“Dogface” Richardson, a second-class petty officer, and “Buckethead” Williams, a chief, untied themselves from the tie line and swam up to the hull. When they returned after a few moments Buckethead shook his head — the hull above them was at the seaward end of the pier, making it the Jianghu frigate. The ships guarding the Tampa were further west. The team swam west along the pier until they reached the next hull, which would be the Udaloy guided-missile destroyer.
Then the platoons split up.
First platoon took their gear and set it up near the pier between the Chinese ships. Second platoon set up beneath the Udaloy, beginning work laying the keel breaking satchel charges under the destroyer. Third platoon hauled their explosives beneath the hull of the Tampa further south to the outboard destroyer, the Luda, and began deployment of their charges.
Morris checked his watch. It was taking too goddamned long, he thought, wondering if he should have taken Pacino up on the offer to use the cruise missiles.
But using Javelins here would be like a surgeon forsaking a scalpel for a chainsaw. He and Black Bart swam back and forth between the platoons, making sure the men were making progress, that the plan was proceeding.
Finally Morris signaled to Bart to come up to look at the pier, and the two divers ascended at the bow of the Udaloy. Morris disconnected from his lanyard and climbed a pier piling, the tar from it sticking to his hands. Near the top of the piling he climbed off onto a horizontal timber that was there to cushion the concrete pier from ship impacts. He cautiously lifted his head above the level of the pier, then ducked back down and silently reentered the water. The pier was crawling with guards, but the buses were not yet occupied and there was no evidence of a crew off load He and Bart returned to the underside of the Udaloy.
Under the hull of the USS Tampa, on the bottom of the silty bay, huddled with the assault weapons, sat Commander Kurt Lennox, his mask fogged from his heavy breathing. Every few moments he turned his head to look at the submarine above him, seeing nothing but a black blur, thinking that in a very few moments he would be back aboard her, and in a few moments after that he could be dead. Morris swam by and gave him a thumbs up.
Lennox appreciated it as he looked up again at the hull of the Tampa and told himself that just maybe Sean Murphy was going to get out of this in one piece.
CHAPTER 17
SUNDAY, 12 MAY
1730 GREENWICH MEAN TIME
GO HAD BAY, XLNGANG HARBOR
P.L.A NAVY PIER 1A, USS TAMPA
0130 BEIJING TIME
Sean Murphy had no idea how long he’d been unconscious.
When he came to the butt of the AK-47 again in his ribs, his whole body was in pain. As he tried to focus on the interrogator’s face, he realized that he now wanted to die. He tried to bring back Katrina, Sean junior and Emily, but the Chinese had taken the most prized thing he possessed — his memories of their faces. He could no longer remember the face of his wife of thirteen years, or the face of his firstborn.
Death would be welcome.
“You are in pain,” Tien said, his voice quiet.
“Let’s take you to the hospital where we can attend that wound and help you get rest. The base hospital has some of the softest beds in the world. Think of the cool crisp white sheets, the deep feather pillow in a cotton pillowcase. This is no way to live, my friend. All your resistance will do is make you sick — and delay the ship’s departure. We have said we need your statement only for public opinion. If the words are not your own, your people will understand. After all, you are being detained, they will not hold any of this against you. I would guess the only matter your commanders will be annoyed with is allowing your ship’s departure to be delayed by your insistence on not making the statement. Commander, if it were up to me, I would let it go without the confounded statement, but I have senior officers overseeing my missions. Please see my side. We are not so different, you and I.”
The words washed over Sean Murphy, he barely heard them.
“I have a present for you,” Tien said, picking up a phone and speaking into it for a moment. After he put the phone down, he looked at the overhead as the Circuit One announcing speaker crackled with Lube Oil Vaughn’s voice:
“THE REACTOR … IS CRITICAL!”
Tien was as delighted as if he had just thrown Murphy a surprise party.
