Red Shark

The Red Shark, motors secured, rigged for ultra-silent, drifted south, listening. Sonar had heard something, perhaps a S6G reactor aboard a 688I.

“Bearing?” Park asked.

He’d had to force the image of the buckled hydrogen line in the engine room from his mind in order to concentrate on the 688I. So had every man aboard. Word of the worsening situation in the engine room had spread quickly among the crew. Keep them focused on the enemy, Park thought, or they’ll panic.

“Astern, slightly east.”

Park checked their speed: four knots in a three-knot current setting to the southwest, toward shore. Did they have enough momentum to turn left and set up for a shot as the 688I crossed their bow, or would he have to kick her ahead into the turn? Would the Americans hear the screw turn over? Park blew through his teeth. He looked at the fire-control panel, saw the first officer’s white-knuckled hand wrapped around the firing pistol’s grip, finger resting lightly on the trigger. His other hand hovered over the six torpedo tube arming keys, which had to be thrown first to activate the trigger.

Park said to the first officer, “I’m going to bring her around. When you have a full-green fire-control solution, you may shoot torpedoes when the 688I crosses our bow.”

Park watched the compass repeater unwind counterclockwise as the Red Shark turned ninety degrees left and, barely making steerage, moved into position.

Park wiped his face, felt his chest tighten. Why was it taking so long?

“Comrade Captain. We have a full-green firing solution.”

Park heard the arming keys snap to their armed positions. He saw the RANGE TO TARGET display tick down, yard by yard.

“Sounding?” Scott said.

Rodriguez had it from the laser Fathometer. “One thousand eighty feet, Captain. Amazing, but we’re over a canyon. It must be part of a fracture zone that’s not shown on the chart.”

“A lot of things aren’t shown on the charts. Not this close to the mainland. Any idea how wide it is?”

“So far, over a mile.”

“Very well. Sonar, Conn. Anything at all?”

“No, sir. Deader ’n a doornail.”

“Rus, her last position was almost dead ahead, slightly to the right,” Scott said. “If he’d hauled out we’d have heard him. Let’s work around behind where we think he is and see if we can shake him loose.”

“Get between him and the coast?”

“Right. Looks like we’ve got deep water here, so let’s take advantage of it and flush that bird.”

“The American… he turned off his track, to the right!” snapped the first officer, unable to hide his frustration and anger.

The fire-control solution voided and went to red.

Park felt like he was trapped in quicksand. He tried to move, to make his brain work faster, but he couldn’t. He was sure the 688I was getting ready to fire torpedoes. His plan was about to fall apart. The mission was doomed. He was doomed. Everything was doomed.

Orders, he told himself, issue orders. “Ahead full speed! Hard left rudder!”

The Red Shark leaped forward and heeled around to bring her tubes to bear on the Reno, closing in behind her. At short range, with wire-guidance, Park gambled that his torpedoes wouldn’t miss.

“Comrade Captain!”

Park rounded on Kang, framed in the open doorway at the after end of the control room. He lurched into the control room screaming, “The valve — a hydrogen leak in the engine room!”

“Got him! He’s breaking left, comin’ around on us.”

“Snap shot!” Scott commanded. “Stand by tubes one through four!”

Kramer rapped in the data — bearing change, range, speed.

Scott kept himself in check, but the urgency had built a head of steam that he thought would burst from his chest.

“Set! Tubes flooded, outer doors open!” Kramer confirmed.