Red Phoenix

But I guess this is what they pay us for and all. So, if the country figures they need us, why, I guess we’ll go. Nope, not much doubt about that.”

The man seemed to stand taller as he spoke.

CHAPTER 31 Task Force

DECEMBER 30 — ABOARD KONSTANTIN DRIBINOV, IN THE EAST CHINA SEA

Captain Nikolai Mikhailovitch Markov looked at the sonar display and smiled. His position was perfect: his Tango-class submarine was loitering at three knots directly in the path of the American task force. He had a full battery charge, and fleet headquarters had given him detailed information about the composition and arrangement of the enemy ships. All was well with Markov’s world.

He was a small, thin man, well suited to the cramped quarters of a submarine. His broad, Slavic face was pale from weeks submerged. In his early forties, he had served in the Navy since he entered the Nakhimov Secondary School in Leningrad as a teenager. Sea tours had alternated with years ashore at other academic institutions. He’d served aboard Dribinov for many years, beginning as navigation officer, then starpom, or executive officer, and finally as captain. He knew his ship, and what it could do for him.

His orders from the fleet command were clear. Konstantin Dribinov was expected to approach the American task force undetected, penetrate its ASW screen, and make a simulated torpedo attack on a high-value target — preferably an aircraft carrier or an amphibious command ship. The key word was “simulated.” At the point where Markov would normally launch torpedoes, he would instead launch a flare that could be seen on the surface.

It was a dangerous game. The Americans would be doing their best to detect any submarine, warn it off, and if it closed to attack range, sink it.

In a sense, his land-bound superiors were risking his submarine, and several other boats, to show the United States that its ships were not invulnerable. Markov didn’t mind. That was the kind of game the Americans often played with Soviet ships. Maybe it was time to start turning the tables. And the shallow East China Sea was a good place to do just that. The U.S. Navy’s weapons and sensors were all oriented toward “blue-water” operations, where the water was always over two hundred meters deep and often over two thousand meters. In fact, the American Mark 46 torpedo, their standard antisubmarine weapon, couldn’t even function effectively in shallow water. All too often its active sonar would home in on the nearby seabed instead of a target submarine. In addition, Markov knew that U.S. ships used powerful low-frequency sonars, with ranges measured in hundreds of kilometers through open water. But in shallow coastal seas, those same sonars were practically blind. Their sound beams tended to bounce right back off the nearby sea bottom, blanking out the American sonar operators’ screens.

In contrast, his submarine was at its best under those same conditions. Konstantin Dribinov was a diesel-electric design, first built in the 1970s. When operating on battery power, it was one of the quietest submarines afloat — a silence enhanced by a rubber anechoic coating designed to absorb sound waves. Just as important, its sensors were fairly modern by Soviet standards, certainly much better than those carried by the Romeo-class boats used by his North Korean comrades. And unlike the larger nuclear subs, Dribinov could maneuver easily in shallow water. Its hull was only 92 meters long, and at periscope depth it needed a mere twenty meters of water to stay submerged.

At the moment Markov’s planesmen were holding Dribinov just below periscope depth. He planned to wait, watch for a good opening in the American screen, and then make his approach. He was confident. After all, he’d practiced the same kind of maneuver against Soviet surface forces dozens of times.

ABOARD USS CONSTELLATION, IN THE EAST CHINA SEA

As he’d feared, Brown hadn’t gotten much more than an occasional and unsatisfactory catnap. Lack of sleep wasn’t improving his judgment any, and it certainly wasn’t helping his temper, but the habit of command was too deeply ingrained. He couldn’t make himself risk missing something that might affect the safety of the ships under his authority. Their first radar contact had proved to be a Chinese Yun-8 Cub. The Cub was a four-engine patrol plane, actually nothing more than a converted transport mounting an old surface search radar. It had proved more circumspect than Kavkaz and appeared perfectly willing to respect the hundred-mile exclusion zone.

Its Soviet counterpart hadn’t been so polite. The Soviet plane, a Bear D flying out of Vietnam’s Cam Ranh Bay, had appeared at extreme radar range, headed straight for the center of the task force. Brown had been ready for that, and the Bear had been intercepted by two F-18 Hornets a hundred and fifty miles out. One took station behind the Soviet patrol plane, while the other F-18 flew close alongside. The three planes flew in formation until they were just a hundred and ten miles out. Brown had been preparing a harsher response when the Bear suddenly altered course, circling slowly just outside the exclusion zone.

Both the Bear and the Chinese Cub had since acquired permanent companions. At least one Hornet loitered near each of the lumbering aircraft, just in case. If any more trailers appeared, Brown thought he might be tempted to sell tickets. The admiral ran his reddened eyes over the Flag Plot’s status boards for the thousandth time. It seemed quiet enough now. Maybe he had time for another nap.

WHISKEY THREE, OVER THE EAST CHINA SEA

The S-3 Viking patrol plane known as Whiskey Three orbited at low altitude ahead of the task force. It didn’t look dangerous. The S-3 was a boxy, twin-engine plane that wouldn’t last a second in a dogfight with an enemy fighter. It was slow, low-powered, and relatively unmaneuverable. But it was death on submarines. Every Viking carried sonobuoys, torpedoes, and a half-dozen different sensors, all designed to find and fix hostile subs before they could do any damage. The petty officer manning Whiskey Three’s surface search radar suddenly started and leaned closer to his screen. He’d seen a small blip appear momentarily out in front of the formation. There it was again. A radio aerial, maybe. Or possibly a periscope or radar detection mast. Whatever it was, it wasn’t friendly.

He keyed his mike. “Contact report! Possible sub bearing zero one five degrees. Twenty miles.”

Forward in the cockpit, the S-3’s pilot whistled sharply and banked right, heading for the contact’s reported position at two hundred and fifty knots. The game had started.

ABOARD USS CONSTELLATION

Brown stared at the ASW display screen. Whiskey Three’s contact report had caught him just heading for his cot. The submarine the S-3’s radar had spotted was roughly sixty miles ahead of his lead ships, directly on their intended track. So far, they hadn’t been able to determine its nationality or type, but it sure wasn’t a U.S. or any known friendly submarine.

Whiskey Three was on station now over the sub’s last known position, running cloverleaf search patterns at low altitude.

Brown looked at his ASW controller. “Get Whiskey Three some backup. As soon as they’ve localized the sub, they’re to use depth charges to force it to the surface. Tell ’em to start with a salvo a thousand yards away and halve the distance with each attack. Whoever’s down there should get the message pretty damn quick.” The gray- haired commander nodded his understanding and moved to obey his admiral’s order, but then turned back to ask, “What if the sub doesn’t break off, Admiral?”

“If he gets within twenty miles, we’ll sink the bastard.”

ABOARD KONSTANTIN DRIBINOV

Markov cursed himself for his impatience. He’d raised his radar detection mast to check the direction of the approaching American task force. Well, they were up there, all right, emitting signals as if they were putting on some kind of electromagnetic fireworks display. But something else had been up there, too. Something he should have been more wary of. Dribinov’s radar detector had immediately lit up with a strong signal from an antisubmarine patrol plane — a signal so strong that the American aircraft must have detected the mast in the seconds it was above water.

Now he was being forced to expend precious battery charge moving away from his planned position. He had