U.S.S. Seawolf am-4

by Patrick Robinson

  They all stood silently and watched the Commander-in-Chief and his security chief march out of the cell block. And they heard the door bang shut behind them.

  They did not, however, hear Zhang’s icy verdict on the exercise. “I told you, Li,” he said. “The West is ultimately soft, and the words of our great leader Mao Zedong must always be recalled…‘Real power comes from the barrel of a gun.’

  “And you saw it for yourself. One bullet. That was all it took. One small bullet, and they caved in. One insignificant life in return for the greater glory of China, and all of our people. The future belongs to us, Li. And all these years later we must remember the most pure thoughts of the Chairman.”

  “And, sir, one question?”

  “Certainly, my faithful Li.”

  “Would you really have ordered the execution of fifty men, had it been necessary?”

  “Yes, Li. I think I might have. There are few moments in a commander’s life when the end undoubtedly justifies the means. And, regrettably for the Americans, this was, and indeed is, one of them.”

  0800. Friday. July 7.

  West Wing, the White House.

  The 13-hour time difference between the South China Sea and the East Coast of the United States was a source of annoyance to Admiral Morgan. He constantly felt that he was a day behind, “trying to play catchup ball.” As he usually put it, “Whatever they do in the normal light hours of a working day, it’s nearly always the middle of the previous goddamned night here. That gives ’em an advantage. Chinese pricks.”

  And now he walked particularly briskly down the corridor toward the Oval Office, his gleaming black shoes pounding along the carpet, his jaw set forward, arms swinging, eyes straight ahead. The towering figure of Admiral Joe Mulligan, moving on a longer stride than his five-foot-eight-inch colleague, had to increase his pace just to stay level.

  The two Marine guards outside the President’s office scarcely had time to move as the National Security Adviser walked straight between then, rapped twice on the polished wooden door, and went right in, followed by the head of the United States Navy.

  The President rose from behind his desk and offered his hand to Admiral Mulligan. “Hello, Joe. Nice to see you again…Arnie and I have given up shaking hands since we see each other about five times a day…but there’s some coffee here…which I’ll pour for you…and I asked ’em to bring in some hot toast…I believe you’ve been here all night?”

  “Yessir. We have,” replied Admiral Morgan. “And I’m afraid the news we bring is not good…the Chinese Navy has somehow picked up Seawolf after some kind of a collision in the South China Sea. She’s moored alongside in Canton right now. We think the crew has been incarcerated. And it is with the deepest regret that I must tell you, Linus is her executive officer.”

  The President sucked in his breath through his front teeth as the monstrous ramifications of the admiral’s words slammed into his mind. He shook his head erratically, as if to say, No, please, no. Tell me that’s not true. And then he cast his hands outward, and he had to steel himself to say quietly, “Are they in danger? Will we get them back okay?”

  “Sir, I think it may be most helpful if Joe ran through the whole incident very quickly. It’ll give you a quick and accurate surface picture…then we can start to work out how we’re gonna wring their fucking necks. Politically speaking, of course.”

  Despite himself, the President managed a meager smile, and then he nodded them to begin. He listened closely as Morgan and Mulligan gave their perspectives on the tragic events.

  When they finished, the President turned to Morgan, and asked, “You don’t believe they’ll return the men and the ship?”

  “They might return the ship when they’ve finished with it, sir. But I doubt it. I think they’ll find a way to say it’s somehow nuclear-contaminated, and they are going to confiscate it to ensure the safety of honorable Chinese assholes, sorry, people.”

  “And the crew?”

  “Sir, I think we have to assume they are going to try to wring them out for every last scrap of knowledge about the systems in the submarine. That may be hugely unpleasant. And then I think they may stage some kind of public military trial and put them all in the slammer for years and years, for endangering the lives of the peace-loving Chinese people with nuclear weapons. They’ll try to turn it into treason against the Republic, and thus justify world opinion in their favor.”

  Just then a waiter came in with three plates of hot buttered toast and the President rose and thanked him, but Arnold noticed he did not eat anything.

  Neither did he speak; he just sat and listened to his National Security Adviser outlining the gravity of the situation, reminding him of the zeal with which China had been pursuing the creation of a blue-water navy and especially a top-class submarine service, using any and every method to bring their technology up to speed.

  Eventually the three men fell silent. And when the President finally spoke there was an air of terrible resignation in his voice. “Arnold, I accept your version of the Chinese intentions. There is no other reasonable way of looking at it.”

  The President stood up and walked across the room, standing by the portrait of General Washington. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I know you both well. And I do not believe you came here to prepare me for the imminent death of my only son. Do we have a plan?”

  “Sir, we do not. The implications here are so vast, the options so varied, that we’re going to need a lot of advice. But I have taken the first step by telling the Chinese ambassador and his naval attaché to get their asses in here in the next half hour.”

  “Good. That’s a first step we always have to take, even though the ambassador’s going to stand here and feign ignorance, and express his shock that we should think ill of the People’s Liberation Navy…”

  “You got that right. Slippery little bastard, whatsisname? Yung Pung Hi or something…but I’ll send him away with a letter expressing our anger at their action of arresting a disabled American warship on the high seas in international waters. We have to let ’em know we expect them to come right back into line…or else.”

