Yuri stood at the water’s edge with Jeff Chang. They had the remote beach to themselves—no drunken teenagers to worry about this night.
The sea was calm, just tiny wavelets brushing the broad sandy beach. The three-quarter full moon hung over the distant horizon, abating the darkness. Both men perspired profusely. A breeze would have been welcome to mitigate the stagnant tepid heat.
Murphy and Halgren were chest deep in the water about eighty feet from shore, both geared up for the dive including rucksacks and weapons. Murphy dropped below the surface where he slipped fins onto Halgren’s rubber booties. It was a task impossible for the master chief to undertake himself; his injured arm useless. Murphy surfaced. He peered landward and raised his right hand with the thumb pointed down.
“There’s the signal,” Yuri whispered.
The SEALs submerged.
“I don’t know about this,” Chang offered. “Halgren’s going downhill fast.”
“He’s tough. He’ll make it.”
Yuri and Jeff turned around and headed upland.
* * * *
Murphy kept a close watch on his partner, using a portable dive light. Halgren appeared stable. They were inside the passenger compartment of the SEAL Delivery Vehicle. They had switched from their rebreathers to the SDV’s onboard compressed air system. Murphy wore a full face mask while Halgren used a standard scuba regulator. Wild Bill waved off Murphy when he tried to strap a full face mask on him.
Nearly an hour earlier the two men swam aboard the wet minisub. Driller and Runner had guided the Mark 11 close to shore to minimize Halgren’s swim.
“How’s he doing,” copilot Chief Dillon asked over the intercom.
“Good,” Murphy said. “Right, Bill?”
Halgren signaled he was okay with his working hand. The earphone in his dive hood piped in the cross talk. Lacking a full face mask, he could not speak.
“We’re fifteen minutes from rendezvousing with Colorado.”
“Roger that,” Murphy said.
Eight minutes away from the sub, Halgren struggled with the mouthpiece to his regulator.
Murphy shifted closer, unsure of what had happened. That’s when he noticed Halgren had spat out his mouthpiece. Murphy reached for one of the backup regulators plumbed to the Mark 11’s onboard air tank. He shoved the emergency breathing device toward his partner just as a torrent of white fluid erupted from Halgren’s mouth.
Oh shit!
After vomiting and involuntary inhaling seawater, Halgren convulsed. His body thrashed inside the confines of the passenger compartment.
“Bill’s in trouble,” Murphy shouted into his dive mask microphone. “Surface—SURFACE NOW!”
* * * *
The SDV bobbed on the moonlit sea.
“How’s Bill?” Runner asked over the intercom system. Senior Chief Aaron Baker piloted the Mark 11.
“He’s unconscious,” CPO Ryan Murphy reported from the passenger compartment. He held Wild Bill’s head above the water.
“Is he still breathing?” Runner asked.
“I think so but we’ve got to get him aboard the sub now or we’re going to lose him.”
“Don’s sending Colorado a sitrep right now.”
“Tell ’em to hustle. He doesn’t have much time left.”
* * * *
The Colorado emerged from the deep a hundred yards east of the Mark 11. The submarine was in a partial surfaced configuration with only five feet of freeboard between the top of the sail and the sea surface.
Within five minutes the SDV was twenty feet away from the sub. An inflatable rubber raft stored in an exterior sail locker was in the water next to the hull. After inflating Halgren’s horse collar buoyancy compensator, Murph extracted Wild Bill from the passenger compartment and towed him to the raft. Sailors manning the inflatable hauled the unconscious SEAL aboard.
Once inside the raft, another team inside the sail’s bridge cockpit assisted with the transfer of Halgren onto the Colorado’s bridge. Finally, he was lowered down the sail’s tunnel to the pressure casing and rushed to sickbay.
All total, it took eight minutes after surfacing for the Colorado to reclaim the injured SEAL. SSN 788 promptly submerged followed by the Mark 11 SDV with Murph aboard. It was eight minutes of exposure that Colorado’s captain dreaded.
* * * *
“Captain, the Mark 11 is secure in the shelter. All divers are locked-in.” Colorado’s executive officer reported from a compartment aft of the sail. Commander Jenae Mauk had remotely managed the retrieval operation of the SDV. Besides the SEALs, three sailors trained as divers from the Colorado assisted in returning the minisub to the dry deck shelter.
“What’s the status of our injured SEAL?”
“I’m on my way to sickbay now.”
“When you finish, I need you back here ASAP.”
“Understood, skipper.”
Commander Bowman returned the microphone to its receptacle by the control room workstation. He addressed the officer of the deck. “Proceed with the exit plan, Mr. Marshall.”
“Aye aye, Captain.” The lieutenant began issuing a series of commands to the pilot and copilot, following Bowman’s previously issued procedures to exit hostile waters.
While on the surface, Colorado was “painted” with a search radar emanating from the Yulin Naval Base. Only five nautical miles away, the newly installed radar unit was in direct response to the e-bomb attack. Bowman prayed that the operator manning the radar would interpret the reflection from the sail’s minimal above water exposure as nothing more than a fishing vessel.
But he couldn’t take that risk. Expecting a possible response, he cancelled the Mark 11’s return trip to shore and ordered its retrieval. It was time for Colorado to disappear.
“Captain, I’ve got high speed propellers.”
“From where?”
Petty Officer Anderson studied the sonar waterfall display on his console while listening with a set of Bose headphones. “Not sure yet. Appears to be a vessel coming out of the Yulin Naval Base.”
“Patrol craft?” Bowman said, now at Anderson’s side.
“Maybe, it’s noisy. Sounds like twin diesels. It could be—no, wait, I’ve got another one. Similar signature. This one’s coming from Shendao.”
Bowman barked new orders, “Officer of the deck, full ahead on current course. Make turns for thirty knots. Do not cavitate.”
The OOD repeated the order and Colorado began speeding ahead.