Red Shark

“Indeed,” Radford interjected. “Then I’ll want Ms. Kida and her people to view it and see what, if anything, they can determine. They have, as you know, first-rate computer software that might wring something of value from it.”

“And how do we get the DVD into Ms. Kida’s hands?” Scott asked.

“When your op is secure, you will break off and return immediately to Yokosuka.”

Radford was referring to the big base on Honshu, south of Tokyo, home of the U.S. Navy Seventh Fleet.

“After our people in Yokosuka have looked at the disc, Scott, you and Ms. Kida will deliver it to the Japan Defense Intelligence Headquarters in Tokyo.”

Scott saw Fumiko’s look soften. He was quite sure that he saw a hint of a smile on her lips as the video conference ended.

“That’s her, that’s Fat’s junk.” Deacon turned the periscope over to Scott, who had been watching an image of the White Dragon on the slaved video monitor. Now, for real, he saw in infrared the junk’s stubby outline and the glowing heat blooms from her twin diesels.

“I concur,” Scott said.

Deacon ordered, “Down scope. Clear baffles to port.”

“Clear baffles to port, aye.”

The Reno turned ninety degrees left to make sure no other ships, especially the Kilo, had crept up from astern.

“Sonar, Conn, report all contacts,” Deacon commanded.

“Conn, Sonar, report all contacts, aye,” responded the sonar supervisor. After a short delay he said, “I have four contacts, Sierra One through Four. I have Sierra One, the Kilo, bearing one-three-zero.”

The Kilo had approached from the southeast. That her skipper had kept his distance from the Reno convinced Deacon that the AN/SLQ-30 countermeasure had sent the warning he’d intended.

“Any commercials?” Deacon asked.

“Sir, I have Sierra Three and Four. Both are single-screw commercial vessels.” Sonar read their bearings, which Deacon noted as the quartermaster plotted their positions on the navigation chart.

“White Dragon?”

“Sir, I report Sierra Two, the White Dragon, making turns for ten knots. Bearing zero-four-two.”

“Very well, let’s take care of business,” Deacon said.

Scott knew what was going through Deacon’s head, that he had never fired a live warshot at a target other than in a training exercise and that there were people aboard the White Dragon who would be killed. Scott had once had similar thoughts about firing on one of Kim Jong-il’s destroyers bearing down on the Chicago, off the North Korean coast, but that had been another world and another mission. When it had come time to fire torpedoes, Scott hadn’t hesitated. Training made all the difference: When your own life, the lives of your crew, and a mission were on the line, a sub skipper never hesitated to pull the trigger.

“Firing point procedures on Sierra Two, stand by tubes one and two.”

Scott knew that two wire-guided Mk-48s fired down the same track, nose to tail, might home in on each other instead of the intended target and detonate prematurely. Scott agreed with Deacon that it was a risky tactic, and that two Mk-48 ADCAPs were overkill against a wooden-hulled junk, but it would ensure that no one aboard would survive to tell what had happened; at the same time, it would destroy whatever spy material Fat had swept out of the villa.

“Flood tubes, open outer doors,” Deacon ordered.

Kramer confirmed Deacon’s order and added, “Captain, got a good firing solution.” He rattled off the target’s course, speed, and range.

“Very well,” said Deacon. “Up scope.”