“You see, I told you we would get your ship ready to go. We replaced whole sections of your steam-piping loop and reinsulated the lines. I am told that several of the steam valves needed to be replaced. Otherwise, your propulsion plant is, as you say, shipshape. Our nuclear-power experts have been over the plant inspecting it for the purpose of getting the ship ready to leave so you can return home. They say the ship is amazing.”
The lights in the overhead flickered, and suddenly the ventilation ducts boomed into operation, blowing cool fresh air into the room. At least Tien had not been kidding about Vaughn starting the reactor and steam plants, even though they were probably only starting the plant to provide power. Without shore power the battery would soon have run out of juice and they would have had to abandon the submarine.
Probably they figured the statement could be gotten from him more easily aboard the ship than in a barracks ashore.
Again they brought in the camera and TelePrompTer, but before they turned it on, Tien popped a video in the VCR and turned on the television. He pressed the play button, and Sean Murphy’s front yard flashed onto the screen, with Katrina and Sean and Emily looking into the picture.
“Sean, honey, we love you and we miss you. I don’t know when you’ll get this,” Katrina said into the camera, her auburn hair blowing in the breeze, “but maybe you can play it at sea and remember how much we love you.”
His son said: “Hurry home, Daddy. Mommy says you’re poking holes in the ocean but I know you can’t make a hole in water. I told my class what you do at show-and-tell today. Everyone said it sounded neat. Come home soon, Daddy—”
Tien stopped the tape.
Murphy fought not to show his feelings as he became aware that the camera was focused on his face.
The TelePrompTer stared at him: “MY NAME IS COMMANDER SEAN MURPHY” … Murphy blinked hard and stared at the camera lens and began to speak, his voice a raspy croak.
“I am an American fighting man,” he said, trying to recite the Code of Conduct.
“I serve in the forces which guard my country and our way of life. I am prepared to give my life in their defense—”
“No,” Tien broke in.
“That is not what the script says.” He waved to the guard.
“Bring in Tarkowski,” he said, resignation in his voice.
A shot of bile hit Murphy’s stomach as he realized they were going to torture Tarkowski for his benefit.
USS SEAWOLF
The control room began to seem confining, Pacino thought, impatient with the need to act, to fire weapons, to do something, anything, to get Murphy out.
Somehow the idea of trusting this rescue to swimmers who could only take out the hatch that they came in with seemed a bad idea. With the torpedo room full of weapons, with his number one and two tubes loaded with Javelin cruise missiles, both ready to fire, both tube outer doors open … For the second time in a half hour he asked Tim Turner the status of the Javelins.
He reported the units had the destroyers targeted.
“We can have both missiles in the sky within thirty seconds of your orders, sir.”
Pacino decided to risk a quick look at the surface.
There were no close contacts, no patrol boats or fishing vessels, or, God help them, a supertanker en route to the tanker pier. He did an air search, looking for the type of aircraft that Admiral Donchez hinted had detected Murphy. All he saw was the moon to the south, still going in and out of the clouds, and some dim stars to the north over the P.L.A piers.
Pacino turned the crosshairs onto Target Four, the Jianghu fast frigate, and rotated the grip of the scope to r
aise the magnification to high power. There was no activity. Further to the left was Target Three, the Udaloy destroyer, one of Tampa’s escorts. Not a soul in sight. A bit to the left was the rudder of the Tampa, the rest obscured by the stern of the Luda destroyer, the other escort for the Tampa. There was no evidence of the divers below the ships.
Pacino turned the view on the pier between the Jianghu and the Udaloy. The buses were still there but the pier looked dark. There were no guards in sight, no sign of them being used for a crew off load
Pacino’s earpiece crackled with the voice of Chief Dylan Jeb, the sonar supervisor. Chief Jeb was a tall, thin sonar expert from the hills of Tennessee. His drawl on the combat circuits was so thick as to be nearly another language. Pacino had taken an immediate liking to the lanky sonar chief, despite his impenetrable accent. Jeb ran the BQQ-5 as naturally and adeptly as his ancestors had run the family still.
