“Well, it was only an idea,” said Fumiko. “Good hunting, Captain Scott.”
Scott signed off, thinking about the fanatics who would destroy the U.S. One of them was dead, but there were others waiting for the outcome. In the end, it would come down to the Reno vs. the Red Shark. Only one would survive. Only one could survive.
The dream never changed: the charging North Korean destroyer with a bone in her teeth; the shouted orders; the whine of torpedoes; the deafening twin thunder-claps; the NK tincan folding in half like a V; cotton in his mouth and a churning gut—
“Captain.”
Scott’s eyes snapped open. “Right.” He swung out of his bunk, sweaty, feeling as if a white-hot knife had been plunged into his chest. Fully awake now, he read the bulkhead-mounted digital compass repeater and pit log. The Reno was steaming northwest at ten knots. Four hours ago, around midnight, when she had crossed the imaginary line of demarcation between the East China Sea and Yellow Sea, Scott had quit the control room for a few hours of uninterrupted sleep in his stateroom. Now, he sensed that something had changed.
The enlisted duty messenger said, “Sir, command duty officer says we have a tonal contact bearing three-two-nine. Possible submarine. Range and speed still undetermined.”
“Tell him I’m on my way.”
The image of the folded-up tincan lingered in Scott’s brain, a haunting presence as he pushed into the control room crowded with watchstanders. It faded as he looked around at the manned ship control station and its glow of instruments; at busy Fire-control Alley and its row of monitors lit up with data; at the navigation system and its repeaters; at the phone talkers with their sound-powered phones, ready to relay orders. Following Scott’s standing orders, Rodriguez, the command duty officer, had called away battle stations lite. Men had shouldered into position at their stations and stood easy but ready to take action if Scott ordered it. Exec Kramer was busy monitoring the inflow of data.
“I have the conn,” Scott announced to the officer of the deck, on duty at the watch station. “What do we have?”
“Aye, sir, you have the conn,” said the OOD, Lieutenant Steve Dozier, one of the Reno’s fire-control officers. “Sonar’s got a possible diesel-electric sub, range approximately forty-thousand yards. No speed estimate yet. Contact is intermittent.”
“Weapons status?” Scott said.
“Sir, all tubes loaded but not flooded; outer doors closed,” reported the weapons officer. “Power units for all torpedoes activated and on standby.”
“Very well, weps.”
Scott stepped aside to examine a console on which was displayed a wide-area geographic view of the Reno’s position relative to the coast of China. A blue pinpoint of light representing the Reno surrounded by green-lighted friendlies moved slowly northwest. South of Rizhao, in Haizhou Wan, a blinking red pinpoint indicated the position of the unidentified sound contact now classified by the fire-control party as Sierra One.
Scott turned to Kramer. “Rus, let’s take a look at Sonar.”
They entered the dimly lit sonar room, its positions fully occupied by watchstanders. The sonar supervisor hovered over the chief petty officer who was wearing headphones and a mike, and facing a vertical row of twin sonar monitors. Each monitor’s multicolored waterfall graphics currently displayed what the Reno’s spherical bow array had picked up earlier. The sonarmen’s faces were intent as they sifted the target’s tonals, searching for identifiable attributes.
“Chief, is it a diesel or nuke?” Scott asked.
“Diesel, sir.”
“Chinese or NK?”
“Working on it, sir,” the chief said. “Huntin’ for a match.”
The chief pointed to the upper monitor, where a thin, white vertical band moved slowly down the screen.
“Target’s been fadin’ in and out, but there’s something familiar about it. I think we’ve got ourselves another Kilo 636,” said the chief.
“Like the one we ran into off Matsu Shan,” said Kramer.
“Maybe the same one,” said the chief. “Something about its tonals — there we go.”
As the analysis continued, the tone line brightened noticeably. Below it, the monitored sound’s intensity and frequency showed an increase as well.
“Got him, Captain. Single blade turn rate indicates a speed of five knots,” the chief said. “It’s a match all right, the same goddamn Chinese Kilo we picked up off Matsu Shan.”
“What’s he doing here?” Kramer said.
“Training exercise,” suggested the sonar officer. “He’s probably based at Dingdao.”
“But I thought all PLAN subs are based at Huludao,” said Kramer.
“Just nukes,” the officer said.
“How long ago did we pick him up?” Scott asked.
“About an hour,” Kramer said.
“And he hasn’t moved?”
“Hardly an inch, sir,” the sonar officer answered.
Scott pondered a moment, then said, “All right, let’s move in — real careful — and see what he’s up to.”
“Any ideas, Captain?” said Kramer.
“The Chinese get real twitchy when they think someone’s messing around in their private lake up here. We saw how this guy got cozy with us until we took out the White Dragon. He sure as hell doesn’t know we’re here now or he’d be on the move. Maybe, just maybe, he’s looking for someone else who doesn’t belong here.”
44
Aboard the Kilo, Captain Deng Zemin watched a faint green blip slide across the dual sonar monitors. Though the blip was still too weak to identify through all the background clutter, the Rubikon’s audio spectrum analyzer recycled and recycled until a tone line appeared on the monitor and under it, in flashing red, the message IDENTIFIED.
The sonarman said, “Captain, this tone line matches one of our earlier ones.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sir, the two sets of intermittent contacts are an exact match.”
Zemin looked at the overlay of lines and saw that indeed they matched perfectly. He turned to his first officer. “Do you agree that we have a match?”
“I do, Captain. I’m convinced it’s the submarine we tracked earlier.”
“Our orders from Admiral Chou are to find, identify, and take appropriate action against this target. And we will. Identify this contact as DPRK One.” Zemin stood erect, satisfied that his end-around tactic had worked: The North Korean sub had reappeared on sonar, east of due south.
The sonarman began inputting more data to the Rubikon’s target analysis program, while the first officer backed it up on his electronic data pad. Moments later the system recycled again; this time DPRK ONE flashed in the message slot at the bottom of the monitor.
“Very well,” said a satisfied Zemin. “First Officer, prepare firing point analysis on DPRK One. Initiate constant tracking and update to torpedoes. Make preparations to engage target and launch weapons.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Maintain silence in the boat. Engage creep motor. Come to new course three-three-zero.”
The first officer repeated Zemin’s orders, and a moment later, the Kilo, her bow pointed toward the target, slowed to less than walking speed. “Orders confirmed, Captain.”
Zemin climbed into the captain’s conning chair in the Kilo’s deathly silent attack center. “Now, if we can slip in on cat’s feet, we may have a prize to present to Admiral Chou.”
Captain Park ran a gloved hand over the bulge around the welded joint upstream from the frozen main fuel cell bleeder valve and hydrogen burner. The bulge, larger now, had caused the two-inch-diameter stainless steel line to skew in its hangers. A thermal wrap had not thawed the valve, and engineering officer Kang’s face mirrored his concern.