U.S.S. Seawolf

Fifteen minutes later, the destroyers, frigates and patrol ships came thundering past, fanning out, one by one, powering south out to the datum and their search positions. Efficient Russian-made sonobuoys had already been dropped into the water, forming a silent acoustic barrier for anyone trying to escape south without detection.

“I’m kinda glad we’re not in the middle of all that shit,” said Judd Crocker. “Mighta been pretty damn tricky getting out of there.”

The CO was on top of his game right now. As soon as they were detected, he had set his escape course to the north, and retired to the wardroom for breakfast. And there, over a sumptuous plate of eggs, bacon, sausage and hash browns, he had committed the entire contents of the photographs to memory. He learned every dimension of the Xia, every line of her contours, just in case they should be caught, in case they should lose the ship, and the photographs. In case he should be one of the survivors.

Later in the day he would ask Einstein to commit the details to memory as well, and possibly Linus Clarke. That way they had a fair chance of bringing home the other bacon, even if things went bad for them. He realized that capture might mean a highly unpleasant interrogation by Admiral Zhang’s men, but he doubted the Chinese would execute them.

He thought that the Chinese government might be prepared to infuriate the Pentagon by “accidentally” whacking the colossally expensive American submarine. But they would probably not wish to take the American Chiefs of Staff to the brink by putting a hundred men to death, in what might be construed by the world community as cold-blooded murder.

Anyway, if he, Judd Crocker, lived, the Pentagon would have intricate details of the precise size of the Xia III, and the ICBMs she carried. And that’s what mattered. “Meanwhile, the Chinks are still conducting their search resolutely to the south, the wrong way,” Judd chuckled. “Fuck ’em.”

As far as he was concerned, the photographic mission on the Xia was over, and he considered it a job well done. He now intended to ease Seawolf slowly away from the ensuing uproar to the south and quietly access the satellite for signals. He turned the ship back toward Taiwan and selected a southeasterly course toward water his charts told him was about 360 feet deep. Then he could run 200 feet below the surface, carefully making around 15 knots away from Admiral Zu Jicai’s large search party. By midafternoon they’d be more than 60 miles away, in lonely deep water. All they had to do was to stay dived and be careful, and trust the satellites to find the big new Luhai-class destroyer for the second half of their mission. Meanwhile, they’d just prowl, softly.

As it turned out, the new satellite message from the U.S. was rather more detailed than Judd had anticipated. The 6,000-ton gas turbine Luhai had been spotted, moored alongside at the naval base in Guangzhou, the old south China trading city of Canton. This made her nearly impregnable, because the port of Canton lies 70 miles up the wide and furiously busy Pearl River Delta, which in turn is protected by a myriad of islands, including Hong Kong and Macao.

There was no possibility of going up there to spy on a heavily guarded destroyer, so Judd Crocker decided to go to bed for a couple of hours and allow Linus to steer the ship clear of the local manhunt, the failure of which was currently driving Admiral Zhang Yushu almost mad with frustration. He kept telephoning Admiral Zu and saying the same thing: “That submarine must be out there.…Only a madman could have gone back inshore.…It has to be there…and it must be found.”

But as the day had worn on and their efforts came to nothing, even Zhang was changing his tune. “A madman or a submarine genius,” was his latest verdict.

Seawolf’s course was adjusted easterly, because this would take them closer to the Canton Roads, north of which, on the left-hand side of the river, south of the People’s Bridge, was moored the Luhai. She’d plainly have to leave sometime.

Clarke took over the conn shortly after midday, hit the sack for three hours at 1600, then came back at 2000, thinking that this was, one way and another, a hell of a way to spend a national holiday.

Judd Crocker had dinner that night with Lt. Commander Rothstein, but before they were able to tackle some serious plates of apple pie and ice cream, there was a call from the conn for the captain, and when he arrived in the control room, he found Linus Clarke, who sounded concerned.