“Conn, Sonar, we’re getting new machinery noises off the hull and spherical arrays bearing north to the P.L.A piers. The bearing is ambiguous due to near-field effect. We’re working up a narrowband tonal profile but my guess is that Tampa’s engine room is steaming wait … we’re getting a series of transients from the same bearing … sounds like electrical breakers …”
“Chief, what do you think they’re doing?” Pacino said, snapping up the periscope grips and lowering the scope.
“We’re guessing, but it sounds like they’re starting up the steam plant, maybe shifting the electric plant to a half-power or full-power lineup.”
“Let me know when you’ve got the sound signature identified.”
A startup of the Tampa’s engine room … now what the hell could that be about? Would she be removed to another pier? And if so wouldn’t she just do that under the power of the ships tied up to her?
“Conn, Sonar, sound signature identified. The noise is coming from a late-flight 688-class U.S. submarine.”
“Any engine room sounds or transients from Targets One through Four?”
“No.”
All right, come on, Morris, Pacino thought, get this thing going.
USS TAMPA
Tarkowski’s face was white, whether with fear or from starvation or beatings. Probably all three. Murphy thought. He had been brought in by the guard and deposited on the settee at the far end of Murphy’s stateroom. He looked only once at Murphy. There seemed no recognition in his eyes, more the look of someone suffering so much pain he could not register the world around him. Whatever the Tampa’s navigator and acting exec had been through, there was no sign of it in his face, just the blank glaze on his eyes.
“Commander,” Tien said.
“I want the statement. I accept your indifference to your own welfare. But I know your men are important to you. You can save your executive officer now by making the statement. If you refuse, he will pay. Remember, Commander, I report to men less patient than I am. If it were not for my efforts, at considerable personal risk, I might add, they would have killed your crew long before now. I have also offended Beijing by insisting your ship be allowed to leave once we obtain your statement, but they have agreed. Look, here is the order.”
Tien waved a piece of paper before Murphy, the Chinese symbols written on it meaningless. He waited, got no response from Murphy.
“Commander, you force me to demonstrate my intent. Sai, give me Mr. Tarkowski’s right thumb.”
The guard pulled Tarkowski’s hand from his lap, laid it flat on the table, produced a bayonet, and proceeded to saw Tarkowski’s thumb from his right hand.
Tarkowski howled in pain, the sound wailing high in pitch as if coming from an animal; his eyes were shut, his mouth open wide to let out the shriek of agony.
The most frightening thing was that Tarkowski did not attempt to pull his hand away from the guard. What other unspeakable acts had he undergone? The guard wiped the bayonet on his thigh and held out the thumb to Murphy. When Murphy only stared at the guard, the guard dropped the flesh into his lap.
Tarkowski’s hand was still on the table, blood spurting out with the rhythm of his pulse. Tien Tse-Min tossed a bath towel to Tarkowski, who finally moved his left hand from his lap to cover his mangled right hand.
“Commander,” Tien began again, his voice calm, “you know a man may function without the use of his thumb, even without the use of his hand. Both hands.
Both feet. But there is one thing that makes a man a man. Fighter Sai, put Mr. Tarkowski’s penis on the table.”
Like he was asking for a cup of tea. Sai pulled Tarkowski to his feet, unzipped his poopy suit, allowing the coverall to fall to the deck. He dropped Tarkowski’s underwear to the deck, the coverall and underwear binding Tarkowski’s feet together.
Murphy tried to find his voice, but his throat was dry. It was like one of those nightmares in which the dreamer tries to scream and can’t.
“Ah … ah … I’ll… I’ll make the statement he tried to say, but the words came out a choked whisper.
Sai had already raised his bayonet. Tarkowski continued to stand like a robot at the table. Sai brought the knife edge down to Tarkowski’s penis. Tarkowski’s mouth opened, again a shriek.
“Stop!” Murphy’s voice finally came. “I’ll make the damned statement, I’ll make the statement … I’ll do it … Just stop, for God’s sake stop!”
Tien waved at Sai, who stopped the blade but did not release Tarkowski’s penis.
