Park imagined the consequences that would await him if he failed to carry out his mission. Admiral Woo and his masters in Pyongyang were slogan-spouting idiots and didn’t trust anyone, not even each other. They commanded loyalty through fear. If the mission failed for any reason, even something beyond his control, they’d want a scapegoat. But not me, thought Park. Not yet. Here, at sea, he still had his independence and professional pride. He’d carry out his orders to the best of his abilities even if it meant taking a huge risk. What choice did he have?
“Forget what just happened out there. Tell me how you plan to make the repair.”
Kang composed himself. “Captain, with a non-ferrous sleeve that will fit over the damaged section. We can then introduce hot coolant from the reduction gears through a fitting which will heat the valve and line, reducing pressure on the joint. Then we can open the valve and bleed down the entire line to the diverter and hydrogen burner.”
Park nodded. “How long will it take?”
Kang ran a hand over his head of cropped hair. Sweat glistened on his face and scalp. “I think, sir, not more than three hours, but I can’t be sure.”
“I will return in an hour to check on your progress.” Park jammed on his cap and headed for the control room.
“Sonar, Conn. Report all contacts,” Scott ordered.
A dozen new contacts proved how busy it had gotten topside. The Kilo’s death had drawn ships into the impact area from all points of the compass. The Chinese would be furious once they found out what had happened, but when Scott remembered that the U.S. had sort of mistakenly hit the Chinese Embassy in Belgrade with a cruise missile during the Balkans operation, he felt better. Then, the Chinese had threatened action against the U.S. but had later calmed down. Fuck it, Scott thought, let the politicians in Washington deal with the Chinese. He was a sub driver on a mission, not a diplomat.
“They’re all merchies,” the sonar chief reported, “every one of ’em. No sign of that Type 213. But if it’s out here, we’ll find it.”
“He might try to make a dash for it by tucking in behind a merchie heading south.”
“Captain, we’ve got all the bases covered.”
48
The president stood in the Oval Office and looked dolefully out over the South Lawn, where dark clouds filled with rain bulked over the Washington Monument. His head throbbed; he pressed a thumb and forefinger deep into the corners of both eyes to relieve the pressure. It didn’t help. Nothing did anymore.
“Not only has Scott pissed off the Japanese, now he’s pissed off the Chinese,” said the president, addressing Radford, Friedman, and Ellsworth. “I just concluded a call with President Yang. He gave me hell, said he has a report that one of their submarines was attacked by one of ours, the one he believes we sent to spy on their base in Dingdao. That would be Scott in the Reno, wouldn’t it, Karl?”
Radford steepled his fingers. “Scott reported to Ms. Kida that they’d been fired on twice by that Chinese Kilo we’ve been tracking by satellite. The Chinese claimed that those explosions were not from their sub’s torpedoes but from seismographic teams working oil fields in the same area. Bullshit, of course. Scott’s hunting for the Red Shark, and if the Chinese keep getting in the way, he’ll do what he’s got to do.”
“Do you believe he fired torpedoes at that Chinese sub?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Christ. Admiral?”
“Scott had to defend himself, Mr. President,” said Ellsworth. “More important, we can’t let the Chinese prevent us from heading off that weapons delivery.”
Friedman erupted, “How, by sinking one of their subs? After this is over we’ll still have to live with the Chinese. We’ll need their help to settle scores with that madman Jin, and sinking one of their subs is no way to get their cooperation.”
“Paul’s right,” said the president. “We can’t provoke the Chinese.”
“Sir, I’d like to point out that Scott is the man on the hot seat,” Ellsworth said. “He’s got little to go on but instinct—”
“We put a Global Hawk up to get more detailed coverage of the area, to help him find the sub,” Radford said.
“Sure, Karl,” said Ellsworth, “that’s great and all, but Scott’s out there on a limb, and he’s got to do what he’s got to do to find that NK boat. He can’t be afraid to step on a few toes.”
“Jesus Christ,” protested Friedman, “sinking a PLAN submarine is not what I’d call stepping on a few toes, it’s a goddamn act of war.”
Ellsworth, his face florid, his mood dark, said, “What the hell do you call the Chinese sub’s attack on Scott? And the NKs and their warheads headed for the U.S.? What would you call that?”
“Gentlemen,” said the president, “let’s deal with the situation Scott is facing. Karl, can you contact him, find out what’s happening out there so that in the event, we can draft an appropriate response to the Chinese?”
“Yes, sir, I can.”
“Now, in your earlier briefing, Karl, you said our special-ops group was in Davao.”
“Colonel Jefferson’s with the unit.”
“And have they located the terrorist base?”
“As of”—he looked at his wristwatch—“an hour ago they’d not made contact.”
“As soon as they do, you let me know.”
“Yes, sir, of course I will.”
The president looked up as an aide silently slipped into the Oval Office with a video reader board, a device used by the White House to display super-encrypted Purple messages.
“Pardon me, Mr. President,” she said. “I have a priority from SRO for General Radford.”
“Let me see that, Karen.” Radford twisted around and took the flat-screen board. He keyed in his personal code and read the message.
The president saw Radford’s eyebrows twitch up, then fall and meet in the furrow over his nose.
“Mr. President, satellite imagery confirms that the PLAN Kilo President Yang referred to was sunk, we think, by a torpedo fired from one of our submarines.”
The president jammed a thumb and forefinger deep into the corners of both eyes. “The Reno.”
“Yes, sir.”
Park stared at the obsolete Russian-made ZEVS communication equipment installed in the Red Shark’s control room. The system had been designed originally for Russian submarines to receive burst transmissions from satellites via extremely high frequencies. The DPRK had purchased surplus units, only to find that the sophisticated, land-based, low-frequency antenna array the ZEVS system required had proved difficult to install and maintain in North Korea’s mountainous terrain.
Park debated whether or not to respond to the call from Nam’po. The ZEVS signal was a summons to come up to periscope depth and receive a coded burst transmission from an old Russian Molniya-3 satellite for which the DPRK paid Moscow a usage fee. Unlike the U.S. sub that used the U.S. RDT system, which blasted data from space through deep water at a blinding rate, the Red Shark would have to loiter near the surface, vulnerable to detection, to receive the ZEVS burst.
The first officer waited for Park’s order to come to periscope depth and poke a mast up. Instead a morose Park, his gaze planted on the deck, said, “I think our ZEVS has just malfunctioned. Can it be repaired?”
The first officer understood what Park intended to do. “Why, yes, Captain, it has malfunctioned.”
“Will it take more than a day to repair?”
“I’m afraid so, Captain.”
“Too bad. See what you can do.”