Attack of the Seawolf

So, Murphy thought, here it was. And it now seemed obvious that the P.L.A and the Chinese government would try to make the most of the opportunity of catching the Tampa violating her territorial waters. He also had to at least consider the possibility of release, and how he was obligated to his men to do what he could to save their lives.

But the Code — I will make no oral or written statements disloyal to my country and its allies or harmful to their cause. How could he make a statement damning his command or his country?

“I’ve taken the liberty of having one of your officers make the same statement I want you to make,” Tien said.

“Of course, we could use his statement, but we both know it would be much more effective coming from you. In this situation, Captain, we need each other.”

Tien stood then and opened the stateroom door. A guard wheeled in a television set and video tape player on a stand. The unit was plugged into an outlet and the tape was rolled. Murphy tried to keep the emotions out of his face, but when he saw Chuck Griffin’s miserable face on the screen, he gave it up.

Griffin, of all people. Griffin, the most “conservative” member of the wardroom, an advocate of the use of military force in international crises. Griffin, in fact, had argued just a week ago that the United States should enter the war on the side of the White Army and use any means necessary to subdue Beijing. Now his face showed fear. His eyes were no longer young, they were eyes that had seen physical torture. He looked emaciated, as if he had lost at least fifty pounds. There were no discernible marks on his face, but it looked like he had been made-up. Pancake makeup could cover bruises and cuts. Griffin’s face wore the look of a broken man as he read off the confession:

“… our heavily armed and battle-ready nuclear attack submarine was ordered into the territorial waters of the peaceful nation of the People’s Republic of China. I deeply regret the naked act of aggression that the U.S. Navy has committed in this clear violation of international law in support of the Army of White Aggression …”

Murphy knew Griffin would never be reading that statement unless he had been tortured beyond human endurance. Every man had his breaking point, himself included. The terrible question was, when …? Finally, after going on for twenty agonizing minutes, the tape ended. Griffin’s voice sinking to a whisper as the picture dissolved into snow.

“I’ve had the text written for you on a TelePrompTer,” Tien said.

“Fighter Sai, bring in the camera.”

Murphy watched as the guard set up the video camera and the TelePrompTer and the lights. A boom microphone was suspended over his head. The TelePrompTer flashed up with text, the large letters spelling MY NAME IS COMMANDER SEAN MURPHY.

The lights came on, the video camera was trained on Murphy’s face, and leader Tien Tse-Min smiled at him encouragingly. Murphy took a breath, looked into the camera, and began … “I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America and to the Republic for which it stands—” He never felt Tien’s fist crashing into his face, just the odd vision of the camera and lights and TelePrompTer slowly fading away from him, sinking into a thick blackness.

CHAPTER 15 SUNDAY, 12 MAY 1720 GREENWICH MEAN TIME

GO HAD BAY POINT HOTEL

USS SEAWOLF

0120 BEIJING TIME

Seawolf glided to a halt twenty-five yards east of Pier 3 in the deep supertanker channel, only two hundred yards south of Pier 1A, the P.L.A Navy berths — the location of the Tampa.

“Captain, ship’s speed, zero point two knots and slowing,” the battle stations OOD, Tim Turner, reported.

“The ship is ready to hover.”

“Offsa’deck, commence hovering, depth band seven eight to seven nine feet.”

“Hover, seven eight to seven nine feet, aye, sir.”

Turner turned toward the ballast-control panel and gave the orders to the Diving Officer and the Chief of the Watch.

Pacino looked like a modern-day pirate in his black coveralls, black crepe-soled boots and with a black eyepatch over his right eye designed to keep his periscope eye night-adapted. The darkened control room was rigged for red, only small red lamps lighting plot tables, and only the glow of the instruments and firecontrol consoles illuminating the space.

The only sound in the control room was the low growl of the ventilation fans blowing cool air into the space and the high-pitched whine of the gyro forward of the ship control panel. The plot officers and attack center officers waited, no new data coming in for them to plot, with the ship motionless and the targets tied up at the pier. The SEALs were in the upper level passageway waiting for Pacino’s order to lockout. Pacino looked at his watch. Almost 0125. Time to scan the situation on the surface.

“Lookaround number-two scope,” Pacino called out.

“Speed zero, depth seven nine feet,” the Diving Officer announced.