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Rusty sent them ahead. This was no time to hang around. It was already 0335 and it would be light in less than three hours, and that was really bad news, because if the Chinese wanted to wipe them out, they could bomb and strafe this beach with absolute impunity as soon as their helicopter pilots could see the evacuation taking place.

He walked down to the end Zodiac, which was now floating 30 feet out from the beach, its painter held by a SEAL standing up to his chest in the water. And he called out through the rain, “Okay, guys, start the engines and head on out…southeast for three miles, then sou’-sou’west, course two-zero-two for six…you gottit all on the GPS tracks…just remember what I told you…when you’ve been running at twenty knots for nine miles — nearly half an hour—Hartford lies right at that point…you’ll pick up her beacon…that’s all…GO NOW…and don’t fuck it up.”

All the SEALs loved the last phrase. It was a Rusty Bennett trademark, and since they all hero-worshiped the iron-souled lieutenant commander from the coast of Maine, each driver felt that it was a personal goodwill message to him alone. Which is, in a sense, what real leadership is all about.

Back on the beach, the remaining personnel heard the big powerful engines on the Zodiacs growl into life. And they heard the long straining beat of the motors as they fought to lift their heavy loads up onto the “stump” of the wash. Then they heard the acceleration as the inflatables found their high-speed trim and literally flew over the calm water, all three together, racing beam on beam, bearing the President’s son and 26 other crewmen to safety.

When the next two boats, carrying stretchers, were ready in the water, held by SEALs, Rusty ordered them to leave. That way he had three out in front, two a couple of miles back on the same course, and there would be a group of three Zodiacs bringing up the rear. No one would be far from help if anything went wrong mechanically. Which it had better not, otherwise the engineers, who had meticulously prepared the Zodiac outboards, would probably end up on the wrong end of the modern-day equivalent of a thousand lashes. At least that’s what Lieutenant Commander Bennett told them would happen.

And now, as the last of the engines died away in the rainswept distance of the South China Sea, there was little more they could do but wait for an hour for the boats to return. The next time, the eight boats would take 72 more off, but by then it would be 0445. And there would still be 30 men on the beach, with no hope of escape before 0555, a few minutes before dawn. And then they would be running south for almost a half hour in gathering daylight.

“This,” muttered Rusty Bennett, “is going to be tight. Fucking tight. ’Specially as me, Rick and Ray Schaeffer will be in the last boat to leave.”

But the new column was arriving now, more than 100 men walking slowly toward the beach in the dark and rain, the SEALs, weapons at the ready, marching to the side, watching the jungle edges, even though they knew there could not be any more Chinese guards on the loose. Not unless there was a parachute drop they didn’t know about. Nonetheless, a stranger would have thought the crew of the late USS Seawolf was under close arrest, rather than U.S. Navy protection.

By the time everyone was on the beach, almost 20 minutes had passed since the last Zodiac had left. The jail was now deserted, and would remain so until the gassed personnel in the dormitory began to recover in the small hours of tomorrow morning.

Judd Crocker was still on the island, and would leave in the last boat carrying his crew members, sometime in the next 45 minutes. Like the final dozen men in the first eight-boat flotilla, Judd would be transferred to the USS Cheyenne, which now waited on the surface only six miles off the southern beaches of Xiachuan, in less than 100 feet of water.

He was talking to Rick Hunter right now, expressing his concern over the condition of Brad Stockton, who had been savagely interrogated, mainly because the Chinese thought he was the most senior man in the crew, aside from the CO.

“I wouldn’t worry too much, sir,” said the SEAL leader. “We have a Navy doctor who specializes in torture-type damage in each of the submarines. They’ll get him fixed up. Anyway, we’re making the transfer to the carrier within a very few hours, and there’s a full-blown hospital in there.”

Judd Crocker nodded, and Rick Hunter asked suddenly, “Was it bad, sir?”

“Well, it wasn’t great.”

“What did they want from the crew members?”

“They really wanted information. But they wanted it in a very specialized form…you know, they wanted a guided tour of the combat systems by Lieutenant Commander Rothstein. I expect you know this, but these are among the most complicated systems on the ship…and while they would certainly be able to copy them, make plans, and for all I know, remove certain parts, there’s nothing like having the man who works them in your corner.”

“No, I guess not…so those little bastards really wanted to get ahold of all of our specialists on the ship, and get them to spill the beans on all the subtleties of the electronics — so they could make a submarine of the same standard as Seawolf…?”

“Lieutenant Commander, you have it right there.”

“Jesus Christ, cunning little bastards…but what I don’t know is how they managed to capture the submarine in the first place, sir…what happened?”

“Well, it might be classified, but since ten thousand Chinamen and more than one hundred crew and half of SUBPAC know, I guess there’s no harm in my enlightening the officer who rescued us…”

Rick Hunter chuckled in his deep, quiet Kentucky manner. “In any event, sir, you may count on my discretion…we’ll say it was passed on under the ‘need to know’ syndrome, since we’re not out of this fucking hellhole quite yet.”

Judd Crocker laughed. “May I call you Rick?”

“Of course.”

“Well, Rick, I am about to impart to you a brief shining example of a monumental snafu. On a dark night, way out there in the South China Sea, we managed to wrap our propeller hard around the long towed array of a six-thousand-ton Chinese destroyer.”

“Holy shit!”

“To the best of my recall, those may have been my own precise words when I realized what had happened.”

“Did you have the conn, sir?”

“Hell, no, I was asleep. I’d just come off watch.”

“How’d you find out?”

“Are you kidding? When something like that happens in a big nuclear boat, everything suddenly changes. You lose propulsion and it goes kinda quiet, the trim changes, and machinery sounds that you all live with all the time are suddenly different, even the angle of the boat is different…”

“Who had the conn, sir?”

“That, I am afraid, is classified. But the truth will in the end come out, I’m sure of that.”

“Do you think there will be a Navy inquiry?”

“Christ, yes. A full one first, listening to the evidence of everyone, plus his wife and his dog. That’ll take God knows how long. And there’ll be a recommendation, if they think someone failed in his duty: possibly that certain officers of Seawolf were guilty of gross negligence, perhaps even leaving their place of duty in the face of the enemy…”

“You mean they may court-martial you, sir?”

“They just might. Unlikely, but possible. Any commanding officer who manages to lose his ship faces deep trouble. But in the light of the evidence, I hope they will find me not guilty…”

“I would, sir.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant Commander. I hope they’ll be as understanding.”

“Well, if they’re not, I’ll come forward and tell ’em you took out the armed camp commandant singlehanded right there in the death cells.”