  “Yes, Arnie. I know you’re especially gifted at that type of letter…but I must say, I have always dreaded the possibility of this day.”

  “You mean Linus, sir.”

  “I do. Don’t get me wrong. The Navy has done a superb job for him, bringing him up to the brink of a command of his own. And they’ve done a wonderful job keeping the press off his back, allowing him to work away at his chosen career without outside interference, keeping his postings and tours of duty secret, even from me…but, oh my God, I have long dreaded something like this…”

  He hesitated for a moment and then said, quite suddenly, “Joe, may I assume the Chinese have no idea who Linus is at this stage?”

  “You may, sir. His entire identity has been very professionally altered.”

  “Thank God.”

  The President was thoughtful, and he returned to his desk as if succumbing to his fate. “Okay, we’ll meet at nine-thirty in the situation room downstairs. I’ll want a full political team with me. I think we should have the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, plus Joe, plus you, maybe plus someone from SUBLANT if there’s anyone senior and close to Washington. We better get the CIA Far Eastern Chief in here as well…then we can go to work.”

  Admiral Mulligan led the way to the door, followed by Arnold Morgan and the President, but when the CNO stepped out into the corridor, he found himself alone. Back inside, standing to the left of the half-opened door, the President had his arm around the wide shoulders of his military adviser, and Arnold could see that he was struggling for control.

  “Get him back for me, Arnold. Please promise me you will…since his mother died…he’s…he’s all I’ve got…”

  “We’ll get him back, sir. I promise you that.” But as he marched out to join Admiral Mulligan, Arnold Morgan had no idea how he would ever keep that promise.

  The mome
nt was not made easier by the fact that Arnold Morgan knew so much about the President’s close relationship with his son. Naturally the entire nation, indeed most of the world, knew about the awful riding accident that had killed the First Lady out on the Oklahoma ranch after only a year in the White House.

  But only the senior Navy personnel understood the full depth of the President’s loss. He had pleaded for Linus to be airlifted from the submarine he was serving on, and the Navy had been happy to comply, to bring Linus home on compassionate leave to support his heartbroken father.

  For six months, Linus had lived between the White House and the ranch. And those close to the Oval Office were in no doubt that the President could not have continued without his naval officer son at his side.

  The result was excellent future relations between the Executive Branch and the U.S. Navy. But it caused the Commander-in-Chief of the U.S. Armed Forces to form a slightly unnatural dependency on the young and inexperienced Linus Clarke, sufficient to concern several service chiefs. And it explained much about the unmistakable arrogance in Linus’s personality.

  This was no ordinary parental devotion. This bordered on an obsessive paternal love, perhaps a substitute for the wife he had lost. It was common knowledge that the hugely eligible President Clarke had never so much as looked at another woman since his beloved Betsy had died.

  No trauma would ever devastate any father more than that with which President Clarke was now trying to cope. And his words reflected his anguish.

  5

  0930. Friday, July 7.

  West Wing, the White House.

  The men selected to attend this highly classified meeting, in President Reagan’s old Situation Room in the West Wing basement, were all there before the Chief Executive made his entry. Each of them was standing around the table in the center of the room awaiting seating instructions. At the end of the room, a four-foot-wide computer screen was showing a navigational chart of a section of the South China Sea, homing in on the forbidden waters of the Canton Roads.

  “Gentlemen, good morning.” The tall southwestern Republican President was all business today. His usual smile was missing, and there was no light banter in his greetings to colleagues. Immediately, he laid out his game plan for the meeting.

  “I have already decided that we will form a small select committee here, and that my National Security Adviser, Admiral Morgan here, is to take overall charge of the entire operation. I have cleared that with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and the Chief of Naval Operations.

  “My reasons are obvious. The situation in which we find ourselves has such inordinately strong political overtones that it ceases to be an entirely military matter. Therefore Admiral Morgan is the natural choice, being the acknowledged expert on the subject, and having a foot firmly in both camps.

  “I know Arnie commands the respect of us all; certainly he has mine. And as my National Security Adviser, I have decided he will replace me in the Chair at this and all future meetings that deal with the China situation. I shall sit here, to his right, because, as you all know, I have a strong emotional involvement, and I would not wish to prejudice the intentions and actions of this committee. Decisions made here must be cold-blooded in nature, and I cannot risk placing others in danger because of my determination to save my own son. I thus will accept the plan of action recommended by this Committee. But I do stress the word action. The remainder of the seating will be decided by the Chairman.”

  Admiral Morgan moved briskly to the big chair at the head in which the President usually sat. He spoke sharply. “Lemme have Admiral Mulligan to my left. Next to him I would like the Secretary of State…”

  Harcourt Travis, a tall, steel-haired ex-Harvard professor, like the President, moved forward into his allotted place.

  “I think the Defense Secretary should come next…yup, Bob MacPherson…right there next to Harcourt…that way I have two political heavies opposite the President, and then I can place the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Tim Scannell, to the President’s right. Then, still on that side, lemme have the silken pen of Dick Stafford…then the head of Navy Intelligence, Admiral Schnider. Opposite them I want to place the White House Chief of Staff, Louis Fallon, with any CIA men at the same end, in company with the COMSUBLANT if he can get here in time.

