into the city. Their principal concern was to avoid mass panic.
The police chief called his Beijing headquarters to inform them of the disaster, and already the media were trying to make contact with the Navy itself. It took only another few minutes before Admiral Zhang Yushu was on the line to Beijing, informing his government that somehow or another, the big American nuclear submarine in the Canton dockyard had suffered a serious nuclear accident while engineers were working on the reactor.
They already knew that the dockyard was heavily contaminated, but so far there was no evidence of radiation spreading to the city itself. The police felt it would be unwise to allow any flights into Canton airport until a proper assessment had been made over the next two days.
Back in Zhanjiang, Zhang had his own private worries. His first instinct was that his own scientists had somehow screwed the entire thing up. There must have been American reactor protection systems capable of dealing with this sort of problem. So the scientists had “done a Chernobyl”—deactivating safety systems in order to carry out some crass experiment of their own. Zhang shuddered. Surely not.
Maybe the Americans had an automatic booby-trap device fitted into the submarine, and they had known all along that it would ultimately self-destruct. Hence the polite, devious messages through the diplomatic channels. Being made to look a complete fool was a condition to which Zhang was not accustomed. Nor was he appreciative.
He summoned Admiral Zu Jicai and briefed him on the disaster in Canton. Jicai was thunderstruck, his natural calm evaporating in emotional turmoil. To Zhang’s repeated question — was
On one evening he had quite agreeably spent the night on board the submarine and had shown no sign of nerves that the ship might self-destruct. He had even been questioned about such a possibility. Both Zhang and Zu had read the report, and the American had assured them he had never even heard of any American warship being so protected.
Nonetheless, both Chinese admirals felt a certain contempt for the American officer who had given in to their demands for information about the inner workings of the great underwater ship. It was connected to the innate Chinese phobia about loss of face, pride in your standing and position. Like all Chinese military men, they had a grudging respect for men like Judd Crocker, Brad Stockton and the unfortunately deceased Cy Rothstein, men who were unshakeable, to the death if necessary, in their loyalty and patriotism.
For Bruce Lucas they had little time, and it was with a certain sadistic pleasure that Admiral Zhang picked up the telephone and opened up the line to Commander Li, who was just dining in his private rooms, above the comm center, outside the jail in Xiachuan.
“Good evening, Li,” he said. “I am sorry to call you so late, but you may not have been notified that there has been a major disaster at the Canton base.”
“No, sir. I have not been informed.”
“The American submarine has had a serious nuclear accident and contaminated most of the dockyard. It was apparently a reactor meltdown. Privately, I think our scientists may not have been quite competent to work on it without willing American assistance, and that they ran it too hot or something. However, we must be aware that the ship may have been booby-trapped to blow itself to pieces if it ever fell into foreign hands.”
“We did question Lieutenant Commander Lucas about this, and he professed to know nothing of such a scheme,” replied Li.
“However,” said Zhang, “he is clearly a cowardly man who may be dishonest, and I think you should have him removed to the interrogation room again as soon as possible, tonight. Keep him awake. Try the wet towel again, hah? That way we may get a serious answer.…Thank you, Li. Let’s speak tomorrow early before the prisoners are moved.”
All three American submarines were now at periscope depth, making 8 knots through 150 feet of water, some 30 miles south of the assault beach. The depths on the fathometers steadily lessened. In all three boats, the attention of the commanding officers was fixed on the voices calling out the depth below the keel — the ever- increasing proximity of the soft sandy ocean floor as it sloped up to the mainland.
Minutes passed, and then…“Fifty-feet on the sounder.”
At 2250,
And so, in heavy rain and a light wind, the three Los Angeles-class boats came sliding out of the dark ocean into the hot, wet night air of the south China tropics. They pushed forward on the surface for another four miles, watching the ESM, checking that there was no shore-based radar along the desolate coastline, which there was not. And then they came almost to a halt, riding on an easy swell in 50 feet of water, four miles off the southern beaches of the island.
The SEALs were ready and began to climb out onto the deck, each one wearing heavy black camouflage cream on his face. Already on deck, members of the submarine crews were inflating the much bigger Zodiacs, priming the engines, checking the gas. Then, from the decks of
Each of the big rubber boats was now commanded by one of the SEALs who had reconnoitered the island. Lieutenant Commander Bennett was in the lead, followed by Lt. Dan Conway’s boat, then Buster Townsend, then John. Chief McCarthy would lead the four from
Eight SEALs traveled in each boat, which was a tight squeeze because they all had to bring equipment: machine guns, ladders, satchel bombs, det-cord, antitank launchers, grappling hooks, grenades, and a box of flares to light the place up once they’d gone noisy. In addition, there were small hand-held radios, already primed to connect with the bigger one that would be carried by Lt. Commander Rick Hunter’s personal bodyguard and would act as the command post for each of the marauding SEAL teams. In addition, there was the navigation kit, compasses, GPS systems, medical supplies, and light aluminum stretchers.
The engines kicked into life, the noise surprisingly quiet for such powerful engines. But the word from the sonar and radar rooms was excellent. There were no Chinese ships within 25 miles, save for the parked patrol boat on the jetty at Xiachuan.
And so they set off at a low growl, running fast at 20 knots, heading due north for the beach where Olaf and Catfish would signal them in. Rusty knew the light on the southern headland of Shangchuan Dao would be their guide, and he spotted it after eight minutes, a fast bright flash to starboard every five seconds. He checked his watch, and kept going, the other seven boats line astern. Six more minutes and he would signal to cut the speed, and he thanked God for the rain, which tended to deaden sound on the water.
At 23:45, they drifted silently to a halt and the SEALs took up the paddles, perching on the broad rubberized gunwhales of the Zodiacs and pulling long, quiet strokes through the water. No lights, no sound, guided only by the compass and the soft green glow of the numbers on Rusty Bennett’s GPS system.
At 23:55 Lieutenant Commander Bennett spotted his second bright light of the journey, right off their port bow, three quick flashes every 20 seconds, the agreed-upon signal…“
He muttered in the dark, “Starboard four, two strokes,” and he felt the boat swing to port. “All pull now…six strokes and wait…starboard side, two…portside, one…all pull again ten strokes and easy…”
And then he felt the boat moving on its own as Olaf and Catfish grabbed the bow handles expertly and hauled the Zodiac inshore, through the shallows and onto the beach. The SEALs jumped out and grabbed the handles, two men peeling off from each boat to assist the next one in.
Rusty, now assuming command on the landing beach, ordered two crewmen to remain with each boat, a total of 16 valuable SEALs. But the getaway beach was a mile to the north, up beyond the jetty, the closest possible water to the jail. And the moment the patrol boat blew, the eight Zodiacs had to be floated out and driven with all