Tien wheeled over the TelePrompTer and the camera.
He rolled the camera. Just behind it Murphy could see the guard, the bayonet, the table, and Tarkowski’s penis. Above the camera, Tarkowski’s face had turned gray. Murphy tried to concentrate on the TelePrompTer. He began:
“My name is Commander Sean Murphy, United States Navy. I am the captain of the U.S. Navy nuclear-powered attack submarine Tampa …”
The statement went on for minute after minute, into what seemed like hours to Murphy. Through it all he tried to read and ignore the meaning of the words, but even with Tien’s flat face looking on, with Tarkowski still standing at the table. Murphy heard the words and wanted to throw up. He continued on, thinking that somehow Tien would pay, but also knowing the thought was a vain one. Finally the statement was finished.
Tien stopped the camera.
“Commander, I thank you for being a reasonable man. Fighter Sai, release Mr. Tarkowski.”
The guard released his hold on Tarkowski, underwear and coveralls still around his ankles.
“Let me help you, Tarkowski,” Tien said, bending and gently lifting Tarkowski’s underwear up and pulling his coveralls up over his shoulders. He zipped up the poopy suit and turned around to look at Murphy.
The guard rolled out the camera and video equipment.
For a moment Tien just looked at Murphy, then, his eyes still on Murphy’s face, he picked up a phone and spoke some orders into it.
Immediately the fans wound down, the air conditioning stopped, the lights flickered. The Circuit One announcing system again broadcast Lube Oil Vaughn’s voice to the ship, the voice empty of hope.
“REACTOR SCRAM,” the voice said.
Tien turned to the guard: “Turn on the pier floodlights and prepare the buses. Get the prisoners offloaded immediately. I want these buses out of here in ten minutes.”
Murphy began to protest.
Tien ignored him as he produced a pistol and put the barrel into Tarkowski’s right nostril. After a moment’s pause, he pulled the trigger, filling the small stateroom with a crashing report. Tarkowski’s head blew apart, the back of his skull flying back against the far bulkhead. Slowly, he sank to the deck, his knees buckling.
Tien’s pistol was still upraised at the place where Tarkowski’s face had been a moment before. Finally he holstered the pistol and disappeared into the passageway, leaving Murphy alone in his room with the corpse of Greg Tarkowski.
CHAPTER 18
SUNDAY, 12 MAY
1835 GREENWICH MEAN TIME
GO HAD BAY
POINT HOTEL, XLNGANG HARBOR
USS SEAWOLF
0235 BEIJING TIME
“Conn, Sonar,” Chief Jeb’s Tennessee accent drawled, “Transients from Friendly One. The Tampa is shutting down her engine room.
“What do you make of that, Captain?” Keebes asked from the deck near the attack center.
Pacino shrugged.
“Lookaround number-two scope,” he called as the periscope pole came out of the well, the optic control module clunking to a halt as it cleared the well sill. Pacino snapped the grips down, pushed up his eyepatch and put his eye to the scope trained to the bearing of the P.L.A piers.
He had expected to have to peer into the dim light, but the brilliance of the pier floodlights burned his retina. When his eyes adjusted he could see the floodlit pier and the dark shapes of the superstructures of the warships tied up pier side Between Target Three and Four the buses were lit up inside. Both buses visible in the line of sight between the Udaloy and the Jianghu had drivers waiting inside them. Pier guards wandered on the narrow strip of concrete visible between the ships, rifles at the ready as if they were expecting something. The decks of the Udaloy, between Tampa and the pier, were lit up.
There could be only one thing going on with the pier activity and the engine room shutdown, Pacino decided. The Chinese were moving the Tampa’s crew to a POW camp.
The divers had been locked out for almost forty minutes.
With fifteen minutes to get to the P.L.A pier, that had given them less than half an hour to set up the explosive charges on the surface ships. And Morris had predicted between a half-hour and an hour to lay the charges. He had also promised to keep an eye on the pier for any off load of the crew. Were his VHF walkie talkies up and waiting for him to communicate?
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