Red Shark

“What are the Japanese saying about Tokugawa?”

“They’re still reporting Tokugawa was murdered and nothing more. The DG, as you might expect, has threatened to go to the prime minister with all of this, but I told him that if he did, things would turn ugly fast, especially over what happened to Ms. Kida and the cover-up by Kubota.”

“Have the North Koreans said anything?” asked Scott.

“Not a word. Ambassador Cummings is meeting with their UN representative later today and will tell him to his face that we know about Red Shark and the weapons and the base in the Philippines. Ms. Kida, do you have anything to add?”

“General, just a thought, that if Captain Scott can find the Red Shark, perhaps he can force her captain to surrender.”

“What do you think about that, Scott?” asked Radford.

“If we can find her we’ll likely have only one chance to nail her. Sorry, Fumiko, but I’m not planning to negotiate with her skipper.”

“Very well,” Radford said. “We’ll update you if something breaks, say at the UN.”

“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.”