Attack Of The Seawolf

by Michael Dimercurio

  “Sir, the ship is submerged to one five zero feet with a good one-third trim. Request permission to take her deep and increase speed.”

  “Offsa’deck, take her down to eight hundred feet, course two four five, all ahead flank. And rig ship for patrol quiet.”

  “Aye, sir, eight hundred feet, course two four five, ahead flank, and patrol quiet.”

  The deck became steep as Diving Officer Deitzler ordered a twenty-five-degree down angle to take the ship to eight hundred feet.

  The hull creaked and popped, responding to the increased sea pressure at the deeper depth. For a moment Pacino missed the clicking of the old bulletproof digital depth indicator of the rust bucket Piranhaclass submarines, the ships he had cut his teeth on, but then realized the progress was for the better. After all, hadn’t they happily ditched diesel power for nuclear and moved forward?

  Sure, except Pacino couldn’t help wondering what would happen to the delicate computer systems in battle—would one depth charge make them all useless?

  “Helm, all ahead flank,” Turner commanded.

  The Circuit One announcing system blasted Turner’s voice throughout the ship: “RIG SHIP FOR PATROL

  QUIET.”

  The ship leveled out, now at eight hundred feet beneath the waves, the speed indicator on the ship control panel showing ship’s speed increasing. Pacino waited for the deck to vibrate with the energy of 52,000-shaft horsepower back aft pushing them through the ocean. But there was no vibration. He watched as the speed numerals steadily increased—36 knots, 39, 41, finally steadying at 44.8 knots. Fortyfour point eight, in the inscrutable digital accuracy of the computer, and the deck was as steady as if the ship were hovering, smooth as a Rolls. Amazing.

  Pacino realized Turner was looking at him, realized he was no longer needed in the control room and to stay any longer would violate Turner’s turf as Officer of the Deck.

  “I’ll be in my stateroom,” Pacino said to Turner.

  “Give me fifteen minutes, then send in Commander Lennox, Commander Morris, and Mr. Keebes.” Now that the ship was on her way to Go Hai Bay, Point Hotel, it was time to lay out the mission.

  Even running at flank speed, they would not arrive on station at Point Hotel for another two days, but Pacino wanted his men to be mentally ready for the mission and think about it for the entire two days. That meant two days of intensive periscope-recognition training,

  in which the officers would learn to tell each class of Chinese ship with just a half-second glimpse from a water-level periscope view, and know by memory each ship’s armament and threat level.

  Pacino rolled the tall-backed swivel chair up to the head of the conference table, the end facing the view of the television monitors. A row of buttons set into the table controlled the televisions on the centerline bulkhead. Pacino changed the aft monitor’s setting from TY-20 to NAV and the end TV screen on the left came to life, a color-coded chart of the sea lighting up the screen, with their track and their estimated position illuminated on the chart, the flashing position showing them skirting the southeast coast of Japan.

  Their future track was also shown, heading around the peninsula of Korea and north into the Korea Bay.

  A knock sounded from the centerline passageway door and Morris, Keebes and Lennox came in. Keebes and Lennox had changed into blue submarine poopy suits. Morris, still unshaven and ponytailed, was in green fatigues and shiny black combat boots.

  Pacino waved them to seats at his conference table, and Lennox poured coffee for himself and offered some to Morris.

  “Never touch the stuff,” the SEAL officer said.

  “Unless you’ve got some whisky to throw in.”

  As Pacino looked at the officers he felt a moment of doubt. The mission was extremely complex and yet it depended on Lennox, an emotionally involved and unknown senior officer; on Morris, the headstrong commando; and on young Keebes, the acting Executive Officer who already was overloaded with the duties of Navigator and Operations Officer. The mission would be risky even with a crack crew that had trained together for months—with these men who had never worked together, with an untried submarine, the odds on success seemed long.

  But they were better than the ones for Sean Murphy and the Tampa.

  Pacino reached into the duffel bag on his bunk and pulled out a black zippered briefcase. He unzipped the case and withdrew a bundle of papers. The first was a large-area plot of the western Pacific and the east coast of China. The ship’s track was laid out in straight black lines, each turn marked by a letter.

