The lieutenant commander smiled, raised his eyes heavenwards, and shook his head. “Are we up to this, Colonel?” he asked.
Frank laughed and replied, “I doubt it. But we better give it our best shot, otherwise the President of the United States is gonna be very, very disappointed in us. And that’s not good.”
All three men laughed. “’Specially as we apparently don’t know where the goddamned slammer is,” said Rusty. “Anyway, I forgot to mention, I’m no good at jail-breaks…can’t you get ahold of Al Capone or Machine Gun Kelly or someone?”
For the next hour, the three men continued to talk, Admiral Bergstrom half-waiting, as ever, for the line to ring from the White House and to hear the rasping voice of Arnold Morgan telling him, We’ve found ’em.
But that call did not come, and at 1500 the colonel and the SEAL left to collect their gear and join Rick Hunter in the car headed for the North Island airfield. They were the only three men who had been briefed on the full horror of the mission. John Bergstrom had long decided not to risk the dangers of the entire San Diego base finding out the shocking truth about Seawolf.
And now he stood outside his office and shook hands with the departing officers. “Okay, Rusty, Frank…go round up Rick Hunter and let’s move on this one…and guys…I’ll be thinking of you, every step of the way…anything you need…anything…you got it. Remember that.…God go with you.”
The plan was for other officers and petty officers on the team to be briefed during the flight. The remainder of the SEALs would be given full details of the mission by Colonel Hart and Lt. Commander Hunter at a briefing to be called as soon as they boarded the carrier.
“Jesus Christ,” muttered Admiral Bergstrom as he walked back into his office. “This could turn out to be a fucking nightmare.”
They had freed Linus Clarke from the chair to which he had been tied in the small hours of Monday morning. Since then he had been left entirely alone, save for one guard who brought him water and a bowl of rice at midday, and then again at 2200.
Tuesday had been silent, save for the guard bringing him the same meager offering sometime in the middle of the day. There was a bucket in the corner, which Linus was supposed to use as a head.
He was losing weight now, and his clothes were becoming disgusting. He had a dirty beard and was unrecognizable from the crisp XO who had reported for duty at Pearl Harbor only three weeks previous.
It was a little after 10:00 at night when the bright lights went on in his cell and a guard walked over and kicked him awake. Two of them walked him back to the torture chamber and sat him down, once more binding his legs and arms to the chair.
The guard lieutenant himself came in and looked at Linus, smiling. He walked around the chair, but asked no questions. Then he said very softly, “Just a little more persuasion, I think. And then you will tell us whatever we want to know, Lieutenant Commander Lucas?”
Linus summoned all of his remaining resolve and said nothing.
“You understand that everyone else has told us everything…only you are being foolishly stubborn.”
Linus did not believe him. Judd Crocker and Brad Stockton would never crack. But had Einstein caved in? And what about the younger officers? Had they wilted before the interrogation? Linus no longer knew what to think.
The guard lieutenant said nothing directly. But he continued to walk and ponder the problem aloud, as if speaking of someone, rather than to them: “If you could just be sensible…so much easier for you…we only want to know routine matters…operational depths…the trim of the ship dived…various angles…ballasting procedures…the areas in which you are expert, Bruce Lucas…the operation of the periscope and the masts…all we ask is that you ensure we are able to operate such a submarine as well as you and your colleagues.”
Linus said nothing. Stared slight ahead. At which point the guard lieutenant walked over to the doorway and returned carrying a bath towel, which he spread, and lifted and dropped gently over the head of Linus Clarke.
If the American XO had been afraid before, he now began to fall apart, trembling uncontrollably, trying not to scream out as the first water was poured onto the towel. Two nights ago he had thought he was dying. Tonight he had no further doubts. He could not withstand the terror of suffocation again. Perhaps he could lie. Tell them a load of rubbish. But what if they found out? His thoughts were rambling as the cold water splashed on the towel, always on top of his head.
And now breathing was becoming difficult again. The soaking wet cloth was sticking to his face. He was battling to suck air into his mouth and nose. And it was now a battle he was losing. The only air he could grab was through the towel, and the wetter it became, the more impossible the task. Linus was choking, and there was a special private terror in that.
He tried to make a noise, a noise of surrender, but he was only able to grunt, and he thought he was going to black out again. But suddenly the towel was lifted off his face, and he found himself staring into the dark, almond-shaped eyes of the diminutive guard lieutenant.
“Now, Lieutenant Commander, do you feel more like having a little talk now?”
The air rushed into the throbbing lungs of Linus Clarke and he sat there gasping, with the lieutenant holding the towel at forehead level, prepared in an instant to drop it back over the XO’s face.
“YES! YES! WHATEVER THE HELL YOU WANT — BUT GET THAT FUCKING TOWEL AWAY FROM ME…”
“Of course,” replied the tiny lieutenant. “I would regard that as a small courtesy among brother naval officers.
“Now, I propose we get you cleaned up and into some fresh clothes, and then you and Commander Li will take a little helicopter ride to Canton first thing in the morning…you can have a nice day talking to our technicians. Of course, if you do not tell the truth, we will bring you back here and you will spend the final moments of your life under this wet towel…but you understand that, Mr. Lucas, I am sure.”
Linus Clarke nodded, grateful to be breathing, no longer interested in protecting the secrets of Seawolf, prepared to talk to them all day, if that was what it took to stop them from choking him to death.
Meanwhile, in the next cell, there was something approaching mayhem. It had begun in the middle of the evening when a guard had entered the cell that contained Captain Judd Crocker, the much younger Shawn Pearson, Chase Utley, and Jason Colson. For no discernible reason he had clubbed the navigator to the ground with the butt of his rifle, misjudging the fact that while the captain was still handcuffed behind his back, his legs were free, and he slammed his right foot right into the guard’s groin.
Down went the guard, doubled over, writhing in agony. Judd, the full fury of his situation washing over him, almost kicked the guard to death. Three minutes later, when reinforcements arrived, he took out the first man into the cell with another stupendous kick to the groin. If his hands had been free, he probably could have flattened all six of them with the superhuman strength of the temporarily insane.
But his hands were not free, and now they had him alone, tied to a chair in one of the torture chambers, systematically beating him up. Only one of the Chinese guards had misjudged this situation, and he was on his way to hospital. The massively strong Judd Crocker had suddenly stood up straight and split the back of the chair from the seat. He spun around and carried the guard back with him, toppling the man over on his back. Then Judd too crashed backward, and the broken seat smacked right across the guard’s face, breaking his nose and fracturing his skull.