Red Shark

The first officer swung into action. The stubby, teardrop-shaped sub sheared away from the plodding White Dragon and sprinted north.

“We will see what this powder merchant, Fat, is up to,” said Zemin.

10

Northwest of Sakishima Gunto

Scott finished a workout, then showered. Dressed in fresh cammies, he sat at the small folding desk in his stateroom and pondered the mission. Jefferson was trouble. The man wanted to run the operation himself and didn’t want someone looking over his shoulder, perhaps believing that Radford lacked confidence in him by assigning Scott to the mission. Bad enough he had to deal with Jefferson’s bruised ego, Scott feared there was little time left to figure out what the NKs were up to. Were Marshal Jin and his henchman bent on launching nuclear weapons? If they did, U.S. Trident SSBNs would launch nuclear-tipped missiles against North Korea. It’s what we all train for, Scott thought, but you can’t train for the possibility that a maniacal general in North Korea will overthrow an equally maniacal dictator.

He thought about Tracy in Tokyo. What if she knew? Would she leave her toy, Rick, and come home? If she did, could they patch things up? Why did he care if he didn’t need her anymore?

The sound-powered phone chirped.

“Scott.”

Sam Deacon said, “We’re just about at point X-ray. Thought you’d want to know.”

“I’ll be right up.”

Scott found Deacon, Kramer, Jefferson, and the quartermaster of the watch huddled over one of the plotting tables in the control room.

Jefferson made room, then pointed to two marks penciled on the chart east of Taiwan. “Captain says we’re here and that X-ray is there.” X-ray was a prearranged holding box twenty miles northeast of Matsu Shan.

Deacon said, “We’ll have you in position to kick out at twenty-two hundred.”

Eight hours to go, Scott calculated. So far it was running like clockwork. “How’s the traffic upstairs?”

“Sir, like Times Square,” answered the quartermaster. “We’re tracking close to twenty targets.”

Ships of all sizes entering and departing Taiwanese ports posed a potential hazard to the Reno. To prevent detection and to avoid a possible collision as she crept silently toward X-ray, Deacon had ordered a depth of 500 feet.

Deacon said, “You should be launched by twenty-two-thirty latest.”

Scott turned to Jefferson. “Did you pre-flight the mini-sub?”

“Checked out and ready to go. We’ll run a final pre-flight, say, an hour before we kick out.” He came upright from the chart table and stretched. “How about that brief from the old man. About time, isn’t it?”

Radford was due on the RDT net in fifteen minutes. Scott hoped that Fumiko would join in so he’d have a chance to see her one more time before shoving off.

“Skipper, can we pipe the conference into the control room?” Scott asked. He pointed to an auxiliary video monitor rigged over the starboard plotting table. “I’d like you to sit in so you know what’s what in case we need backup later.”

Jefferson reacted. “No way…. Sorry Captain, no offense.” He jerked a thumb at the officers and men on watch in the control room. “These people aren’t cleared for this conference.”

Scott said, “Let me worry about that. I want Captain Deacon in the loop. He and his crew got us here and they’ve got to get us home.”

“I said they’re not cleared—”

Scott gave Jefferson a flinty look. “I heard what you said.”

Jefferson and Scott looked at each other. After a long moment, Jefferson nodded and said no more.

Deacon tugged his nose while Kramer said, “Sir, we can patch the conference through to this monitor.”

“Do it,” said Scott.

Radford’s normally rocky mien looked haggard. Fumiko appeared on the other half of the split-screen looking alert and polished.

“General, I’ve asked Captain Deacon to be present for this update,” said Scott.