By dawns early light, p.27
By Dawn's Early Light, page 27
He was given the authorization to approach their allies for help, and Beijing had agreed immediately.
Vice Adm. Wang Jiying, commander of the PRC’s North Sea Fleet, had jumped at the chance to corner an American submarine in such shallow waters.
“It will be my pleasure to provide assistance to our friends in the struggle,” Jiying had promised.
And he was as good as his promise. Lying just offshore, in ultra-silent mode that no passive sonar in the world could detect, were four PRC Han class nuclear submarines. They were slow and leaked radiation, but they were deadly warships all the same. And four against one were good odds, especially when the American boat would be hampered in her ability to operate in such shallow waters, and hampered in her political will to fight a most-favored-nation trading partner.
The call finally went through and Vice Admiral Jiying came on the line. “You would not be calling at this hour unless your situation has actually developed.”
“Yes, thank you, Admiral Jiying, the situation may have developed as we had forseen.”
“I know, General Syng. My on-site commander, Captain Chou Hua, informed me two hours ago. I ordered him to stand by until we heard from you.”
Syng wanted to leap through the telephone and take the stupid old man by the throat. If the Chinese had called two hours ago the North Korean navy patrols could have been alerted. He calmed himself.
“Yes, thank you, Admiral. Will you be ready to strike once the hare is flushed to your hounds?”
“Send him to us and we will kill him,” the admiral said. “I guarantee it.”
Syng managed a thin smile. “Then we will bait the trap and you can spring it.”
After the connection was broken he sat for a few moments contemplating the ramifications of what they were going to do. Killing an American warship with a large loss of life would have major political ramifications. But the situation could be turned to North Korea’s advantage.
Syng got his cap, went downstairs to his car, and ordered his driver to take him to the quarters of Minister Chan Do-Sang, across base. Do-Sang was the civilian political adviser to the fleet. He was a man used to being in complete control, and being informed at all times.
NAMPO DRY DOCK
The shooting had finally stopped and the dry dock’s huge doors were safely secured. Now, nothing could get in and wreak more havoc.
Nor, Zahedi thought with pleasure, could anyone caught inside escape. Once the pen was pumped dry he hoped to see the body of at least one American intruder.
The lights inside the pen were on. Zahedi stepped out onto the walkway to which his boat was secured. There were bodies near the bow of 2606, and there was a splash of blood on deck opposite the forward loading hatch.
The lieutenant of the guard unit that had responded to the alert gestured for Zahedi to hold up.
“Pardon me, Captain, but this area is not secured yet,” the small, runt-faced officer warned. “I cannot guarantee your safety.”
“Whoever was aboard my boat is either dead or already gone. Don’t you see the blood on deck?”
“It might be from one of the welders, or one of your crewmen. You said you left crew aboard?”
Zahedi had been so worried about his boat that he had momentarily forgotten about Stalnov and the five others aboard. He brushed the lieutenant aside and made directly for the boarding ramp. He pulled his Russian PSM pistol from inside his tunic, stepped aboard, and went to the open hatch.
At first nothing seemed amiss. His boat was quiet, just as he had left it.
“Captain, please wait, sir—” the lieutenant called from the walkway.
Zahedi blocked the man out. Something small and dark was lying on the passageway grating below. He cocked his head to see it from a different angle. Then he knew. It was a footprint, and Zahedi knew exactly what had been stepped in to make the print.
It was blood. Someone aboard had been injured. And someone had tracked the blood to the escape trunk ladder.
Zahedi hurriedly climbed down into his boat. He held up at the base of the ladder. Lieutenant Nam’s body lay in a heap near the laser power transfer panel in the control room. Nothing moved, and there was no noise except for the soft whir of air-circulating fans and the distant sounds of the sirens outside.
He had to assume that whoever had come aboard his boat had gotten what they had wanted, killed his crew aboard, and left. But what exactly was it they wanted to find out?
