The Shark Mutiny (2001)

by Patrick Robinson

  He put Buster’s good arm over his shoulder and held his wrist, and with his own arm around the wounded man’s waist, they pushed forward, walking as well as they could through the undergrowth of the Burmese forest.

  “I’m glad we did that,” said Rick. “We’ve stopped the blood, stopped the infection, and it isn’t going to get worse before we reach a doctor.”

  Moments later Mike Hook’s radio, tuned to the frequency, picked up the bleep-bleep-bleep of the homing device in the inflatables, now parked somewhere down by the Letpan Stream. “Got ’em, sir. They’re waiting.”

  “Good job, Mike…we just gotta stay on this course,” said Rick. “It’s due west and right now the attack board compass has us headed two-seven-zero. We’re right on the money—gonna pop right out of these woods on the left-hand fork of the stream, right where Shawn drew the spot.”

  “You want a couple of us to make a bolt for it?” asked Lt. MacPherson. “Just to let the boat drivers know we’re on our way—tell ’em we got a problem?”

  “Good call. Why don’t you, Mike and one of the rookies take that other little radio and get down there. Bobby’ll handle the transmitter. And use your compass—you know they say it’s impossible to walk through trees in a straight line?”

  “Okay, boss. See you in about fifteen minutes.”

  070400JUN07. USS Shark. Bay of Bengal.

  16.00N 94.01E. Speed 3. Racetrack course. PD.

  The watch changed at 0400, and Lt. Commander Dan Headley still had the ship. No sign yet of Commander Reid, who had remained distant throughout the SEAL operation at Haing Gyi. Dan Headley knew he was not coming, at least not formally, to take over the watch. Although he thought the CO might show up casually a little later. He had just seemed extremely relieved when the XO had requested that he handle Shark during the Special Forces operation.

  At that moment Lt. Pearson came into the control room and said the CO wished to see him in his room immediately.

  “Any clue why, Shawn?”

  “None, sir. He just stuck his head out of the door when I was passing and said to tell you.”

  “Okay…Officer of the Deck, you have the ship.”

  “I have the ship, sir,” replied Lt. Matt Singer.

  Dan Headley made his way down to Commander Reid’s room, and was surprised to find the CO unshaven and looking fraught, which he considered was several degrees worse than worried.

  “Hello, sir,” he said. “What’s up?”

  “We have a very serious problem,” replied the boss of USS Shark.

  “We do?”

  “We certainly do. And before I elaborate, I want you to understand that I am talking about a subject on which I am something of an expert.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Mercury, XO, is just coming into retrograde.”

  Dan Headley had rarely, probably never, been quite that bewildered.

  “No shit?” he said, lamely.

  Commander Reid glared at his second-in-command. “Do you, XO, have any idea how serious that can be? ANY IDEA WHATSOEVER?”

  “Who, me?”

  “Plainly, Lieutenant Commander, I am addressing you.”

  “Well, sir. I’m not quite sure what you mean.”

  “MERCURY, XO! One of the greatest planets of the universe, will be in retrograde by dawn. MOVING BACKWARD. CAN YOU UNDERSTAND THE SIGNIFICANCE OF THAT, XO?”

  Commander Reid’s voice was rising. And so were Lt. Commander Headley’s antennae.

  “Astrology is what we are discussing, Mr. Headley. Astrology. The ancient study of cycles—created originally by the Chaldeans of Babylonia three thousand years before Christ. Babylon, XO, Iraq in the modern world.”

  “Oh, Saddam’s mob. Guess I hadn’t figured them as students of the universe.”

  “Maybe not, maybe not. But I am a student of the universe. And I must tell you that when the planet Mercury begins to turn in an apparent backward motion, things can become extremely difficult. It’s one of the ancient laws of the zodiac.”

  “Sir, look, I am sure this is all very fascinating, but I’ve got twelve brave men trying to get out of a Chinese Naval base under the most terrible circumstances. Could we go into retrograde some other time?”

