Attack of the Seawolf mp-2

by Michael Dimercurio

  The missiles lying in the forward section of the superstructure were bathed in jet fuel, and when the flames leaped up the ladder from the number-one boiler’s fire room the jet fuel ignited in a rush of flames, the missiles’ explosives detonating and blowing the remainder of the superstructure into the air and onto the foredeck. Now the ship began to take on a starboard list, leaning toward its captive submarine, the break in the keel causing it to settle into the water of the bay.

  As the water level rose over the deck amidships, the ship began to buckle, the broken framework of the vessel rupturing its hull at the keel, the water pouring in unchecked. Some men did manage to swim away from the dying ship in the oil slick of the fuel tank. After another ten minutes of flooding and flames, the ship broke in half and settled into the water. All that remained visible forward was the bow mounted gun and the scorched point of the bow. The aft portion was submerged except for an identical gun and the twisted black steel of the ship’s mast, the flag of the northern fleet still flying from the masthead, the banner burned and charred but otherwise intact.

  The fireball of what had been Javelin Unit Two was rising into an orange-and-black mushroom cloud spreading over the superstructure of the Luda when Javelin Unit One, coming in from the north, found the Udaloy destroyer and confirmed the target. The missile aimed for the main superstructure directly beneath the bridge, but instead of penetrating the hull, the missile impacted the stern section of the starboard SS-N-14 Silex quad missile-launcher. The nose of the Javelin passed through the canisters of SS-N-14s and continued on through the other side to the bulkhead of the superstructure. The missile’s airframe barely made it into the hole in the bulkhead before the rocket fuel of the SS-N-14s detonated. Before the resulting explosion, the SS-N-14s had been rocket launched torpedoes used in antisubmarine warfare.

  Now their rocket fuel’s ignition made them as deadly to the ship as the Javelin launched by the Seawolf. The rocket fuel exploded in a sloppy fireball, first blowing outward before the force of the uneven explosion blew the torpedoes into the forward gun mount. The explosion from the torpedo warheads was even more violent than the initial rocket-fuel ignition, blowing a hole in the ship’s deck in the former location of the number-two 100-mm gun. At roughly the same time as the detonation of the SS-N-14 torpedo warheads, the warhead of the Javelin exploded, vaporizing most of the interior of the forward superstructure and blowing the forward funnel into a crushed lump of metal.

  Even if the missile had been a dud, it would have succeeded because of the SS-N-14 detonations. The blast of the Javelin warhead had the added effect of blowing out the superstructure on the opposite side of the ship, on the port side. The fireball engulfed the port SS-N-14 missile canister and caused the unit to detonate both the rocket fuel and the torpedoes’ warheads at the same time. The explosion blew apart what had been left of the superstructure, taking with it the masts and antennae as the ship erupted into flames amidships, the fire migrating aft to the fuel tanks, where ruptured fuel lines spewed volatile fuel for the gas turbines into the bilges.

  The Udaloy’s main propulsion was by gas turbine, a sophisticated power turbine turned by the gases of the hot-gas generator, which was essentially a jet engine that ran on a light fuel of kerosene. Unlike the viscous fuel oil of the neighboring Luda, which could ignite only at very high temperatures, the kerosene was so volatile that the vapor from the spill ignited immediately, feeding the fire. The fuel tank, located low and amidships, exploded into flames less than one minute after the impact of the Javelin. The fire spread throughout the ship. The crew members, those few aboard, were not as fortunate as the men of the Luda. No one could survive the white-hot fire in the Udaloy.

  The ship’s hull did stay intact, but the hole from the port side SS-N-14 detonation began just above the waterline, and a slight list to port began the flow of water over the lip of the hole into the ship’s second deck.

  The flooding worsened the list until the ship began leaning hard aport into the hull of the black submarine alongside. The only sounds after the initial round of explosions were the intermittent explosions of ammunition rounds and the roaring of the fire from the deck.

