Just then, Admiral Zu’s young lieutenant assistant came in, carrying a single sheet of paper. “Just in from Canton city, sir…a very short signal. Telephone communication from a village elder on the island of Shangchuan, just across the bay from the jail. He says his sons sighted a very bright glow in the sky about an hour ago, says it looked like a very large fire…he telephoned the police in Macao, and they networked it through their headquarters in Canton.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. That will come as no surprise to our learned Commander-in-Chief.”
Admiral Zhang continued to pace the room. “We must get one of them, Jicai. We must hit one, and put a lot of Americans on the bottom of the ocean. It is essential that we do that.”
“Just for loss of face and your career, Yushu? Do you not think there may have been enough bloodshed already?”
Admiral Zhang hesitated. And then he unloaded on his oldest friend, control slipping away as he spoke. “SILENCE!” he roared. “SILENCE, Jicai. I must have revenge, do you understand me? REVENGE! For God’s sake, am I not entitled to that, after all I have done for this country? I understand I may be relieved of command, but don’t deny me my pride. If I go, I must go as a warrior, as a commander who fought the enemy to his last breath. Not as a poor, pathetic creature, beaten and humbled by the American imperialists, pounded into defeat and then sent away to rot in obscurity.
“Don’t begrudge me my pride, Jicai. I must save face. And the only way to do that is to make sure we hit the Americans. If I could, I’d do it myself. Nothing would make me happier than to smash a Chinese torpedo right into the heart of an American ship — I hate them, Jicai. My God, I hate them.”
For the first time, Admiral Zu was actually quite concerned about the state of mind of the Commander-in-Chief of the People’s Liberation Navy. His own instinct was to let the damned American prisoners go, clear up the mess, apologize to Washington for the destruction of Seawolf in the accident in Canton, blame the damage on the collision with the destroyer, and get on with life, trade and prosperity.
Yushu’s pride, he thought, might prove expensive.
The hotline from the Oval Office rang yet again.
“Hello, sir,” said Arnold Morgan. “Sorry, no word yet. But no news is good news…there was never going to be communication until the prisoners reached the first submarine, unless there was a crisis. So far there has been no communication, and they have been on the island for two and a half hours. That means the jail is in American hands, sir. Trust me. Otherwise we’d have heard.”
“But are the prisoners alive? That’s all I want to know…”
“If they’d found anything untoward, they’d have let us know by now. Sir, we have to continue to think the operation has been successfully carried out, and I’m not moving from this chair until we hear. I’ll call you the first second I get any news whatsoever.”
“Okay, Arnie. I know I’m being neurotic. But I don’t know what I’d do if I lost him…”
The admiral put the phone down and picked up his direct line to Admiral Mulligan’s office in the Pentagon. “Hi, Joe, anything yet?”
“Uh-uh. Just heard from George Morris, though. We got a picture from the overheads showing a large fire on the island of Xiachuan. Lotta black smoke, looks like fuel.”
“The fire’s probably a good sign. It should mean they’re in and attacking. Let’s face it, Joe, no one can deal with the SEALs when they’re in full cry.”
“That’s where my money is…I’ll call you back as soon as I get anything.”
Captain Crocker went over the crew list one final time. Only Cy Rothstein and Skip Laxton were still missing. Rick Hunter said, “I gotta brief your guys.”
“I got eight fast inflatables on the beach,” rapped the SEAL leader. “Each boat takes eight with one on a stretcher, nine without. I’m takin’ three boats with nine guys, that’s twenty-seven. With five stretcher cases, we got forty more places in the first wave…that’s a total of sixty-seven I want ready to leave right away. Do eggzackly what my guys say. They say DROP, you drop. They say JUMP, don’t stop to ask how high. You jump.
“They’ll carry the stretchers, guide you down to the beach. There’s a team there to get y’all aboard. Then you got a thirty-minute ride to a submarine. GO, TEAM.”
Judd Crocker added, “Shawn, do the head count. Andy, take care of Brad. He’s on a stretcher for the ride.”
Rick checked the courtyard for American guns or equipment that might have been dropped in the general melee. Dan Conway and Buster Townsend led the orderly stampede down the half mile to the beach where Lieutenant Commander Bennett awaited them, still covered in mud, blood and gunpowder. With his face blackened and his “drive-on rag” spattered red, he looked like Crazy Horse’s half-brother after Little Bighorn.
The night was still hot, but, as if on cue, it began to rain again, and it was slanting, tropical monsoon rain that lashed down on them, refilling the long puddles in the courtyard and soaking the winding column of men that had formed behind the lead SEALs.
Dan and Buster led them to the north for a very slow 400 yards along a rough path hacked out of the undergrowth by Olaf’s men an hour earlier, as soon as the jail had fallen into American hands. But the jungle was lower here as the land fell away toward the sea, and there was a lot of overhang, wet branches and undergrowth. The rain was belting down so hard it was forming small lakes instantly along the little track, and the SEALs up front, carrying the five stretchers right behind Buster, were slipping and sliding and cursing in the pitch dark.
Progress was painfully slow. It took 10 minutes to cover that first quarter mile, and nothing much improved when Dan changed course, now heading northeast. The terrain was, if anything, worse as the jungle thinned out above this particular stretch of beach. There were deep puddles and areas that were almost a quagmire, and they were unavoidable because nobody could see them until they were in them, up to their ankles in mud. It was very tough for the stretcher-bearers to keep their balance, and sometimes they didn’t. But no one capsized and 17 minutes after they had left the jail, the long column of Americans reached the beach.
“Christ, we thought you’d never get here,” said Lieutenant Commander Bennett, walking up to meet them. “Better hurry before the boats fill up with rainwater and sink.”
Dan Conway chuckled and followed the SEAL beach boss down to the water where the Zodiacs were moored on the sand, with their bows facing the short surf rolling in from the east. The little waves caused each boat to rise very slightly with the tide, but only the first three feet of the Zodiacs was in the water.
“Okay, guys,” called Rusty. “Let’s get one stretcher in each of the first five boats, and while we’re doing that, Buster, count out the next twenty-seven men and have them report to the last three inflatables in the line. I got two guys on each boat, the driver and one other to help with the launch…only the drivers go.”
Since everyone on the beach was in the Navy, it was a well-disciplined operation. Only the stretchers were difficult, but the SEALs had done it before, and they laid each one flat on the temporary decking they had fitted to the frame before last night’s launch. They centered the stretchers forward, which would allow other passengers to sit or kneel in a line facing aft, holding on to the handles if the sea got up.
It was complicated, but by the time Rusty had the operation halfway complete, the three boats at the far end were loaded and ready. Lt. Commander Linus Clarke was in one of them.