Red Shark

“Conn, aye,” Deacon said. Okay, the Kilo was hunting for the mini-sub. How? He glanced at Kramer. “Rus, those Kilos, if I remember correctly, have an advanced digital sonar system, right?”

“Yes, sir. An MGK 400 EM.”

“I’m thinking out loud here, Rus. He’s seen the fires burning on Matsu Shan, knows something’s happened, probably reported it to Northern Fleet Headquarters. Maybe they suspect Uncle Sam’s involved and that we’ve got a spec-ops team ashore. Why would we do that? He hasn’t a clue but sure as hell wants to find out what we’re up to. So… might the Kilo’s MGK system have a MAD — magnetic anomaly detector?”

Kramer thought it over. “I’m not sure, Captain. I’ll call it up in our system, see what the specs are. If it does—”

“If it does, the Chinaman might not have any trouble locating the ASDS.”

“Sir, parts of it are titanium, which as you know, is nonmagnetic and—”

“Parts of it, but not all of it are made from titanium. The rest of it is made from HY-80 and HY-100 steel. And if that MAD gear is up to snuff, the Chinaman shouldn’t have any trouble locating a big hunk of steel sitting on the bottom of the ocean. Hell, she’s a sitting duck.”

Kramer called the Kilo’s combat system up in the Reno’s archives and directed Deacon’s attention to the computer display. “You’re on the money, sir: MGK systems in Kilo 636s have a MAD detector good for ranges of up to two nautical miles—”

“Excuse me, Captain,” said the comms chief. “Incoming from Commander Scott, visual crawler only, can’t get their voice transmit.”

Deacon and Kramer broke off as the incoming message inched across the RDT’s display monitor.

“Christ, they want us to run interference on that Kilo for them while they hunt for Fat,” said Deacon. “Well, they better hurry, ’cause that goddamn Kilo’s breathing down our necks.” Deacon needed only a moment to decide what to do next. “Make ready tubes one and two.”

Kramer, Fire-control officer, ordered, “Torpedo room, Fire-control. Make ready tubes one and two. Stand by to open outer doors.”

Moments later the torpedo room confirmed the order and Kramer relayed it to Deacon. “Captain, tubes one and two ready in all respects.”

“Very well, Fire-control. Firing point procedures on Master One.”

The BSY-2 team and fire-control coordinator already had a TMA solution on the Kilo.

Kramer reported, “Target bearing zero-four-zero, course one-seven-zero. Speed two knots. Range sixty-five hundred yards.”

Deacon pictured the situation topside: A virtual traffic jam, and with no way to duke it out with the Kilo in private. A 21-inch Mk-48 ADCAP torpedo carried a 295-kilogram warhead of PBXN-103. If they sank that Chinese Kilo, the explosion would be felt in Beijing and for sure would rock Washington, D.C.

“Very well,” Deacon said. “Stand by—”

“Conn, Sonar.”

Deacon opened the mike. “What’s up now, Chief?”

“We’ve picked up a pair of diesel engines. Pretty sure it’s that junk what belongs to the drug-lord, Fat.”

“She’s underway?”

“Trying to confirm it, sir, busy up there.”

“Jesus.”

Deacon waited. A minute later the sonar chief said, “Sir, we have the White Dragon — Sierra Two — underway at five knots, bearing zero-seven-seven. Course three-one-zero. Range six thousand yards. She’s standing out of the island channel.”

“Shit. Comms.”

“Sir?”

“Send to Scott: ‘Report your status. We confirm White Dragon underway. Is Fat under your control? Advise action re White Dragon.’ Copy ASDS and SRO.”

Deacon glanced at Kramer in Fire-control Alley. The troubled look on the exec’s face confirmed what Deacon already suspected: The situation ashore and at sea was on the brink of spinning out of control.

“Watch it! Watch it!” Jefferson warned

Van Kirk had discovered a six-by-six-foot shaft sunk into the living rock under the villa, hidden under a false section of floor inside an enormous clothes closet in Fat’s bedroom. As Van Kirk carefully raised the section of floor, gunfire erupted from a shooter armed with an AK-47 and hiding down in the shaft.

Van Kirk dropped the bullet-splintered cover and rolled away from the shaft’s opening. “There’s a fuckin’ rat down there!” He kicked the cover aside, poked a Remington 12-gauge into the opening, and fired, the blasts drumming their ears. Someone down in the hole screamed in pain. They heard a dropped weapon clattering down the shaft, heard it hit bottom, then silence.

Caserta inched toward the opening.

“Careful,” Van Kirk said. “He might be playing possum.”