Zahedi went aft, stopping only long enough to make sure that Lieutenant Nam was dead. He stopped at his compartment and looked inside. His eyes went immediately to his bunk. The pillow had been moved and his Koran was missing.
For a second Zahedi drew a blank, but then his breath caught in his throat as if he had just smelled something disagreeable.
He had been ordered to take nothing on this assignment that would identify him as an Iranian. But inside his Koran he had written notes about the births of his seven children. In Tehran.
It was the Americans. Probably a SEAL team from the Seawolf.
He continued aft, finding the bodies of the two engineers mates. The laser had apparently not been touched. At least it did not appear to be damaged. But Stalnov was nowhere to be found.
Zahedi stared at the laser for a long time, trying to imagine what had happened here. Trying to figure out why the Americans had not only taken the huge gamble of bringing their submarine into such shallow waters, but then putting a team aboard.
They had probably kidnapped Stalnov, which was proof that a Russian was helping to destroy American spy satellites. They had stolen his Koran, which proved that an Iranian was the commanding officer.
And what else?
Theft. Kidnapping. Sabotage?
Had they placed explosives aboard that could destroy his boat?
Zahedi raced forward to the control room. He snatched the shore phone from its bracket and got the base operator. He needed to get his crew aboard right now. They had to find and disarm the bombs before it was too late.
11
2359 LOCAL
NAMPO BAY
Jackson felt pretty good, although he had lost a fair amount of blood. But the cold water combined with the tight UDT suit had helped to stanch the blood flow long enough for them to get clear of the dry dock.
They were well out into Nampo Bay, hanging in the pitch dark forty feet beneath the surface. Overhead there was a great deal of traffic: Smaller boats that buzzed like angry power saws, and much larger patrol vessels whose big screws churned up the water enough when they passed directly overhead to toss the SEALs around like salted peanuts in a bottle of Nesbitt’s orange soda.
They risked a dim red light so Terri could secure an elastic bandage around the wound in Jackson’s thigh.
The Russian had been having problems breathing all the way out. He watched the first aid, but he looked as if he wanted to break free and swim for the surface. The only thing holding him back was the greater fear of the razor-sharp Ka-Bar knife that MacKeever held menacingly. He might drown, but if he tried to get away Shooter would cut his throat. He stayed put.
Finished, Terri looked up and gave Jackson the question sign. He answered with the thumbs-up. He checked hs GPS Plugger navigator, which contained an inertial positioning system as well as a satellite receiver.
They were still twenty-five hundred yards from Seawolf. He showed the readout to his team, then signed for them to move out smartly.
North Korea’s reaction had occurred so fast that they’d had no time to make an attempt at escaping by land. Their only option at this point was Seawolf.
If the CO had bugged out they would be in some deep shit. And they all knew it.
They grabbed handholds on the SDVs and cranked the electric throttles wide open. They had one shot at this, and only one shot.
They heard an explosion in the water somewhere behind them. Then a second, and a third, and several more.
They sounded like small depth charges to Jackson. Possibly grenades. The pattern started from the direction of the dry dock, and was working outward into the bay. Right on their heels.
The odds had just changed. For the worse.
1606 GMT
SEAWOLF
Dillon left the conn and stepped smartly around the corner to the sonar compartment.
It seemed as if every warship in the North Korean navy had put the pedal to the metal all over inner and outer Nampo Bay. They were looking for somebody in a big hurry. And there was no question in the mind of anyone aboard Seawolf exactly who it was they were looking for.
Nor was there any doubt in Dillon’s mind what this was all about. John Galt had betrayed them once again. His jaw tightened just thinking about the bastard. The North Koreans knew that Seawolf would be showing up right behind the Kilo, and Galt had somehow known that a SEAL team would be put ashore.
Sonar supervisor Lt. (jg) Chuck Pistole stepped aside for the captain, but neither Zimenski nor the other three operators looked up from their consoles. The screens were alive with multiple contacts, most of them extremely strong. The four technicians were extremely busy.
