Red Shark

Park had no desire to share the Kilo’s fate. “First Officer, call away combat stations and torpedo stations!”

The weapons-control panel lit up as sailors energized the Red Shark’s six forward tubes loaded with Seehake DM-24A wire-guided torpedoes and started inputting data to their guidance systems. It took less than a minute for the fire-control system to cycle from standby to ready.

The first officer declared, “Will commence action on your orders, Captain.”

“Talk to me, Sonar!”

“Captain, it’s only a maybe, too faint to identify. I mean maybe it’s that merchie’s prop, like it’s nicked or out of balance. What I’m hearing, it’s down on the low end of the spectrum, I mean real low.”

“Come on, Chief, I need more than maybes. Can you strip it out of the propwash?”

“Not from this distance, sir. We’re pickin’ up the garbage that ro-ro’s laying down, and it ain’t helpin’ any.”

Scott weighed the risks of speeding up and moving in closer. He’d already laid on turns to catch up with the merchie, and he hesitated to risk exposure by laying on more. But taking risks was what he was trained to do and what submariners thrived on. And caution had no place in the equation if all it did was allow the Red Shark to escape. She had to be killed, even if it meant that the Reno would be killed too.

“Sonar, Conn. I’m going to move in and kiss that merchie’s ass for you. Look alive in there!”

“Sonar, aye!”

“Ten degrees left rudder, all ahead full,” Scott commanded. “Move us in.”

“Captain! Target has speeded up!”

Park had to gamble; success depended on surprise, and he was willing to bet that the Americans would not be expecting him to attack, and that in their haste to avoid the Red Shark’s torpedoes, they would be unable to counterattack.

“Hard right rudder! Ahead full speed!”

The Red Shark exploded to life sharply to starboard out of the Pacific Conveyor’s wake, onto a collision course with the Reno.

“Comrade First Officer,” Park called, “prepare to fire torpedoes!”

“Red Shark, Red Shark!” the sonar chief bellowed. “Conn, Sonar, she’s coming at us and closing fast!”

“Snap shot!” Scott commanded. “Tubes one and two!”

Kramer, cool, steady, keyed the Red Shark’s bearing and speed into both torpedoes and queued them for immediate launch. “Set!”

But before Kramer could report that both fish were ready, their tubes flooded and outer doors open, Sonar warned, “Torpedoes in the water! Say again, torpedoes in the water!”

“Fire two decoys!” Scott commanded. Then, “Left full rudder, all ahead flank!” The Reno heeled into the Pacific Conveyor’s wake; Scott hoped that crossing it at right angles would mask them from the incoming torpedoes.

“They’re close, too damn close,” Scott said. “Hang on to your asses, people!”

It was too late to fire down the bearing of the torpedoes; there was only enough time — maybe — to outrun them.

Scott held up two fingers. “Rus — fire decoys.”

There was a surge of Ottos port and starboard as a second pair of decoys fizzed out of their launch tubes.