  “XO. ARE YOU ACCUSING ME OF IRRELEVANCE? THERE IS NOTHING MORE RELEVANT THAN MERCURY IN RETROGRADE. I’M TALKING OF MATTERS AS OLD AS TIME, FOR GOD’S SAKE!”

  “Sir, I’m talking about high explosives, the destruction of a major Chinese Navy installation. I’m talking about life and death.”

  “And what could be more significant to that matter of life and death than the slow reverse motion of a mighty planet, stilled briefly in the heavens? MERCURY IN RETROGRADE, SIR! WE ARE ABOUT TO BE BOMBARDED BY THE TIMELESS, MADDENING EFFECTS OF THE PLANET THAT CONTROLS US!” And his voice rose even higher. “CAN YOU UNDERSTAND THAT, XO?”

  Dan Headley was at a loss. But at that moment the phone rang. The CO grabbed it and handed it over immediately. “Sir”—Lt. Singer’s voice was almost as urgent as Commander Reid’s—“can you come back? The SEALs have a problem. Buster Townsend has been badly wounded. They’re being hunted down by helicopters, sir. It’s bad. Please come back up here.”

  Dan Headley’s heart missed at least two beats, maybe three. “Sir, excuse me. We have a problem.”

  “PROBLEM? PROBLEM? OF COURSE WE HAVE A PROBLEM! WE’RE IN RETROGRADE. AND WHICH PLANET IN THE GREAT SCHEME OF THE UNIVERSE DO YOU THINK CONTROLS ALL TRANSPORTATION AND COMMUNICATION ISSUES?…”

  “Me? I’m not really sure about that, sir. But I gotta go.” And with that Dan Headley charged out of the door, and long after he had turned the corner for the companionway, he heard the CO shout, “MERCURY, SIR, MERCURY! AND WHERE THE HELL DO YOU THINK IT WAS ON AUGUST 14, 2000? ANSWER THAT, DAMN YOU.”

  Dan heard that, all right. It was the day the Kursk hit the bottom of the Barents Sea. We got a problem okay. But it’s not some hunk of fucking rock flying backwards around outer space. It’s sitting right back there in that little room—Reid in Retrograde is a lot more like it.

  Inside the control room, there was an atmosphere of extreme concern. Lieutenant Singer was on the line to comms. The satellite signal just in from the driver of the lead inflatable was brief and forbidding.

  It read: “070410JUN07. 16.00N 94.19E—SEAL team delayed in escape from Haing Gyi. Townsend walking wounded. PLAN has helos up searching shoreline to Letpan Stream. Nine SF trapped in high woods unable to reach boats. Attempting new RV downstream. Inflatables not located. Chinese base history. Hunter.”

  Master Chief Drew Fisher had the conn, and Lt. Commander Headley read the signal carefully. Lt. Singer handed him one of the 10-inch-wide scale maps on which Lt. Pearson had drawn in the details of the triangular island, and they assessed the situation.

  There was a distance of 1,000 yards downstream of the rendezvous point along the edge of the marsh. Right there the map showed a wide inlet of water running right into the shore. Shawn’s map showed trees almost 40 feet high all the way. There was no doubt Rick would make his way along there and make a rush for the boats. Since the helos had plainly not yet located the inflatables, there was obviously high grass cover in the marsh. The problem was probably the inlet—everyone would have to break cover in there, and then attempt to charge out through the shallows across the Haing Gyi Shoal. Three miles.

  “Mother of God,” whispered Lt. Singer. “They haven’t got a prayer on the open water.”

  “You mean the helos?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Actually, they have two chances, Lieutenant. To break cover in secret, unseen by the helos. Or to shoot the fuckers down. They have three standard M-60s, right? One already in each boat, one with the team.”

  “You need to be a bit lucky to down a helo with one of those, sir. But I know it’s been done plenty of times, and they do have six belts of ammunition in each boat.”

  “Where would you rather be, Lieutenant? On the ground with the guys holdin
g the ammunition belts, or in a helo being machine-gunned by Commander Hunter?”

  “On the ground with the Commander, sir. No question…. But what are we going to do?”