  “Okay, now let me call this meeting to order, and in so doing I am assuming you have all read the military brief…just outlining the whereabouts of the submarine and how the hell it got there. Thus far, we do know the crew has been taken off and imprisoned, and we know approximately one hundred of them are in a civilian jail in Canton. We do not know yet what has happened to the senior command of the ship, but we’re on the case. And as you all know, President Clarke’s son, Linus, is among that team. The Chinese naturally do not know who he is, and plainly we intend to keep it that way.”

  The President nodded and then asked Admiral Morgan to report on his half-hour meeting with the Chinese ambassador, which had concluded only 15 minutes previously, with the Beijing-born diplomat very nearly being sent out of the White House on the wrong end of Arnold Morgan’s shiny black right shoe.

  “That’s easy, sir. He said he hadn’t been briefed, was not in a position to discuss the matter, had total faith in the integrity of the People’s Liberation Army/Navy. He promised to get back to us in the next two days. And I told the lying little sonofabitch that would be precisely two days too late. And he was to be back inside three hours with some real answers about Chinese intentions.

  “Otherwise, I told him, we may consider a preemptive strike against Chinese naval hardware, in retaliation. I concluded the meeting by warning him that he could find himself personally with a very special place in the modern history of Who Flung Dung or whatever’s the name of that asshole who writes their political memoirs.”

  The admiral glared around the table. “Damned difficult to deal with an out-and-out liar, right? The little bastard knows every last move being made in Canton right now. They have to keep him right up to speed because they know we’ll keep wheeling him in here. Of course he knows what’s happening. But he’s just going to keep stalling.

  “And that, gentlemen, is what I believe lies at the heart of the entire Chinese strategy…keeping us at arm’s length with a succession of hollow promises while they wring out the crew and then copy the ship, every electronic system, every computer, every valve, every missile. In my view, we do not have that much time.”

  “Arnie,” interjected the President. “Are you about to recommend we consider such a course of action — I mean, a strike against the warships of the People’s Republic?”

  “Sir, my answer has to be no. Because to be very frank, I haven’t the first idea what we ought to do. Though I do not think we should risk starting World War Three. I said what I said to the ambassador because I was trying to frighten him into telling his political masters that we really mean business, and they should think carefully about keeping the submarine. It’s no use being soft with ’em. They’ll just construe that as weakness.”

  “Well, maybe Joe Mulligan could lay out a few naval strategies for us,” said the President slowly. “Just possibilities, stuff we could mull over.”

  “Sir,” replied the CNO, “the Navy could essentially hit anything you want it to hit. Towns, buildings, dockyards, warships, you name it. Give me forty-eight hours and anything you want to specify in this world is strictly past tense. And there’s not a damn thing anyone could do about it…however, my happy task is just to carry out your bidding as a loyal servant of the President and the people. I do not have to live, professionally, with the consequences.”

  The President smiled an inward smile and nodded. “What would it require to storm Canton, besiege the dockyard, take the jail, put the town to the torch, rescue the prisoners, and, well, grab back the submarine, then leave?”

  “Careful, sir,” said Admiral Morgan. “Your priorities are showing.”

  The President grinned, a little ruefu
lly. “I know, Arnie, I know. And I also know I sounded like a strategist from ancient Rome. But I would like to hear if there is any hope of just going in and taking back what’s ours?”

  “Tim?” said Admiral Morgan, nodding at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.

  “Sir, to land a ground force sufficiently powerful to seal off Canton and effectively take the city would take us a month minimum to prepare. If we went in from the ocean, we’d have to fight a battle in the South China Sea, and while we’d certainly win it, you’d be talking serious death. We’d probably have to hit four of their major dockyards preemptive. And I guess we’d need a force of one hundred thousand to go in, and probably fight the Chinese for every yard of ground. You’d be into World War Three in days.”

  “Meanwhile the goddamned Chinks would kill all the prisoners,” growled Arnold Morgan. “And probably sink Seawolf, if they could not get her safely away.”

  “I guess we just nixed the full frontal assault,” said the President. “No way we can just send in the Marines.”

  “Not if we want to achieve our objective, sir,” said General Scannell.

  “We could, I suppose, issue some kind of ultimatum,” said the Defense Secretary. “Let them understand that if they do not comply with our wishes by, say, five o’clock this afternoon our time, we’ll start sinking their warships. Even they know they couldn’t stop us.”

  “I already gave ’em that ultimatum,” muttered Admiral Morgan. “Except I only gave ’em till midday.”

  Harcourt Travis, the Secretary of State and not an unqualified fan of Arnold Morgan’s, spoke next. “It is unlikely in the extreme that they will submit to threats. You know the Chinese…they will bow low and say how deeply regrettable this whole incident is. We were very naughty boys to be prowling about in Chinese waters, but they understand…soon forgive and forget. Meanwhile they do all they can to make big American boat safe for homeward journey, and could they please have many more high-tech secrets in return for their cooperation. Business better than fight, eh? Make money! Ha-ha-ha!”