U.S.S. Seawolf

12 and 18 feet high, with eight extensions, had been sprayed jet black, with a matte finish, and were stored in light, strong cardboard containers with handles, easy and not too heavy for a couple of SEALs to transport through difficult terrain. A decision on ladders or grappling irons would be made by Rusty Bennett’s recon team.

In special sealed cases was the SEALs’ supply of high explosives, starting with six limpet mines in case they were required to take out a couple of patrol boats. The mines, complete with “backpack” harnesses for swimming in, were packed together with their magnets and timed detonators. A couple of these little devils, strategically placed, could break the back of an aircraft carrier.

Another case contained a dozen Mk 138 satchel charges, a perfectly simple shoulder bag containing about 40 pounds of explosives, to be primed with a standard nonelectric M-7 blasting cap at the end of its fuse. Lean this innocent-looking rucksack up against the wall of a good-sized detached house, and that house will shortly be a memory.

The SEALs preferred method of blasting anything to smithereens is plastic explosive called C4. It looks like white modeling clay, and can likewise be molded into any shape. C4 works off regular M700 time fuse, the thin green plastic cord full of gunpowder that burns at around one foot per 40 seconds. You can split the end with a knife and light it with a match, but SEALs hate light at night and much prefer the M-60 fuse lighter, a little plastic device with a spring-loaded pin, like a shotgun. It makes only a soft thud, and right after that you start to hear the sizzle of the black powder burning along to the cap. This is an excellent time to run like hell. There was a lot of C4, and a lot of time fuse in the hold of the Galaxy.

There were also several crates of detonating cord, packed in regular 500-foot spools. “Det-cord” is known to Special Forces throughout the world. This stuff looks like regular time fuse, except it’s a little thicker, a quarter-inch in diameter, and instead of burning at one foot per 40 seconds, it explodes at roughly five miles per second, because it’s stuffed with some diabolically high explosive called PETN. SEALs love det-cord because they can wrap it around anything and join up different, separate lengths all to explode at the same time.

In addition to the military hardware there were cases of first aid materials, codeine, morphine, battle dressings, and bandages. There was insect repellent, water purification tablets, lactate solutions, catheter kits for IVs, and groundsheets. The SEALs have never left a man to die. If a colleague is badly wounded, they treat him and carry him out, no matter what. If they’re trapped, they dig in and fight until there’s no one left, but this, of course, normally applies to the enemy.

Other cases contained their communication equipment, which included a small, two-second “shriek” device to the satellites. There were three fairly heavy regular radios with enough range to reach the aircraft carrier, but these would almost certainly not be used because of the risk of interception. Only in the most dire emergency would the SEAL teams fire up one of these. Dire emergency to these men means the threat of certain, imminent death. There was also a case containing state-of-the art GPS systems, 20 of them, because the terrain and countryside surrounding the jail were at this stage unknown to them.

The recon team would also go in with camouflage nets to shield them while they watched, plus trenching tools to dig and bury waste and machetes to hack their way through any bad jungle they ran into. There would be the usual supply of waterproof ponchos. And, of course, two laptop computers for the SEALs who would lie in the forest recording the movements of the Chinese guards. No one is as observant as a trained Special Forces soldier.

The SEALs did not disembark in Hawaii. The refueling was completed rapidly, and the Galaxy was back in the air by midnight, growling its way west, 25,000 feet above the Pacific wilderness, through retreating time zones that would make this an endless night for the sleeping Special Forces bound for Okinawa.

When they landed it should be 9:00 A.M. on Wednesday, July 12. But of course it would not be. Instead it would be 9:00 A.M. plus 16 hours, which made it precisely one o’clock in the morning the next day, Thursday, July 13. To complicate matters even further, it was at that time midday on Wednesday in Washington. And right there, complicated matters were moving almost as fast as the time zones.

1200. Wednesday, July 12.

Office of Admiral Morgan.

The White House.

