The Shark Mutiny (2001)

by Patrick Robinson

  Except that out there above the trees there could suddenly be heard the sound of the helos returning, the pilots now firmly briefed as to the direction the fleeing murderers had taken. They have to be down along the shore of that stream. Look for boats…and look for men in black combat suits.

  All three of the helos had their square rear doors open, and inside each one a gunner crouched behind a machine gun twice the size of the M-60, aiming it out through the gap. Up front, the navigator, wearing night goggles, sat beside the pilot, calling back target instructions.

  This was big trouble. The SEALs were close to the boats, but there was no protection in there. And walking down the bright water of the inlet they were at their most vulnerable point of the entire mission.

  “Get into the shore, and hit the deck right now.” Rick Hunter was not joking. And he was not in time, either. The lead helicopter came battering in over the treetops. It was heading west out over the water when the rear navigator spotted movement in the shallows. He snapped out an order to the pilot to bank left, and hover at 100 feet. Then he told the gunner where he had seen movement, and he opened fire, raking the shoreline with a fusillade of bullets, ripping into the grass, making vicious lines in the water.

  The first burst hit the last man into the reeds, and Catfish Jones took the full volley in his back and head. He fell dead into the shallows, still trying to hold on to Buster Townsend. Rattlesnake Davies, now left carrying Buster all on his own, saw Catfish hit the water, saw the bullets lashing all around him, and still went back to try to drag him to safety.

  By some miracle the bullets missed Rattlesnake, and even though he knew Catfish was surely dead, he would not let go, and he dragged the former North Carolina fisherman out of the firing line, and he kept saying over and over, “C’mon, Catfish, buddy, we’ll be all right. I know we’ll be all right…just keep comin’ buddy…we’re gonna be fine.”

  When at last he was under cover, he turned Petty Officer Jones over so the others could not see the terrible effects of the bullets, especially not the gaping hole in the back of his head.

  Rick Hunter knew what had happened instantly. And he told them all, “We just have to keep still. Remember that machine gunner has no idea whether he hit anyone or not. Heads down, don’t move. And say a prayer for Catfish. He was a great and brave man. But we have to go forward and save ourselves.”

  “Sir, we’re not leaving him, are we, sir?” Rattlesnake Davies was beside himself. “I can’t leave him, sir. I can’t leave him.”

  “Don’t be fucking stupid, Rattles. Of course we’re not fucking leaving him.” The Commander knew exactly how to talk to people who were on the verge of losing their grip.

  “Jesus, sir. How the hell are we going to get outta here?” asked Lt. MacPherson.

  “By using our brains, staying quiet, holding our nerve, hiding when we have to and hitting back hard when we get a chance.”

  “What worries me most is the daylight coming,” said Dallas. “It’s headed for zero-five-hundred, and I’m guessing it’s gonna be light by six-thirty—we got ninety minutes max to make the open water.”

  “And it ain’t gonna be all that great when we do, unless we can get some help. I’m counting on my buddy Danny for that.”

  And now they could hear the three helos making a long circle out over the Haing Gyi Shoal, and their clatter died out to the east, which signified they were coming right back in roughly six minutes from now. Commander Hunter rallied his team. They got Buster to his feet and walking, and two of the rookies dragged the body of Catfish Jones out into the water, faceup, and began to pull him through the shallows toward the inflatables, now only 50 yards away.

  It was slower than anyone wanted, but the skies seemed clear and the fresh water running down toward the ocean was cleaning the wounds of the dead SEAL who had destroyed the Chinese frigate.

  They reached the boats safely, placed the body in one and stretched Buster out comfortably in the other. The two Navy boat drivers, Seamen Ward and Franks, helped load the rest of the men inboard. Rattlesnake was in with Buster, plus Rick Hunter and the two rookies who had served with them outside the power plant. Lieutenant MacPherson was in the other boat.

  Two more rookies went into the second craft, where Mike Hook was already sorting out the gear and organizing the M-60. Everyone was still in the cover of the over-hanging grass, but the weight had put the boats on the bottom. Commander Hunter and Lt. Allensworth went back in the water, and the skies were clear. It was still dark and the team leader decided they should at least be floating ready for the moment when they would make a run for it, straight down the widening river and across the shoal.

  “The grass is just as good to hide in down there another fifty yards as it is up here,” he said. “And there’re probably five feet of water. Bobby and me’ll drag us down there. I’ll pull, he’ll shove. I don’t like boats aground in a foot of water.”

  Rick Hunter seized the painter of the lead boat and heaved. Astern Bobby Allensworth pushed with all his strength, and the boat moved. Rick heaved some more, and the boat slid off the mud with water under its keel.

  “One at a time. We’ll take ’em separately,” he said. “Use the paddles to stay as far into the grass as you can.” And Commander Hunter began to haul the boat along, with Bobby at his side, preventing it from drifting out into the bright stream.

  They’d gone 25 yards when the helos came back, and the sound of the steam roaring out of the power plant deadened the sound of the engines. Bobby Allensworth saw them before he heard them, and he yelled at Rick to shove the boat inshore and then hit the water.

