THE second day aboard the sub, in the cramped enlisted mess. Teddy was always taken aback by how tight it was. Every cubic foot was crammed with equipment, leaving only narrow vertical slots through which bodies could fit. The overhead was low, and there were only two dining tables, with bench seats; you had to pull your elbows in tight to your sides. You couldn’t complain about the chow, though. He was digging in when Lieutenant Harch stopped to murmur, “How’s the omelets, Master Chief?”
“Um, okay, sir.” Teddy was reserved with Harch. The heavily mustached, dark-complected platoon commander was ex-enlisted. Good in one way, not so great in another. You didn’t have to explain certain things, but he wasn’t as ready to defer to his senior enlisted’s advice. As to what kind of a leader he’d be when the chips were down … who the fuck knew.
“Bunkin’ okay?”
“Tight, but we’ll make it work. How is it up in officers’ country?”
“Sweet. Especially the massage girls.” Harch flashed a grin. “Let’s pull the troops together after breakfast, Mast’ Chief. 0830.”
“Um, got it. Where?”
“XO said here is okay. Let ’em clean up, wipe down the tables. Then filter back in. Set us up for that big-screen TV.”
Harch left and Teddy exchanged glances with Knobby Swager. Maybe they’d find out where they were going. “At long damn last,” the first class muttered.
He passed the word along to Moogie, the other team leader—Swager was Team One, Moogie Team Two—and by 0820 everyone was mustered. He looked carefully at each man as they sat or leaned about. The platoon was embarked on two subs, as planned, but something had happened to the diver delivery vehicles en route. What, exactly, they had no need to know, apparently; but the DDVs were out of the picture for the operation.
Which would make it hairier. His guys were about as physically fit as a human body could get, but with all the gear they were towing and wearing, a five-mile swim was the absolute most you could expect and still leave them in shape to fight. The scooters would help, but they were range-limited too. The subs would have to crowd the beach. Which meant they’d be in shallow water, more vulnerable.…
And they had just fifteen operators, divided into two crews. There was a command and control element aboard the battle group flagship. Commander Laughland, Teddy presumed, had briefed the best course of action to the group commander. He’d also have a quick-reaction force on a short leash, in case things went south.
True, one SEAL platoon wasn’t that many men. But they weren’t trying to occupy the island, just get in and out undetected. In action, an enemy often took a SEAL detachment for a much larger force anyway. They trained for superior firepower and extreme violence of action. Usually, that obscured their reliance on organic assets—what they carried in with them. They weren’t the Army, with heavy artillery and unlimited logistics.
Teddy sighed and looked them over again. Echo Platoon, but not the old Echo. Only a few left from the White Mountains. Knobby Swager, yeah, and Moogie, and Mud Cat, his old 249 gunner. The rest were new. Swaggering young dicks, full of napalm and testosterone. But most seemed to have their shit wired. Any who hadn’t, he’d bottom-blown before they deployed.
Seemed like not that many years ago he’d been one of them. Now he was the master chief. Supposed to teach them. Look out for them. Be an example.
That was a fucking laugh.
He was talking to Mud Cat, who was massaging his hand—he’d taken a bullet through his palm on the same godforsaken mountain Teddy had fallen down—when Harch charged in. “Attention on deck!” Teddy yelled, and those who weren’t on their feet bolted up.
The lieutenant waved them down and handed Teddy a USB stick. “Seats, everyone. Jeezus! Okay, we got the PLO. Critical time frame, critical mission. We need to get in and take action.”
Building on the warning order, the Patrol Leader’s Order detailed both the mission and each team member’s individual responsibilities. SEALs operated differently from more conventional units. In a way, Teddy thought, they were more like the Raiders had been, or at least the way Carlson had envisioned them. You told them what you wanted done, but not how to do it.
Harch stroked his mustache. “Time to let everybody in on where we’re going. Not that I didn’t want to before. One cell phone intercept, we can forget surprise. Everyone ready for a hairy-ass, balls-to-the-wall direct-action mission?”
When the hoo-ahs and whistles died down he said, “All right. Lights, please.” Swager handed him the remote for the screen, and the first slide came up. The legend OPERATION WATCHTOWER was superimposed on a chart of the South China Sea.
“Within days, combined U.S. and Vietnamese forces will land on the Chinese-held Spratly Islands, east of Vietnam. To cover them, act as a diversion, and prepare for the next step in an island-hopping campaign to the mainland coast, we will raid this objective.”
