Attack of the Seawolf

Pacino turned the view on the pier between the Jianghu and the Udaloy. The buses were still there but the pier looked dark. There were no guards in sight, no sign of them being used for a crew off load

Pacino’s earpiece crackled with the voice of Chief Dylan Jeb, the sonar supervisor. Chief Jeb was a tall, thin sonar expert from the hills of Tennessee. His drawl on the combat circuits was so thick as to be nearly another language. Pacino had taken an immediate liking to the lanky sonar chief, despite his impenetrable accent. Jeb ran the BQQ-5 as naturally and adeptly as his ancestors had run the family still.

“Conn, Sonar, we’re getting new machinery noises off the hull and spherical arrays bearing north to the P.L.A piers. The bearing is ambiguous due to near-field effect. We’re working up a narrowband tonal profile but my guess is that Tampa’s engine room is steaming wait … we’re getting a series of transients from the same bearing … sounds like electrical breakers …”

“Chief, what do you think they’re doing?” Pacino said, snapping up the periscope grips and lowering the scope.

“We’re guessing, but it sounds like they’re starting up the steam plant, maybe shifting the electric plant to a half-power or full-power lineup.”

“Let me know when you’ve got the sound signature identified.”

A startup of the Tampa’s engine room … now what the hell could that be about? Would she be removed to another pier? And if so wouldn’t she just do that under the power of the ships tied up to her?

“Conn, Sonar, sound signature identified. The noise is coming from a late-flight 688-class U.S. submarine.”

“Any engine room sounds or transients from Targets One through Four?”

“No.”

All right, come on, Morris, Pacino thought, get this thing going.

USS TAMPA

Tarkowski’s face was white, whether with fear or from starvation or beatings. Probably all three. Murphy thought. He had been brought in by the guard and deposited on the settee at the far end of Murphy’s stateroom. He looked only once at Murphy. There seemed no recognition in his eyes, more the look of someone suffering so much pain he could not register the world around him. Whatever the Tampa’s navigator and acting exec had been through, there was no sign of it in his face, just the blank glaze on his eyes.

“Commander,” Tien said.

“I want the statement. I accept your indifference to your own welfare. But I know your men are important to you. You can save your executive officer now by making the statement.

If you refuse, he will pay. Remember, Commander, I report to men less patient than I am. If it were not for my efforts, at considerable personal risk, I might add, they would have killed your crew long before now. I have also offended Beijing by insisting your ship be allowed to leave once we obtain your statement, but they have agreed. Look, here is the order.”

Tien waved a piece of paper before Murphy, the Chinese symbols written on it meaningless. He waited, got no response from Murphy.

“Commander, you force me to demonstrate my intent. Sai, give me Mr.

Tarkowski’s right thumb.”

The guard pulled Tarkowski’s hand from his lap, laid it flat on the table, produced a bayonet, and proceeded to saw Tarkowski’s thumb from his right hand.

Tarkowski howled in pain, the sound wailing high in pitch as if coming from an animal; his eyes were shut, his mouth open wide to let out the shriek of agony.

The most frightening thing was that Tarkowski did not attempt to pull his hand away from the guard. What other unspeakable acts had he undergone? The guard wiped the bayonet on his thigh and held out the thumb to Murphy. When Murphy only stared at the guard, the guard dropped the flesh into his lap.

Tarkowski’s hand was still on the table, blood spurting out with the rhythm of his pulse. Tien Tse-Min tossed a bath towel to Tarkowski, who finally moved his left hand from his lap to cover his mangled right hand.

“Commander,” Tien began again, his voice calm, “you know a man may function without the use of his thumb, even without the use of his hand. Both hands.

Both feet. But there is one thing that makes a man a man. Fighter Sai, put Mr. Tarkowski’s penis on the table.”

Like he was asking for a cup of tea. Sai pulled Tarkowski to his feet, unzipped his poopy suit, allowing the coverall to fall to the deck. He dropped Tarkowski’s underwear to the deck, the coverall and underwear binding Tarkowski’s feet together.

Murphy tried to find his voice, but his throat was dry. It was like one of those nightmares in which the dreamer tries to scream and can’t.

“Ah … ah … I’ll… I’ll make the statement he tried to say, but the words came out a choked whisper.

Sai had already raised his bayonet. Tarkowski continued to stand like a robot at the table. Sai brought the knife edge down to Tarkowski’s penis. Tarkowski’s mouth opened, again a shriek.

“Stop!” Murphy’s voice finally came.

“I’ll make the damned statement, I’ll make the statement … I’ll do it … Just stop, for God’s sake stop!”