  South from Yokosuka to Point Alpha, southwest to Point Bravo, the dive point Alpha-Prime in between.

  At Point Bravo the track turned northwest to the Yellow Sea opposite the southern tip of Korea, where at Point Charlie it extended north into the Korea Bay.

  The track turned steadily west at Points Delta and Echo, where it headed due west to the Lushun/Penglai Gap, the entrance to the Go Hai Bay. After jogging northward of Point Foxtrot and Golf, the track continued west to Point Hotel at Tianjin on the western coast of the bay.

  “As you can see, we’re headed for Point Hotel off the Chinese coast at Tianjin in the Go Hai Bay. Our ETA at Point Hotel is seventeen hundred zulu time Sunday. That will be zero one hundred local time, nicely in the middle of the night.”

  The next paper was a large blowup of an overhead photograph, either a satellite view or a shot from an RF-117A Stealth. It showed the concrete pier at Xingang with the American submarine secured between two surface warships, the pier side ship tied to the pier, another warship astern of the submarine, a fourth ahead of it. The submarine looked wounded, her paint blown off in large patches, her sail damaged, the hatches on deck guarded by several men wielding weapons. Pacino spread the photo out on the table and let the men look at it.

  “This is the Tampa, now under the control of the Chinese Communists at the P.L.A Northern Fleet piers at Xingang. As you’ve all guessed by now, our mission is to get the Tampa and her crew out of the bay in one piece.”

  Pacino told the men that the Tampa crew were likely held aboard, that the engine room was probably still steaming, and that the surface

  forces of Lushun would be waiting for them at the mouth of the bay, at the Lushun/Penglai Gap.

  “So, gentlemen, it’s your turn. How the hell do we get this boat out of here?”

  Morris had pulled a cigarette from his fatigue uniform pocket and was searching the room for an ash tray. Finding none, he shrugged and lit the cigarette, blowing the smoke to the ceiling. The room’s quiet ventilation system sucked the smoke away almost immediately.

  Morris tapped an ash into his unused coffee mug and squinted through the smoke at Pacino.

  “I say we dive under the inboard and outboard destroyers and blow them. Meanwhile we’ll sneak aboard the sub, kill the guards, turn it over to the crew and get the hell out.”

  “You make it sound real simple,” Lennox said.

  “What does ‘blow the destroyers’ mean? You got a couple girls from Subic in your unit?”

  “Up yours,” Morris said, hands balled into fists.

  “Hold it,” Pacino said, steel in his voice.

  “Let’s understand each other. This is a mission to rescue the Tampa, not to play interservice rivalries. Commander Morris, you SEALs are always bitching that no one in the rest of the Navy knows or cares how to use your forces. Well, this is your chance to define the mission your way. I’m open to anything you want to try. Just don’t insult our intelligence with macho crap about ‘blowing the destroyers and taking the boat.”

  How, where, why, damnit …”

  Morris looked into his cup, now filling with ashes.

  “Okay, Cap’n,” he said, his voice calm.

  “This is how it goes down. SEAL Team Seven’s first, second and third platoons are aboard. Each platoon has six enlisted men and an officer in command. You get us close to the pier and lock us out a platoon at a time.

  When we’re all out
, we’ll put a series of high explosive satchel charges under the keels of the inboard and outboard destroyers. First and second platoons knock out the topside guards, as quiet as possible,

  and board the sub. While they are taking care of the guards aboard, third platoon keeps watch to make sure no reinforcements board from the other ships or the pier.

  They’ll get aboard the sub just before the charges blow. If the crew is aboard, they can get the engines going. At time zero, the charges under the surface ship keels go off. The sub is freed, it backs up and gets out of there. The rest is up to the crew.”

  “Blowing up the inboard and outboard destroyers will also sink the Tampa,” Lennox said.

  “She’ll be dragged under by the lines to the destroyers. Once her hatches are underwater, you’ll drown every man aboard.”

