As the light went out in front of him he went blind, the world swimming in front of him in odd colors.
He felt himself swaying from side to side as he was taken down a ladder.
It wasn’t until the men carrying him stood him up, still holding him by his arms, that he realized he wasn’t in a P.L.A ship but in the control room of the submarine Seawolf, staring into the face of Captain Michael Pacino.
“Morris, what would you do if I weren’t here to save your sad ass? Take him to the doc and get him fixed up.”
Morris, back from the dead, smiled and closed his eyes as the needle of a syringe punctured the skin of his arm.
“Conn, Sonar, we have aircraft engines bearing three three zero. Probable antisubmarine warfare aircraft confirmed, we have sonobuoy splashes from the north.”
“Depth seven five feet,” Pacino commanded.
“Probably detected us when we surfaced to get Morris,” Tim Turner said, his voice tight.
The periscope came out of the well. Pacino could see the aircraft on the horizon when he selected the infrared, which normally he would not do because it could be detected, but at least theIR would find an aircraft quickly, eliminating the need for a long air search. In the view of theIR, hot objects were colored light, cold objects dark. In the distance he could see the aircraft, or rather, in effect, an X-ray of it. At high power he could see through the wings to the engines, the turbines and compressors standing out in relief.
He could even see consoles inside the plane’s fuselage, and men at the consoles. The plane approached, flying overhead and circling back around.
“Mark on top,” Pacino called.
“Aircraft is a Nimrod ASW aircraft. Looks like he’s in a final approach pattern for a torpedo launch. Arm the Mark 80s, OOD.”
“SLAAM missiles armed, sir,” Turner replied.
“SLAAM 80, SLAAM 80,” Pacino called, hitting the missile key on the periscope grip.
“Two launches,” he said, watching the white splotches of the missile exhausts on theIR. He switched the scope to visual, de-energizing theIR view. A missile explosion would white-out theIR. As soon as he switched to normal visual, the first missile hit the Nimrod and blew off the right wing. The second hit the fuselage aft of the jet exhaust, cutting the aircraft in half. It came down into the water in flaming fragments.
“Aircraft is neutralized. Lowering number-two scope,” Pacino said.
“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
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.
“I heard you say the captain has only hours to live if he isn’t operated on. We’re twelve hours from international waters, and there’s a fleet of Chinese warships between us and freedom. Number one — we could use the captain to help us out of this. Number two — he’s not only the captain, he’s my friend. I’m not going to let him die without trying every option, even if the option kills him. What are you worried about, a malpractice suit? Now get going.”