“The Xia maintains speed and course, sir…”
And then the operator called it: “MARK! Upward sounder showing twenty feet above our sail, sir. I’m looking up right now, right on her center line.”
“Beautiful,” whispered Judd, trying to be quiet, like the rest of his men, afraid that somehow their own heartbeats would give them away.
Still at the periscope, he had the picture right in focus. “MARK! Large grating on her keel line…very slightly to starboard. Helm…come right one. I repeat, one degree.”
And now the CO ordered a fractional increase in speed for Seawolf to complete a long run straight underneath the Xia, moving slowly from stern to bow.
CO: “MARK! Intakes right above, port and starboard…MARK! Second grating…”
And all the while the racing pens of Seawolf’s upward fathometers flew across the moving-paper recorders, making a pinpoint-accurate picture of the Xia’s keel, her precise shape and measurements from her waterline downward. With agonizing slowness they edged forward, and now no one was speaking, and the only sound came from the sonar room as the moving pen kept writing, and, as Lt. Commander Omar Khayyám might have added, “and, having writ,/Moves on.”
It was the fathometer man who broke the silence. “MARK! We’ve lost the hull trace, Captain. We’ve gone right by…we’re back looking at the surface.”
Seawolf’s team had done it. The first half of the critical picture was in the bag, but now the CO would have to attempt another desperately dangerous maneuver, coming right around the stern of the Xia, and risking everything for a second crucial set of pictures, to be taken through the periscope camera, right off her stern, up close and personal. This would complete the picture, giving the measurement of the missile tubes above the waterline.
“RIGHT FULL RUDDER…MAKE YOUR DEPTH SIXTY-TWO FEET…THREE UP…MAKE YOUR COURSE ONE-EIGHT-ZERO.”
Seawolf swung away, making a hard turn to starboard, right off the Xia’s bow, from just below her keel, the beginning of a wide, fast three-quarter circle that would take her right around the Chinese submarine, and across her stern as it ploughed slowly along the surface.
“MAKE YOUR SPEED FIVE KNOTS…”
“UP PERISCOPE!”
And now they were directly in the photography-run procedure, with a view less than 100 yards away.
Judd Crocker stared out at the Chinese submarine while Seawolf’s photographic system snapped off the shots. It seemed to take forever. And suddenly Judd saw men appearing on the bridge of the Xia. At least he thought they were just appearing. He was certain they had not been there when he first looked, it seemed moments ago.
And then his fears were dramatically confirmed. One of them pointed straight between Judd Crocker’s eyes, directly at Seawolf’s periscope.
Nonetheless he held his nerve, waiting for the camera crew’s report. By the time it came, eight seconds later, there were three Chinamen, all pointing at Seawolf’s periscope.
Strangely Judd said nothing, but kept the mast up for another whole minute, providing the Chinese on the bridge with a spectacular view of the American periscope heading south.
Linus thought that as camera runs go, this one had been a disaster. The periscope had been clear of the water for a minute and a half, God knows how long after the report of completion. Linus Clarke, not for the first time, thought his captain had completely lost his grip.
“Captain, sir…your periscope’s been up for ninety seconds…they’ll surely see us,” he added anxiously. But late.
“You’re surely right, Linus. Why do you suppose I don’t give a rat’s ass?”
“Jesus, Captain, beats the shit out of me.”
“Down periscope.” Judd Crocker made that last order at the very final moment, giving the Chinese on the bridge just a few seconds more to watch him vanish, directly to the south.
But now the CO’s escape options were closing. IF they had been spotted, and he must now assume they had, since it would have been a minor miracle if they hadn’t, he should clear the datum. To the west made little sense, because that way led to the shallow water surrounding the island of Hainan and the Chinese Navy base. To the north were the busy operational waters of Admiral Zu Jicai’s Southern Fleet headquarters, and it seemed quite likely that the Xia might be heading home, since her exercise area contained a plain and obvious intruder.
For the moment he had to get away from her, because if that ship was about to summon half the Chinese Navy to locate Seawolf and hunt them down, well, he had to know that, which meant listening to her enemy report to base. This might not happen for at least 20 minutes: drafting, formatting, command approval, encryption, and radio tuning. All this preceded the transmission of a highly classified military signal.
And he thanked God for his two Chinese-speaking “spooks” from Naval Intelligence, who would pick that signal apart a lot faster than it had been put together. And now he was ready for the course change to three-six-zero.
“Right standard rudder…make your course north…speed ten.”
And for 15 minutes they ran on, from two miles off the Xia’s port quarter and crossing her stern, heading inshore. The navigational plot confirmed she was still heading west.
So far as Linus could see, the situation was precarious enough already without heading straight for the Chinese southern naval headquarters.
Clarke was now seeking reassurance from the captain, not directly, of course, but there was anxiety in his voice as he ventured, “Probably lost ’em now, right, sir? Guess we got away with it? Time to head for deep water?”
But Judd Crocker was deep in thought, and he believed they had most definitely been located. “Make your speed eight knots…up periscope. Comms-Captain…be alert for a contact report from Xia…any second now…lemme know when it’s in.”
“Comms, AYE.”
Another five minutes went by, and Seawolf continued northward.
“Captain-Comms…contact report coming in…translating.”
“Captain, aye.”
“Captain-Comms…reception completed.”
“Captain…roger. Down periscope.”
“Send it right up to the conn.”
“Aye, sir.”
Petty Officer Chase Utley brought it up in person and handed it to the captain, who scanned it quickly.
“Good. They have us headed south at twelve knots from datum position 20.00N 111.30E.