  The SEAL commander turned, saw the helos about a half mile off, racing into the inlet where they had opened fire before. The pilot banked right, losing height as he came in over the trees. The navigator thought he spotted something in the water, and he ordered the gunner to open up along the bank again.

  Once more the bullets from the big Russian-made machine gun ripped into the left bank, and he kept firing all the way down its length. The two SEALs dived face-down into the water, and the the first helicopter overflew them. But the second one didn’t. Rick Hunter and Bobby surfaced without knowing it was there and the second machine-gunner, wearing night goggles, spotted them, and rained fire down on them.

  The chopper was so low it could hardly miss, and with heartbreaking courage the SEAL from the Los Angeles ghetto flung himself onto his Commander’s back and took eleven bullets that jolted his entire body, obliterating his spine, neck and head. He died instantly, still clinging to Rick’s back. Still the devoted bodyguard.

  Rick Hunter forced himself up out of the mud, safe but wet. “Shit, Bobby,” he said. “You trying to drown us both?”

  And then he saw Bobby Allensworth, lying in the water, faceup, blood streaming down his face where two bullets had almost gone right through. And Rick just had time to lift him up and into the boat, before he broke away, momentarily burying his head in the blank rubber side of the hull. No one had ever seen Rick Hunter that close to breaking before.

  Lieutenant MacPherson saw what had happened and now he too went over the side, manhandling the craft into the deeper water. “Those fucking little creeps,” he said. “But at least we know where we stand. We gotta float and we gotta fight. Get those fucking M-60s ready right now, and start the engine.”

  They drove along to Commander Hunter, while Chief Mike Hook laid out the ammunition belts for the M-60s. And none too soon. All three Chinese helicopters were making a long turn, plainly to return to the inlet.

  “Sir, I’m sorry,” said Dallas. “Really sorry. But I got the machine gun ready in our boat. You all set here? Get under the grass again. We’ll let ’em have it as they come in, sustained fire on the leader, right? Everything we got, to down one of ’em. Discourage the others, right?”

  “Right, Dallas. Let’s go.”

  But the Chinese pilots were not certain they had done any damage at all so far. And they fanned out, with jus
t the leader flying back down the bloodstained little water way. He came in low, and as he did so the SEALs opened fire with everything they had from the little boats behind the grasses. Dallas blew 30 rounds straight into the rear door of the chopper killing the gunner and, somehow, the navigator.

  Mike Hook blasted away at the engines, set topside left and right below the rotors. And Commander Hunter, firing with a venom he had never experienced before, emptied an entire belt of 100 rounds into the cockpit area of the rocket-firing Helix-B. It might have been the engine, it might have been the bullets smashing through the side windows, it might have been anything. But whatever it was, the helicopter was suddenly belching flames, and it spun right over and slammed into the water at 130 miles an hour.

  “Fuck me,” said one of the rookies.

  At which point they could all see the lights of the two remaining Helix choppers wheeling around to the north, running up the narrow island where the downstream channel parts, before slowly turning east, back toward the blazing Naval base.

  Both pilots were confused. They had just seen 33 percent of their attack force destroyed. The ships upon which they normally served were gone. There was no fuel. No electricity. Hundreds were dead. The entire base was engulfed in fire. At the epicenter of the inferno was a roaring white phenomenon, directly from Hell. They had no one, formally, to whom they must report, and they had just seen, firsthand, the firepower of their adversaries. No two Chinese warriors had ever had so little stomach for the fight. And they headed once more for that rough ground opposite the power station, to land once more and inform the remaining group of officers what had befallen them.

  The SEALs, of course, did not know all this. But Commander Hunter again rallied his battered team.

  “Guys, we have to break out of here sometime…it might as well be now…. How many ammunition belts do we have?”

  Seaman Ward, a tough-looking Irishman from Cleveland, said, “We brought six. You guys had one left, which you used, sir. So we got four unused, and half of two others.”

  “Okay, divide ’em up. We’ll take one gun in the lead boat, which I’ll handle. Lieutenant MacPherson and Chief Mike Hook will operate the other two. Get the paddles and shove out. Soon as the water’s deep enough, drop the engines and go. Someone fire up the radio, and I’ll get the signal into the satellite.”

  The two boats paddled out through the shallows and into the wide channel. It was definitely getting light now, not sufficiently to see Shawn Pearson’s map clearly, but the tiny point of the flashlight showed three feet of water. They dropped their engines at 0520, and under deserted skies, still lit up to the east by the burning Naval base, they accelerated the engines mildly, making eight knots, course two-six-zero, straight for the uncertain waters of the Haing Gyi Shoal.

  0528. USS Shark 16.00N 94.01E.

  Speed 3. Racetrack course. PD.

  Lieutenant Commander Headley read the new signal with absolute horror:

  “070520JUN07. 16.00N 94.18E. Under heavy fire from pursuing helos. Lt. Allensworth, Petty Officer Jones both killed. Inflatables undamaged. Headed for Haing Gyi Shoal course two-three-zero flank speed. Downed one Helix. We have ammo, and still three M-60s. Request Shark assistance. Difficult for us in open waters. Hunter.”

