There was a long silence.
“Then there is only one thing you can do for me.”
“Name it,” said Castillo fiercely.
“Tell my countrymen, that my men served the motherland right up until the end.”
“Wait, Martyn, wait. Please, let me send the Japanese DSRV for you, it’s not too late, if only you’d—”
His entreaty was interrupted by the harsh pinging of active sonar, lashing his hull, ringing Pasadena like a bell.
“Con, sonar,” blared the bulkhead-mounted speaker. “Contact close aboard at three five oh.”
Close aboard at three five oh. Right above the Victor.
“Where the hell did they come from?” Trent shouted.
“Diesel boat, a Kilo or a Tango.” Castillo snapped. “Has to be. Nothing else would be quiet enough to sneak up on us.”
He stepped out of Main Control and shouldered his way into Sonar. “What the hell just happened, Watch Supervisor?”
The thin kid from west Texas looked up at him, agony scrawled across his face. “I’m sorry, skipper, but she’s not moving. She didn’t sneak up on us—she was already there.” The words were pouring out of Busfield like beer out of a smashed bottle. “I got no screws and no reactor pumps. Must be a diesel boat running on battery. She’s doing a damn good imitation of a hole in the water.” Busfield was sweating. Castillo had never seen that before.
“What can you tell me?”
Busfield shook his head. “Without a yankee search, I can’t give you range.”
Castillo shook his head. “I’m not worried about range. I’m guessing she’s near the Victor. I’m more worried about what she is and what her intentions—”
Glazer’s voice over the 1MC speaker cut him off: “Captain to Control.”
Castillo turned and scrambled down the p-way, stepping into Control. He didn’t have to ask.
Trent was on the growler. “Wait one,” he said into the mouthpiece and passed the handset on to Castillo. “New boat, Captain.”
Castillo counted to five before he put the handset up to his face. He was conducting rescue ops and these son of a bitches had just lit him up. At the end of his count he said, “This is Pasadena actual, over.” He’d managed to scrub most of his anger out of his voice.
“Pasadena, this is Russian submarine. You are in violation of Russian territorial waters. I instruct you to immediately withdraw and surface.”
Fury ran through Castillo’s body like an electric current. “Russian submarine, we are conducting rescue operations in accordance with maritime—”
“You are instructed to withdraw. We will not warn again. Russian submarine, out.”
Pain lanced through Castillo’s jaw. He deliberately unclenched his mouth, but he could still feel the tightness in his neck and across his neck, feel his heart throbbing in his chest.
And then a frightened voice emerged from the 1MC speaker. “Transients,” said Busfield. “She’s flooding tubes.”
Castillo’s jaw sagged open and he actually looked up at the speaker for clarification. That couldn’t be right, could it? The other Russian boat out there wasn’t going to fire on an American boat in the middle of a rescue operation.
Were the Russians really crazy enough to start a war over who was going to rescue the men in the Victor?
Castillo had a lot of room in his orders — but not enough for this. For a moment he closed his eyes and cursed under his breath. Then he opened them. “Helmsman,” Castillo barked, “all ahead one-third. Left full rudder, come to new course one eight zero.”
He was dimly aware that the sailor was giving him the standard repeat-back, but Castillo didn’t really hear him. “Very well,” he said mechanically.
Slowly at first, but then gathering momentum as her main engines came up to match ordered speed, Pasadena turned her tail towards her enemy. At his order, Castillo’s submarine fled.
“We’ve cleared international waters,” said QM3.
“Officer of the Deck, surface the ship,” said Castillo.
“Surface the ship, aye, aye, Captain,” said Glazer crisply.
I have abandoned my trapped brothers, thought Castillo. His mouth tasted dirty, foul. Inside his chest he felt wrong.
It felt just like it had when he’d held George Fuentes as he died.
Castillo could see the Russian vessel Keet from Kirishima’s fantail. He was told that Keet was the Russian word for whale — and the colossal ship certainly fit her name. She road calmly in the blue sea, not even seeming to rock. As he watched a white crane boom swung out from the ship’s port side and sailors in a ship’s boat began hooking the crane’s block and tackle to the DSRV’s hard points.
So they were recovering the rescue vehicle. No more men would be coming up off the bottom. The last count Castillo had heard was 54 survivors.
Out of a crew of 98.
Forty-four officers and men would not be returning to their families. Castillo couldn’t help thinking that if he’d found a way to conduct rescue ops eight hours earlier, maybe some of those 44 men would have survived.
No matter how much Coke he drank or how much he brushed his teeth, he just couldn’t seem to get the bitter taste out of his mouth.
“Commander,” said a sharp voice from behind him.
Castillo turned and saw Admiral Nikolai Zhakov standing there, flanked by Kagawa. The three men were alone — apparently Kagawa had repositioned his aft lookout. There was no sound save for the Rising Sun flapping in the light, cool breeze.
“Captain Castillo,” said Kagawa, bowing, “please accept the hospitality of my stateroom.”
Zhakov stabbed a meaty finger at Castillo. “You violated Russian waters yesterday. You broke international law — and your word to me.”
“Or we could discuss here,” said Kagawa sourly.
“I acted properly under maritime law to aid a ship in distress,” said Castillo evenly. “I was unable to communicate with Daniil Moskovskiy from outside your territorial waters, so I moved closer. There is no international incident here.”
Zhakov snorted. “You Americans are all cowboys.” He cast an angry glance at Kagawa. “And your Japanese puppets aren’t—”
“That’s enough,” Castillo snarled. “Throughout this entire incident Captain Kagawa and the Japanese Maritime Self-Defense Force have acted properly. And as for the United States Navy—”
Castillo reached into the pocket of his khakis and pulled out the message he’d received from CINCPACFLT, handed it to the Russian. “Read paragraph three.”
Zhakov glanced down and then looked up again. “Proves nothing.”
Castillo snatched the paper from the admiral and shoved it back in his pocket. “I alone made the decision to encroach upon Russian waters. I was out of communication with both Kirishima and my chain of command, so I was forced to rely upon on my own judgment.”
Zhakov snorted again. “Your judgment.”
“That’s right, my judgment. If you push this, you’ll find that I entered the entire incident in my deck log and that I took individual responsibility. You can try and hang me if you want, Admiral, but rest assured, you won’t be able to force anyone else to march to the gallows.”