“I DO NOT FUCKING UNDERSTAND IT!” raged Arnold Morgan. “WE HAVE BILLIONS OF DOLLARS’ WORTH OF EQUIPMENT FLOATING AROUND THE STRATOSPHERE, SUPPOSEDLY ABLE TO READ THE GODDAMNED WORTHLESS FUCKING HEADLINES IN THE WASHINGTON POST. AND THEY CANNOT FIND MORE THAN ONE HUNDRED FUCKING SAILORS WANDERING AROUND SOME FUCKING BEACH IN THE SOUTH CHINA SEA…”

The admiral reflected mightily, pacing his office. “FUCK ME!” he added, glaring at the portrait of General Patton on the office wall. “YES!” he confirmed. “YOU MIGHT WELL LOOK SERIOUS, GEORGE. BILLIONS AND BILLIONS OF GODDAMNED DOLLARS’ WORTH OF STUFF — ADMINISTERED BY MORONS.”

And he glared some more around the completely empty room. “AND WHO IS THE CHIEF FUCKING MORON? THE LEADER OF THE GODDAMNED PACK…MORON FUCKING SUPREMO! GEORGE FUCKING MORRIS, THAT’s WHO. ADMIRAL GEORGE R. MORRIS, C–IN-C MORON SQUADRON, FORT FUCKING MORON, MORONLAND.”

The President’s National Security Adviser was beside himself with anxiety. For three days now the American satellites had been photographing the shores of the South China Sea in search of any clue there might be as to the whereabouts of the crew of Seawolf. The fact was, there was nothing. No sign of a major group of men where previously there had been nothing, no sign of military activity, no sign of anything out of the ordinary. If he could have, Arnold Morgan would have spun the Earth on its axis even faster to give the overheads a few extra passes.

With every passing hour, his frustration mounted. He had personally sanctioned the spending of millions and millions of dollars, sending in one of the biggest and best Special Forces teams ever assembled in peacetime. And now, he knew, they were due to land in Okinawa and then make their way out to the Ronald Reagan, presently 60 miles offshore in the company of her entire Battle Group.

He had snatched Colonel Hart from the London embassy to take overall command of the operation. He had spent God knew how many thousands of dollars relocating the colonel’s family back to Washington. He had made promises to the President of the United States. And, far from having to report failure, he couldn’t even find the fucking target.

“Jesus Christ!” groaned Arnold Morgan. “What the hell did I ever do to deserve all this bullshit?”

Just then the serenely beautiful Kathy O’Brien slipped into the room and inquired, “Darling. Do I detect you might be working yourself up into an absolute lather?”

“Yes,” he growled. “Leave me to my misery. Can I have a cup of coffee?”

“Would you like some salad or something? You’ve been here since four A.M.”

“You mean as well as every damn thing, I’ve got to pretend I’m some kind of a goddamned rabbit?”

“You can have some lovely vinegar and olive oil dressing on it. Rabbits eat it plain.”

“BEEF, WOMAN!” he roared, laughing at his own ridiculous imitation of Henry VIII. “Bring me beef — rare slices cleaved by my master-at-arms, between mighty slices of rye bread, with a sizeable dollop of mayonnaise right in the middle…and mustard.”

“You’re not having beef. You eat too much of it. You can have tuna, the chicken of the sea.”

“I don’t want TUNA!” he yelled, still laughing. “I loathe the chicken of the sea. I want the roast beef of the land. With mayonnaise. And mustard.”

“Well, you’re not getting it.”

The admiral stormed to the window, gazed out onto the White House lawn, and raised his arms heavenward, like Sampson. “My undying love for you, Ms. O’Brien,” he said, pompously, “does not give you the right to deny me my reasonable share of the finer things in life…”

“The finer things in life do not include roast beef sandwiches dripping with mayonnaise and devoured about seventeen times a week.”

“Fifteen,” he chuckled. “Where’s George, Kathy? Where is the moronic admiral who is supposed to bring me glad tidings of the battle in the South China Sea?”

“I can’t say I am able to answer that,” she replied, and just then the phone rang. Expertly she pirouetted around and picked up the pastel green receiver from his desk.

From the window he growled, “I speak only to the President. I’m too depressed to deal with anyone else.