Red Shark

“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

Washington, D.C.

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.”