally they arrived in Canton. If they were treated reasonably and permitted to remain on board their ship while the diplomats argued, that would be perfect, because it would mean no damaging announcements admitting that the finest submarine in the U.S. Navy had been hijacked by the People’s Liberation Army and all the crew were held captive in Canton.