  * * *

  Jack Morris could only stare at the scene. In one moment the Luda was intact and quiet. In the next her superstructure exploded into a ball of flame, the ball blowing up into a large sphere with a diameter half the length of the ship. Morris had the brief impression of the ship heeling over to her starboard side from the shock of the explosion, but at that moment two things happened. The shock wave of the explosion hit him, nearly blowing off his mask, and the Udaloy destroyer on the pier-side of the Tampa blew apart under another violent fireball, a secondary explosion shooting the fireball out over all three ships at the pier.

  Pacino’s missiles had been dead on.

  As the fireballs from the destroyers shook the Tampa Jack Morris pulled off his mask and hit a quick-release button on his lung’s harness. His buoyancy compensator, air bottles, mask and regulator fell off his back and sank into the bay, leaving him feeling light. Still underwater, he kicked off his fins. He found the hull with his sticky solid-rubber shoes and pushed himself along the sloping hull until his head and shoulders emerged from the water. He kept low, crouching down on the aft section of the hull. He cleared the barrel plug of the RPG launcher, loaded it with a mortar grenade and fired at his target on top of the sail.

  As the grenade sailed in an arc toward the top of the conning tower, the light of the explosions from the destroyers revealed two men at the top of the sail trying to climb down from the tall fin, trying to escape the explosions, shrapnel and flames. The grenade hit the lip of the sail and exploded, the fireball small compared to the spectacular detonations of the destroyers.

  But it did its duty, dropping the guards at the top of the sail to the deck, where they rolled off the cylinder of the ship into the oil-coated water of the slip.

  Morris glanced over his shoulder and watched as the rest of his team jettisoned their Draeger lungs and fins. Beneath the masks their faces had been painted with black waterproof battle paint, a special makeup that withstood sweat, the contact of rubber and sea water. And blood. The other SEALs joined him on deck, all falling into a crouch as they pulled equipment from their vests.

  Morris shouldered the RPG and scanned the deck for any other guards. He could hear the popping of the silenced MAC-10s of the first platoon targeting guards who had manned the forward hatch. No guards were visible on the aft deck after the RPG shot. Morris figured they dived down the access hatches at the impact of the Javelins, or had gone overboard. In any case, there was no one topside on the submarine.

  Morris opened one of the waterproof pouches of his combat vest and took out the MAC-10 machine gun, checked the clip, slipped on the silencer. With his right thumb he clicked the safety off, keeping the weapon level in case he needed to put some rounds forward while he got his other equipment ready. With his left hand he reached into his combat vest and produced a black balaclava hood, a neoprene ski mask that he pulled over his face, leaving only his eyes exposed.

  He plunged his hand back into the vest for the Beretta and put it in an outside holster strap on the left side of his belt, withdrew his Inter Sat VHF radio’s earpiece and lip mike and stuffed the earpiece under the hood, which held the unit in place. Morris’s deployment of his gear had taken less than ten seconds.

  He could do it in complete darkness at that rate, and so could his men.

  Thirty seconds later sixteen of them were crouched on the aft hull, all carrying machine guns, wearing balaclava hoods and wired into their walkie-talkies.

  Morris spoke orders into his lip mike, signaling the start of the climb up the slope of the deck, the second and third platoons behind him, the men rushing forward.

  As they ran up the deck, the destroyer on the starboard side, the Udaloy, erupted in a secondary explosion that knocked them to the deck and blasted their eardrums. Morris tasted blood in his mouth
from a cut lip. He checked the men and saw that the blast from the destroyer had blown two of them overboard.

  Their forward progress was momentarily halted while the others hauled the men up the treacherous slope of the hull. Morris checked the destroyers. Both ships were burning violently but the secondary explosions seemed to have died down. The Luda was broken in half, its center settling into the bay, while the Udaloy was heeling toward the Tampa. Lennox’s words in Pacino’s stateroom came back to him, about the sinking destroyers sinking the Tampa by pulling her down by her own lines.

  As the second man was pulled back from the oily water of the slip onto the deck Morris continued ahead, pointing his MAC-10 at the cleats and firing, the rapid burst of Hydra-shok bullets severing the thick manila lines. The aft lines were now cut but that still left six or eight more up forward. Morris discarded the clip and reloaded as he and his team ran on to the aft escape trunk.

