The answer to all of those questions was undoubtedly yes. The only question to which the answer would have been no was, “Did any one of them commit one single act that could have been ascribed to a desire for personal gain?” No. Nothing more was proven except that they acted out of a sense of patriotism. Perhaps highly developed, maybe even overdeveloped patriotism. But nonetheless patriotism. Which was more than could have been said for some of their accusers.
Colonel Hart, a slim, hard-eyed, handsome man, a graduate of Annapolis, had been swept up in the maelstrom of all this. They never put him on trial, like some of the others, but his military and possibly his political career were essentially over when President Reagan left the White House.
However, there was an incident during a televised congressional inquiry that almost made him immortal. Colonel Hart, in full uniform, faced one of his accusers and said, almost menacingly, “Sir, I don’t know what you do when you see the flag of the United States of America. But if you like, I’ll show you what I do.” And he placed his cap upon his head and executed a ramrod-straight Marine Corps salute. Men who had fought in three global wars found themselves shedding a tear for the colonel.
An awful lot of people never forgot that moment, and two of those people were Arnold Morgan and the current President, who both considered that the colonel had been dealt a very unfair hand.
Afterward Colonel Hart was quietly seconded into the diplomatic branch of the Senior Service. He worked first as a deputy naval attaché in the embassy in Buenos Aires. There followed tours of duty in both the Middle East and Europe before, in October 2004, he was appointed naval attaché in London.
There were many who thought he had the right credentials for a major ambassadorship in the not-too-distant future. But this fateful phone call from Admiral Morgan signified a sudden, unexpected swing in the career of Colonel Hart.
“Hello, sir,” he said firmly. “It’s been a long time.”
“Too long, Frank,” replied the admiral. “How they treating you?”
“Better than you, sir. No one’s made me get into the office at five in the morning.”
“Happens all the time when you’re close to the seat of power.”
“Ah, hell, I thought it was unique. Thought this might be a major call, a real address-changer.”
“It is. You’re probably going to hate it.”
“Well, sir, since I am trying to work out the intricate military problem of which of us here attends a dinner being given by the First Sea Lord on July fifteenth, you’d better get right to it…”
Arnold Morgan laughed at a former brother officer wrestling with the kind of minutiae that routinely drive military men crazy. “Frank,” he said, “would you consider taking up an active command, being seconded to the SEALs?”
“Who, me?” said the colonel lamely.
“Have I got a wrong number here?”
“Christ, Arnold. I’m sixty years old.”
“What do you want? A birthday present?”
“Sir, I’m trying to be serious. I don’t think I’m fit enough to get involved with those guys.”
“Frank, I’m after your brain, not your goddamned muscles.”
“Oh, that’s rather different. What is it?”
“I have a major SEAL team being assembled. Maybe as many as fifty guys. They’re going to be operating out of a carrier way out in the Far East. John Bergstrom is putting the team together personally right now in Coronado. But we need a hard, experienced commander who will have a grip on the somewhat volatile political situation. We’re looking for a supreme staff officer who will hold this thing together. There’s probably going to be some heavy decision-making with little or no time for consultation.”
“Time frame?”
“Now. You’d have to leave for Washington now.”
“I’d have to clear it with the ambassador.”
“That’s done. Presidential level.”
“And with the CNO, Admiral Mulligan. He’s still my boss.”
“Done. Chairman of the Joint Chiefs level.”
“And with the office of the Secretary of State, like all diplomatic appointments or terminations.”
“Done. Presidential level.”
“Jesus, sir. You’re not joking, are you?”
“Not this time, Frank.”
“I don’t have much choice, do I, sir?”
“Not much. Because if you funk it, no one will think that much of you. Worse yet, no one will think that much of me. Because you happen to be my idea.”
“What do I do?”
“Gather up your gear and have a driver take you straight to the Royal Air Force base at Lyneham. There’s a military aircraft there right now. It’ll bring you straight into Andrews. Then a helicopter to the White House. Come to my office. Soon as you can.”
“Sir, what about my wife and family?”
“Whatever she wants. I’ll put six men on the move right now. I’ll talk to her myself as soon as you’re in the air.”
“Yessir. My answer is affirmative.”
“As I knew it would be. Thank you, Frank.”
And the admiral replaced the telephone, muttering to himself, “I wonder how many of those goddamned little lawyers who tried to disgrace him would have stepped up at the age of sixty to command a SEAL operation in what has to be a theater of war.”
Lt. Shawn Pearson, Seawolf’s navigator, was trying to memorize their route. The ferry had been running south through the hot, muggy night for four hours now, and they ought to be somewhere down at the mouth of the Delta. Through the big starboard windows he could see shore lights, possibly four miles away, and he guessed correctly the port of Macao, but he did not discern a change in course.
The ferry ran on south through calm seas. Shawn guessed she was making around 17 knots. There was barely a swell, but he could hear the distinctive slash of the spray from the bow wave hitting the still, flat water. It always sounds slightly louder when there is no chop, and he knew they had not yet reached the open ocean.
It was another hour before he sensed a gradual swing to starboard, possibly to a course of two-three-zero, and there was a noticeable increase in the motion of the ship. So far as Shawn could tell, they must be running down the coast toward either the huge tropical island of Hainan, where he knew there was a big Navy base, or toward China’s Southern Fleet headquarters, just to the north at Zhanjiang. So far as his excellent memory could recall, there was nothing significant between there and Canton.
Outside, peering through the windows, Shawn could see no land beyond the black expanse of moonlit water. No one had spoken a word since they had left the Navy yard, and the guards patrolled tirelessly, walking between the long benches, glaring at any member of the American crew who was still awake.
The captain and the chief of the boat were both sleeping, but Lt. Commanders Bruce Lucas and Cy Rothstein were wide awake. Indeed, it was “Einstein” who asked permission to speak and requested water for the men. Surprisingly, Shawn thought, the guard nodded curtly and spoke in rapid Chinese to a younger man who yelled more incomprehensible Chinese out to the viewing deck.
Ten minutes later, two of the ferry’s original stewards returned carrying four white buckets of water and some big plastic beakers. Since all the prisoners were manacled behind their backs, two Chinese guards walked down the length of each bench, one carrying the bucket, the other offering water to each American, holding the beaker to his mouth, tipping it, spilling it, almost choking the recipient, but allowing plenty of time for a few good gulps.
It wasn’t the most elegant drink they had ever had, nor the most hygienic. But it was wet and cold, and all they would get for many more hours.