Attack of the Seawolf

As the grenade sailed in an arc toward the top of the conning tower, the light of the explosions from the destroyers revealed two men at the top of the sail trying to climb down from the tall fin, trying to escape the explosions, shrapnel and flames. The grenade hit the lip of the sail and exploded, the fireball small compared to the spectacular detonations of the destroyers.

But it did its duty, dropping the guards at the top of the sail to the deck, where they rolled off the cylinder of the ship into the oil-coated water of the slip.

Morris glanced over his shoulder and watched as the rest of his team jettisoned their Draeger lungs and fins. Beneath the masks their faces had been painted with black waterproof battle paint, a special makeup that withstood sweat, the contact of rubber and sea water. And blood. The other SEALs joined him on deck, all falling into a crouch as they pulled equipment from their vests.

Morris shouldered the RPG and scanned the deck for any other guards. He could hear the popping of the silenced MAC-lOs of the first platoon targeting guards who had manned the forward hatch. No guards were visible on the aft deck after the RPG shot. Morris figured they dived down the access hatches at the impact of the Javelins, or had gone overboard. In any case, there was no one topside on the submarine.

Morris opened one of the waterproof pouches of his combat vest and took out the MAC-10 machine gun, checked the clip, slipped on the silencer. With his right thumb he clicked the safety off, keeping the weapon level in case he needed to put some rounds forward while he got his other equipment ready. With his left hand he reached into his combat vest and produced a black balaclava hood, a neoprene ski mask that he pulled over his face, leaving only his eyes exposed.

He plunged his hand back into the vest for the Beretta and put it in an outside holster strap on the left side of his belt, withdrew his Inter Sat VHF radio’s earpiece and lip mike and stuffed the earpiece under the hood, which held the unit in place. Morris’s deployment of his gear had taken less than ten seconds.

He could do it in complete darkness at that rate, and so could his men.

Thirty seconds later sixteen of them were crouched on the aft hull, all carrying machine guns, wearing balaclava hoods and wired into their walkie-talkies.

Morris spoke orders into his lip mike, signaling the start of the climb up the slope of the deck, the second and third platoons behind him, the men rushing forward.

As they ran up the deck, the destroyer on the starboard side, the Udaloy, erupted in a secondary explosion that knocked them to the deck and blasted their eardrums. Morris tasted blood in his mouth from a cut lip. He checked the men and saw that the blast from the destroyer had blown two of them overboard.

Their forward progress was momentarily halted while the others hauled the men up the treacherous slope of the hull. Morris checked the destroyers. Both ships were burning violently but the secondary explosions seemed to have died down. The Luda was broken in half, its center settling into the bay, while the Udaloy was heeling toward the Tampa. Lennox’s words in Pacino’s stateroom came back to him, about the sinking destroyers sinking the Tampa by pulling her down by her own lines.

As the second man was pulled back from the oily water of the slip onto the deck Morris continued ahead, pointing his MAC-10 at the cleats and firing, the rapid burst of Hydra-shok bullets severing the thick manila lines. The aft lines were now cut but that still left six or eight more up forward. Morris discarded the clip and reloaded as he and his team ran on to the aft escape trunk.

The trip from the aft hull had taken less than a minute, but the aft escape trunk was still forty feet ahead. As the black circle of the hatchway neared, Morris thought he saw a dark shape illuminated by the fire raging in the misshapen hull of the neighboring Udaloy. It looked like the top of a head. A guard. Morris’s muzzle lowered, his finger tensed, a burst of three shots blasted out toward the black shape, followed by scalp, brains and bone fragments spraying over the deck. A few more seconds and he was running past the aft escape trunk, the body of the Chinese guard collapsing to the inside of the trunk below. Morris turned just long enough to wave third platoon down the hatch and watched as platoon leader Lieutenant Phil McDermitt ducked down the hatch, moving the body of the Chinese guard out of the way.

Third platoon followed. Morris hurried on, leading the remaining men to the forward escape hatch. He watched the hatchway for another face but the opening was quiet. As he slowed to go down the hatch, sniper Chief Richard “Baron” von Brandt sailed past him, pulling Commander Lennox with him.

Morris half-stepped, half-fell down the forward escape trunk, his MAC-10’s barrel pointing downward, heart pounding. It was the hottest target he had ever attacked.