The Shark Mutiny

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.”

“When’s high tide?” asked Dallas MacPherson.

“Right here on your chart,” said Shawn. “I’ve marked it zero-three-three-zero. The water should still be rising when you get to the water’s edge. That’s if your timing stays the same. You make your shore landing before midnight, after the warship operation. Then you have a three-hour shore mission, and a half hour to reach the embarkation point at zero-three-three-zero. That’s correct, isn’t it?”

“If there’s a real chance of that fucking steam well going up,” said Dallas, “I’m likely to break the Burmese all-comers record down to that swamp. I’ll probably be there at about zero-three-zero-one.”

All the SEAL meetings were like this, informal but completely relevant in every aspect. Each man was free to offer any opinion, or ask any question. Then, when the mission was under way, every man knew not only what he was going to do; he knew precisely what everyone else was going to do as well.

Commander Reid had allocated a section of the submarine for the SEAL team to meet and it turned into a kind of locker room, a place where the leader lectured the guys, pored over the charts, discussed the mission, perfected the split-second timing that would spell success or failure.

For the first two days of the journey from Diego Garcia, the problems were academic, but as the voyage wore on, there was a strange, underlying tension right below the surface. Everyone could feel it, particularly Lt. Commander Dan Headley and his old buddy Commander Rick Hunter.

And everyone knew it all traced back to the night of May 16, out in the Strait of Hormuz when Shark’s commanding officer had refused permission for the ship to move in toward the ASDV and evacuate the SEAL team, with their dead leader and dying explosives expert. And then Charlie Mitchell had died before he could receive help, and every single member of the big group from Coronado believed that Commander Reid had personally signed the young SEAL’s death warrant. Commander Rusty Bennett, mission chief of the team that went into Iran, was extremely angry and felt that the entire tragic incident should be taken to the highest possible authority.

He and Commander Hunter had spent much time on it when Assault Team One finally returned to DG. And Lt. Commander Headley was more worried than either of them, because he had made the decision to save the SEALs at all cost and been overruled by his own CO. Dan Headley was unused to being overruled. Indeed he had been informed that his appointment as Executive Officer on the Sturgeon-class ship was because of an unspoken concern about the mind-set of the Captain.

Both the SEAL leaders and the XO felt they could not count on the CO to make the right decision if the combat troops came under serious threat. It was always possible that a fast unorthodox rescue might be required, and no one believed they would receive the correct degree of support from the Captain.

Reid had delegated all details of the insertion to Lieutenant Commander Headley, cautioning him only about hazarding the submarine. Any deviation from the strict, agreed orders of position and timing would almost certainly be met by a rigid adherence to the rules by the CO. The XO had seen it, and he was extremely concerned. Rick Hunter, briefed by Rusty Bennett before he left by air for Coronado, was making a conscious effort not to let it play on his mind.

“Danny,” he said, “I’m trying to get my mind straight. I’m trying to lead these guys in to accomplish an unbelievably difficult objective. I cannot allow the possible conduct of this nutcase CO to occupy my thoughts. It’ll get in the way of the real stuff. I just haven’t the time.”

But then, two nights previously, an incident had taken place that had truly unnerved Dan Headley, and the only colleague he had confided in was Rick Hunter.

It had started a half hour before the Captain’s normal appearance in the control room around 2000. He had asked the XO to come to his office/cabin to confirm their ETA at the rendezvous point off Burma. Entering the room, Dan had been quite startled to find it lit by just a single candle, in a holder on the table.

“Hello, sir,” he had said cheerfully. “Bit dark in here, isn’t it?”

The Captain’s reply had been, in Dan’s view, pretty weird. “XO,” he had said, “sometimes I feel the need for some spiritual guidance. And I am usually able to find it in communication with a fellow traveler.”

Dan Headley had looked quizzical. But the CO had not wanted to elaborate, and the number-two officer on USS Shark did not feel like pressing the matter further. He returned to the control room and gathered up his partially completed plans for the insertion, and decided to take them down for Commander Reid to peruse for a few minutes before moving up for his watch.

But when he arrived outside the CO’s room, the door had been slightly open, and he could not help but hear the voice of the ship’s boss talking inside to someone. But the stilted quality of the language was most unusual.

“Gregory, I am trying to reach you again. I feel you very close but someone stands between us…I think an American officer…please tell him to go, Gregory. Then we can communicate as we did before… Captain Li Chin…I believe we must talk before I am forced to follow you…wheverever that may lead…”

Dan Headley did not know who was in the room with Commander Reid, and he was not absolutely certain of the words he had heard. He was pretty sure about Gregory, but there was no Gregory aboard Shark as far as he knew, and if there had been, he would have been called Greg. Forget Gregory.

Still, maybe he was just on the line to someone. God knows who. But Captain Li Chin. What the hell was all that about? Li Chin, thought Dan Headley. That’s a fucking Chinaman! For a brief moment he actually wondered if the CO of Shark was some kind of a spy, maybe in touch with an agent. But then he thought, Steady, Dan, he can’t be a spy. He’s been a career Naval officer for thirty years, commanding nuclear submarines for ten. He’s an oddball, no doubt about that. But he can’t be a spy.