Four minutes later, all indications of any possible salvation were lost, and the core temperature was now well above the danger level. Deep in the reactor room the residual radiation and heat were beginning to melt away the casing, and at 2148 the white-hot mass of uranium and stainless steel burned clean through the 15-foot-wide fortified bottom of the reactor vessel and dropped down onto the hull of the submarine.
In a few seconds, it reduced that colossally strong five-inch-thick steel casing to melted butter and dropped into the waters of Canton Harbor. On its way it turned Seawolf into a death trap, the radioactive fallout filling the reactor compartment and beyond. The waters of the harbor would be lethally unsafe for a minimum of 40 years.
Up in the control room, the scientists were fully aware of the scale of the disaster. There were radiation alarms sounding everywhere, and there was a weird glow in the water. The warning, “CORE MELTDOWN…CORE MELTDOWN,” had already echoed through the ship, where mass panic now ensued.
The acting CO ordered “ABANDON SHIP!..WE HAVE CORE MELTDOWN!”
There was a stampede to disembark as technicians, scientists, and seamen alike raced for the hatches and the gangways. Seawolf still floated, even with her reactor compartment flooded with seawater, but anyone who spent more than 10 minutes on the ship right now was a dead man, probably with a maximum of three weeks to live.
Admiral Zhang’s dream of copying the great American emperor of the deep was over, and suddenly, in the space of just 15 minutes, they were in a desperate damage-control situation. The officer in command literally ran for his life, followed by the scientists, and he roared at them to keep running to the most distant of naval offices right out by the gate.
When he arrived the office door was locked, and he blew the lock off with his service revolver. They all headed for desks and telephones and opened up a conference line to Fleet Headquarters at Zhanjiang, direct to Admiral Zhang Yushu.
The C-in-C was stunned, and he found himself in an argument with the on-the-spot nuclear physicists, who felt that the only way to cope with the catastrophe was to sink Seawolf right here, letting her subside and settle on top of the reactor core. Then somehow, they could isolate the area for possibly 500 yards and perhaps contain the water around the submarine, possibly with a dam, anything to stop the contamination from spreading into the city.
However, there were technicians who very much wanted a second shot at the American boat, and they wanted to tow the submarine out into the open ocean and try to remove the key systems from it.
For Zhang this was a ray of hope in the darkness and now, yelling on the increasingly hysterical conference line, he demanded they do as he ordered, tow the submarine out and then board it and have one more try at removing the critical parts.
Dr. Luofu Pang, the senior physicist and one of China’s most respected scientists, finally agreed, or at least he seemed to agree. “Admiral,” he said, “if that is what you order, then I am not in a position to tell the Navy what to do. And so be it.”
But he added, “I will, however, issue to you my final thought: any man who boards that submarine for just ten minutes will die. If you send in many of our expert technicians, we will lose them all. I deeply regret to inform you, sir, that this is not a practical proposition. And if you do issue an order that knowingly sends our best men to their immediate death, after an accident in which I have been personally involved, my advice must be properly recorded, and I shall take immediate steps to ensure it is.”
And then his voice hardened. “Admiral,” he said. “Forget it.”
Zhang knew bald-faced reason when he heard it. And he just said quietly, “Very well, Dr. Luofu. I am disappointed, as a military man. But I bow to the great scientist. Please do everything you can to ensure the safety of everyone in the area. And sink the submarine as you see fit.”
They were big words from, essentially, a big man. Admiral Zhang had not become the youngest-ever Commander-in-Chief of the People’s Liberation Army/Navy by some kind of fluke.
At this time, in the minutes before 10:00 on this Sunday evening, July 16, 2006, the big Navy yard began to react, its nuclear accident organization activating the predetermined plan to deal with such disasters — radiation monitoring and decontamination teams, fire and medical squads, wind and weather checks.
Back in the central area of the city they slowly learned there had been an accident on the base. The police moved quickly to evacuate and cordon off the immediate areas around the submarine, particularly downwind and into the city. Their principal concern was to avoid mass panic.
The police chief called his Beijing headquarters to inform them of the disaster, and already the media were trying to make contact with the Navy itself. It took only another few minutes before Admiral Zhang Yushu was on the line to Beijing, informing his government that somehow or another, the big American nuclear submarine in the Canton dockyard had suffered a serious nuclear accident while engineers were working on the reactor.
They already knew that the dockyard was heavily contaminated, but so far there was no evidence of radiation spreading to the city itself. The police felt it would be unwise to allow any flights into Canton airport until a proper assessment had been made over the next two days.
Back in Zhanjiang, Zhang had his own private worries. His first instinct was that his own scientists had somehow screwed the entire thing up. There must have been American reactor protection systems capable of dealing with this sort of problem. So the scientists had “done a Chernobyl”—deactivating safety systems in order to carry out some crass experiment of their own. Zhang shuddered. Surely not.
Maybe the Americans had an automatic booby-trap device fitted into the submarine, and they had known all along that it would ultimately self-destruct. Hence the polite, devious messages through the diplomatic channels. Being made to look a complete fool was a condition to which Zhang was not accustomed. Nor was he appreciative.
He summoned Admiral Zu Jicai and briefed him on the disaster in Canton. Jicai was thunderstruck, his natural calm evaporating in emotional turmoil. To Zhang’s repeated question — was Seawolf booby-trapped? — his answer was a qualified no. Both men knew they had the cooperation of one of the senior Americans, the executive officer, no less, Lt. Commander Bruce Lucas.
On one evening he had quite agreeably spent the night on board the submarine and had shown no sign of nerves that the ship might self-destruct. He had even been questioned about such a possibility. Both Zhang and Zu had read the report, and the American had assured them he had never even heard of any American warship being so protected.
Nonetheless, both Chinese admirals felt a certain contempt for the American officer who had given in to their demands for information about the inner workings of the great underwater ship. It was connected to the innate Chinese phobia about loss of face, pride in your standing and position. Like all Chinese military men, they had a grudging respect for men like Judd Crocker, Brad Stockton and the unfortunately deceased Cy Rothstein, men who were unshakeable, to the death if necessary, in their loyalty and patriotism.
For Bruce Lucas they had little time, and it was with a certain sadistic pleasure that Admiral Zhang picked up the telephone and opened up the line to Commander Li, who was just dining in his private rooms, above the comm center, outside the jail in Xiachuan.
“Good evening, Li,” he said. “I am sorry to call you so late, but you may not have been notified that there has been a major disaster at the Canton base.”