Red Shark

“That his tonal you have there, Chief?” asked Scott.

“Yes, sir, it is. And I’m willing to bet it’s comin’ from the electric generators and shafting of a Kilo 636. The acoustic spectrum analyzer’s huntin’ for a match. Earlier we had a couple of biologicals and a spit-kit that sounded like a Kilo fadin’ in and out. He’s been damn hard to pin down.”

Scott knew how quiet Kilo 636s were: 242 feet long and displacing 2,350 tons, a 636 with AIP was as quiet submerged as an Improved Los Angeles — class submarine like the Reno, maybe even quieter. Equipped with advanced Klub antiship missiles, wake-homing torpedoes, and multiple-targeting electronic fire control systems, a 636 would be a formidable opponent, especially in littoral waters, where large nuclear submarines like the Reno were often at a disadvantage. And right now a Kilo belonging to China’s PLAN might be lurking close by the Reno, perhaps even tracking her.

Scott knew that identifying the sound, whether it was a sub or just phantom noise, boiled down to an arcane mix of art and science and a sonarman’s skill at picking out the specific narrowband frequency from all the background clutter. And though the analyzer made the task easier, it was not foolproof. Sometimes even experts could be fooled into thinking a cooing whale was the slowly turning propeller on a submarine.

As the task of Target Motion Analysis — TMA — continued, time counted down to the ASDS’s liftoff from the Reno.

Jefferson bit his lip. “I’m thinking we’re fucked if that’s a Chinese sub and he hears us. Our window for insertion won’t stay open long.”

Scott said, “If he hears us we’ll have to deal with him.”

Jefferson’s grip on Scott’s arm was like a steel vise. “ ‘Deal with him?’ Jesus Christ, you mean sink him?”

“That’s up to the skipper.”

“What, and start a war with the Chinese? Are you nuts?”

Scott pulled his arm away. “Better tell the pilot and copilot to stand down, the others, too, until we get this situation under control.”

Jefferson, shaking his head, headed aft, to the compartment from which the ASDS was accessed via its lock-in/lock-out chamber mated to the Reno’s hull and after hatch.

“How are we doing, Chief?” said Deacon.

The tone line on the upper monitor had brightened, while on the lower monitor the sound’s intensity and frequency showed an increase.

“Got a turn count, Captain,” said the chief, after narrowing the acoustic search and weighing the evidence. “Indicates a speed of three knots. I’d say for sure we got us a PLAN Kilo 636.”

Aboard the Kilo, Captain Deng Zemin donned headphones and listened to a faint pulsing hiss, like an asthmatic’s labored breathing. As he listened, he studied the two MGK Rubikon sonar monitors on which a weak green blip, looking like one from an EKG hooked to a dying man, crept across the screen. Zemin shelved his lower lip: too weak to identify. He narrowed his eyes as if doing it would sharpen his hearing. Maybe what he heard was an American Los Angeles — class submarine. Then again, maybe not. He switched channels and heard the guttural boom of a pair of twin diesel engines heading due north. Fat’s White Dragon. Where to now?

The Rubikon’s audio spectrum analyzer sifted what it had collected, then recycled. An analyzed tone line appeared on the monitor and under it, in flashing red: UNDETERMINED.

The senior sonarman pointed to it. “Comrade Captain.”