The Americans followed for six miles, keeping way out until the Kilo stopped snorkeling…and settled into a lazy patrolling pattern at around three knots, as if on a racetrack.
“She seems to be just waiting, sir,” said Lieutenant Ramsden.
“If she is, she’s waiting for the same thing we are,” said Boomer. “Let’s face it, the departure of the Hai Lung from Taiwan is just about public. We all knew that. The eleven-week cycle, before she returns home, is also pretty public. If we know, without even trying much, she’s due in Kerguelen sometime around November 18, tomorrow — then I guess the Chinese know the same thing. And their view of the situation is more urgent than ours — if Taiwan is going to throw a nuclear weapon at someone, it’s gonna be them, not us.”
“You mean, sir,” said Lieutenant Ramsden thoughtfully, “that the Kilo is waiting to follow the Hai Lung inshore, just like we are.”
“That’s my reading,” replied the CO. “How about you, Jerry? Mike?”
“You got my vote,” replied the sonar boss.
“And mine,” added the XO.
“Just make sure that whale dick keeps working,” said Boomer. “Don’t wanna lose ’em. Don’t wanna get caught either.”
The Kilo continued on her pattern, back and forth all day. Lieutenant Commander Curran occasionally pinged them, with various deep-ocean sounds, which were recognized as fish by the Chinese sonar operator. All the while, Boomer Dunning’s team kept an iron grip on the precise whereabouts of the Russian-built boat. The nature of the slow-motion chase meant Columbia must avoid passive detection by the Kilo yet give herself the best chance of catching the approaching Taiwanese submarine. Jerry Curran’s crafty kit was yet another of his trump cards.
Just as the daylight began to fade, Bobby Ramsden called urgently from the main screen. It was 2148.
“Conn…sonar…I have something on the towed array, sir…just a faint mark on the trace.”
For the second time in less than twenty-four hours Columbia swung around allowing the towed array to reveal if the rise in level was to port or starboard. There were no surprises when Lieutenant Ramsden called again.
“Designated track twenty-seven. Bearing 045. Probably engine lines…checking machinery profiles.”
There was total silence in the attack area except from the sonar operator, whose fingers now flew over the computer keys.
“Conn…sonar…Looks like the Dutch example we were given…no other profiles come anywhere near it.”
The atmosphere in Columbia moved from tense anticipation to careful, watchful, determined. Not a phrase was uttered. In the time-honored mode of submarine warfare no one said anything unless it was critical, like “SHOOT.”
But Columbia was not authorized to shoot anything, and for more than an hour they watched silently as the Hai Lung moved closer, running through the water at seven knots, snorkeling in the southern dark. She passed them eight thousand yards distant. Lieutenant Commander Curran confirmed that they were in position to track and follow both the Kilo and the Hai Lung.
At 2305, Captain Kan began to speed up. He accelerated in behind the Taiwanese some two miles astern, unaware that five miles off his own stern there was a US nuclear boat watching his every move. Only Boomer Dunning and his team were aware of the existence of all three submarines. The Taiwanese knew of only one, themselves. The Chinese of two.
The three submarines made for an odd sort of convoy, and the leader, the Hai Lung, held course 225 southwest, making seven knots snorkeling. She was heading direct for Choiseul Bay. Along with her pursuers. They would run through these dark, turbulent seas throughout the night while Lieutenant Commander Curran occasionally pinged them with his fish-disguised active sonar. Just to keep their distance.
In the early evening Columbia crossed the wide, rough seaway at the head of the Golfe des Baleiniers and headed due west in three hundred feet of water toward Choiseul. The Taiwanese captain was more acquainted with the territory than either Captain Kan or Boomer Dunning, and the Hai Lung took a more southern route toward Cox’s Rock. It was the precise direction of the periscope Boomer and Bill Baldridge had spotted from the deck of Yonder back in February.
Now running at periscope depth in the calmer water, the Taiwanese submarine crossed Choiseul Bay and reached the estuary of Baie Blanche, followed by the Chinese Kilo two miles astern.
Boomer had closed in to three miles inside the curved Kerguelen coastline. And the CO found himself thinking about the first time he had come here. And he thought, too, about his crewmate on Yonder, and the fun they had all had in May when the droll Kansan rancher had married his Laura at last, in the presence of the President of the United States.
For no apparent reason he wished that Bill was here now; he felt chilled suddenly and alone, and he needed a friend, not a dozen colleagues. But he had only fleeting seconds for reflections. The Hai Lung was making five knots through the wide bay and disappeared down the Baie Blanche chased by a boatload of malicious Chinese. At least Boomer assumed they were malicious.
Boomer ordered Columbia to press on, to keep following the Kilo, at a range of about two miles. None of the passive sonar worked very well inshore, but pursuit was simple, thanks to their brilliant active sonar. Columbia slotted in behind, and the Hai Lung continued its carefree journey at the head of the convoy, still making seven knots, carrying the uranium and presumably Professor Liao Lee all the way down Baie Blanche. They ran on for ten miles, oblivious of both the Kilo and the American nuclear submarine that tracked them both. Boomer took one look through the periscope on the gentle left-hand bend at Saint Lanne and was not detected by the Taiwanese lookout post up on the heights of Pointe Bras guarding the entrance to Bay du Repos.
The Hai Lung was holding a course to the right-hand side of the mile-wide deep-water channel, and Boomer was not surprised when the Kilo headed resolutely after her down the Baie du Repos. He took another fast look through the periscope as he came under Pointe Bras, and again the Taiwanese lookouts were unable to spot him…in contrast to Cuttyhunk, which they had spotted.
Eight miles down the ever-narrowing dead-end fjord, with a freezing south wind whipping the snow off the peak of Mount Richards, and pawing the water out in front of Columbia, the Hai Lung suddenly stopped snorkeling and went silent. Boomer cursed under his breath and raised the periscope just as the Taiwanese Sea Tiger burst out of the water, now only three miles distant, and continued her journey on the surface.
The Kilo appeared to stop but remained dived at the entrance to the last narrow three-mile section of the fjord. Boomer stayed two miles north of the Kilo but could still see right down the length of the channel. He decided to risk another furtive look, always aware he just might be observed. And out in front he could see the Hai Lung head off to the right. He could also see two old rusting, gray buoys spaced about four hundred feet apart off the rocky western lee shore. The sonar chief was reporting the unmistakable signature of a pressurized water reactor at power…and it was echoing down the fjord.
He guessed from right between the two buoys, moored to which, under the water, there had to be a nuclear submarine.
“That’s their power source,” muttered the Commander. “Where’s the goddamned factory, or whatever it is?” And then in the distance he could see the Hai Lung slow almost to a complete stop, drifting in toward the shore. From where Boomer watched, it looked like the submarine would collide with the cliff. But very slowly, without any sign of panic, the submarine just vanished, slipping behind what Boomer realized must be some kind of overhang, or steel curtain. He stared at the high granite cliffs which lined the shore and called out for a depth check.