Jablonski had been listening to some of it on his weapons console headphones in the control room. He’d picked up the small explosions.
“Marc’s hearing a series of small underwater explosions, shoreward,” Dillon said. “Has it got something to do with our guys?”
“Ski’s working on it, skipper,” Pistole said, covering his mic. Bateman had the conn, and he and Jablonski were keeping track of the numerous passive contacts that sonar was feeding them.
“Sierra twenty-seven, range eleven thousand yards, bearing three-zero-five and opening,” one of sonar operators callled out. “Estimate target speed is one-seven knots on a course of two-five-zero.”
Pistole relayed the new target information to the conn. “Can you say the type?” he asked the operator.
“Stand by,” the young man said. He adjusted his equipment. “It’s coming up now, sir.”
Pistole read the line that was just spitting out of one of the printers behind the sonar console operators.
“Sierra twenty-seven is a Six Hainin class large patrol craft,” he relayed the information to the XO.
Ski looked over his shoulder at Dillon. “It’s our guys, cap’n, coming from the sub pen.”
“What are they shooting at?”
“Lieutenant Jackson’s people aren’t the ones setting off the charges. There’s a couple of small patrol boats out looking for them. They’re tossing small depth charges into the water. They’re trying to force our SEALs to the surface.”
“Means our people are trying to make it back,” Dillon said. “How tight are they?”
“Right now there’s a thousand-yard separation, but the patrol boats will catch them,” Zimenski said.
“Maybe we’ll give the Koreans something else to keep them busy,” Dillon said. He patted Zimenski on the shoulder. “We’re not leaving without them, Ski.”
Dillon went back to the control room. “Our SEALs are on the way back. Soon as we get them aboard we’re getting out of here. In the meantime we have some work to do.”
His control room crew sharpened up.
“Man the helm and planes. Master Chief, stand by the ballast board,” Dillon ordered. He called engineering. “Mario, stand by for all-ahead full. We’re getting set to bug out.”
“We’re ready now, Captain,” Battaglia promised.
“Are my TLAMs warm and ready?” Dillon asked his weapons officer.
“Aye, skipper,” Jablonski said. “They’re spun up and targeting data has been entered.”
It meant that the Tomahawks’ electronic circuitry had been switched on and diagnostically checked. The gyros and other electromechanical systems had been brought up to speed, and the status of the missiles’ fuel, pumping, and ignition systems had been checked out as well. Electronic information targeting the missiles on Yellow Sea Fleet headquarters building and fleet intel HQ had been entered into the missiles’ computers.
“Make tubes three and four ready in all respects.”
“Aye, making tubes three and four ready in all respects.”
Flooding the tubes and opening the outer doors, so that the missiles could be ejected from the boat and then fired, was a noisy procedure. Every North Korean warship with sonar in the bay was going to hear them.
“I want firing solutions on the four targets to seaward that offer us the most threat,” Dillon said.
Alvarez was helping process data for Jablonski. He knew exactly what the skipper was going to try. He was grinning.
“I want all tubes ready in all respects for firing. Target the Mark forty-eights in tubes one and eight, along with our TASMs in five and six on the seaward targets. We’ll save two and seven for reserve.”
“Aye, skipper,” Bateman replied, repeating the orders.
Dillon called the torpedo room supervisor. “I want reloads as fast as you guys can hustle back there,” he advised.
“You got it, skipper,” Lt. (jg) Howard Doolittle replied crisply. This was the kind of a mission they’d trained all their careers for. He was eager.
Dillon switched to sonar. “How’s it look, Ski?”
“Cap’n, if you’re planning on that diversion you talked about, now would be a good time, sir. The depth charges are coming awful close to our team.”
“Stand by.”
Dillon looked at his crew. “Gentlemen, it’s payback time.”
“All right,” Bateman said.