  The trip from the aft hull had taken less than a minute, but the aft escape trunk was still forty feet ahead. As the black circle of the hatchway neared, Morris thought he saw a dark shape illuminated by the fire raging in the misshapen hull of the neighboring Udaloy. It looked like the top of a head. A guard. Morris’s muzzle lowered, his finger tensed, a burst of three shots blasted out toward the black shape, followed by scalp, brains and bone fragments spraying over the deck. A few more seconds and he was running past the aft escape trunk, the body of the Chinese guard collapsing to the inside of the trunk below. Morris turned just long enough to wave third platoon down the hatch and watched as platoon leader Lieutenant Phil McDermitt ducked down the hatch, moving the body of the Chinese guard out of the way.

  Third platoon followed. Morris hurried on, leading the remaining men to the forward escape hatch. He watched the hatchway for another face but the opening was quiet. As he slowed to go down the hatch, sniper Chief Richard “Baron” von Brandt sailed past him, pulling Commander Lennox with him.

  Morris half-stepped, half-fell down the forward escape trunk, his MAC-10’s barrel pointing downward, heart pounding. It was the hottest target he had ever attacked.

  As he had done in other SEAL operations, he let his bladder go, knowing that there was no time to “spring a leak” overboard yet there was no way he could let himself be distracted by a full bladder. As he went down the narrow ladder to the small sphere of Tampa’s escape hatch, and let go, he could almost hear Black Bart telling the others that Morris “got so scared he pissed his pants again.” In a way, he wouldn’t have been far off. Without fear Morris long ago would have been dead in the water.

  CHAPTER 19

  SUNDAY, 12 MAY

  1855 GREENWICH MEAN TIME

  GO HAD BAY, XLNGANG HARBOR

  P.L.A NAVY PIER 1A, USS TAMPA

  0255 BEIJING TIME

  Chief von Brandt hauled the heavy sniper rifle in one arm and Commander Lennox in the other as he ran forward, dodging the piles of metal and shrapnel lying on the Tampa’s oily deck. Baron von Brandt was barely in his thirties, a short man with a deep tan and the round face of a mischievous schoolboy. Baron was also an electronics technician by training, but his value to the SEAL team, aside from his marksman’s skills, was his ability to fly any aircraft, including helicopters, jets, ultralights, and even supersonic interceptors or multi-engined transports. He had been given the assignment of gaining the high ground and setting up a sniper station. On a submarine, of course, the only high point was the bridge at the top of the sail, nicely cleared out by Morris’s first RPG shot. But there was no guarantee that the bridge had been permanently cleared of armed Chinese. The tunnel to the control room could admit any number of guards from the upper deck of the forward compartment to the bridge cockpit, which meant a guard might be waiting for them on the bridge. Lennox would have to cover him on this one, von Brandt thought. The sniper rifle was too long and bulky to be of much use in taking out a close-range guard, and von Brandt would need to keep the sub’s deck clear until Lennox was safe in the bridge.

  Von Brandt noted in his peripheral vision that the blown-off superstructure of the Udaloy would allow a firing position from the pier to the deck of the submarine. So they would have to reach the cover of the bridge in a hurry. As they got to the seaward side of the sail von Brandt pushed Lennox in front of him to the rungs of the steel footholds welded to the flank of the sail, the ladder from the cylindrical deck to the bridge above. Lennox began to climb the sheer side of the tall fin, clumsily holding his MAC-10 while climbing.

  “Keep your finger in the trigger guard,” Baron said into his lip mike, “and be ready to take out anyone in the cockpit!”

  Lennox’s choked voice acknowledged as he reached the top of the ladder and trained his muzzle right and left. His large body then vanished over the side of the cockpit.

  “Anything?” Baron asked as he climbed the rungs of the ladder.

  “It’s clear,” Lennox said, voice steadier.

  Von Brandt jumped over the lip of the sail and ducked into the cockpit. At this height the heat from the destroyer’s fires was intense. He peered into the shadows of the cockpit, looking for a hidden guard.

  None.