“Rig for silent running. Make your speed seven knots.”
“But, Captain,” said Linus Clarke, “you givin’ up? That’s steering straight for the Chinese blowhole, straight for the Southern Fleet’s biggest base. That’s crazy.”
“Not at all, Linus. That’s strategy. Because the last place they’d ever dream of looking for us is straight up their own ass.”
0705. Tuesday, July 4.
Office of Southern Fleet Commander.
Zhanjiang.
Admiral Zu Jicai stared at an amplifying signal from the Xia III: “0655. July 4. 20N 112.46E. Positive periscope contact visual close aboard. Assessed POSIDENT U.S. nuclear submarine. Last known course south. Speed 12. Clearing area to west.”
Admiral Zu hit the buttons ordering his operational fleet into action: “Execute ASW contingency Plan Seven…search datum 20N 111.30E…search orientation one-eight-zero. Speed of advance 12.”
The Southern Fleet had been on high alert for this for the past 24 hours, and the ships detailed for this mission prepared to leave, seek out, and if possible blow apart the American marauder.
Four destroyers were casting their lines by 0742—three of them, Changsha, Nanning and Guilin, were almost identical to the Nanchang, which had taken part in the underwater barrage off Taiwan. They were all 3,500-ton heavily gunned guided-missile warships with antisubmarine mortars and depth charges, a bit slow but dangerous when they arrived. The fastest of the four was the updated Luda III, Zuhai, with its very advanced sonars and specialist CY-1 antisubmarine weapon.
Admiral Zhan
g himself had personally ordered the Zuhai straight to Zhanjiang from the failed Taiwan trap, in readiness for the task Admiral Zu’s fleet now had to tackle.
Five Jangjui-class frigates were also on their way. These were small antisubmarine specialists, similar to the Shantou, which had been in action off Taiwan the previous day. Zigong, Dongguan, Anshun, Yibin and Maoming, their sonar Echo Type 5s ready, were preparing to load their depth-charge launchers before they’d cleared the harbor wall.
Two fast-attack craft were also dispatched, 500-ton Haiqing Type 037s, which carried China’s biggest ASW mortars, and were currently being built at the fastest rate of any patrol boat in the Chinese Navy. The Haiqings had very hot sonars, hull-mounted, active search and attack only at slow speed.
From the naval airstrip, two frontline attack aircraft, Harbin SH-5s, were preparing for takeoff, engines screaming as they waited for clearance, their big powerful depth bombs and state-of-the-art Russian sonobuoys loaded.
Two French-built Aerospatiale Super Frelon ASW helicopters were already in the air heading south. And these were really dangerous. They ran above the water at a steady 140 knots, and they carried HS 12 dipping sonar, with superb French-built search radar. Their specialist weapon was antisubmarine torpedoes, and they had the capacity to find their quarry. They’d be out in the ASW search area well inside the hour.
Two Haitun helicopters were also dispatched. These refined Dauphin 2s, locally built, would travel at 140 knots all the way, with a range of almost 500 miles. Once out there, they could do a lot of searching, and they carried medium-range, radar-guided anti-ship missiles, should Seawolf be forced to surface.”
Admiral Zu picked up the telephone and reported his actions to the Commander-in-Chief, who listened carefully. “I told you so, Jicai. They’re out there. They’ve been out there for days.”
“But how did they avoid the underwater barrage yesterday?”
“Because the American commanding officer knows precisely what he’s doing, that’s why. Remember, he’s faster than us, he’s quieter than us, and he’s a lot cleverer than us, because he’s had a lot more practice driving state-of-the-art submarines. Remember, too, Seawolf is lethal. Her combat systems officer is probably the smartest man in the U.S. Navy, next to her CO. I don’t know what weapons she’s carrying, but if she decided to sink one or all of our ships, she could probably do it.
“Of course, I doubt she would. The Americans don’t really want a hot war any more than we do…but she mustn’t be provoked. We just want to blow a big hunk off her hull while she’s under the water, and then let her sink gracefully to the bottom…such a pity, Jicai, to lose such a fine ship under such unfortunate, accidental circumstances…if only we had known she was there.”
040845JUL06.
20.20N 111.30E. Speed 6.
Periscope depth.
Course three-six-zero.
Seawolf crept north, toward Zhanjiang. She made no sound, and she left no wake. At 10 minutes before 10:00 A.M. Judd Crocker ordered her periscope up for a few seconds only, and instantly comms reported, “Multiple danger level X-Band rackets. CHAOS…no other word for it.”
Though Judd could not know it, the sky was already alive with clattering naval helicopters a few miles to the south of them, and two patrol planes were making long circles around the central operations area. He risked a quick all-around look, and spotted the Xia four miles over to the west, heading north in the now-improving visibility.
Putting the periscope down, he risked a 45-second exposure of the ESM mast. And they picked up signals nineteen to the dozen. In the communications room the spooks were translating from the Chinese at their fastest possible rate. There was no doubt, the PLAN’s Southern Fleet was conducting a major search for an’ UNIDENT submarine, last seen three hours ago.
Perhaps even more important, less than eight miles off Seawolf’s bow, traveling fast on a southerly course, was a fleet of at least six Chinese warships, maybe more. Kyle Frank had detected certainly one destroyer, five frigates, and maybe a fast-attack patrol craft. Seawolf’s comms room was working overtime.
So was the sonar room. Exit routes from the base sounded like an angry hornets’ nest. As the minutes ticked anxiously by, the plot showed eleven different surface contacts heading south toward 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 Roa
ds, 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?”
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