“Firing point procedures, tubes three and four.”
“Aye, aye,” Jablonski shot back.
“Shoot three. Shoot four.”
The noise of the hydraulic rams shoving the Tomahawk missiles out into the sea was distinctive. Nobody on the boat could miss it, or fail to understand the consequences. The Seawolf had just fired two missiles in anger on a sovereign nation against whom no state of war had been declared.
“That’ll get their attention,” Bateman said.
“And then some,” Master Chief Young mumbled.
12
0007 LOCAL
VIP HOUSING
General Syng was shown into the sitting room of Minister Do-Sang’s private quarters. Whatever the disturbance across base he was certain that it was being taken care of by security forces. He had bigger fish to fry this night.
Captain Zahedi’s outburst would not go unpunished, but for the moment the submarine commander was needed. No one in North Korea’s submarine fleet was as knowledgeable as the Iranian. And the Revered Leader would be leaving for patrol within forty-eight hours.
On top of all that, the hard Western currencies that Pakistan was paying were a godsend to Pyongyang. The man who assured the continued flow of cash would rise even higher than Dear Leader’s intelligence chief.
If no mistakes were made.
Minister Do-Sang, dressed in a garish red brocade smoking jacket, his whispy, thinning white hair like a cloud around his head, sat across a lacquered coffee table from Fleet Adm. Chi Losan. The pair had evidently been arguing. They both seemed agitated, the admiral more so than the minister.
“Good evening, Minister,” Syng said. He came to attention and saluted, then nodded to the admiral.
“What is all the commotion out there?” Admiral Losan demanded. “I’m told that there are intruders.”
“They won’t get far, I guarantee it, Admiral,” Syng promised. He turned his attention back to the minister. “The situation that we discussed has arisen.”
“Yes, I know. Admiral Losan and I have been discussing the very issue,” Minister Do-Sang said. He looked angry. “Is there confirmation?”
“Yes, Minister. I just spoke with Admiral Jiying, who is in communication with his squadron leader. The Seawolf is here, in Nampo Bay.”
“What is being done?”
“Seawolf will not leave our waters alive,” Syng said.
“Monstrous,” Admiral Losan shouted. “I am fleet admiral, and I forbid this insanity.” He got to his feet and gave both men a withering stare. “If we go head-to-head with a warship of the Seawolf’s power it will mean disaster for us. With or without Chinese help. That one vessel could utterly destroy not only this installation, but the entire city of Nampo, if its captain chose to do so.”
“The Americans would never fire a shot in anger at us,” Minister Do-Sang said, trying to placate the admiral.
“I agree,” Syng said. “Despite the terrorist attacks against them by bin Laden and his righteous warriors, the Americans have held back.”
“They destroyed the Taliban, you fool,” Admiral Losan shouted.
“A renegade government,” the minister said. “We are a sovereign nation. We exchange special diplomatic missions with the United States. They will not begin a war with us.”
“I will put a stop to this, if you do not desist,” Admiral Losan warned.
The minister picked up a telephone, issued an instruction and immediately two armed guards came to the door.
“Admiral Losan is relieved of duty as of this moment,” the minister said. “He is to be placed under immediate house arrest. He is to be allowed no telephone calls, or to receive any visitors.”
“Yes, Minister,” one of the guards said. His hand was on his sidearm. He gave the admiral a polite nod and stepped aside to clear the way.
“You won’t get away with this, Chan,” Admiral Losan said calmly, once again in control of himself.
The minister waved him away cheerily. “Of course I will.” He smiled. “Perhaps you will come to your senses in due time. One can hope.”
0008 LOCAL
ABOARD 2606
Zahedi shined the beam of his flashlight on the olive-drab bundle that was just out of his reach in the bilge beneath the torpedo room. He needed something like a boat hook, something to extend his reach.
The package was a bomb. There was no need to open it to find out. The Americans wouldn’t have put anything else here.
