Red Phoenix

ABOARD USS CONSTELLATION

The ASW officer looked sick. “Admiral, O’Brien and Duncan are cold. They’re still too far away to pick anything up on sonar.”

Brown bit down the urge to swear. “Tell them to launch blind. We’ve got to put the pressure on this guy.”

The ASW officer relayed his order, then listened for a minute to a new report coming in through his headset. “Bravo Six is picking up something from the DICASS Bravo Four dropped.”

Brown nodded in satisfaction. That was something at least. “When will Six be on top?”

The ASW officer made a rapid calculation. “Three minutes, Admiral.”

Brown felt his short-lived relief die. “That son of a bitch will be able to launch in three minutes.”

ABOARD KONSTANTIN DRIBINOV

“Torpedo in the water! Aft and to port!”

Markov whirled to his first officer. “Release another decoy. And fire tubes one through six! Stand by for evasive action.”

It took an infinity of ten seconds to launch all six weapons. Every man aboard the Dribinov could hear the clunk as high-pressure air valves opened and closed. Each time they cycled, they sent a blast of compressed air into a torpedo tube, literally throwing the torpedo out into the water. Spent air was vented into the boat’s hull, and Markov and his crew yawned and swallowed as the pressure built.

“Sonar reports that the weapon is active, but it is drawing left.”

Markov felt his heartbeat slowing slightly. A bearing change that quickly signaled that the American torpedo had not acquired his submarine. And that meant it would probably miss. Confident that his prediction would be confirmed in a matter of seconds, he used the time to organize his thoughts, to plan his escape.

Menchikov broke into his thoughts with more bad news. “Sonar reports another torpedo in the water. They think it is distant, but it is directly ahead of us.”

Markov watched carefully as a young lieutenant marked the new threat on the plot with shaking hands. There wasn’t anything he could do. Not yet.

Clunk. The last torpedo left its tube and whined away toward the fleeting enemy formation. Now! Markov spun to the helmsman. “Right full rudder. Slow to ten knots.” Reflexively he looked at the battery gauges. Thirty-two percent.

“Captain, Sonar reports the second torpedo’s seeker is locked onto something, perhaps the seabed.” A soft boom sounded from ahead as the American Mark 46 exploded on the muddy floor of the Yellow Sea. Markov smiled and relaxed, but not too much.

If they were dropping on him, it was time to get out. But not quietly. Markov had already decided to fight his way clear. The Americans might have detected the Dribinov too soon, but they would soon find they’d grasped a tiger by its tail.

He leaned over the plot, mentally calculating angles and ranges. “Steady on course two three zero. Tracking party, set up a solution on those two warships closing on us.”

ABOARD USS CONSTELLATION

“She’s fired, sir! Torpedoes inbound for the heavies.”

Brown saw new lines appear on the display screen, closing on the center of his force. The ASROC-launched torpedoes from the O’Brien had almost certainly forced the enemy skipper to fire earlier than he would have liked. But the admiral knew his ships could still be in danger. Most of the amphibious ships and merchantmen couldn’t make much over twenty knots — not fast enough in a race with homing torpedoes moving at thirty-plus knots. He turned to his chief of staff. “Jim, order another course change. Bring the formation to zero three zero, and order all ships to maneuver individually to avoid torpedoes.”

ABOARD LST-1189 SAN BERNADINO

The Newport News-class LST San Bernadino was in trouble.

Originally stationed near the middle of the formation, she’d fallen farther and farther behind as faster ships raced by — intent on saving themselves. As an amphibious transport, she’d been designed for a sustained speed of twenty knots. Real speed and designed speed were proving two very different things, however. Since leaving Pusan, engine troubles had shaved four knots off the San Bernadino’s capabilities.

“Jesus!” Captain Frank Talbot, USN, flinched as a gray-painted Navy helicopter roared low over the ship’s bow ramp and flashed by the bridge windows at top speed. He pulled himself upright and grabbed the intercom. “Any luck, Mike?”

“Negative, skipper. We’ve still got that godawful vibration in the starboard shaft. It could seize up on us anytime now.” The chief engineer’s voice came tinny over the loudspeaker.

He was wondering how long he could push the plant when he felt himself flung hard against the rear bulkhead by a massive, thundering explosion.

As he lay stunned and bleeding on the deck, Talbot felt the bridge tilting downward, toward the sea, and saw the ship’s pointed bow rising sharply toward the sky. That was odd, he thought hazily. And then the answer came to him. The torpedo must have exploded directly under the San Bernadino’s keel, breaking her back and ripping her in half.

Talbot felt tears for his ship and crew dripping down his face and tried to get to his feet on the sloping deck. Then the pain hit. It drove him down into unconsciousness moments before the ship’s stern section plunged below the cold surface of the sea.

ABOARD USS CONSTELLATION

News of the San Bernadino’s fate swept quickly through the Flag Plot, leaving only a stunned silence.

Brown felt his jaw tighten. First blood to the enemy. He turned to his chief of staff. “I want a full-scale search and rescue op for survivors. I don’t want a single, goddamned man left out there in the water. Clear?” He didn’t wait for the man’s reply before swinging to face the ASW officer. “What about the other torps?”

“No hits, sir. Sonar shows they’ve all run out of gas.”

That was something. The bastard out there had been forced to fire too soon. If they hadn’t spoiled his attack, he probably would have caught more than the slow-poking San Bernadino.

“Bravo Six is reporting, Admiral. That boat’s running at high speed, but the signal’s fading.”

Brown refocused on the hunt at hand. What was done was done. His job now was to make sure no more enemy torpedoes sought out his ships. “All right, O’Brien and Duncan have had a chance. Let’s give the helos their turn.”

The ASW officer nodded his understanding and ordered a circle of sonobuoys placed around the sub’s last position, allowing for its reported speed and the time elapsed since it had last been detected. One was hot almost immediately.

“He’s still moving, Admiral. Speed estimated at…” The ASW officer paused, then grew two shades paler. “Bravo Six has a classification, sir. It’s a Tango-class diesel boat.”

The admiral felt like an idiot for asking, but he went ahead anyway. “Get a confirmation on that.”

The officer spoke into his headset, then listened. “No doubt about it, sir. Six has a very strong signal.”

Brown felt the hair lift off the back of his neck. There were no Tango-class submarines in the North Korean Navy, or in the Chinese Navy for that matter. The only Tangos in the world belonged to the Soviet Union. The Russians had just put their oar in the water. “Jim, get me CINCPAC on the secure net. Tell them I have FLASH traffic for Admiral Simons himself.”

He looked at the ASW controller. “Get those helos on top of that Russian s.o.b., and get some reliefs spooled up. I want everything we’ve got aloft. We’re up against the first team here.”

“CINCPAC is coming on line, sir.” The chief of staff handed him the red secure phone and continued, “We’ve also got a preliminary count on survivors from the San Bernadino. Rescue helos have picked up fifty-two men so far, and Bagley is still quartering the area where she went down.”

Brown nodded grimly. The LST had carried a crew of 290 men, and most of them were probably dead. Well, if he had his way, they’d soon be avenged tenfold. The only thing he could be thankful for was that the