Red Shark

Kramer said, “Captain, Y-band is definitely the merchie. Range twenty-five thousand yards. He’s drifting right on a heading of one-eight-zero. Actually, he’s picked up the pace a bit: he’s making turns for ten knots.”

Scott summoned Kramer, Rodriguez, and the quartermaster of the watch to the plotting table.

“So where is she?” said Scott. “Where’s the Red Shark?”

Kramer said, “Well, for one thing, the NKs probably don’t know who’s been left standing — us or the Kilo. For another, they’re going to stay away from the Chinese Navy. Their mission is to break out of the Yellow Sea, and the only way to do that is to make tracks into deep water and not get hung up south at Zhongxin Gang and Taowang Gang. Hell, those bights are good places to hide in but are as shallow as a kiddy wading pool.”

Scott traced the coast of China with his finger, stopped when he got to Shanghai and its sandy Huang-pu’ River delta. “I agree, Rus, they’ve got to stay offshore or risk running aground in the shallows.”

“Captain,” said Rodriguez, “there’s another factor to consider.”

“Shoot.”

“The north-south shipping lanes into Shanghai are like an expressway at rush hour, always busy. I think the Red Shark’s skipper wouldn’t want to get trapped inside one of those lanes, because if he did, he might not be able to swing out through traffic to get around the delta at Shanghai. He’d want to make his swing starting somewhere around Dongtai, not any later, and make for deep water.”

“Maybe he already has,” Scott said.

Kramer, tapping his front teeth with a pencil eraser, said, “What would he do once he’s past Shanghai? Turn southwest and make a run down the coast until he felt it was safe to break out?”

“No, sir,” Rodriguez said, “if he did that he’d just get himself trapped again inside traffic lanes and, well…”

Scott looked at the young officer.

“Sir, this may seem a little crazy, but if I was him and once I’m outside the lanes, I’d try to make a run for it by tucking in behind a merchie, maybe that one heading south.”

“Conn, Sonar—”

Scott grabbed the mike hanging over the table. “Conn, aye.”

“Captain, we’ve got more active pingers to the southwest,” said the sonar chief. “I make it at least six Luda-class DDs. They’re workin’ down the coast in a staggered forty-five with a four-thousand-yard interval.”

Scott acknowledged the report, then went back to the plotting table. “I think, Mr. Rodriguez, that what we just heard bolsters your theory that the Red Shark’s skipper wouldn’t want to be nailed in littoral waters by Chinese destroyers. So let’s take a look at that merchie, the one heading south, and see what we can find.”

49

The East China Sea

Park had eased the Red Shark into position, submerged three hundred yards behind the sixty-thousand-dead-weight-ton Pacific Conveyor. Seen through the periscope he’d poked up in her boiling wake, Park hadn’t been able to tell what kind of cargo she carried — vehicles, he’d assumed, from her huge quarter-stern door ramp. The only thing that mattered to him was that the Panamanian-flagged ro-ro provide suitable cover. It would be a bumpy ride, but Park was determined to stick with her as long as he could.

He lowered the scope and turned the conn over to the first officer. “Wake turbulence will degrade sonar reception but not so much that we will not hear hostiles approach. Relieve the control team every two hours; I want fresh personnel at the control station at all times. Call me at once if you have any sonar contacts or if anything changes,” Park said, and departed for the wardroom.