Red Shark

Scott returned to the control room to monitor the progress the tracking party in Fire-control had made after receiving the target data from sonar. The BSY-2 consoles, manned by a full complement of officers who had anticipated the fresh inflow of data from Sierra Two, had begun the tracking process on what everyone now believed was the Red Shark. Kramer, orchestrating the operation, indicated he would shortly have a fire-control solution on Sierra Two, now designated as Master Two.

Satisfied, Scott stepped to the center of the control room and announced, “OOD, I have the conn.”

“Aye, sir,” said Lieutenant Dozier, you have the conn.”

“Captain, I have range and bearing updates on Master One and Master Two.”

“I’m all ears, Rus.”

“Master One bears three-four-zero, he’s moving west, speed steady, range thirty-five thousand yards. Master Two now bears three-two-zero. Range just a tick under forty thousand yards.”

“Okay. So the Kilo’s almost due east of Master Two,” Scott said.

“Range between targets is twenty-three thousand yards,” Kramer confirmed.

To attack the Red Shark, Scott had to avoid detection by the Kilo, which was not only east but also north of their present position.

“All ahead two-thirds,” Scott commanded, aware that their own tonals would increase at least fifty percent.

“All ahead two-thirds, aye,” the helmsman confirmed.

Scott felt the deck vibrate under his feet as the Reno accelerated along her course of 340. Somewhere forward a hydraulic actuator thumped, too loud, Scott thought, and made a mental note to have it checked. Too late now to worry about loose ends.

“Conn, Sonar…” It was the chief.

Scott toggled a mike dangling from the overhead on a coiled cord. “Sonar, conn, aye.”

“Conn, we’ve lost contact with Master Two.”

The chief’s words hung in the air like smoke. Scott saw the questioning looks exchanged by men at their stations, of those who had halted in midstride. He turned the conn over to Dozier and headed for Sonar.

“Just like that, sir,” said the chief. “Poof! Gone. Right off her last bearing and range. Like she fell into a hole.”

Scott saw for himself that the Red Shark’s tonal waterfall on the monitor had flatlined, while the Kilo’s was still there, tracking northwest.

“All right, we’ll slow down and start over. No sense giving the Kilo a fresh target — us — if he, too, lost contact on the Red Shark. I don’t want to piss this guy off again or he might try and put one of his fish up our nose.”

“A 688I Los Angeles-class?” Zemin sprang to the monitors.

“I am positive, Captain. The tonals match those we collected off Matsu Shan.”

What is he doing here? What does he know? Zemin pondered this and thought, Has he heard us? Has he heard the Korean sub? If so, things would be different this time. The American sub was virtually inside Chinese territorial waters where the rules of engagement dictated that Chinese vessels could respond with deadly force not only if provoked by an enemy but also if that enemy violated restricted waters near North Sea Fleet Headquarters.