Red Shark

“Both engines ahead emergency speed! Hard left rudder!” Zemin barked orders as soon as he heard the countermeasure’s inbound Doppler and recognized what it was. The 688I had swung onto a collision course and gone to flank speed, now this. Is the American skipper crazy, or did I underestimate him? Zemin thought to himself.

Zemin’s worried fire-control coordinator said, “Comrade Captain, I have a profile and can confirm a U.S. AN/SLQ-30 in the water!”

Zemin, leaning into the turn, noted on the pit log the Kilo’s rapid acceleration to twenty-two knots. Not enough to outrun the decoy but enough to ward off a full-speed collision with it. “Range to U.S. countermeasure?”

“Under three thousand yards, sir.”

“Stand by to fire a decoy. Stand by engine orders.”

The first officer threw switch blocks to energize the Kilo’s sail-mounted decoy launch tube assembly with compressed air. “Ready, sir.”

“Launch number one.”

“Where’d he go?” Deacon said.

“Conn, Sonar. Lost him behind that screen of bubbles from his decoy. He must have gone to creep.”

“Let’s hope he got our message and cleared the hell out. So much for having brass balls. So where’s that Thirty of ours?”

“Don’t hear it, sir. It must have been seduced by his decoy.”

“Too bad. Where’s Sierra Two, White Dragon?”

“Bearing two-one-zero, range fifteen thousand yards. She’s flat out at ten knots on base course two-nine-zero.”

“Tell me you still have the mini-sub.”

“Yes, sir, I do. I’m on her beacon and she’s on ours.”

“Very well. All stop. Engage hover. Standby recovery evolution. Rus.”

“Sir?”

“Let’s get Scott and his people aboard. And try not to get their feet wet.”

23

The Reno, off Matsu Shan

Scott floated on a wave of exhaustion, only half-conscious of his surroundings: voices, the familiar smells of machinery and ozone. He felt cold and wet, and a part of him hurt.

Someone said, “Sir, let me take a look at this.”

Scott felt the Reno’s chief corpsman poking at his hand. “What’s wrong?”

“That’s what I want to find out.”

Scott was in Deacon’s stateroom, stripped to his skivvies, aware that he smelled bad and that his left hand was bloody. He remembered tumbling through the ASDS’s lock-in/lock-out chamber into the Reno. They’d eased Ramos’s body out the hatch, then helped a wounded Van Kirk. The rest of the SEALs had followed with their gear.

“Where’s Jefferson?” Scott said.

“Right here,” he said from the passageway, looking over Deacon’s shoulder into the tiny stateroom.

“How’s Van Kirk?”

“He’s okay,” said the doc.

“What about the others?”

“They’re looking after Ramos and cleaning up,” Jefferson said.

“Ramos’s affects, we’ll need a report…”

Deacon handed Scott a steaming cup of coffee. “There’s a lot to cover, but first you should know we’re trailing the White Dragon. She’s on a heading for Mainland China. We’ve also got a contact — faint, but a contact — on the Kilo trailing us. We can take them both out if we have to. It’s your call.”

Scott winced. Doc had shot Scott’s hand with anesthetic, and he started to dress a wound that Scott couldn’t recollect receiving. While the doc stitched, Deacon rattled off the information Fire-control had on both targets.

“Let’s get Radford on the horn,” Scott said. “I don’t mind starting a war with the Chinese, but let’s at least get his blessing before we do.”

Finished stitching, Doc departed. Deacon headed for the control room, but Jefferson stayed put. He waited a beat, then said, “Jake… what I said before, that it takes a shooter to lead a shooter…”

Scott, mute, his gaze planted on Jefferson, stepped into a pair of rumpled khakis. Jefferson, eyes cast down, ran a hand over his mouth. “Look, Skipper, what I’m trying to say is that…” He looked up. “Back on Matsu Shan, you were a hell of a shooter. The others, too, they saw what you did.”