Attack of the Seawolf

“Look at all the lines, sir. Even at flank I don’t think we’d break away.”

“We’ve got to do what we can, until there’s no longer hope. I’ll order the Eng to flood the aft compartment and melt down the reactor. I’ll order you to flood Auxiliary Machinery and detonate one of the Mark 50 warheads or some of the torpedo fuel. At least they won’t be taking us alive.”

Tarkowski said nothing.

“Greg, lay below and wait for my order to emergency destruct. Then flood the Auxiliary Machinery and detonate the weapons.”

“Aye aye. Captain.”

When he had gone. Murphy felt alone, even surrounded by the men remaining in the control room.

It was not long before he could hear the loud reports of shots coming from the forward escape trunk, the pathetic short blips of the Beretta pistols, the roaring of the Chinese assault weapons that soon drowned out the sound of the Berettas. All was silent again except for the sound of a dozen Chinese voices, the odd tones of their syllables causing a rush of bile to Murphy’s stomach.

He had already hoisted the PA. Circuit One microphone to his mouth and clicked the top button to allow him to speak, to allow him to pass word to Vaughn and Tarkowski to do the unthinkable — to destroy the ship. He had even heard his own voice blaring out of the ship’s speakers—“THIS IS THE CAPTAIN”—when the Chinese bullet hit him in his right shoulder, spinning him around and dashing his head against the pole of the number-one periscope.

The deck seemed to rise toward his face in slow motion, ready to strike him.

His world went black before the deck had a chance to come up.

CHAPTER 6 THURSDAY, 9 MAY 0020 GREENWICH MEAN TIME

ANDREWS AIR FORCE BASE SUIT LAND MARYLAND, OUTSIDE WASHINGTON, D.C.

1920 EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

The Gulfstream SS-9 swept-wing twelve-passenger jet touched down on the south runway, the rain on the asphalt forming a cloud behind the swift jet as it reversed its engine thrust, making its way to a halt on the diamond-cut pavement. At the midpoint of the 8,000-foot runway the jet turned off to a taxiway and headed for the hangar building, where the green Marine Corps SH-3 Sea King helicopter idled. The jet braked to a halt, its engines whining as they spun down. Almost immediately the forward port door opened, a stairway unfolded and Admiral Richard Donchez climbed out and jogged into the helicopter.

The deck canted forward as the aircraft lifted off and climbed from the wet asphalt, heading north toward the Pentagon’s helipad. Donchez turned to the other man in the chopper, Vice-Admiral Martin Steuber, who held his glance for a moment, then looked away out the rain-streaked window.

Donchez wasn’t happy to be pulled off the podium as he was in the middle of a speech at the launching of the SSN-22, the second of the controversial Seawolfclass submarines built by Electric Boat in Groton, Connecticut. Donchez’s speech was calculated to condemn cancellation of the Seawolf program in favor of the inferior follow-on class of fast-attack submarines, the Centurion-class.

Steuber leaned over to Donchez.

“Sir, I’m sorry, but it seems something went wrong with the China operation. The SPEC-OP boat’s in trouble. That’s all I heard, but after we get the word in NMCC we’ve got a date at the White House to brief the President.”

Donchez looked hard at Steuber, suddenly mindful of what could go wrong with a nuclear submarine sent into China’s restricted territorial waters. washington, D.C. white house basement — situation room 2000 eastern daylight time

Admiral Richard Donchez would give the briefing, since he had been responsible for the China operation.

Steuber handed him the transparencies.

President Bill Dawson sat on the side of the large table against the curtained wall. He wore a golf shirt and khaki cotton pants, looking as if he had been pulled from a golf course. If Donchez had to guess his mood, it was one of impatience, but an impatience that was a prelude to anger. Secretary of Defense Napoleon Ferguson sat beside Dawson, looking uncomfortable in his rumpled gray pinstriped suit, his collar unbuttoned, his patterned tie at half-mast. Ferguson could be relied on to support military operations even when they went as badly as this one had. Ferguson was solid, Donchez thought. As if reading his mind, the SecDef gave him a nod. Donchez returned it, his face grim.

On Dawson’s right sat Secretary of State and National Security Advisor Eve Trachea, impeccable in a blue suit, her face serene, her eyes on Dawson, giving him the odd feeling of being sized up. He had predicted that Trachea would be ready to say I-told-you so when the operation’s failure was reported, but now he was not so sure. Eve Trachea was unpredictable.

On the other side of the table CIA Director Robert M. Kent sat with his deputy director and the deputies of the operations and analysis divisions. Kent looked like he had a migraine headache.