  The CO was again not in the control room. And Dan Headley now summoned the senior executives in the submarine. Master Chief Drew Fisher was already in there, and the Officer of the Deck, Lt. Matt Singer, had the conn. Lieutenant Pearson came in, accompanied by the Combat Systems Officer, Lt. Commander Jack Cressend. The Sonar Officer, Lt. Commander Josh Gandy, came in last.

  “Gentlemen, I am going to read out to you two signals we have received in the last two hours from the SEAL team we inserted last night into Burma.”

  From their faces, it was not difficult to discern the personal pain each man felt from the death of the two SEALs and the wounding of another.

  “As you can see from the signal, they are essentially making a run for it,” said the XO. “A high-speed run back to this ship. They have around eighteen miles to travel, which puts them in open waters for around forty-five to fifty minutes.

  “The Helix will make 130 knots, no sweat. He could get here in about eight minutes. Which makes the SEAL team sitting ducks. Those damn Russian choppers, either the ASWs or the assault versions, carry a lot of hardware. And they plainly have heavy machine guns. The guys might shoot one of ’em down, but they might not. The odds have to favor the helos. Which means that Rick and the rest of the guys will all be dead sometime in the next hour.”

  Dan Headley paused, and he could see the unease written on their faces. “It is my view,” he said, “that we comply with their request and head on in to save them. As you know, we’re just about on the fifty-meter line and we have about eighty feet below the keel. We can probably move in at fifteen knots PD for four miles, but we can make twenty-plus on the surface, so I’m proposing we surface right now and go straight for it. There is no serious Chinese Naval presence left in the area, thanks to them. But we may have to take the Helix out with Stingers; the sooner we get the inflatables under Stinger cover the better chance they’ll have.

  “Gentlemen, I am proposing we make all speed inshore to rescue them. Is anyone not in favor of that action?”

  Lieutenant Pearson and Lt. Commanders Cressend and Gandy said, almost in unison, “In favor, sir.”

  Chief Fisher said, “Why are you asking, sir? Sure we’re in favor. We have the gear to save ’em. Jesus Christ, let’s GO.”

  “Officer of the Deck, steer course one-one-zero, stand by to surface…” There was no mistaking the firm edge to his voice.

  “Aye, sir…” said Lieutenant Singer, with equal emphasis. Like the XO, and like Chief Fisher, he understood that this was tantamount to a total confrontation. He had, after all, heard their Commanding Officer insist that such a decision was going to be made only by him. Commander Reid had also left little doubt that his decision was likely to be negative. His own words had betrayed his own worst fears…“Do you have any idea of the consequences of what you are proposing?”

  USS Shark nonetheless surged forward, shoving her blunt nose through the water at 22 knots on the surface of the Bay of Bengal.

  “Depth twenty fathoms, still fifty feet below the keel, course steady one-one-zero…making twenty-two knots.”

  The submarine had been virtually stationary for 12 hours, and the sudden dramatic change in speed was obvious to everyone. But to the XO, Lt. Singer and Chief Fisher there was something far more dramatic waiting in the wings. And there was not long to wait.

  Commander Reid came through the door with a face like an ocean storm. But he spoke quietly. “Lieutenant Commander Headley,” he said, “where, precisely, do you think you are taking my ship entirely without my permission? And, I suspect, entirely contrary to opinions I have already expressed?”

  “Sir, I am taking the ship inshore on a rescue mission to save a team of United States Navy SEALs from what I consider to be imminent death. I am certain this course of action is approved by every man serving on this ship, including, I hope, yourself.”

  “Well, your certainty is misplaced. I wonder if you would be kind enough to inform me why you believe death to be imminent?”

  “Because they are being pursued, sir, by two Russian-built Helix helicopters. And they are in open boats, inflatables, on the open sea, protected only by three M-60 light machine guns, which will probably be no match for the weapons against them.”

  “Are the Helix aircraft ASWs?”

  “I believe one of them must be, sir. They came from the two warships moored in the base. So I doubt there would be more than one Type-B assault craft. There were almost certainly two Type-A ASWs, which means there’s at least one left. The guys downed one of the three.”

  “I see. And how do you propose to continue this mission of mercy. On the surface?”

  “Yessir.”

  “I see.” Commander Reid’s tone was cold. “Now I
want to get this straight. You are proposing to take my ship, on the surface into the direct path of an oncoming Russian-built helicopter, which may be carrying rockets that outrange us? IS THAT CORRECT, LIEUTENANT COMMANDER?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Have you gone mad, XO?”

  “I do not believe so, sir.”

  “Then explain yourself, sir. And while you are about it, consider, if you will, the conversation you and I had less than two hours ago.”

  And now Commander Reid’s eyes were moving back and forth across the control room. His head was turning only slightly, and his stare was upon all three of those present.

  “RETROGRADE! RETROGRADE, XO! The great planet Mercury is in retreat. I have tried to explain this to you, and I trust you have relayed my concerns to the crew? WELL, HAVE YOU?”