Kilo Class

“Sir, I thought we’d come to the plate with a blue whale waving his dick,” replied the Lieutenant Commander with mock seriousness.

“Excellent,” replied Boomer, with equal mock seriousness. “Please proceed.”

Lieutenant Commander Krause now spoke seriously to Boomer Dunning. “Sir, has anyone given much thought to what precisely K-10 is doing down here?”

“Same as us, I guess,” said Boomer. “Trying to find out what the Taiwanese are up to and where…if they don’t already know.”

“You actually think the Chinese know where they are, sir?”

“No. Not really, Mike. But let me put it this way. Just think how we found out the little that we know — a billion-to-one sighting of a periscope last February and the outlandish disappearance of the Cuttyhunk. Both are kinda fluky, not real intelligence.

“Then we get some half-assed report of a hotshot nuclear professor being seen in some remote submarine dockyard near Taipei, and Arnold Morgan puts two and two together and makes about a zillion. Except that he may very well be right. My point is that we have not tackled this project with any serious determination, and yet we have damned nearly walked right in the front door.

^{KERGUELEN APPROACHES.}

Columbia slewed around. The bearing was resolved at 053…definite engine lines. “Hell, sir,…the computer says right here we got the engines of a goddamned Kilo.”

“Can you imagine how much more the Chinese must know? They have about a million spies in Taiwan for a start, and they watch every move that nation makes. If they don’t know professionally more than we know accidentally, I’d be amazed. And here comes their newest Kilo…you think it’s a tour ship? Nossir…that baby is here on business…and I would not be in any way surprised if it had come to do our dirty work for us. What’s more, we’re gonna let him.”

“We’re about ten thousand yards northwest of the Kilo’s projected track. He’s about eight miles out right now.”

“Okay. Come right…050. I intend to remain on a northeast-southwest patrol line, ten thousand yards clear.”

The Kilo came on at a steady seven and a half knots, driving forward under the command of Captain Kan Yu- fang, holding her on course 237.

An hour later, the Chinese submarine passed, at periscope depth, still snorkeling, her intake valve jutting starkly but unseen into the bright moonlight, which had, unusually, cast a cold path on the long, black ocean swells. Kan Yu-fang suspected nothing.

The Americans followed for six miles, keeping way out until the Kilo stopped snorkeling…and settled into a lazy patrolling pattern at around three knots, as if on a racetrack.

“She seems to be just waiting, sir,” said Lieutenant Ramsden.

“If she is, she’s waiting for the same thing we are,” said Boomer. “Let’s face it, the departure of the Hai Lung from Taiwan is just about public. We all knew that. The eleven-week cycle, before she returns home, is also pretty public. If we know, without even trying much, she’s due in Kerguelen sometime around November 18, tomorrow — then I guess the Chinese know the same thing. And their view of the situation is more urgent than ours — if Taiwan is going to throw a nuclear weapon at someone, it’s gonna be them, not us.”

“You mean, sir,” said Lieutenant Ramsden thoughtfully, “that the Kilo is waiting to follow the Hai Lung inshore, just like we are.”

“That’s my reading,” replied the CO. “How about you, Jerry? Mike?”

“You got my vote,” replied the sonar boss.

“And mine,” added the XO.

“Just make sure that whale dick keeps working,” said Boomer. “Don’t wanna lose ’em. Don’t wanna get caught either.”

The Kilo continued on her pattern, back and forth all day. Lieutenant Commander Curran occasionally pinged them, with various deep-ocean sounds, which were recognized as fish by the Chinese sonar operator. All the while, Boomer Dunning’s team kept an iron grip on the precise whereabouts of the Russian-built boat. The nature of the slow-motion chase meant Columbia must avoid passive detection by the Kilo yet give herself the best chance of catching the approaching Taiwanese submarine. Jerry Curran’s crafty kit was yet another of his trump cards.

Just as the daylight began to fade, Bobby Ramsden called urgently from the main screen. It was 2148.

“Conn…sonar…I have something on the towed array, sir…just a faint mark on the trace.”

For the second time in less than twenty-four hours Columbia swung around allowing the towed array to reveal if the rise in level was to port or starboard. There were no surprises when Lieutenant Ramsden called again.

“Designated track twenty-seven. Bearing 045. Probably engine lines…checking machinery profiles.”

There was total silence in the attack area except from the sonar operator, whose fingers now flew over the computer keys.

“Conn…sonar…Looks like the Dutch example we were given…no other profiles come anywhere near it.”

The atmosphere in Columbia moved from tense anticipation to careful, watchful, determined. Not a phrase was uttered. In the time-honored mode of submarine warfare no one said anything unless it was critical, like “SHOOT.”

But Columbia was not authorized to shoot anything, and for more than an hour they watched silently as the Hai Lung moved closer, running through the water at seven knots, snorkeling in the southern dark. She passed them eight thousand yards distant. Lieutenant Commander Curran confirmed that they were in position to track and follow both the Kilo and the Hai Lung.

At 2305, Captain Kan began to speed up. He accelerated in behind the Taiwanese some two miles astern, unaware that five miles off his own stern there was a US nuclear boat watching his every move. Only Boomer Dunning and his team were aware of the existence of all three submarines. The Taiwanese knew of only one, themselves. The Chinese of two.

The three submarines made for an odd sort of convoy, and the leader, the Hai Lung, held course 225 southwest, making seven knots snorkeling. She was heading direct for Choiseul Bay. Along with her pursuers. They would run through these dark, turbulent seas throughout the night while Lieutenant Commander Curran occasionally pinged them with his fish-disguised active sonar. Just to keep their distance.

In the early evening Columbia crossed the wide, rough seaway at the head of the Golfe des Baleiniers and headed due west in three hundred feet of water toward Choiseul. The Taiwanese captain was more acquainted with the territory than either Captain Kan or Boomer Dunning, and the Hai Lung took a more southern route toward Cox’s Rock. It was the precise direction of the periscope Boomer and Bill Baldridge had spotted from the deck of Yonder back in February.

Now running at periscope depth in the calmer water, the Taiwanese submarine crossed Choiseul Bay and reached the estuary of Baie Blanche, followed by the Chinese Kilo two miles astern.

Boomer had closed in to three miles inside the curved Kerguelen coastline. And the CO found himself thinking about the first time he had come here. And he thought, too, about his crewmate on Yonder, and the fun they had all had in May when the droll Kansan rancher had married his Laura at last, in the presence of the President of the United States.

For no apparent reason he wished that Bill was here now; he felt chilled suddenly and alone, and he needed a friend, not a dozen colleagues. But he had only fleeting seconds for reflections. The Hai Lung was making five knots through the wide bay and disappeared down the Baie Blanche chased by a boatload of malicious Chinese. At least Boomer assumed they were malicious.

Boomer ordered Columbia to press on, to keep following the Kilo, at a range of about two miles. None of the passive sonar worked very well inshore, but pursuit was simple, thanks to their brilliant active sonar. Columbia slotted in behind, and the Hai Lung continued its carefree journey at the head of the convoy, still making seven knots, carrying the uranium and presumably Professor Liao Lee all the way down Baie Blanche. They ran on for ten miles, oblivious of both the Kilo and the American nuclear submarine that tracked them both. Boomer took one look through the periscope on the gentle left-hand bend at