Attack of the Seawolf

“Right fifteen degrees rudder, steady course one one zero. Off’sa’deck, you have the conn. Secure battle stations and the rig for ultra quiet. Have the galley crank out a hot meal for the crew. Keep us on course for point golf-sub-one and make sure you track range and bearing to Friendly One at all times. Call me if you have problems. Any at all. Got it?”

“Yes sir,” Turner said, showing a weary smile, “Good night, sir.”

Pacino yawned.

“Later.” He walked up the ladder to the upper level and forward to the corpsman’s office to look in on Morris.

“How is he?” Pacino asked the corpsman chief.

“Mostly bruises, some water in his lungs, a bad headache and exhaustion. Tough man. Lucky man.”

CHAPTER 26 SUNDAY, 12 MAY 2230 GREENWICH MEAN TIME

GO HAD BAY

USS TAMPA 0630

BEIJING TIME

Doc Sheffield, the SEAL corpsman, walked into the control room. It looked strange to see the musclebound SEAL wearing submarine coveralls. Vaughn stood alone on the conn, the ship control console and ballast control panel manned by SEALs, the firecontrol screens dead and unmanned. Vaughn had to tell the SEALs every switch to throw, every control to move. He had taken the watch as OOD until Lennox woke up to relieve him at 0800. Vaughn was beat.

“How are the crew?” Vaughn asked Doc Sheffield.

“The eighteen shot in the crew’s mess are dead.

Even the ones that took hits in their limbs, wounds that originally weren’t that bad, are gone. It’s more than just torture and starvation — after a while their will to live died. It happens, I guess. The Chinese executed five officers and six chiefs. The rest of the men are still spaced out from the torture. We need to get them off this ship. I’m not a shrink, but I think the confines of the sub are making them worse — it’s not their ship any longer, it’s their former prison. Once we’re out I’m recommending a medevac.”

“Doc, what the hell happened to them? What made them so zoned out?”

“I’m not sure you want to hear, Eng,” Sheffield said.

“It’s taken me half the night to work this information out of the two or three half-sane men left aboard. They were held in close quarters, not allowed to get up or move for any reason, including to defecate or urinate. They were made to sit in their own stink for five days. They were not even allowed to stretch.

They were starved, no food, no water. Several were shot and laid out on tables in front of the survivors.

Not sure yet, but it looks like most of the ones shot were the NSA cryptologists, although at least five weren’t. This gets worse. The Chinese made it clear that the crew had a choice — die of starvation and dehydration, or eat the flesh of the dead men. From what I’ve gathered, for two days no one touched the bodies, they just sat there, staring at the decaying men who used to be their shipmates. Then a few began eating — they were reduced to desperate animals. The ones who held out had to watch the ones who didn’t, and the ones who ate had to live with what they were doing.

“It only took a few hours to drive both groups to near madness. They were left like that for three more days. No wonder they just sit there and stare into space. Most of them now won’t eat or drink. If we give them food they start screaming. They’ll all die in a couple of days if we don’t get them out of here.”

“Jesus,” Vaughn said.

“Why would the Chinese do that? What did they have to gain?”

“It was a sort of blackmail to make the captain agree to record a statement condemning the President and the Pentagon. Maybe they thought a tape like that would turn the West away from supporting the White Army, I don’t know. But I know they didn’t have to use the crew — the captain broke and recorded the tape before they showed him what they’d done to the crew.”

“How is the captain?”

“He’s unconscious. Bad bullet wound in his shoulder that traveled deep into his upper chest, it’s badly infected. Another bullet wound in his neck. Without surgery, I’d give him only hours. His blood pressure is down, pulse weak. He’s barely alive.”

“You mentioned surgery.”

“To take the bullet out of his shoulder and clean the wound. It’s deep in there, and pulling it out could cut a pulmonary artery. You’ll need a damn good surgeon.”

“Well, looks like you’re it. I’ll get Lennox out here to take the conn and I’ll help you set up in the wardroom.

We have surgical supplies — anesthesia, scalpels, suction. I’ll try to assist you. Go get whatever you’ll need.” Vaughn picked up a phone and buzzed Lennox’s stateroom.

“Wait a minute, sir. I’m a med-school dropout, not a doctor, much less a surgeon, and I just told you you’d need a great surgeon.”

Vaughn spoke quietly into the phone and replaced it in its cradle.

“I heard you,” Vaughn said quietly.