Red Phoenix

darned if I’m going to see anyone else walk away with the Oscar for best supporting role.”

There were chuckles at that, and Brown smiled. He half-suspected that, when the time came to haul down his admiral’s flag, he’d find that his power to move junior officers so easily to laughter would vanish along with his authority. In the meantime, however, he relished it.

He waited for the light laughter to fade and then continued, “Now, if we do our job right, we’re going to be attracting a lot of attention. A lot of hostile attention.” That sobered them up. “We’re going to get one chance at this, gentlemen. One chance. If we screw it up, we’re dead. A lot of our fellow sailors and Marines are dead. And a lot of U.S. and South Korean infantrymen and tankers are dead.”

Brown leaned forward on the lectern, towering over it. “So stay alert. Be ready for instant action. Remember that we’re at war and there aren’t any prizes for second place in this thing.”

He stepped back. “That’s all, gentlemen. Good luck and good hunting.”

JANUARY 15 — ABOARD KONSTANTIN DRIBINOV

Markov knew his officers thought he was behaving in a most unusual manner. They couldn’t understand why he’d had his tracking party working for nearly twenty-four hours — more than twice as long as needed for a normal approach. The Dribinov’s approach, however, was anything but normal. The normal way of doing things, he wanted to remind them, had nearly gotten them all killed the last time they’d closed with an American force. This time it would be different. Much different.

The submarine’s track on the chart looked like a series of loops, approaching the formation from the side, slowing as it closed and letting it steam past. Then as soon as the American ships vanished over the horizon, Markov would angle away and increase speed to run parallel with them again.

Koloskov, the political officer, looked the most worried of all. As the sub’s zampolit, his duties included ensuring the political awareness and reliability of every crewmember, including the captain. And Markov knew that his caution might look like cowardice to the inexperienced political officer. It might also look like foolishness to a professional naval officer.

Every officer aboard seemed sure that their captain was taking a terrible risk. They thought these constant sprints were consuming too much of the Dribinov’s available battery power. They were certainly contrary to the Red Navy’s standard diesel boat doctrines.

Three weeks ago, Markov would never even have considered ignoring doctrine. After all, his standard approaches during exercises had always been models of classic technique. The pattern was simple — position the Dribinov in front of its prey and ghost through the water at one or two knots, just enough speed to control depth and direction. Use any available layer of colder water, a thermocline, to help block enemy sonar. And when the enemy vessels come within point-blank range, fire a spread of homing torpedoes and escape in the ensuing confusion. The classic approach had a single significant edge over other ways of doing the same thing — it used scarcely any battery power, leaving plenty of charge available for high-speed evasive maneuvering.

This time, though, Markov was using all his energy in ten- and twelve-knots bursts. He glanced at the charge indicator. It showed fifty-eight percent, and they were pulling away from the American task force again.

Out of the corner of his eye Markov saw the political officer following his gaze. “Don’t worry, comrade, our power is being well spent. That was our last sensor run. Next time we will attack. Look here.” He tapped the chart, enticing the man over.

Besides the looping line showing the sub’s track, the chart was covered with hundreds of other lines radiating out from the task force. Markov regarded the sheet with admiration, almost with love. The information it contained showed both a sleepless night’s work and the key to victory.

“We’ve been tracking the American formation for almost a full day now, and we’ve taken hundreds of sonar bearings to his ships, his helicopters, his sonobuoys. Our task has been simplified because he must use active sonar to find us, while we can remain passive and plot the direction of his pinging.” Markov smiled at his political officer. “So you see, Koloskov, I now know his formation, his patrol patterns, even where his patrol aircraft lay their sonobuoy lines.”

Markov pulled out a clean sheet of paper with an array of different-sized dots drawn on it. “Here is what we think his formation looks like. Valuable units in the center, escorts surrounding them. Here is a Spruance-class destroyer, here is a Knox-class frigate, and so on. I have our tactical team up plotting the exact sonar performance of each class, based on the water conditions.”

He smiled wider. “More importantly, I have found a hole in his screen. See this Knox-class frigate? It is not moving randomly. It always moves in the same pattern within its zone. Never become predictable, Comrade Koloskov.”

Almost smashing his fist on the plotting table, Markov said, “That’s where we will penetrate their screen. Once inside it, they’ll never find us, not until it is too late.”

ABOARD USS CONSTELLATION

The admiral checked the plot with the ASW coordinator. “Anything shaking out there, Tim?”

“No sir, nothing right now. Not even a trace.”

Brown wished that was reassuring. “That doesn’t mean there’s nobody out there.” He raised his voice, addressing the whole room. “Let’s stay sharp, people. I doubt the NKs are going to let us have anything for free.”

ABOARD KONSTANTIN DRIBINOV

The boat had been at battle stations for three hours now. The abysmal air circulation had become even worse with all the fans turned off. Water vapor from the thickening air condensed on Dribinov’s ice-cold hull and dribbled down bulkheads.

The strictest silent routine was in effect. Every piece of nonessential equipment had been turned off, both to reduce noise and to conserve electricity. Every crewmember not actively manning a post was in his bunk.

Quieter than a school of fish, quieter than the water around it, the Dribinov swam to intercept a moving spot in the ocean. Gliding just above the ocean bottom, the sub kept its bow toward the enemy ships, reducing the area available for sound impulses to bounce off.

Above it, the American task force was steaming northward toward its objective at about eight knots. At this distance the thrashing propellers of its nearly sixty ships could be heard clearly through the sub’s hull as a dull, rumbling roar.

Markov ignored the faint noise and kept his eyes focused on the plot. It showed each of the amphibious group’s escorts patrolling within its own moving box. He’d timed the Knox-class frigate’s cycle and was heading for a time and a place when the American ship would turn toward the inside of its zone. That single turn to starboard would expose a blind zone in its sonar coverage for a few minutes. And the Dribinov would be there, ready to slip in and follow that blind zone around.

Only long preparation allowed the tracking officer to stay calm. “Contact is two minutes ahead of its projected position, Comrade Captain. We do not recommend a speed change.”

Markov was really only concerned about the three nearest, American escorts. The others were too far out of position to pose much of a danger to his submarine. Ahead and to Dribinov’s left was a Spruance-class destroyer — normally a serious threat. But its powerful low-frequency sonar and towed array were close to useless in these shallow waters.

The Knox-class directly ahead also had a low-frequency sonar and towed array, but not as effective as the Spruance’s equipment. And its predictable movements were what made this approach feasible.

Behind and to the right of the Knox was a newer Perry- class frigate. That was the American ship that most worried Markov. It mounted a medium-frequency sonar that was more effective in shallow water, and its commander was driving it in an extremely aggressive, unpredictable manner. If the Perry moved too far forward in its zone, there was a chance its sonar would pick up Dribinov’s hull, which had be broadside to that American ship while the sub crept in, and was thus easier to detect.

That unpredictable frigate had already cost Markov two precious hours and even more precious battery charge. He’d made a last loop past the task force hoping to find a pattern or at least some system behind the American frigate’s movements. He had failed. The Soviet captain smiled wryly to himself. The American captain’s