Red Shark

“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.

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.