An overhead shot, blue and white and green: a reef-fringed island, shaped like an off-center valentine. The tan oblong of an airstrip slanted across its eastern coast, jutting into reef at both ends. Squared-off jetties surrounded artificial boat basins. Someone had devoted years and millions of dollars into turning a few acres of scrub and shoal into a major military base.
Harch said, “Yongxing Island, also known as Woody Island. Roughly a mile by a mile. Population counts differ, but there’s probably around fourteen hundred civilians, originally fishermen, servicing the military presence in one way or another. Military personnel: originally around three hundred, but since the start of the war, we expect they’ve been reinforced—probably an assault-slash-defense battalion of the 164th Marine Brigade. There’s one runway, long enough to service the Sukhoi Su-30 multirole strike fighter. They’ve been observed operating here, but it’s not clear whether they’re permanently deployed. There’s also a small naval base and refueling pier.
“Our object of interest, though, is this smaller island”—the image zoomed in, and the men around the room stirred and coughed—“north of Woody. The old charts call it Rocky Island, but we’re not sure of the Chinese name. It was recently connected to the main island by a concrete causeway.
“Formerly uninhabited, Rocky’s been sealed off and turned into a signal and intelligence monitoring center. Note the antennas in this slant photo, and, near the edge, the tallest, the vertical ones. High-frequency monitoring arrays, for gathering radar and radio intel.
“From here, they can reach out a thousand miles in every direction, covering most of the South China Sea. Note also the dome-shaped, Quonset-type buildings. A common PLA prefab design, for barracks and other military functions.”
Harch turned away to cough. “From these overheads, plus traffic analysis, Intel estimates the watchstanders and garrison numbers at at least two hundred, mostly sigint specialists. With both radar and elint capabilities, this is the enemy’s main listening post on their south coast. Making it difficult, if not impossible, for any allied force to approach without being subject to detection, tracking, and air attack from fighters based at the strip.”
Teddy raised a hand. “Master Chief,” Harch said, not very eagerly.
“Sir, these antennas, plus the Quonsets—looks like they’re spread out pretty far. How long is this island? The small one.”
“About a quarter mile, Master Chief.”
Teddy didn’t like it. Over a thousand effectives, and the Chinese 164th Marines were an elite unit, trained in both assaulting and defending islands. But even assuming the SEALs could elude them, how were fifteen guys going to destroy all these structures, antennas, processing stations? They’d have to spend a full day just placing explosives. The garrison wouldn’t think highly of that.
But the platoon commander had resumed. “We think these huts, here, and here, are where monitoring and processing take place. DIA suspects the data’s transmitted direct to Beijing, via a submarine cable between Yongxing and the mainland.”
Harch gave them a few seconds to contemplate the image. Despite his skepticism, Teddy found himself setting up a strategy. Land half the team on the causeway, with machine guns and light antitank capabilities. Once they lit up the night, both as a blocking force and a diversion, the rest of the platoon would insert over the northern beach, which looked like a steep gradient. They should be on top of the antennas and buildings in short order.
But seven hundred marines on the main island, three hundred more on Rocky itself … beside him Swager twisted his mouth, apparently coming to the same conclusion. “Not enough guys, not enough time,” he muttered.
“No shit. Not with all those fucking antennas. Y’ever try to knock down an antenna?”
“It ain’t easy.”
“Excuse me, Master Chief,” Harch said. “Did you have something to contribute?”
“Just eager to hear the plan, sir,” Teddy said. “But I gotta say, I’m concerned about the force balance.”
“Uh-huh. Well, I briefed three concepts of operation to the ops-o, then Commander L. Then the sub’s CO … but he’s not a happy camper about how close in we’re asking him to go. He thought we’d be thirty miles out, riding the buses in … but here’s the plan.”
Harch stroked his mustache, talking to the screen. “We swim in submerged. I considered the rafts, but there’s probably tactical radar protecting such a high-value target. As we proceed to target, a combined Tomahawk and standoff weapons strike will hit the airfield and the naval facility. Another salvo of precision-guided munitions will hit the repair shops and fuel bunkers.
“All in all, they’ll lay down thirty tons of ordnance. Ten minutes later, we hit the beach at two points. Timing will be critical.”
“No fucking shit,” Swager muttered, elbowing Oberg.
The next slide showed two points of entry. Pretty much as Teddy’d already figured, one was at the causeway, the other at Rocky’s northern beach.
