“I see.” Jin tapped the report with a finger. “And my signature will initiate the interrogations.”
“And authorize Kim’s execution.”
“You are certain you no longer need his assistance?”
“Yes, Dear Leader, I am. Kim has outlived his usefulness.”
Jin grunted. He bent to the task with a gold pen plucked from a well on his desk and, with short, deft strokes, put his name to the report.
Yi placed the report in a leather portfolio, bowed, and took his leave. When he reached the door, Jin said, “One moment, General. I received a call from Admiral Woo in Nam’po.”
Yi, curious, returned to Jin’s desk. “And how is Admiral Woo?”
“He says that the Chinese have reported explosions in the Yellow Sea. As you know, the Red Shark is at present in the Yellow Sea. Admiral Woo didn’t venture what these explosions were.”
“The Chinese have oil exploration teams in the Yellow Sea,” said Yi. “Did he mention that? Or are you concerned, Dear Leader, that perhaps the explosions are linked to the Red Shark?”
“A reasonable assumption. The Chinese operate submarines in the Yellow Sea and East China Sea. We have had run-ins with them in the past. The Americans also operate there. Anything can happen. There is also the death of Iseda Tokugawa to consider.”
“Then, Dear Leader, I would say that Admiral Woo must radio the Red Shark at once and order her captain to report his status.”
“But if he does, the Americans will pick up his signal.”
“Oh, yes, they will. But picking it up and breaking our code are two different things. To put your concerns to rest, I would advise Woo to send the message regardless of the Americans.”
Yi sensed that Jin, isolated from the outside world, hearing and believing only what fit his preconceptions, was paralyzed almost to inaction by his own plan. Yi waited while Jin debated.
“Have Woo send the message.”
“Got him!” said the chief.
They had the Kilo, and it wasn’t far away. With time, patience, and skill, the sonar watch had stripped the Chinese sub’s tonals out of the background cacophony of broadband noise.
“Master One bears zero-one-zero, Captain,” the sonar chief advised.
“I have the conn,” said Scott, entering the control room. “Rus, stand by tubes one and two. Do not — say again — do not open outer doors.”
Kramer acknowledged and passed Scott’s orders to the torpedo room.
“We’re going to try and work around this guy, see if we can’t give him the slip.”
Kramer and the other officers exchanged surprised looks. “Work around him?” said Kramer.
“If we can. He’s not our main target, the Red Shark is.”
“Sir, with respect, he tried to pick us off.”
“And he won’t get another chance. Helm, come to course two-three-zero. Make turns for eight knots. We’ll work into the littorals off Lianyungang, use them for cover.”
“Those are Chinese territorial waters,” Kramer observed.
Scott paid no attention as he watched the repeaters until he was satisfied that the Reno was moving stealthily away from the Kilo.
“Sonar, Conn. Any sign that he’s heard us?”
“Conn, Sonar. Nothin’ yet, sir.”
A minute passed, then five. Scott, resting quietly at the watch station, gave Kramer a nod and said, “Welcome to China.”
Zemin crashed into the control room. “Both motors full ahead! Energize all tubes!”
At the very instant Zemin had concluded from the first officer’s plot-back that the 688I had to be in the intercept zone marked on the chart, the sonarman had picked up a faint tonal, which was now displayed on the sonar repeater in the control room.
“Prepare to launch weapons one through six!” Zemin barked. “Use staggered timing and internal discriminator blocks!”
“Target lock-on confirmed, Comrade Captain,” said the first officer.
Zemin spun around and bellowed, “Stand by to fire on my mark!”
“He heard us! He’s turning left and closing fast,” Kramer confirmed.
“No sense trying to finesse it anymore,” Scott said. “He’s about to buy it.” He followed this with orders to the helm.
Scott stationed himself in the center of the control room, his gaze commanding the consoles and instruments displaying the information he needed to attack the Kilo. He waited until the Reno had come about, then commanded, “Firing point procedures on Master One, tubes one and two. Open outer doors.”
Kramer confirmed the target data, then prepared to execute Scott’s next order by rotating the torpedo switch triggers to their standby positions.
“Match sonar bearings and shoot, tube one,” Scott commanded.
Kramer, at the weapons-control panel, repeated Scott’s command and, at the same time, twisted the trigger clockwise to its fire position.
The crew heard and felt the surge of the Reno’s torpedo-ejection air pump and the unmistakable buzz-saw whine of an Mk-48 leaping from its tube.
“Tube one fired electrically,” Kramer confirmed, his voice calm as could be.
“Let’s see how we do with this one — Chief?…”
“Conn, Sonar — he hears it, Captain. He’s turning one-eighty and flankin’ it.”
“Torpedo running hot, straight, and normal,” reported Kramer, timing the run. A minute passed. “Torpedo’s acquired its target. Time to impact, two minutes.”
Scott gave Kramer a nod.
The chief came on. “Conn, Sonar, he’s launched decoys.”
“Too late,” Scott said. “Too fucking late.”
The first officer lost control of his bladder, feared he was on the verge of losing his bowels too. Shamed by the huge stain spreading across his coveralls, and for his display of cowardice in front of the captain and crew, he turned his back to the control room and buried his face in his hands. He tried to blot out the high-pitched scree of the incoming Mark 48. He heard Zemin hurling curses at him but didn’t care; heard Zemin shout orders to the helm; heard the slam of watertight doors; heard cries of fear from men who knew they were about to die.
And then he heard nothing. The first officer had turned in time to see Captain Deng Zemin, his mouth open wide in a silent scream, consumed by a sheet of white-hot flame that enveloped everyone and everything around him.
Tongsun Park listened intently, an ear cocked to the overhead in the engine room. He didn’t need sonar to confirm that what he’d just heard and felt had been an exploding torpedo and now breaking-up noises from a submarine. But which one, the Chinese or the American?
Like Park, the engineering officer Kang and the work gang he’d assembled to make repairs to the hydrogen bleeder line halted their work and listened in horror to the hideous shriek of a collapsing hull and moan of tortured steel twisting and grinding against itself as the torpedoed vessel hurtled to the bottom of the Yellow Sea.
Even before the death rattle had ceased, Park was on the intercom to the control room demanding information: bearing, range, tonals. Now!
Park caught his breath, felt the terrified gazes of the men on his back. Park’s eyes drifted to the frozen bleeder valve, the bulge in the line now bigger than before. He returned Kang’s look with one that he hoped was optimistic even though inside he doubted their ability to make repairs that wouldn’t blow up the submarine. He glanced at the parts and tools Kang had assembled. What Kang had proposed might thaw the valve but, not done right, could blow up the ship.