  “Tell comms to get a signal in. Tell the boat driver to let us know the moment they’re under way. We’re going in to get ’em.”

  “Christ, sir. There’re only about thirty-five feet of water this side of the big shoal.”

  “I don’t actually give a fuck if there’re only two feet. We’re not leaving them.”

  “I’m afraid that decision will be made by me.” And all three men in the control room turned to see Commander Reid standing there, very calmly, in marked contrast to his demeanor of just a few moments ago.

  “Debrief me, XO. I need to appreciate the precise situation if you are planning to endanger the lives of my entire crew, and indeed of USS Shark itself.”

  Lieutenant Commander Headley walked over to him, and his tone was icy. “This is the map of the island, sir. The X there marks where the boats came in to embark the SEALs. This mark is where we anticipate the team will move, in order to embark farther downstream. There are PLAN helos up, but they have not yet discovered either the boats or Commander Hunter’s team.”

  “I assume they will attempt to cross this wide shoal at high speed?”

  “I agree, sir. And I’m proposing we come in on the surface and meet them. If we have to, I’ll take the helos out with Stingers.”

  “Not on my watch, you won’t, XO. How dare you decide in my ship virtually to declare war on China? In the open sea, firing publicly on Chinese aircraft quite properly defending their own base. No, sir. For that, you will need not only my permission, but that of the flag, and probably CINCPACFLT. Do you have any idea of the consequences of what you are proposing?”

  Dan Headley stared him hard in the eyes. There was total silence in the control room. Commander Reid shook his head and turned away, walking out through the door.

  Lieutenant Commander Headley did not acknowledge what had been said. He just turned back to Lt. Singer and ordered, “Please carry out my last order, Matt. Get that signal in to the boat drivers. We must know immediately when they leave.”

  “But what about the CO, sir? He plainly doesn’t think we should go in.”

  “No,” replied Dan. “He doesn’t. Now get that signal away, and tell comms to stand by for the reply.”

  The Boat Chief, MCPO Drew Fisher, looked at the XO, and said quietly, “We’re going in to get ’em, right, sir?”

  “Do you want to leave Rick and the guys to die out there, Drew?”

  “Nossir. No. I do not.”

  0414. Haing Gyi Island.

  It was just beginning to rain now, and Commander Hunter with his eight SEALs were struggling through the thick tropical forest. They’d made their course adjustment in radio contact with Lt. MacPherson, who was now helping to drag the big inflatables along the shore in about two feet of water, too shallow to paddle, under a canopy of insect-ridden grasses.

  “Jesus,” he said, “I’m supposed to be a combat SEAL, not Humphrey fucking Bogart.” And he was right. It was like a scene from The African Queen. All they needed was Katharine Hepburn manning the machine gun.

  However, the deadly nature of this night was brought into all of its terrible reality by the clattering of the helicopters overhead, searching, searching for the murderers who had infiltrated their base and very nearly destroyed it.

  Back under the trees Rick could hear them coming in low, circling the area. But right now all nine of the SEALs had but one thing on their mind. It was just 0415 and the armor-piercing bomb should be on its way. They would not hear the blast, one mile away and 3,000 feet below the surface of the earth. But they should hear something in the next couple of minutes.

  Rick told them to keep moving, and the sense of anticipation grew more intense with every stride they took. Then they did hear it…a dull, muffled rumble, more like a distant earthquake.

  And then there was nothing. But quite suddenly in the weird silence of the night, an explosion shook the island to its foundations. A colossal crash, erupting out over the forest, as the roof of the power station was blasted a hundred feet into the air, followed by a shattering white light that lit up the area.

  A giant bright plume of incineratingly hot steam, 50 feet across, gushed skyward. Higher and higher above the island, burning into the rain clouds, 1,000 feet, 2,000 feet, roaring like the oil flame on an old-fashioned boiler. A million old-fashioned boilers.

