“No, sir. I have not been informed.”
“The American submarine has had a serious nuclear accident and contaminated most of the dockyard. It was apparently a reactor meltdown. Privately, I think our scientists may not have been quite competent to work on it without willing American assistance, and that they ran it too hot or something. However, we must be aware that the ship may have been booby-trapped to blow itself to pieces if it ever fell into foreign hands.”
“We did question Lieutenant Commander Lucas about this, and he professed to know nothing of such a scheme,” replied Li.
“However,” said Zhang, “he is clearly a cowardly man who may be dishonest, and I think you should have him removed to the interrogation room again as soon as possible, tonight. Keep him awake. Try the wet towel again, hah? That way we may get a serious answer.…Thank you, Li. Let’s speak tomorrow early before the prisoners are moved.”
All three American submarines were now at periscope depth, making 8 knots through 150 feet of water, some 30 miles south of the assault beach. The depths on the fathometers steadily lessened. In all three boats, the attention of the commanding officers was fixed on the voices calling out the depth below the keel — the ever-increasing proximity of the soft sandy ocean floor as it sloped up to the mainland.
Minutes passed, and then…“Fifty-feet on the sounder.”
At 2250, Cheyenne was calling less than 20 feet under the keel; one more mile and they would surface, running in toward the landing beach. Cheyenne’s satellite comms had already established that the Xiachuan patrol boat was back on the jetty, and there was no sign of a further Chinese warship.
And so, in heavy rain and a light wind, the three Los Angeles-class boats came sliding out of the dark ocean into the hot, wet night air of the south China tropics. They pushed forward on the surface for another four miles, watching the ESM, checking that there was no shore-based radar along the desolate coastline, which there was not. And then they came almost to a halt, riding on an easy swell in 50 feet of water, four miles off the southern beaches of the island.
The SEALs were ready and began to climb out onto the deck, each one wearing heavy black camouflage cream on his face. Already on deck, members of the submarine crews were inflating the much bigger Zodiacs, priming the engines, checking the gas. Then, from the decks of Cheyenne and Greenville, 32 SEALs each expertly manhandled them into the water and climbed aboard for the three-mile power-assisted run into Xiachuan. The last mile they would paddle, just as Olaf Davidson’s recon team had done two nights previous.
Each of the big rubber boats was now commanded by one of the SEALs who had reconnoitered the island. Lieutenant Commander Bennett was in the lead, followed by Lt. Dan Conway’s boat, then Buster Townsend, then John. Chief McCarthy would lead the four from Cheyenne, followed by Paul Merloni, Rattlesnake Davies and Bill.
Eight SEALs traveled in each boat, which was a tight squeeze because they all had to bring equipment: machine guns, ladders, satchel bombs, det-cord, antitank launchers, grappling hooks, grenades, and a box of flares to light the place up once they’d gone noisy. In addition, there were small hand-held radios, already primed to connect with the bigger one that would be carried by Lt. Commander Rick Hunter’s personal bodyguard and would act as the command post for each of the marauding SEAL teams. In addition, there was the navigation kit, compasses, GPS systems, medical supplies, and light aluminum stretchers.
The engines kicked into life, the noise surprisingly quiet for such powerful engines. But the word from the sonar and radar rooms was excellent. There were no Chinese ships within 25 miles, save for the parked patrol boat on the jetty at Xiachuan.
And so they set off at a low growl, running fast at 20 knots, heading due north for the beach where Olaf and Catfish would signal them in. Rusty knew the light on the southern headland of Shangchuan Dao would be their guide, and he spotted it after eight minutes, a fast bright flash to starboard every five seconds. He checked his watch, and kept going, the other seven boats line astern. Six more minutes and he would signal to cut the speed, and he thanked God for the rain, which tended to deaden sound on the water.
At 23:45, they drifted silently to a halt and the SEALs took up the paddles, perching on the broad rubberized gunwhales of the Zodiacs and pulling long, quiet strokes through the water. No lights, no sound, guided only by the compass and the soft green glow of the numbers on Rusty Bennett’s GPS system.
At 23:55 Lieutenant Commander Bennett spotted his second bright light of the journey, right off their port bow, three quick flashes every 20 seconds, the agreed-upon signal…“There he is, it’s Olaf and Catfish right in there…”
He muttered in the dark, “Starboard four, two strokes,” and he felt the boat swing to port. “All pull now…six strokes and wait…starboard side, two…portside, one…all pull again ten strokes and easy…”
And then he felt the boat moving on its own as Olaf and Catfish grabbed the bow handles expertly and hauled the Zodiac inshore, through the shallows and onto the beach. The SEALs jumped out and grabbed the handles, two men peeling off from each boat to assist the next one in.
Rusty, now assuming command on the landing beach, ordered two crewmen to remain with each boat, a total of 16 valuable SEALs. But the getaway beach was a mile to the north, up beyond the jetty, the closest possible water to the jail. And the moment the patrol boat blew, the eight Zodiacs had to be floated out and driven with all speed right past the wreck to the point where Seawolf’s stricken crew would begin to arrive. And theirs had to be the shortest possible journey because of the wounded.
Meanwhile Hank and Al came ghosting out of the jungle, shook hands quickly with Lieutenant Commander Hunter, and led the way back to the point in the trees where they had cut sufficient undergrowth to form a muster point. Rusty Bennett supervised the unloading of the gear, and Lieutenant Conway was in charge of moving it up the beach into the cleared area.
Conditions may have seemed awful, pitch dark and driving tropical rain, but for this operation, conditions were perfect. The only lights anyone could see were on the distant patrol boat, moored at the jetty. And now Lieutenant Commander Hunter began to assemble his teams, three of them, 16 men in each.
Team A would be led by Rusty Bennett. Under his command would be Chief John McCarthy, the three British SAS men, Buster Townsend, two expert climbers, John and Bill, plus eight regular seamen. Their task was the initial assault, taking the watchtowers, scaling the walls, taking out the guard patrol inside the jail, blowing up the guardhouse and the main gates, and then moving in to assist in prisoner release. At this point Chief McCarthy would take over command while Rusty peeled off to command the exit beach.
Team B would be led by Lt. Dan Conway. His second-in-command was Lt. Paul Merloni, and the team included Rattlesnake Davies, Petty Officers Catfish Jones, Steve Whipple, and Rocky Lamb, plus Hank, Al, and eight other SEALs on their first mission. Their critical task was to attack the camp headquarters, and destroy all communications equipment; attack the combined administration and dormitory block, preventing any of its inhabitants from influencing events; and kill any guards patrolling outside the walls of the jail.
Team C would be commanded by Lt. Commander Olaf Davidson. His second-in-command would be Lt. Ray Schaeffer. They would be assisted by Lt. Junior Grade Garrett Atkins and a team of SEAL veterans because this group was the uncommitted reserve, and they had to be ready for anything, particularly in the event of a crisis. Their principal tasks were to destroy the patrol craft and the two helicopters, and thereafter to move right in close and provide backup to both Team A and Team B in the release of the prisoners. They were also in command of the medical supplies, plus the light-weight stretchers