  “So we’ll cut the lines or detonate some C-4 explosive ropes—that would be even quicker. With the lines cut, the sub will stay afloat. Better yet, she’ll stay afloat with no gangway or connection to the pier. The only way the Chinese can get to her from the land side is by swimming, and the third platoon will take care of anyone who enters the water. Of course, the problem is a patrol boat or another destroyer coming—that could really screw things up.”

  “We’ll keep the sea side clean,” Pacino said.

  “What if the crew has been taken off?” Lennox asked.

  “Then you’re up the old creek,” said Morris.

  “So are you. You’ll be trapped in a submarine with no one to sail it. You’ll be dead meat.”

  “Then maybe we’ll need to extract and lock back into this ship and get out.”

  “Commander, I could take care of the destroyers with cruise missiles,” Pacino said.

  “You and your men could save some time and exposure and all get aboard the Tampa at once. When you’re in I put a cruise into each surface warship at the piers. Tampa only has to start up and clear the wreckage, then follow us out of the bay.”

  Keebes frowned.

  “The smoke and rocket-exhaust trail would give away our position and alert the Chinese that we’re there. We’d never make it out of the bay.

  Every ASW asset in the north and east fleets would be hunting for us. And even if they couldn’t hear us, they’d sure hear the Tampa.”

  “They’ll know we’re there anyway, with the takeover of the boat—” “For all they’d know,” Keebes pressed, “the SEALs could have parachuted in. Launching cruise missiles would eliminate all doubt about how they got in. It would be better to use torpedoes. That would get the surface ships without exposing us to detection.”

  “Torpedoes are no good,” Pacino said flatly.

  “A

  small bearing-error could lead to the Tampa taking a torpedo hit from us. If we use fire from the Seawolf I think it will have to be a salvo of Javelin cruise missiles.

  What do you think. Commander Morris?”

  “I don’t like it, Cap’n. If I place the satchel charges under the destroyers, at least then I know they’ll be put on the bottom. A cruise missile could go anywhere, get lost on the way to the target, or blast into us. Plus it tells the whole wide world you’re there, like your XO says.”

  “But it would also get your forces in-hull sooner with more force. Correct?”

  “Yeah. But that does me no good if those Javelins fuck up.”

  “The time delays on the charges are fixed. If things go sour on the rescue I can launch the missiles at any time—” “Not true. I have radio-controlled detonators,” Morris said.

  “How would that work with the explosives underwater?”

  Pacino challenged.

  “Radio signals don’t penetrate water very well.”

  “Each train of satchel charges will have a float with a radio trigger. When I hit the key, the floats receive the signal and detonate the fuses, which are wired in parallel to the float.”

  “Someone could see the float. Or the guy carrying the trigger radio could get hit,” Pacino said.

  Morris shot back: “If the satchel charges screw up, you can go ahead

  and fire your catch-me-fuck-me missiles. Plus, I’ll put all the swimmers on the satchel charge operation. That’ll make it quicker. When we’re ready we’ll board Tampa, get topside and blow the charges.”

  “Your guys will be worn out by the time it comes to board,” Pacino said.

  “Cap’n, my men do this shit all day, every day. You leave them to me.”

  “Fine,” Pacino said, reasonably satisfied.

  “Then we’re decided. The SEALs will lock out, lay the satchel charges, board the Tampa and take her over. As soon as your guys are out of the water, blow the satchel charges. I’ll be the backup with the Javelins.

  Have you got radios for signaling us if you need the missiles?”

  “Scrambled VHF voice units,” Morris said.

  “I’ll give your radiomen the freaks.”

  Pacino pulled a large roll of papers from his bunk and spread them across the table.

  “These are the plans for the Tampa. In the next two days I suggest you walk this ship with me and find out what you can shoot at and what needs to be spared damage.”

  “Taking the sub won’t be a problem, Cap’n. We’ve practiced this before with 688-class subs in New London.

  Last month we captured the Augusta—man, was her captain pissed.” Morris looked at Pacino.

  “So once we take the sub, what then?”

  Pacino looked at Kurt Lennox, who until then had mostly frowned at the exchanges.