  “Shut the hatch,” von Brandt ordered, pointing to the hatch to the control room below. Lennox pulled up the grating under their feet and pushed the heavy hatch until it shut.

  “I can’t dog it from above,” he said.

  “The operator is only on the interior.”

  “Leave it. We’ll know if we’re getting company.

  You stay low and wait. The only time I want your head to come up over the edge of the sail is when we’re ready to go.”

  Von Brandt peered out over the lip of the sail for ward, then to either side. The deck of the ship was deserted. All three platoons had vanished down the hatches of the ship. Slowly Brandt climbed to the top of the sail from the aft bulkhead of the cockpit, keeping low to the top of the structure where he could see clearly yet not be picked off from the deck. He pulled the covers off both ends of the sniper scope, unplugged the muzzle, checked the magazine and sighted in on the mooring lines amidships.

  It took two full magazines to cut the ship’s mooring lines so that the ship was free, drifting in the oily slip.

  “Hey, Commander,” von Brandt said as he climbed back down into the cockpit, “we’re underway. Shift colors and sound a long blast on the ship’s whistle.”

  “Not funny. I need to look, need to see the current and the ship’s position. If I’m gonna drive this thing out of here I need to visualize the slip.”

  “Okay, but make it quick. A snapshot.”

  Von Brandt wanted to raise third platoon. The escape plan called for a man to crouch in the aft escape trunk and maintain communications between the sail and the men in the engine room It wasn’t likely the Chinese would anticipate commandos trying to control the ship from the aft end. More likely they would heavily defend the control room, figuring it to be the key to the ship. But if the nukes aft could get propulsion they could take control of the rudder, and with Lennox in the sail and communications with the walkie-talkies, Lennox and the nukes alone could drive the ship away from the pier. It was all up to third platoon now, von Brandt thought as he tried the radio, knowing that the VHF signal could not penetrate the steel of the hull but would be heard by the SEAL in the escape trunk.

  “Stinky, this is Baron. You up?”

  No answer. Von Brandt crawled back on the top of the sail to get a look at the aft deck. Still no guards on deck, but there was also no sign of Petty Officer David “Stinky” Welsh. Probably too early for the engine room to be taken, von Brandt thought. He climbed back into the cockpit and looked out over the forward deck. Still nothing on deck.

  So far, at least from what could be seen from the sail, the operation had gone off as planned — until the armored column of P.L.A troops raced up the pier and screeched to a halt on the other side of the burned out hulk of the Udaloy. Four armored personnel carriers, three tanks and five units of self-propel
led artillery began training their weapons on the sail while heavily armed P.L.A troops deployed from the APCs. Typical, von Brandt thought. He spoke into his lip mike:

  “Stinky, if you’re up, we’ve got company, man.

  Hurry the hell up with the nuclear power.”

  Lennox popped his head up for a moment then dropped back down, his voice coming over von Brandt’s headset.

  “Shit.”

  “Deep,” von Brandt added, setting up to shoot at the P.L.A troops.

  “Those troops will be opening fire any second.”

  “What troops?”

  “You didn’t see them on the pier? What’d you say ‘shit’ for?”

  “The frigate astern,” Lennox said.

  “Didn’t you see it? It’s getting underway …”

  “Tanks on the pier, a sub-killing frigate started up and pulling into the bay. A perfect end to a shitty day.”

  “Could be worse,” Lennox said.

  “How?”

  “We could have helicopters inbound,” Lennox said.

  Van Brandt was about to agree when the sound of helicopter rotors sounded from the distance, the chopping sound beating out a death knell for the operation.

  Lieutenant Phillip McDermitt was a red-haired, freckle-faced Irishman, slightly heavy for his height but the strongest in his platoon, leading his men in every physical activity the SEALs trained in. An Academy grad, McDermitt was single and known as a womanizer or a romantic, depending on the observer’s point-of-view. His radio handle was “He-She,” from an incident in Naples, Italy, when the gorgeous “lady” he had picked up for the evening had turned out to be a transvestite. Still hungover, he had told the story the next day, forgetting that SEALs have long memories.