Red Shark

“Three of ’em, sir, two DDs and a frigate,” reported the chief. “A squall’s degrading sound reception, but the DDs for sure are ex-Russian Sovremennyys. No ID yet on the frigate.”

“Probably deployed from Dingdao to find out what happened to their Kilo.”

“Yes, sir, that’d be my guess, too.”

“If the Red Shark hears them she’ll steer clear, which might push her in our direction. What else have you got?”

“Merchie headin’ south, big one.” He rattled off its bearing and range.

“Okay, let’s poke up the ESM and see what’s what.”

Scott clapped the weary chief on the shoulder and went back to control. “Bring her up to PD.”

“Periscope depth aye,” repeated OOD Dozier.

The Reno, after conducting a thorough sonar sweep that confirmed there were no ships in the immediate area, rose slowly, carefully.

Scott, at the Type 18 periscope, motioned “up” with raised thumbs. As the Reno approached PD with the scope’s head extended toward the surface, Scott got a glimpse of the furrowed bottoms of waves: On the scope’s video monitor they looked like the underside of gray cloud cover. “Here we go,” Scott said.

A moment later the periscope broke the surface and kicked up a feather. Scott pushed the scope around once, then stopped on the bearing of the pinging PLAN warships. Focused on infinity, Scott saw a sky and ocean the color of gunmetal and, on the horizon miles away, a row of black matchsticks. The Type-18’s electronic signals receiver confirmed that a maze of ship-borne radars was active topside.

“Got ’em. They’re hull down. I can just see their mast tops. Control, bring me up another five feet so I can see a little more. But watch your depth.”

As the Reno rose higher, Scott rotated the scope through 360 degrees, looking for intruders, but he saw none. Back on the targets, this time with more scope out of the water and the Reno’s sail barely skimming the bottoms of wave troughs, he got a good look at the warships’ busy top hamper, the black watch caps on their funnels, a forest of antennas.

Kramer studied the slaved video monitor. “Skipper, those two on the left are definitely Sovremennyys; the other one for sure is a Jiangwei frigate. See that stepped mast she has?”

“Let’s hear what they’re saying. Raise the ESM,” Scott ordered.

The mast was barely out of the water when the electronic receiver panel lit up like a Christmas tree. The technician monitoring reception announced, “Sir, we’ve got J-band 700-MA and 756 search radars, also X-band and Y-band commercial, and two airborne Chinese 0J-bands.”

Scott angled the scope’s optics skyward. “Right, I see them both. Amphibs. They’re looking for someone, probably us. See them, Rus?”

“Got ’em; they’re SH-5s.”

Eye to the scope, Scott said, “Bearing on those X- and Y-bands?”

“X-band bears three-one-zero. Its source is between the Sovremennyys and the coast. The Y-band bears two-eight-zero.”

Scott spun the scope onto the bearing but saw only gulls and a fast-moving squall. “Rus, check that Y-band bearing against the merchie’s last position.”

“Aye, sir.”

Scott slapped the scope’s handles up. “Down scope, down ESM. We’ll give those guys a wide berth.” He gave Dozier a new course to steer, away from the PLAN warships, and ordered the Reno down to 150 feet.