“Hmmmmm,” said Rick Hunter. “I don’t like it either.”
“Well, it’s easily solved.”
“It is?”
“Sure. Let’s not use limpet mines at all. We’ll put two guys behind the jetty with antitank weapons, those very light, hand-held launchers…either when they hear the first bang or on your radio command, they slam a couple of those babies straight into the ship fore and aft, and no one’s making any phone calls.”
“Beautiful. That’s a great call, sir. Same with the choppers?”
“Definitely. We don’t want any fixed time detonations. Because in the end they could turn out to be a real PITA.”
“A what?”
“PITA. Pain in the Ass.”
Lt. Commander Hunter shook his head. There really was something about Frank Hart, super brain, always on top of the situation, always with time enough for the wry quip. Bergstrom said his appointment had come direct from the White House.
He was honest, too. “Rick,” said the colonel, “I like the euphemism PITA so much, I would like to claim it as an original, complete with copyright and exclusive usage clause. But I cannot do so.”
“Why not?”
“Admiral Morgan invented it, and he likes it more than I do. But I’m still using it.”
Down below, the SEALs were preparing to go, checking their weapons, cleaning and lightly oiling their guns, adjusting their camouflage. Some were already blacking their faces and hands, tightening their belts, standing alone, practicing their readiness to attack. You could have cut the tension in those rooms with a kaybar fighting knife. Petty officers walked among them, encouraging, warning, urging them to be alert at all times, remembering always the creed of caution, of silence, forbidding the wearing of any jewelry, checking pockets for loose change that might rattle and cost someone his life.
Almost no one spoke now, as the final minutes ticked by, save for a master chief who was murmuring quietly, “You have been trained for many years to undertake such a mission. No one in the history of military conflict has ever been better trained…if you stay sharp, you guys are invincible…just remember everything you have been taught about care and attention to detail…take no chances unless you have to…and if you have to kill, do it hard, quick and silent, because if you don’t kill him, he’ll sure as hell kill you. I have complete faith in every one of you…and I want you back, every one of you. Don’t let me down, guys. Now go get ’em.”
The master chief slapped a few of them on the upper arm as he walked out, and a buzzer went off three times. Slowly the SEALs followed him out to the companionway leading to the flight deck, where the big choppers would roar them out over the water to the waiting submarines.
Colonel Hart and Lieutenant Commander Hunter remained in conference until the last minute. Through the high windows they could see two nuclear attack submarines, USS Greenville and USS Cheyenne, waiting a mile off the carrier’s port beam, with the helicopters hovering intermittently above them, the SEALs hot-roping down onto the deck. He could not see the third submarine, USS Hartford, another 7,000-ton Los Angeles-class nuclear boat, which was cruising with a minimum crew at periscope depth a half mile farther to the west, and would be utilized almost entirely as a rescue and hospital ship for the crew of Seawolf.
Finally it was time for Lieutenant Commanders Hunter and Bennett to leave, and they shook hands with Colonel Hart before striding out to the elevators, down to the flight deck and on out to the submarines for the next leg of the journey to the prison on Xiachuan.
Both submarine commanding officers planned to dive and join Hartford below the surface as soon as the SEALs were safe aboard for the six-hour journey inshore. Greenville went first, diving down to 400 feet and then making flank speed on bearing three-six-zero, heading due north to the island in 200 fathoms of water. Cheyenne followed, at the same course and same speed, about 1,000 yards astern, using a low-power active sonar pulse to keep station. If necessary they could communicate on the underwater telephone, but only in a case of extreme emergency.
The SEALs who had seen the jail were divided into two groups of four, Rusty Bennett, Dan Conway, Buster Townsend and John in Greenville, Paul Merloni, Rattlesnake Davies, Chief McCarthy and Bill in Cheyenne. Hopes of sleep declined rapidly. In each ship there were 28 other SEALs whose curiosity was getting the better of them with every passing mile.
The maps and charts were excellent to study, but the opportunity to speak to colleagues who had actually been in the place was overwhelming. And the issues they all wanted to discuss were (a) the number of guards, (b) was the jail nearly impregnable, short of blowing it up? and (c) did they have a real chance of success?
The veterans were accurately optimistic. So far as anyone could tell, the Chinese had no idea there was any danger. The guard was moderate but not scarily large, and all of the men who had been in there thought success was nearly certain, as long as they could smash up the communications system thoroughly.
And all the way in, both Lieutenant Commander Bennett and the vastly experienced Chief McCarthy went over and over the lesson: If we hit the comms hard and fast, we’re golden. If we fail to do so, we have a very good chance of dying. None of the SEALs liked the latter option at all.
Quinlei Dong carried his toolbox out to the car and stowed it in the trunk. In his hand he carried a square white box that contained a brand-new electrical switch. He started the engine and turned along the old familiar way to the People’s Bridge, and then took the road to the dockyard. It was a bright warm evening, the sun still high, as the master electrician pulled up to the gate.
The guard walked up to him, a different man from yesterday. “Hello, sir. Where are you headed?”
“Same place as yesterday and all last week, the ops room in B Block, where the electrics are still in chaos.”
“Why are you here on a Sunday?”
“Mainly because, on pain of death, I have to have the system up and running by tomorrow morning at 9:00 A.M. sharp…orders of the commandant…you think I like being here?”
The guard smiled. “Do the guards at Block B know you’re coming?”
“They do. I told them all yesterday. Here, you see this switch…this is the new part. I was just about ready to have the whole yard dug up to find the fault when I noticed the old switch had burned right at the back. Now I have to put this little devil in place. Thirty minutes and I’m out of here. Come and help me if you like — I need an assistant.”
The guard laughed, checked the windshield sticker and said, “Okay, Mr. Quinlei…see you a bit later.”
Dong drove on slowly through the empty yard, empty, that is, except for the waterfront, where there was the usual army of personnel surrounding the American submarine. He parked his car in his usual spot, way along the back street, much nearer the derelict stores building than the ops room where he was working.
He walked back briskly to where there was one single guard at the bottom of the B Block stairs. The two men greeted each other cordially, recognizing each other from the previous day’s meeting.