The other men backstroked with the paddles, expertly slowing the forward momentum of the boat. As they pulled alongside the pillars, Lieutenant General Peng Zhu dropped his burlap sack into the boat. Then, without waiting to be helped, he sat up, then slid off the wooden platform. The sound of his body landing in the middle of the Zodiac reverberated in the silence. One of the men pulled him down, and immediately threw a tarp over him.
Turning the Zodiac one hundred eighty degrees, the six men began stroking, heading for open water.
The Zodiac skimmed across the surface of the water. Sitting next to the engine, the coxswain was ready to fire up the fifty-five “horses” should trouble come out of nowhere. He swiveled his head as he looked around, confirming they weren’t being followed.
The six other men, straddling the gunnel, focused on the dark sea around them. Their breathing remained steady, their arm strokes powerful. Paddles broke the surface of the water with precision, in unison, and almost in total silence. The boat remained on an exact course.
Beneath the tarp, Peng Zhu’s body trembled, part from fear, part from the motion of the water. The two-foot swells were small compared to some days in this sea, but Zhu had never been aboard a craft such as this. He never dreamed one day he would be — and never with Americans. But somehow, they were trying to get him out of China, these seven men who were risking their lives for him.
They were in dangerous waters, still within Chinese jurisdiction. They had miles to go before reaching international waters where a chopper would be waiting.
With lights from the mainland no longer visible, the coxswain shouted, “Hang on!” The engine roared to life. The bow of the Zodiac suddenly rose in the air before settling back down as the boat picked up speed, bouncing over the swells.
The men laid the oars in the bottom of the boat on either side of the passenger, then leaned as far forward as possible, resting their chests on the gunnel. Their eyes continued searching the surroundings.
“Twelve o’clock!” the coxswain shouted.
The other men looked ahead, seeing a faint light in the distance. The chopper.
“Bùjiǔ,” one of the men said in Chinese, laying a reassuring hand on the man’s shoulder. “Soon,” he repeated, as he leaned toward Zhu.
Then suddenly, their pulses quickened. A sound of jet engines, approaching from their six. Two J-6s were coming in low, the engines screaming as the jets streaked over the Zodiac. The Chinese-built jets were a version of the Soviet MiG-19 fighter aircraft.
If nothing else, the J-6s were there as a show of force, specifically for the American fleet in the distance. But why now? And at this hour.
Even though the Zodiac was too small to be seen from the altitude and speed the planes were flying, the men in the boat kept low profiles.
The danger was growing dramatically when another thundering noise got their attention — a deep rumble of engines. They snapped their heads around. A bright spotlight moved side to side, as a Chinese gunboat plowed through the water.
The Shanghai I class displaced 125 tons, was one hundred eighteen feet in length, powered by two 1,200 hp Soviet M50F-4 diesel engines, capable of speeds of twenty-eight knots. Mounted forward was a twin Type 66 57 mm 2.2” gun. She also carried four type 61 25 mm (0.98”) guns capable of firing eight hundred rounds a minute; and eight depth charges.
The vessel came out of nowhere, closing in on the Zodiac faster than hell, coming from its eight o’clock. There wasn’t any indication the gunboat was about to stop — or alter course — with the Zodiac about to come into range of the spotlight.
The Zodiac’s coxswain had the engine open to full throttle. He skillfully maneuvered the rubber boat, trying to keep it out of the menacing light. The other men slid off the gunnel, taking up defensive positions in the bottom of the boat. Gripping their weapons, they aimed them toward the gunboat. As long as the Chinese didn’t fire, they’d hold back. They couldn’t risk having their passenger injured or killed.
But there was no way in hell they could outrun the gunboat. It didn’t take long for the seven men to realize they had to make a critical decision. If they didn’t, none of them were going to make it. It might be the only way for at least some of them to avoid capture, to survive.
The coxswain slowed the Zodiac for a mere few seconds. Two of the men rolled off the gunnel, then swam away. As soon as they were clear, the coxswain gunned the engine, keeping the boat on course, heading for the chopper.
A sound of gunfire erupted. Automatic weapons. The spotlight on the gunboat shattered. The men aboard scrambled, ducking for cover. The Chinese coxswain spun the wheel to port, sending a huge plume of water up and away from the boat, washing over the two men in the water.
Responding to an order shouted by the OIC (Officer in Charge), the gunboat coxswain backed down the engine to all slow.
The escaping Zodiac was almost out of range, heading for international waters. The men aboard the gunboat refocused their attention. As the boat circled around, they aimed their weapons and fired haphazardly into the water.
The Midway-class carrier, USS Coral Sea, along with her strike force, steamed on a preset course fourteen nautical miles off the coast of China. One Sea King helicopter was in the air, hovering near the carrier and ready for a possible search and rescue. The second waited just inside international waters.
All other aircraft were aboard the carrier, except for an F-4 Phantom and an A-6 Intruder, protecting the strike force. Along with the two jets, an E-2B Hawkeye, a high-wing airplane, with one turboprop engine in each wing, was equipped with long range surveillance radar. The Hawkeye provided command and control capabilities for the carrier’s battle group.
Waiting out on “vulture’s row,” Captain Nathan Gregson tapped a finger against his lips, as his gray eyes scanned the darkened sea. The message that came in from the chopper was not what he expected. Not what he had hoped for. As in every operation, risk was involved — high risk for this particular op. But the fleet had its standard orders: Do not fire unless fired upon. And remain in international waters. With all the airpower and firepower aboard the carrier, there wasn’t a damn thing Gregson could have done.
Commander Jess Phelps, CAG (Commander Air Group) stood on Gregson’s left side, with Commander Tom Hoffman, Air Boss, standing to his right. Black letters “CAG” and “AIR BOSS” were printed on each of their respective yellow pullover jerseys.
Phelps pushed up his sleeves, as he leaned forward, looking aft. Then he let his eyes continue searching for any sign of the chopper beyond the carrier’s stern. “We should spot it any minute now, Captain.”
Gregson shoved his hands into the pockets of his service khaki pants. “Christ! What the hell happened out there? Are you sure he said ‘two’?”
“Yes, sir,” Phelps responded.
Gregson had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He shook his head, unbelieving. “Goddamn it!”
Air Boss Hoffman pointed into the blackness, toward the Sea King’s landing lights. “We’ll get our answer soon enough, Captain! There’s the chopper — seven o’clock!”
All eyes were on the Sea King as it approached the carrier’s fantail. With its nose raised slightly, without any deviation from its course, it flew over the flight deck, then hovered above the angle deck.
Taking direction from flight deck personnel, the pilot brought it down on a designated spot on the angle deck. Deck crew members, wearing blue jerseys, immediately rushed toward it, sliding heavy wheel chocks in place, then they secured the tie-downs.