“We’ve had some pretty decent cover for the past hour and a half,” said the lieutenant commander. “There was a fleet of about eight local junks, fishing, right off our starboard quarter. They moved away a while ago, and it was all quiet. But I suddenly got this light.…I’ve been watching it for about twenty minutes, sir. I think it could be coming out from Canton. It’s a single red light on a steady bearing…sonars have been tracking him, classified as a Luda DDG. We have his signature, and right now he’s making about twenty-five knots. Looks like he’ll pass close west of us. He might just be going along the coast…but he has no other contact, just his port running light. Thought you might want to take a look.”

“Yes, I would. Thanks, Linus…here, lemme have a peep.” And for a few moments, Captain Crocker stared through the periscope.

“Hmmmm. Kinda weird. Known warship. High speed. Middle of the night. No radars on…better watch him… okay, Officer of the Deck…I’m gonna open the range a bit. If he has no radar at that speed, he’s blind.”

Judd pondered. “ELINT-Captain — you got any radars active out there?”

“No, Captain. Nothing. Certainly no threat radars. Only that old Russian shore-based system which can pick up our masts in calm water at twenty miles. Anyway, even if there was, it’s no threat to us…we’re more than thirty miles out even from the offshore islands.”

Captain: “You sure this Luda’s characteristics are identical in all respects to the one in our books?”

“Yessir. But I can check again…checking right now, sir…”

The red light kept coming, and Judd kept watching, until eventually ELINT returned.

“Sir, now that we look more closely, that radar signature is a bit different. There’s a degree of fuzziness on the PRF. It’s either off-line, or they’ve modified. But I’m still certain it’s the land-based one we know about.”

The captain kept checking through the glass, watching for the red light, when suddenly, to his horror, it turned to green and red, which meant he was now seeing both running lights. The Chinese warship was, incredibly, steaming straight toward him in the pitch dark, from about 1,000 yards, on the calm ocean.

“Captain-Sonar. Contact has reduced speed. He now has turns for twelve knots. Active short-range sonar transmissions on the bearing. Transmission interval fifteen hundred yards.”

Judd Crocker knew what the damned thing looked like. And he knew that the 3,500-tonner, with its sharp, rising steel bow, could put Seawolf on the bottom if it was determined to ram. He had no idea how the Luda knew they were there, but he knew how quickly he had to move…he had roughly 60 seconds to get deep to avoid collision.

“THIS GUY’S CLOSE ABOARD,” he snapped to Linus. “HEADING STRAIGHT TOWARD…WE’RE GOING DEEP…TEN DOWN!! ALL AHEAD TWO-THIRDS TWO HUNDRED FEET…CHECK ALL MASTS RIGHT DOWN…RIG FOR COUNTERATTACK.”

The American submarine, now angling fast through the water, 10 degrees down from the horizontal, her mammoth turbines accelerating, was 100 feet below the surface in 30 seconds, 150 feet in 45 seconds.

“TWO HUNDRED FEET, SIR…”

“Captain-Sonar. We passed through a layer at ninety feet, sir, his old sonar will be virtually useless beyond a thousand yards…”

But Sonar’s words were almost drowned out by the outrageous roar of twin screws overhead, as the Luda came thundering past, right above, and started to fade astern. A few tightly held breaths were released.

But Judd Crocker’s main concern was the dreaded click-and-bang of a depth-charge attack. Naturally he kept these fears to himself.

But now the sonar room had detected a change, and Lieutenant Frank called: “She’s turning, sir…the Luda’s turning…I think she may be coming back. Transmission interval still fifteen hundred yards, sweeping. Not in contact.”

“Hope you’re right, Kyle. I’m staying deep and quiet…what’s your prediction for her sonar range in these conditions?”

“Captain-Sonar…range prediction above layer seventeen hundred plus yards to first surface reflection. Below layer twelve hundred at optimum evasion depth…that is one-forty feet.”