Teddy leaned back, fingering his chin. Thinking again of Makin Atoll. You had only two choices in assaulting a beach. Pick hydrography with a shallow gradient … like Tarawa, where the enemy, if he was sighted in, could cut you to pieces as you waded ashore. Or a steep gradient, where the surf could tear you up almost as bad. Carlson’s guys had come in over the open beach, and lost most of their weapons and gear in the surf.
Why not just chute in, do a HALO drop? But no, the radars made that impossible. No drop plane would get within a hundred miles before the Sukhois were on it.
Harch said, “Okay, we drilled with the Packages. I had one guy”—he glanced at Teddy—“ask me if they were radioactive. Well, they’re not. And they’re not bombs, either. If we had to just take out a sigint station, there are easier ways to do it than send us in.” He gave it a beat, then said, “The Packages are EMP devices. They contain explosives, yeah, but the purpose isn’t blast or fragmentation. They produce a super-powerful electromagnetic pulse. Enough to fry every radar and computer in a thousand-yard radius.”
Harch edged past the table to the screen and pointed. “The first team, Echo One, lands here and moves out to the causeway. They set up a blocking position, isolating the island. The movement team, Echo Two, lands fifteen minutes later. Exiting the beach, they head for the center of the island via this forested corridor.” He circled a dark area on the slide. “It’s mixed scrub, dune, and marsh; note what looks like a sewage pond to the northwest. Covert, in the dark, we should be able to traverse it without detection. At the centroid of the island, we emplace the Packages, on top of separate sand hills. The elevation will increase the effective radius of the pulse. Hit the timers, then link up.”
The lieutenant pointed to Swager, who turned the screen off. “Give me the stick back. Okay, that’s the plan. Maximum diversion. Minimum exposure. A lot of enemy, yeah, but if we do it right, nobody’ll notice us. They’ll be watching the fireworks down by the harbor. Both teams leapfrog back and retract from the north beach. Drägers and scooters. If we get contact, hose ’em down and withdraw. We’ll have the F470s standing by, in case we need to take off wounded.” The F470s were rigid-hulled inflatables, with inflation tanks and submersible outboards.
Teddy couldn’t help shaking his head. Only slightly, but Harch caught it and frowned. “Obie? Are we not happy?”
“I’d rather not say, sir.”
“Go ahead, Master Chief. If you have a better plan, I’m all ears.”
Teddy considered not saying anything. Then thought: Fuck that. “Well, sir, this might work against untrained troops. Militia. Draftees. But the first thing a sharp security force will do is look in the opposite direction from the first assault. Bomb the south coast, they’ll look north. I’ll also goddamn betcha that overhead doesn’t show mines, wire, and listening devices on that northern beach, considering how golden an asset this is supposed to be.”
He gave it a beat, then added, “Sir.”
Harch’s face hardened. “We discussed that at length, when we were going through the COAs. The first ordnance laid down on the south island will take out the marine barracks. In the middle of the night, that will cut down the number of effectives. The blocking force on the causeway will confine the remainder to the main island. Team Two should have a clear run.”
Teddy found himself on his feet. He nodded toward the screen. “Granted, the strike will take out some of them, but how about the rest? They can flank the causeway. It looks shallow in there. Are we going in at low tide? Do they actually need the causeway? Are there boats?”
Swager nudged him. Mud Cat was shaking his head too. What the fuck? But he wasn’t done. “And, what about our QRF? It’s gonna be, what, two hundred miles away? And how’s E&E going to work, on an atoll that small? It just seems like—”
Harch held up a palm. “All we have to do is block, insert, and activate. A good mission doesn’t make a ripple. If there should be trouble with elements on the north island, we cause maximum damage and extract. You’re right, there’s not much escape and evasion possible on an island that size. We’ll have a Predator on call, and RHIBs holding five miles offshore. If we have wounded, need boats, the backup team inflates ’em, starts the motors, and runs in to the beach. Better?”
Teddy understood he’d been dismissed. He started to protest, then caught the glares of the younger men. Was he getting antsy? They were fucking SEALs, after all. The force ratios would always be against them. The QRFs were always going to be remote, the E&E plan hinky. What was the SEAL Creed … I voluntarily accept the inherent hazards of my profession.
“Any other questions, comments? All right then.” Harch nodded curtly. “Dismissed.”
“Attention on deck,” Swager yelled. The men got to their feet again. Teddy turned away, headed back for the chief’s quarters, where he was hot-bunked with a machinist’s mate.
But Harch turned back, at the door. “Master Chief?”
Teddy wheeled round. “Sir?”
Harch jerked his head. “My stateroom. Now.”
