Red Shark

Zemin switched back to the other channel and listened. Undetermined. If it was a U.S. 688I, Zemin was risking detection by the American. Still, he had to know. He tore off the headphones and commanded, “Main motors stop. Silence in the boat.”

The first officer repeated Zemin’s orders. A moment later the Kilo’s three-knot headway began scrubbing off.

Zemin climbed into the captain’s conning chair bolted to the deck in the attack center and folded his arms. “Now we will listen carefully to learn if we are hearing a ghost or a nosy American submarine.”

“Conn, Sonar. Sierra One just stopped his prop.”

Deacon toggled the mike. “Sonar, Conn. Do you still have him?”

“Barely, sir. Fadin’…”

Scott entered the sonar room. “There he is, Commander,” said the chief. “What’s left of him.” He pointed to two weak tonals. “This here blip is his shaft spinning down. This here one — you can barely see it now — is turbulence coming off his prop as it stopped turning. He’s just about dead in the water.”

“He’s got a silent creep motor and may be using it.”

“No, sir, I don’t think so, he’s stopped.”

“Maybe he heard something,” Scott said.

“Yes, sir. Us.”

The chief’s report triggered a “Man silent battle stations,” from Deacon.

The control room got crowded fast. Phonetalkers manned their sound-powered phones; a full complement of officers took their places in plot and at the attack consoles; a fresh watch took over the helm and planes.

“All stations manned and ready, Captain,” Kramer reported.

Deacon queried the senior attack coordinator. “Did we have a final bearing on the Chinaman before he went invisible? Come on, come on, we don’t have all day.”

“It’s one-four-four, sir.”

“Christ, that’s a thirty-degree shift, he must be damn close. What’s his range — and don’t finesse it… whatever you have.”

“Sir, under six thousand yards.”

“Less than three miles.” Deacon gave Scott a look. “It’s your call.”

Scott considered while the fire-control party worked a torpedo firing solution on Sierra One. The clock was running, the window closing. Not good, not good at all. “Shut her down. Let’s see if we can wait him out.”

Zemin scratched his cheek. He glanced at the ship’s chronometer: 2135. An hour had passed since their first contact with what he was almost convinced now, had been a phantom tonal, not a 688I. Almost but not quite.

They’d inched along on the Kilo’s utterly silent creep motor, the depth gauge needles hung at 195 meters. The Rubikon’s narrowband trace line lay dead flat on the monitor. Nothing. Zemin pressed the headphone earmuffs tight to his head and listened. An oil tanker and ro-ro to the west. Small craft — luggers, spit-kits, sampans, and coastal junks — swarming along the Taiwan coast.

The first officer said, “Comrade Captain, we have had no further contact for over twenty minutes. Perhaps we should shift operations to the north and commence tracking and reacquire the White Dragon.”

Zemin considered. Admiral Chou, commander in chief Northern Fleet, would not be pleased to learn that a 688I snooping around Matsu Shan had gone unchallenged.

“Why would a U.S. Navy 688I show up off Matsu Shan?” Zemin asked.

“Comrade Captain, with respect, we don’t know for sure that the contact was a 688I.”

“Wu Chow Fat and his White Dragon, Matsu Shan, the Sugun, the North Korean crisis — a coincidence, no?”

The first officer said nothing.

The Rubikon’s narrowband trace line still lay dead flat on the monitor.

“There is nothing more we can do here, Comrade Captain.”

Zemin stood. “I agree. These are my orders: Both motors ahead one-half; make our course due north; commence a search for the White Dragon.”

“Aye, Comrade Captain.”

Zemin hoped he had not been fooled by a clever skipper in a 688I. If he had, it would put Admiral Chou into a towering rage. He saw himself being led from his submarine in leg irons by Admiral Chou’s Navy police, to the submarine base brig at Bohai Bay.

“He’s on the move!”

“Where to, Chief?” asked Deacon.

“Due north at about ten knots.”

Deacon exhaled heavily and said to Scott, “It’s still your call.”

Scott felt Jefferson’s gaze boring into his back. He turned and said, “Ready to move?”

“Hell, been ready to move for the last hour and a half. Damn window’s almost closed.”

Scott said to Deacon, “All right, let’s jock it up.”

14

Matsu Shan, inbound