  “That’s where Commander Lennox comes in. Kurt is the XO of the Tampa. He knows her inside out. He’ll relay the escape plan to Captain Murphy and coordinate with us to get out of the bay. If the captain or other officers are injured, dead, missing, he’ll take command to get the boat out.”

  “Excuse me,” Morris said, “but just how is Lennox getting to the Tam paT “He’ll swim out with your men.”

  “Bull-fucking-shit he will. We don’t take noncombatants on SEAL operations. Sir.”

  Pacino gave it back: “What is it you guys say?

  “You don’t have to like it, you just have to do it.” Or if that won’t serve, try the Coast Guard motto: “You have to go out. You don’t have to come back.” Besides, Commander Lennox, if I recall rightly from his file, is a qualified Navy diver.”

  “I took the four-week SCUBA course years ago but I haven’t done anything other than a security swim since then,” Lennox admitted.

  “My qualifications lapsed some years ago. And I didn’t use the kind of stuff these guys have. I don’t know, Captain, tell you the truth, this is kinda shaky …”

  “You’ve got two days to learn the gear and the operation. Morris, you and Lennox will be twins for the next two days, and you and your XO will have to know everything Lennox does in case he gets hit on the way in. I don’t want Captain Murphy to take command of his ship and not know our plan to get him out.”

  Morris nodded but obviously was unhappy with the order.

  “Next topic,” Pacino said, spreading out a chart of the Go Hai Bay.

  “The escape. Tianjin’s here on the west, about one hundred and seventy miles from the bay entrance here at the Lushun/Penglai Gap. The mouth of the bay is only sixty miles wide, and the navigable channel is much tighter. With our draft, for us to stay submerged, the channel is only six miles wide, up here north of the Miaodao Islands. That choke point will be patrolled heavily by the Northern Fleet, based out of Lushun.

  “Force strength in the fleet is formidable. We’ll brief this in detail to the wardroom, but for now I expect to see up to three task forces. The total surface forces include three missile cruisers, fourteen destroyers, sixteen frigates, thirty-four torpedo patrol boats and their new aircraft carrier, the one they got from the Russians, the Shaoguan. There are some two dozen minor coastal patrol craft but none

  of them can hurt us unless we surface. The skimmer forces are most formidable because of the helicopters they c
arry.

  Between the carrier, the cruisers, destroyers and frigates I expect to see over forty seaborne choppers.

  There could be more, a lot more, in the form of aircraft based on land out of Lushun, maybe another two dozen. Plus, the Shaoguan will be putting up vertical takeoff landing aircraft like the Yak-36, except they have a VTOL Yak that hovers on top and drops depth charges. That puts our two submarines up against sixty-seven major combatants and sixty-four helicopters.

  Not to mention three Han-class nuclear-powered attack subs and two Ming-class diesel subs, both of them new. The exit has to be planned assuming the Tampa has no weapons-firing ability. If she can, that’s great, but I’m not counting on it. So that’s us against seventy-three ships and six dozen helicopters … Now, how do we get out of the bay?”

  After a moment of silence, Pacino frowned.

  “Oh, hell, maybe we just worry about that when the time comes. Dismissed.”

  The officers filed out of the room. The expressions on their faces were all somber.

  CHAPTER 13

  SUNDAY, 12 MAY

  0530 GREENWICH MEAN TIME

  Go had bay sixty miles east OF point hotel USS seawolf 1330 beijing time

  Pacino watched from the galley door to the darkened wardroom as the officers concentrated on the large projection screen on the aft wall. Lieutenant Commander Greg Keebes stood at the outboard corner of the room, holding the control to the digital image console.

  The picture on the far wall was a periscope photograph of a sleek new destroyer, the crosshairs of the periscope centered on the large central funnel. On the aft deck a helicopter’s rotors spun as it prepared to lift off the deck.

  “Turner,” Keebes barked.

  “Identification.”

  “Luhu-class DDG,” Turner said from somewhere in the darkened room.

  “Weps. ASW armament.”

  “Two triple tubes of thirty-two-centimeter ASW Whiteheads,” Feyley said.

  “Just aft of the funnel—” “Joseph, what else?” Keebes broke in.