Red Shark

A glance at the console and Scott noted the Reno’s depth — still 600 feet — and speed of advance — almost 40 knots. On the ship’s status board, Deacon had posted orders to maintain flank speed until they reached longitude 135 east. Only then, or for an emergency, would they slow down and come to PD for a look-see.

Scott moved aft to the two periscopes mounted athwartships — to the left a Type 18; to the right a Type2. Aft of the scopes were the twin plotting tables on which the Reno’s track under the Pacific Ocean was being recorded automatically, and also by hand by the navigator and the quartermaster of the watch.

Portside of the control room, behind the plotting tables, stood the ship’s inertial guidance system, gyro, and navigation equipment, all surmounted by racked radio equipment, video monitors, digital chronometers, and depth indicators.

Deacon and his exec, Rus Kramer, stood at one of the tables, the captain stepping off ranges on a chart with a pair of dividers. As Scott approached, Deacon said, “We’re making good time. Might break the record for transit, the rate we’re going.”

Scott gave Deacon a thumbs-up and said, “Ready for RDT whenever you are, Skipper.”

“Aye, sir,” Deacon said.

The Reno’s Rapid Data Transmission system worked in conjunction with GPS satellites to capture super-high-frequency transmissions at moderate depths while moving at high speed. Thus equipped, the Reno didn’t have to slow down or poke up a mast to communicate with ComSubPac at Pearl Harbor, or with the SRO in Virginia.

“Hold present course and speed,” Deacon commanded. “Make your depth five hundred feet.”

The planesman at the ship’s control station responded smartly: The Reno, her deck and hull vibrating from the changed angle of attack through the water, tilted up and sped toward the surface.

8

The Reno, mid-Pacific

Scott, braced against the submarine’s up angle, entered the wardroom located one deck below the control room. It was outfitted with comfortable seating and a long table that accommodated the Reno’s officers for meals, watching movies, or conducting councils of war. At the moment the wardroom’s flat-screen video monitor displayed a wobbling dark blue background with the message RESTRICTED MEDIA.

Senior Chief Brodie, Zipolski, and the other SEALs, drinking coffee, waited for the show to start.

“Where’s Jefferson?”

“Showering, sir,” said Brodie. “Said he’d be right along.”

Scott chose not to ascribe sinister motives to Jefferson’s absence. To prepare for the broadcast, he made sure the video camera was rigged so that Radford would see all the SEALs seated around the table.

Ready, Scott checked his wristwatch. Underfoot, the deck leveled out as the Reno came shallow. The digital repeater indicated a steady 500 at the same moment the sound-powered phone squawked. Scott uncradled it and identified himself.

Deacon’s voice leaked past the handset. “Sir, we’re at five hundred feet. Course two-seven-zero, SOA forty knots. RDT is powered up and on standby.”

Scott hung up the handset and turned to Brodie. “Anything we need to discuss with Radford?”

“One thing, sir.” Brodie’s thick fingers, better suited to crushing an opponent’s windpipe than secretarial work, skipped through the pages of a small notebook. “Those Chinese pirates.”

“Drug-runners,” corrected Scott.

“Yes, sir, whatever. We sure as hell don’t know much about them. I mean, how many of them are on Matsu Shan? We don’t have anything definite in the way of numbers.”

“Agreed,” Scott said. “The SRO says that from their satellite coverage, there’s not more than twenty.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but that’s bullshit.”

“What’s bullshit?” asked Jefferson as he entered the wardroom, washed and polished, wearing fresh black cammies and matching T-shirt.

Scott looked Jefferson up and down, not masking irritation at his tardiness.