watch.”
“But what have your guys seen?”
“A convoy of twelve Navy trucks arrived in Yangjiang, which is just about the nearest major town to the island, about forty-five miles away to the northwest. And a big troop transporter helicopter just landed at Xiachuan…”
“That’s not bad. That’s fucking terrible,” snapped the admiral.
“Well, not if they don’t plan to hit the road until Monday morning. If that’s the case, we don’t care one way or the other.”
“No, I suppose not. And anyway, there’s not much we can do about it — just zap the submarine and the dockyard, and let the prisoners go. Which will not please the Chief.”
“No, I suppose not, Arnie. But even Linus Clarke cannot be worth a war with China, a war in which they might feel compelled to slam a West Coast city in retaliation.”
With four hours to go before departure back to the island, Lt. Commander Rusty Bennett was operating on pure adrenaline. Like his seven colleagues, he had slept most of the way from Xiachuan to the carrier, and he would try to sleep going back in this afternoon.
However, right now he was in a maelstrom of activity. The weather forecast was perfect, more heavy rain before midnight, sweeping up from the southwest the way it had been for over three weeks. The senior SEAL officers were poring over the maps they had drawn of the jail, studying the precise distances from the new assault point on the beach, a half mile from the watchtowers. Rusty and Colonel Hart were noting the heights and times on distance and assessing the Chinese guard strength. Rusty could tell that the colonel was on the edge of his nerves as he paced the room, anxiety written all over his face.
Lt. Commander Rick Hunter sat silently with blowups of the maps, measuring distances with a steel ruler, hitting the STOP-START buttons of his stopwatch, counting out the seconds, trying to imagine in his mind the time it would take his men to cross the outer track and scale the wall, dragging the black padded ladders behind them.
Over and over he checked the patrol times, writing in his notebook the precise whereabouts of the guards when his boys would bolt across the rough ground to the wall. He counted out the seconds it would take for the guys to take out the four tower guards and then get the ladders back to the ground, ready for the second assault wave on the jail wall. This would be made by the men who must remove the patrolling guard inside the wall without being heard by the patrol outside the wall. He and Frank Hart had long decided that the three, silent killers required for this move would be the SAS men from Bradbury Lines in England, Sergeant Fred Jones and his corporal, Syd Thomas, plus the ex-paratrooper Charlie Murphy.
At this point, all three commanders knew they must be prepared to “go noisy.” But Rick Hunter and Frank Hart were desperately trying to buy a few more minutes to blow up the guardroom, before the patrol boat, choppers and comm room were taken out simultaneously.
“I don’t think we can expect them to wipe out the guard patrol and then get across the yard without being spotted by anyone, and then hit the guardroom.” That was the colonel’s assessment. Rick thought it might be possible, but agreed it was unlikely. “Better to get three more guys up and over while we hold the watchtowers and slam the guardhouse right on time…exactly when the others explode.”
Both men knew the problem. There just might be a telephone or even a radio in the guard house. If the three SAS men were seen by anyone, the alarm would be raised and the Chinese just might get a signal away before the rest of the communications went out. Three extra men inside the jail could dictate the life span of any guard house communications. “And that way,” said Rick, “the SAS guys can concentrate on opening the main gate, either with explosive or peacefully, depending on the opposition.”
“Okay,” said Rusty. “That means we leave the ladders in place after the guys clear the wall. How many seconds do we have before the patrol rounds the corner and sees them?”
Rick studied his notebook. “Thirty…max. Look, the guard is right here when the SAS guys go in. It takes ’em forty-seven seconds to walk down this side before they get to the corner. I’ve got seventeen seconds from the bottom of the wall…they’re taking grapplers, right? For the fifteen-foot drop over the other side.…Okay, make sure the next three guys with the satchel bombs know exactly where the grapplers will be. If they’re quick, they can kick the ladders over flat when they reach the top of the wall. They have about thirteen seconds before the outside guards have any view at all…”
And so it went on, into the third and fourth hours, the detailed notes, the fractional times, the assessments, the risk element, the need for sudden noisy brutality, the contingency plans: “What if these guys are spotted… what’s our number one priority if someone blows the whistle before we’re quite ready…THE COMMS, always the comms. Hit that and they cannot get reinforcements. Fail to hit that, and we’re all dead.”
On an intellectual level, the colonel had a serious problem with the limpet mines on the patrol ship, which would need to be fixed with a timed detonation of, perhaps, 60 minutes while the SEALs put everything else in place. Which made that timing device in the water under the ship extremely important.
“Too important,” said the colonel. “The timing of the entire mission is dependent on a limpet mine. Because when that blows,
“How do you mean, sir?”
“Okay…we all realize there may be a point when some Chinese guard blows the whistle, perhaps twelve minutes before we’re quite ready. Let’s say he yells, at which point we go automatically…the guys with the bombs outside the comms room hurl ’em in, someone blows the choppers, we hand-grenade the towers, blow the gates and fight our way in, firing at will, making the absolute maximum of our surprise element.
“BUT, down on the jetty there’s a patrol boat with a fully active radio system. Inside the boat there may be a trained operator, plus a couple of guards. They hit the military airwaves and announce that the jail is under severe attack. Because right now it’s going to sound like World War Three…the boat has of course only ten minutes to live, but that ten minutes could be enough, and I don’t like it. Because if they get a signal away, you guys are dead.”
“Hmmmmm,” said Rick Hunter. “I don’t like it either.”
“Well, it’s easily solved.”
“It is?”
“Sure. Let’s not use limpet mines at all. We’ll put two guys behind the jetty with antitank weapons, those very light, hand-held launchers…either when they hear the first bang or on your radio command, they slam a couple of those babies straight into the ship fore and aft, and no one’s making any phone calls.”
“Beautiful. That’s a great call, sir. Same with the choppers?”
“Definitely. We don’t want any fixed time detonations. Because in the end they could turn out to be a real PITA.”
“A what?”
“PITA. Pain in the Ass.”
Lt. Commander Hunter shook his head. There really was something about Frank Hart, super brain, always on top of the situation, always with time enough for the wry quip. Bergstrom said his appointment had come direct from the White House.
He was honest, too. “Rick,” said the colonel, “I like the euphemism PITA so much, I would like to claim it as an original, complete with copyright and exclusive usage clause. But I cannot do so.”
“Why not?”
“Admiral Morgan invented it, and he likes it more than I do. But I’m still using it.”
Down below, the SEALs were preparing to go, checking their weapons, cleaning and lightly oiling their guns, adjusting their camouflage. Some were already blacking their faces and hands, tightening their belts, standing alone, practicing their readiness to attack. You could have cut the tension in those rooms with a kaybar fighting knife. Petty officers walked among them, encouraging, warning, urging them to be alert at all times, remembering always the creed of caution, of silence, forbidding the wearing of any jewelry, checking pockets for loose change
