Park had eased the Red Shark into position, submerged three hundred yards behind the sixty-thousand-dead-weight-ton Pacific Conveyor. Seen through the periscope he’d poked up in her boiling wake, Park hadn’t been able to tell what kind of cargo she carried — vehicles, he’d assumed, from her huge quarter-stern door ramp. The only thing that mattered to him was that the Panamanian-flagged ro-ro provide suitable cover. It would be a bumpy ride, but Park was determined to stick with her as long as he could.
He lowered the scope and turned the conn over to the first officer. “Wake turbulence will degrade sonar reception but not so much that we will not hear hostiles approach. Relieve the control team every two hours; I want fresh personnel at the control station at all times. Call me at once if you have any sonar contacts or if anything changes,” Park said, and departed for the wardroom.
The mess attendant had a bottle of soju and a ceramic cup waiting for Park at the head of the table. The attendant filled the cup and backed into his tiny galley, shutting the bifold door so Park could ruminate in private.
Park reckoned that their chances of reaching the Philippines on time were less than fifty percent, given their present situation. He knew he was being pessimistic, but he was a realist. Something must have gone terribly wrong in Pyongyang. Perhaps a war had started. It was the only logical answer to why the American and Chinese submarines had fired on each other and why the Red Shark was being hunted.
He drank soju, its fire scorching his gullet. And what of his refusal to answer Admiral Woo’s ZEVS inquiry? Would Woo understand the danger he was facing from both the American sub and the frozen valve in the hydrogen fuel cell? Not likely. The only thing that mattered to Woo was that the cargo be delivered on time.
Park needed time to sort things out, but when he looked at the chronometer on the bulkhead, he saw that it was time to visit the engine room to gauge how the repair had progressed—
“Captain!” the first officer yapped from the intercom as the Captain’s Light began to flash.
Park froze. Instinctively he knew it was bad news.
“Comrade Captain, we have something on the flank sonar array. Possible submarine, but the contact is partially masked by wake turbulence from the merchantman.”
Park felt his heart leap. He saw a faint contact on the monitor, abaft the starboard beam. Low-frequency interference from the Pacific Conveyor’s machinery and tumbling wake made target discrimination difficult but not impossible.
“Range?”
“Under ten thousand yards, sir, and closing. I’ll soon have a turn rate.”
Park considered his options. Was it the American or Chinese submarine? Had it detected the Red Shark? If so, how much time did he have left to decide what to do? Should he call away combat stations and torpedo stations right now or wait to see what developed? As Park watched, the target slowly turned right onto a course parallel to the Pacific Conveyor and Red Shark.
“Captain, turn rate shows target’s speed is fifteen knots.”
Park checked their own speed: eight knots. He also saw that as the target slowly drew closer, the earlier unidentified tone line displayed on the monitor got sharper, more precise. In another minute the signal processor would have a match. He wicked sweat from his face onto a sleeve and said, “How could he have heard us? How?”
The worried sonarman looked helplessly at Park. Park’s gaze snapped to the secondary set of monitors, and he saw nine well-defined tonals radiating from the PLAN warships to the west. His gaze went back to the monitor tracking the submarine closing in: Its white tone line was thin and very sharp.
“Captain, I have positive identification on a U.S. 688I.”
The Red Shark’s combat system had proven far more sensitive and accurate than Park had thought possible. U.S. Navy SSNs were virtually undetectable, yet the system had plucked this one out of the water as surely as if the sea had parted around it.
Park had no desire to share the Kilo’s fate. “First Officer, call away combat stations and torpedo stations!”
The weapons-control panel lit up as sailors energized the Red Shark’s six forward tubes loaded with Seehake DM-24A wire-guided torpedoes and started inputting data to their guidance systems. It took less than a minute for the fire-control system to cycle from standby to ready.
The first officer declared, “Will commence action on your orders, Captain.”
“Talk to me, Sonar!”
“Captain, it’s only a maybe, too faint to identify. I mean maybe it’s that merchie’s prop, like it’s nicked or out of balance. What I’m hearing, it’s down on the low end of the spectrum, I mean real low.”
“Come on, Chief, I need more than maybes. Can you strip it out of the propwash?”
“Not from this distance, sir. We’re pickin’ up the garbage that ro-ro’s laying down, and it ain’t helpin’ any.”
Scott weighed the risks of speeding up and moving in closer. He’d already laid on turns to catch up with the merchie, and he hesitated to risk exposure by laying on more. But taking risks was what he was trained to do and what submariners thrived on. And caution had no place in the equation if all it did was allow the Red Shark to escape. She had to be killed, even if it meant that the Reno would be killed too.
“Sonar, Conn. I’m going to move in and kiss that merchie’s ass for you. Look alive in there!”
“Sonar, aye!”
“Ten degrees left rudder, all ahead full,” Scott commanded. “Move us in.”
“Captain! Target has speeded up!”
Park had to gamble; success depended on surprise, and he was willing to bet that the Americans would not be expecting him to attack, and that in their haste to avoid the Red Shark’s torpedoes, they would be unable to counterattack.
“Hard right rudder! Ahead full speed!”
The Red Shark exploded to life sharply to starboard out of the Pacific Conveyor’s wake, onto a collision course with the Reno.
“Comrade First Officer,” Park called, “prepare to fire torpedoes!”
“Red Shark, Red Shark!” the sonar chief bellowed. “Conn, Sonar, she’s coming at us and closing fast!”
“Snap shot!” Scott commanded. “Tubes one and two!”
Kramer, cool, steady, keyed the Red Shark’s bearing and speed into both torpedoes and queued them for immediate launch. “Set!”
But before Kramer could report that both fish were ready, their tubes flooded and outer doors open, Sonar warned, “Torpedoes in the water! Say again, torpedoes in the water!”
“Fire two decoys!” Scott commanded. Then, “Left full rudder, all ahead flank!” The Reno heeled into the Pacific Conveyor’s wake; Scott hoped that crossing it at right angles would mask them from the incoming torpedoes.
“They’re close, too damn close,” Scott said. “Hang on to your asses, people!”
It was too late to fire down the bearing of the torpedoes; there was only enough time — maybe — to outrun them.
Scott held up two fingers. “Rus — fire decoys.”
There was a surge of Ottos port and starboard as a second pair of decoys fizzed out of their launch tubes.
Scott’s gaze locked on the pit log: twenty-three knots and ticking up. Not good enough — the four decoys would have to run interference for them. He heard the screee of incoming props, tightened his jaw in anticipation. Twenty-eight knots. He saw Kramer gnawing a knuckle.