When he straightened, Kagawa was staring at him, open-mouthed.
“It was not my intention to embarrass you in front of the Russian, Captain,” said Castillo gently. “I just wanted to create a pretext for us to have a word alone — something Zhakov would accept. I needed to make you angry. But I meant no offense and I am sorry.”
Kagawa blinked, shook his head. “What did you want?” he asked coldly.
Castillo turned away from the Japanese officer and watched ribbons of foam curl away from the destroyer’s hull as she cut through the sea, felt the cold breeze kiss his face. He was thinking of the desperate whisper of Volkov’s voice over the growler. He was thinking of what it felt like when George Fuentes died.
“We can’t let Zhakov’s pride kill these men.”
Kagawa leaned forward against the railing. “My orders are explicit. I am to offer assistance, but follow Russian lead.”
Castillo nodded. “Me, too.”
For a moment, both men stared out at the sea.
“They sent an admiral in a helicopter,” said Castillo.
“Hai.”
Castillo turned to look at his Japanese counterpart. “No, I mean until Keet arrives they have no assets here.”
Kagawa shook his head. “I am not certain¼”
“When Chihaya arrives, she launches her DSRV. Pasadena establishes communication with the Victor. If Volkov reports a worsening situation we commence rescue operations.”
“It is dangerous idea.”
“We’ll be in extremis, reacting to an emergency situation — and reacting at the request of a Russian officer.”
Kagawa frowned. “What about your orders?”
“My chain of command gives me discretion to interpret my orders. As long as I succeed there will be no complaints.”
“And if you fail?”
Castillo chuckled. “Then CINCPACFLT will hang me from the highest yardarm he can find.”
Kagawa shook his head.
“Look, it just means I’ll have to make sure we don’t fail. This is how we’ll do it. Your DSRV moves from the Victor to Pasadena, transferring rescued Russian sailors. It’ll go fast, Sakutaro, because I’ll hover Pasadena a few hundred yards from the Russian boat. And we’re only talking four trips, five max.”
“Zhakov will be furious.”
Castillo shook his head. “So what? Listen, we’ll present him with a fait accompli. What is the Russian navy going to do when Pasadena surfaces with the Victor’s rescued crew — complain?”
“And you are hero, Captain.” Kagawa snatched the envelope away from Castillo, crumpled it up, and tossed it into the sea. “Again.”
“It is true that American submarine commanders aren’t known for their modesty.”
Kagawa snorted.
“But if this works the JMSDF can claim all the credit. Say Pasadena played a supporting role — hell, don’t say anything about us at all. I. Don’t. Care. All that matters to me is pulling those men off the bottom.”
Kagawa turned to stare out the deep, blue water.
He’s not buying it. And he had to. The Japanese had the DSRV. Without them there would be no rescue. Somehow Castillo had to sell him. “Look, if we do this, the last thing we have to worry about is Zhakov. Remember the outrage among the Russian public over the Kursk? No one in the Russian government will dare say anything against us if we bring those men out.”
“And if something goes wrong?”
Castillo sucked in a heavy breath. It was a good question — a damned good question. Because the chance of failure, of disaster, were real. Time and the ocean’s horrible crushing pressure were working against them. It wasn’t hard to imagine a scenario in which the Daniil Moskovskiy was lost, or the Japanese DSRV, or even the Pasadena. What if the DSRV’s pressure skirt failed while Pasadena had her logistic and escape trunk open? The black ocean would come pouring in and there’d be nothing to do to stop it.
(Two minutes.)
Or what if the Americans and the Japanese took charge of the rescue and the Russian sailors were already dead — killed by hypothermia or hypoxia or progressive flooding. Castillo would surely take the blame whether or not it was his fault.
The safest thing, the smartest thing to do was to hold back and let the Russians take care of their own.
Castillo reached over and touched Kagawa’s shoulder. “I cannot lie to you Sakutaro. If something goes wrong, and we both know it might—” He shook his head. “Well, I guess both our careers would be torched.”
Kagawa stared at him with inscrutable black eyes.
“But, here’s the thing. I’m willing to take that risk. Because¼” Castillo shook his head. “Because I just can’t let those men die. Not if there’s something I could do. Can you?”
Kagawa stared at him for a long moment, his face giving away nothing. Finally he said, “If you can get submarine captain please to request our help. Then maybe, maybe your idea work.”
“Arigato,” Castillo whispered. “Domo arigato.”
A cold chuckle slipped out of Kagawa. “Please do not say thank you yet, Castillo-san. Before this is over you may find that arigato is not the right word at all.”
Castillo reached up into the pipes crisscrossing the overhead and grabbed an EAB manifold, anchoring himself against Pasadena’s five-degree down bubble. Pain rippled across his shoulders the product of tension and fatigue poisons. He looked over the helmsman’s shoulder, watching red LED numbers on the depth display drift up and hit “700.”
“Passing seven hundred feet,” said the kid on the bow planes.
“Very well, helm,” said Glazer.
As the numbers worked their way higher, Castillo felt the tension coiled in his belly slowly work itself free.
Submarines were not designed to ride the surface. Even a mild sea was enough to cause a 688-boat to bob like an empty tin can cast into the ocean. While Pasadena had been surfaced, a quarter of Castillo’s crew had been busy turning green and heaving their guts out in the head. But it wasn’t only the smoother ride that made him happy he’d submerged his submarine.
Beneath the waves his boat was a sleek and silent shark, a cold and deadly predator ready to deal death.
On the surface she was just a target like everyone else.
He had witnessed another submarine sink, so it should have made him reluctant to dive his boat. But it hadn’t. The stress and worry over the Russian sailors’ fate made Castillo yearn safety. And for his submarine, safety could only be found beneath the sea.
“Passing eight hundred feet.”
“Very well, helm.”
Castillo caught Glazer’s eyes and stepped over to the DRT plot, joining Trent. “Let’s talk about the picture,” he murmured.
Glazer pointed at a pair of pencil tracks. “Closest contacts are a pair of Osa-class patrol boats. They must have been cruising the coast when the Victor went down, only way they could have come up on us so fast. They’re nasty little missile boats — but they don’t have much of an ASW capability. Shouldn’t be a threat to us.”