Kilo Class

For Boomer this was the moment of which he had reminded his superiors back in the Pentagon. The two submarines are close together. And right now sonar can’t separate them. “I don’t want to warn one by shooting the other,” he murmured, “because if the sonofabitch gets loose he’ll announce something to the whole world.”

He spoke his thoughts to himself. They were clear in his racing mind. “I want them both at once, or within thirty seconds of each other. So I’ll let ’em come by a bit until I get sonar separation. But I’m a bit too close off track, and I can’t tell how long I’ve got before they stop snorkeling and go silent. I give them till 0600 though.”

Boomer ordered again, right standard rudder. “Steer 080. Lemme know the instant you can separate the contacts for simultaneous attack with two Mk 48’s.”

“Sonar, aye.”

0508: “Captain, sonar. I have two contacts. Tracks 2307 and 2310 now bearing 011 and 014.”

“Captain, aye. Take 2307 with number one weapon, and 2310 with number two. I want passive approach, slow speed until reaching one thousand yards, then go shallow and active on both. I’m gonna turn and point before firing.”

“Weapons, aye.”

“Computer, Captain, set same course and speed for 2310. I think they’re roughly in line ahead. Put them two thousand yards apart.”

“Computer, aye. SET.”

Boomer Dunning reminded himself to stay cool. “I’ve got a ton of time,” he muttered. “Get comfortable off track before you turn back in. Wait till we get in toward their stern arcs — less chance they’ll hear the launch transients. Maybe I should speed it all up a bit by turning back along their track nine minutes from now. That’ll give me another fifteen hundred yards clear to the east, and into their stern arcs quicker.”

0517: “Captain, sonar, 2307 bearing 341, 2310 bearing 352. Both in high frequency. Good aural. Good bearings. No change.”

“Left standard rudder. Steer 030. I shall turn toward eleven minutes from now, to fire.”

0527: “Captain, sonar, 2307 bearing 265, 2310 bearing 281. No change.”

“Captain, computer tracking right on, sir.”

0528: “Left standard rudder, steer 270. STAND BY ONE AND TWO TUBES.”

0530: “Steady on 270, sir.”

“FIRE!”

For the second time in her life Columbia shuddered as her big Mk 48 ADCAPs arrowed out into the ocean in search of a Russian-built submarine.

“Number one tube fired.”

“Number two tube fired.”

“Both weapons under guidance, Captain.”

0536: “First weapon one thousand yards from 2307…SWITCHING TO ACTIVE HOMING…SHALLOW DEPTH… HIGH SPEED.”

Boomer heard the same report called for weapon two, then the warning he expected. “Weapons masking target…still holding…no change.”

“Captain, aye.”

“First weapon contact active, sir.”

“Release first weapon on 2307.”

“Second weapon contact active, sir.”

“RELEASE!”

Columbia’s two torpedoes smashed home within seconds of each other at 0537, shortly before first light on the morning of January 9. A gaping hole was blown into each of the Chinese Kilos and a rush of icy water flooded the new hulls and dragged them two miles to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. Lonely, terrible echoes from the explosions rang back to the American submarine’s sonars for almost a minute. The Chinese weapons operators had not been sufficiently swift of thought to fire back.

Death came suddenly to the hundred crew members. Neither ship would ever be seen again. The Kilos were invisible when they were hit, and would remain so for all of time. It would take another day and a half before their masters in China realized there might have been an accident.

For Commander Dunning there was nothing personal about it. He was ice cool in the face of so much death, a man who had done it before and would do it again if necessary. He was a man who recognized the needs of his country and would execute them to the letter. If required he was perfectly prepared to die in the attempt. The United States Navy breeds such men for such tasks.

Boomer took Columbia to the surface to search for any trace of the Kilos or their crew. He went up to the bridge for the short journey, and he waited for the sun to rise from out of the eastern Atlantic. He could see for himself that there was nothing but a small oil slick that gave any hint of what had transpired moments earlier.

He could, perhaps, have thought about it more deeply. But he was not paid to have philosophical thoughts. He was a loyal servant to the government of the United States. He was trained to carry out the bidding of his superiors. And that was what he had done.

Boomer accessed the satellite, sent his “mission completed” signal to SUBLANT, and ordered Columbia back into the deep and home to New London.

Two down. Five to go.

4

A biting northwester was sweeping through the Gate of Supreme Harmony in the small hours of January 12, bringing the first snow of winter to the great rooftops of the Forbidden City, guardian for centuries of the Dragon Throne. The broad moat of the Golden Water Stream beyond the huge gate was frozen solid. Tiananmen Square was silent under a four-inch carpet of snow. It was almost two o’clock in the morning. The City of Beijing slept. Nearly.

To the west of the square, a medium-size, second-floor conference room deep inside the colossal Great Hall of the People was filled with cigarette smoke from the endless chain-smoking of the tall, stooped figure of the Paramount Ruler of China, on whose behalf eight armed guards patrolled the outside corridors.

Before him, at the long table, which took up most of the room, sat the most powerful men in the country, including the General Secretary of the Communist Party, whose great office also entitled him to chair the Military Affairs Commission, paymasters to the People’s Liberation Army — and Navy. The Chief of General Staff, Qiao Jiyun, was seated next to him. At the far end of the table sat the High Command of the Chinese Navy, including Political Commissar Vice-Admiral Yang Zhenying, and three Deputy Commanders in Chief: Vice Admirals Xue Qing, Pheng Lu Dong, and Zhi-Heng Tan, who spoke quietly together. The Chief of the Naval Staff, Vice-Admiral Sang Ye, had arrived in the last hour from Shanghai. The East Sea Fleet Commander, Vice Admiral Yibo Yunsheng, had been there all day, as had the Commander of the South Sea Fleet, Vice Admiral Zu Jicai, from Fleet Headquarters, Zhanjiang. The mood was somber and reflective, save for one man.

Admiral Zhang Yushu, the uniformed Commander in Chief of the People’s Liberation Army-Navy (PLAN), was seething. He could not bring himself to sit down, and he paced up and down the thin stretch of blue carpet alongside the mighty polished table.

He seemed to be fighting for control, enunciating his words carefully and politely. Too politely, as if trying to teach algebra to a bloodthirsty emperor’s demonically stupid son. “It is beyond credibility,” he was saying. “Quite beyond any form of credibility. They have been out of communication for three days. That is impossible. One day is suspicious. Two is unheard of. Three is trouble. That would, gentlemen, be the case for just one, but we are dealing with two. Is anyone suggesting that a simultaneous disaster could have been an accident?”

“Ah, Admiral Zhang,” ventured Zu Jicai. “Perhaps they collided under the water.”

“BUT THEY WERE BOTH GOING IN THE SAME DIRECTION,” roared Zhang contemptuously, all further attempts at control slipping from him. “ONE OF THEM MUST HAVE SURVIVED AT LEAST LONG ENOUGH TO GET A MESSAGE AWAY. CAN’T ANYONE SEE THAT?” And then, to the head of the table, a discreet bow. “Forgive me, sir.