* * *
THE junior officer staterooms were the size of porta-potties. When Harch slammed the door and pointed to a bunk, Teddy had a moment of claustrophobia. The lieutenant took the single chair. Air-conditioning whooshed from a diffuser. Something whined on the far side of the bulkhead, stopped, whined again. “We got a problem, Master Chief?” the lieutenant opened. “You need to torque your shit together. Especially in front of the team.”
Teddy grinned. “My shit’s torqued tight, L-T. No problems on my end.”
“You got a great record, Obie. A top-drawer operator. But sometimes I feel this pushback. Like maybe you resent I made it, and you didn’t.”
Actually, they’d offered him a commission after the White Mountains, but Teddy had turned it down. He decided to play it conciliatory. “Sorry if I give that impression, sir. I just want to make sure we’re not sticking our dicks in any blenders. Which it sounds like we’re getting ready to do.”
“Well … maybe.” Harch stared at his desk safe for a second, then coughed into his fist. “This is my first mission as a zero. Maybe I should confide in you more. And, I guess, you need to know this. In case I take a hit, or whatever … But nobody else does. Hoo-ah?”
“Hoo-ah, sir.” Teddy sat straighter.
“What I just briefed is not the actual mission.”
What the hell? “Not the actual mission, sir?”
Harch spun the dial. He unlocked the safe and took out an op plan.
Teddy looked it over. Destroying the sigint site was only the secondary objective. The primary … He looked up, frowning. “Want to give me the short squirt, sir? Or am I supposed to read this encyclopedia?”
“In words of one syllable, the true objective of Operation Watchtower is to plant an intel asset. Taking the site off-line temporarily is nice, it provides diversion for an invasion elsewhere, but more important, it gives us the excuse to get in and plant something for another government agency.”
Teddy said, “I’m not sure I follow. Lieutenant.”
“Think about it this way. Gear’s easy to replace. Radars. Signal processors. Basically, computers and software. We could fry everything on the island and they’d be back online in a week.
“But if the mission looks like it’s for something else, even if it seems like a failure, it can still accomplish the primary objective.”
“So the Package isn’t an EMP, uh, device? Like you said?”
“It is an EMP device,” Harch said. “But it isn’t going to work.”
Teddy blinked. “Isn’t going to—”
“Work.”
Suddenly the already too-small room shrank even more. He half rose, wishing there was just a little more air. “We’re putting the Team, all our guys, at risk for a dud?”
Harch waved him down. “Not a ‘dud,’ Master Chief. The first package will detonate. Sort of. Scatter pieces around. About the same order explosion as a mortar round. But the pulse will short-circuit. They put the fragments back together, they’ll get an EMP bomb, all right. But an American round-eye foreign-devil fuckup.
“They’ll snort and go back to operating. But now we’re looking over their shoulder. We have our own eavesdropping capability, on their eavesdropping capability. They operate, but we see every keystroke. Know everything they know. Read their traffic. Messages. Data. Voice. Even video. See exactly what they see, on their radars. Total access, like we’re inside their heads.”
Teddy sat back, turning it over, trying to shake the feeling of being boxed in. “So where is this gizmo? Oh. That’s Package number two.”
“Correct. It’s not a backup; it’s the eavesdropping device. They call it a QM-10, for whatever that’s worth. Picks up anything, and I mean anything, on a radio frequency. We dig that in, and it self-activates. Transmits via a secure, highly directional uplink called ‘ultrawideband.’ Impossible to overhear. Or so they tell me.”
Teddy rubbed his face. Swager might understand all this better, having been an electron pusher in a previous life. Pick up all this digital stuff, then send it someplace where they could study it, decode it, turn it into useful intel? Some arcane, supersecret CIA technology. Wouldn’t it be simpler just to bomb the shit out of everything, then send in the Marines? But somebody upstairs had decided this was smarter. It was sure as hell more complicated. “Can I share this with my Team leaders?”
Harch grimaced. “No! Pass this to no one, Master Chief. I wouldn’t have told you, except I had to. For the mission.”
Mission first, last, and always. The Team credo. But none of this lessened his misgivings. If anything, they made them worse. He saw now why command wasn’t obsessing about extract, or force ratios, or whether the QRF could get in fast enough to rescue the platoon. Total access to the enemy’s secrets, day in and day out? Yeah. That was worth fifteen lives. As long as they planted this gizmo, maybe it didn’t really matter, to whoever had designed the mission, if any of them made it out.
“Any more questions, Master Chief?” Harch said as Teddy stood. “Hoo-ah, right?”
But all he could do was shrug.