The Shark Mutiny (40 page)

061600JUN07. USS
Shark
. Bay of Bengal
.
15.53N 93.35E
.
Speed 15. Depth 100. Course 084
.

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.”

“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
.

At this point, he doubted whether he had heard the conversation correctly. He was dead sure of the Gregory name, but the more he pondered, the more he doubted the part about Captain Li Chin. Nonetheless, he had not felt much like making an embarrassing entry carrying the plans for the SEAL insertion, and he had tiptoed quietly away, back up to the control room. And there he had sat thoughtfully for at least 15 minutes, running over the conversation he had heard, and carefully committing it to his notebook, in the manner of a lifelong Naval officer, as if ensuring an accurate entry in the ship’s log.

Lieutenant Commander Headley doubted his ability to solve all of the puzzle. But he was determined to take a look around that cabin of Reid’s, and he waited until the CO came into the control room. After formally handing over the ship to the OOD, he said, “Oh, sir. Those insertion plans. I just had a couple of details to fill in…you’re busy now, but I’ll put ’em on the table in your cabin if you like…then you can take a look when you have a bit of time.”

“Thank you, XO. That will be fine.”

Dan Headley headed once more down to the CO’s room, and pushed open the door. The desk light was already on, and the little portrait of Admiral Pierre de Villeneuve stared out across the small room. Dan put the plans on the desk and kept a ballpoint pen in his hand in case he was disturbed. There was a small bookshelf to the left of the Captain’s chair, and Dan leaned over to inspect the half dozen volumes it contained.

There was a travelogue about the south of France, a biography of de Villeneuve, and an account of the Battle of the Chesapeake. A book called
The Stress of Battle and Trauma
stood next to the
Oxford Companion to Ships and the Sea
. There was also something called
Edgar Cayce on Reincarnation
, by Noel Langley. Dan picked this one up and glanced at the blank sheets inside
the jacket. In pencil there were the following words:
Another life, another battle, so many mistakes in
Bucentaure.
I must never repeat them now that I have another chance. June 1980. DKR
.

Dan Headley frowned. He could not risk hanging around for long. Quickly he skipped through the pages of the volume on reincarnation, and then pulled out the Oxford companion. On instinct he flicked through alphabetically to page 883, which gave an account of de Villeneuve’s highest/lowest moment: Trafalgar. And he ran his finger over the the French Fleet’s line of battle…
here it is
…“Bucentaure,
the flagship…struck its colors”…Fuck me! This crazy prick I work for thinks he’s the reincarnation of de Villeneuve, one of the worst battle commanders in Naval history
.

Dan Headley put the books back. He still had no clues to the identity of the mysterious Chinese Captain Li Chin. Nor indeed to “Gregory.” He glanced down to the writing pad on Commander Reid’s desk and could see only a small sketch of a submarine. Beside it was the name Lt. Commander Schaeffer. And through the name were two hard diagonal lines forming a cross, as if to eliminate the name of the late SEAL Team Leader.