Admiral Morgan ate his croissant thoughtfully. Like the Navy, he was of course keenly aware of what had happened. Two Chinese torpedoes, fired from one single Kilo-Class submarine, had crippled the 88,000-tonner. Which made her the fifth Battle Group leader to become unavailable for the protection of Taiwan. Counting the Ronald Reagan Group, still in San Diego, Big John was actually the sixth.
“Maybe it was for the best,” offered Kathy. “Maybe Taiwan is ultimately better off as a part of mainland China. And maybe the carrier would have been drawn into a real shooting war if she’d been in her regular patrol area. And there might have been God knows how many dead, and we could have been sucked right into a long conflict.”
“Wrong,” replied Arnold, uncharmingly.
“What do you mean, ‘wrong’? You’re not always right about absolutely everything.”
“Wrong again,” replied Arnold, even more uncharmingly.
Kathy poured them both some more coffee and awaited the short, bludgeoning lecture she knew was on its way.
“Katherine,” he said, “a mighty navy, with nuclear weapons and a strike force of devastating guided missiles, has nothing to do with inflicting defeat and destruction upon another nation. It has to do with prevention. An all-powerful nation like ourselves has one useful purpose, and that’s to frighten the life out of anyone who might step out of line.
“That’s why this world is mostly at peace. By that I mean there has been no global conflict for years and years. It’s Pax Americana, as I have often explained. Peace on our terms. If the JFK had been on patrol, with its full air force operational at the north end of the Taiwan Strait, China would not have attacked. They would not have dared, because we have the capacity to eliminate their ships, their aircraft, their Army, their military bases, their Naval bases, their goddamned cities, if you like, anytime we feel like it.
“They attacked Taiwan because we were not there to scare ’em off. As we know, to our cost, they made damn sure we were not there. But it would not have happened if we had been.”
“Well, I suppose not. But I still have never understood why the carrier was so far out of its operational area, and how the Chinese were somehow lying in wait. I know that’s what you think. But I don’t really get it. It was almost as if they lured the JFK into that bay. That’s what the media should be trying to find out.”
“The media are probably going to find out that the carrier was hit. But I agree, it’s a real puzzle why the carrier was so far out of its area. I look forward to reading Admiral Holt’s preliminary report next week. So do a lot of other people.”
The aging black hull of the 5,000-ton Sturgeon-Class submarine moved slowly through the warm blue depths of the eastern Indian Ocean. She was just about at the end of her 2,000-mile journey from Diego Garcia, and she moved to the northeast, about 30 miles short of the great shelving Juanita Shoal, where the ocean floor suddenly rises up from 3,000 feet to 120 feet, to form a massive, almost sheer, underwater mountain wall of rock, shale and sand.
Lieutenant Pearson, watching the chart, in constant communication with sonar officer Lt. Commander Josh Gandy, would order Shark well south of that particular hazard, while they made their way east to the rendezvous point at 16.00N, 94.01E, twelve miles off the coast of Burma.
Lieutenant Commander Headley, now in sole control of the insertion of the SEALs, deliberately ordered their speed cut to 12 knots, which would put them on station at the RV point at 1800, approximately two hours before dark.
For the past four days they had steamed steadily, submerged all the way through the near-bottomless waters that surround the southern shores of the Indian subcontinent. It had been the busiest underwater journey Dan Headley could ever remember, with frequent satellite communications, while Fort Meade and the Pentagon battled for information about the Chinese base on Haing Gyi Island.
Lieutenant Shawn Pearson, like many navigators, was an excellent draftsman, and he provided immeasurable assistance to the SEAL commander, making detailed scale drawings of China’s newest Naval complex. By the third day, they had it pretty well nailed down. They had located a tough-looking chain-link fence that guarded the southern border of the dockyard. They also had located a guardhouse on the southern perimeter.
But as far as they could see, the fence ended abruptly at some dense woodland that protected the northwestern perimeter of the dockyard from the most treacherous-looking marshland area where the Letpan Stream splits and forms two wide channels. Each one runs straight through the swamp and out into the unnavigable Haing Gyi Shoal, which provides only four feet of water in some places at low tide.
The new satellite pictures being beamed into the submarine were grainy and of very moderate quality, but Lt. Pearson’s sharp pencil drew hard, accurate lines through the chart of the swamp. And Shark was just about at her halfway point on her journey from Diego Garcia when Commander Rick Hunter had seen for the first time an excellent way out for his team.
“We bolt through these woods at the back of the dockyard,” he’d told them, “until we reach the swamp, right here. According to Shawn’s map, that gives us a run of thirteen hundred yards, at which point we’re only a hundred yards from this deep tidal stream, and that’s where the guys are gonna be with the inflatables.”
“Christ, sir,” said Catfish. “You sure there’s enough water in there to get the boats running?”
“Shawn says yes,” replied the Commander. “According to his chart there’re one-point-three meters of water at dead low tide. For the truly ignorant that’s about four feet, and the boats draw less than a foot when they’re running.”
“They draw more than that when they’re stationary,” said Catfish. “Those big engines drop down around two feet, more as she starts to come bow up.”
“Catfish, baby,” said Rick. “There are guys in this submarine who can make those inflatables talk. They raise the engines, skid ’em along the surface, and then slowly drop ’em down, and whip ’em up on the stump, no sweat. Don’t worry about it. Those boats will get us out. I’ve just never been sure where to bring ’em in. But I am now.”
“Aye, sir,” said Catfish. “And I agree it’s a damn good spot, right around the back of the island. It’s got to be deserted. Shawn says he can’t find even a track from the pictures.”
“It’s probably full of fucking cobras, and creepy crawlies and Christ knows what else,” said Rattlesnake Davies.
“Well, thank God you’re gonna be with us,” said Buster Townsend. “You can do your jungle thing, blow the heads off a few pythons and stuff.”
“Seriously, guys. We’re in good shape for a run through country like that,” said Rick. “We’ll be in our wet suits and black trainers. We’ll have our gloves on, carrying just flippers clipped to our belts. We’ll have no heavy baggage, because the explosives will be gone and we’ll leave the Draegers behind. They weigh thirty pounds, and we don’t need ’em if we’re going back on the surface. Speed’s everything. And we’ll have our knives, machine guns and ammunition. Soon as we’re done, we’ll pull up our hoods and get going.”
“You worried about that one hundred yards of green marked swamp before the channel, sir?”
“Hell, no. It’s tidal there so there’ll be thick grass and probably rushes; we’ll run straight through it, but the guys in the boats are going to be less than one hundred yards away, and they’ll have ropes to help us if we need ’em. Plus, of course, the spare Draegers we brought in case we have to go over the side. We’ll get there. Don’t worry.”