  The noise was an unearthly, unnatural, uncontrollable sound, gushing out of the very core of the earth. Up through the trees Rick Hunter and his men could see the dead-straight, ivory-white tower, like an endless sky-scraper reaching up into the stratosphere, into the heavens, for all they knew.

  Aside from the fact that it most certainly signaled the end of China’s Naval base in Burma, the howling tower of steam did the SEALs one other colossal favor. It totally distracted the three PLAN helicopters, two Russian-built ASW Helix-As and a single Helix-B assault craft carrying its full complement of UV-57 rockets. All three of them had been a mere 500 feet away from the power station when it blew, and they swerved instinctively away from the white inferno as it slammed the roof into the sky, showering the local airspace with bricks, concrete, dust and metal beams.

  With everything on fire down below, it was difficult for them to land. Also there was no electric power, anywhere. There was no one to consult with. The pilots did not even know if there was anyone left alive. All three of them had managed to get airborne as a result of the last-second message from the late CO of the destroyer, but they had done so at huge risk, flying out and away from the fire in the fuel farm, and then picking up a new signal from the emergency transmitter in the accommodation block.

  The officer had delivered the message under immense stress. He was badly wounded and his signal was more like a MAYDAY than an order. He just had time to tell the lead pilot the direction the murderers were headed—down to the marsh—before the radio went dead. As it happened, there were six officers still in the accommodation block, and they were trying to transmit to the helos. There was no one else at this stage to transmit to.

  The big red-and-white Helix choppers were all very capable; two of them had the weapons to destroy a submerged submarine, and the other had rockets to outrange the U.S. Stingers. But they were very exposed, and very noisy. With their twin high rotors and four-corner landing wheels, they looked like a cruising flight of pterodactyls.

  And now the pilots brought them in to land, out on that rough ground, 200 yards from the stream. And all nine of the occupants, pilots, navigators and gunners, ran for the accommodation block to receive whatever orders there might still be.

  And that left the SEALs, for the moment, unthreatened. Commander Hunter told them to keep going. He told them to carry Buster somehow between them, and Rattlesnake and his rookie assistant made a chair with their linked hands. Buster was able to sit in it, and he could lean back into the powerful arms and chest of Catfish Jones. Once they found a regular stride they were able to move fast, with Buster’s weight distributed between them. Much faster than if he had had to walk himself.

  They pressed on beneath the trees, struggling forward, dreading the sound of the returning helos. But none came, and Rick led them on down to the inlet, watching the compass, trying to keep on course two-five-five, more southerly than their previous route. And the sound of the roaring steam provided them with an inspiration, a feeling of self-congratulation. They had done what they came to do, and to a Navy SEAL that represents the meaning of life.

  At 0440, they noticed the reeds and grasses petering out, and there was a new urgency in the bleeper, sounding out from the inflatable boats. Rick knew they must be close, and then he saw the water, gleaming in a kind of aerial phosphorescence from the snow-white steam towering over the entire island. It was a wide, shallow inlet, probably 50 yards across, and down the inlet, possibly 100 yards away, they could see fiv
e black figures trying to drag the boats nearer.

  Rick Hunter snapped sharply into the radio receiver, “DALLAS. RIGHT HERE…over.”

  “Okay, sir,” the reply came back. “It’s just too shallow. We can’t get the boats nearer, even empty…I’m coming back to the shore now…hold everything…over.”

  One minute later, Lt. MacPherson, followed by Mike Hook, came splashing through the shallows. “Sir,” he said, “how about that? What about that steam? Way to go, right!”

  “Way to go, kid. What now?”

  “The bottom of this creek’s firm. Let’s get Buster inboard. The guys are hiding the boats under that grass. It’s a beautiful overhang—choppers never even saw them. C’mon, Rattles…okay, Buster, ole buddy, let’s go home.”

  And now the full team stepped into the water and began to move on down to the boats, Rick now carrying the M-60, all the others holding the MP-5s, one rookie with the second belt of ammunition. Their hoods were up now, wet-suit trousers folded and clipped over the tight rubber shoes, custom-made to fit the flippers. With no Draegers, bombs, explosives or hardware, it was easy going.