U.S.S. Seawolf (12 page)

Even though there was no reality; it was only in his mind.

030800JUL06
.
20.00N 112.46E. South China Sea
.
West of Hainan Island. Speed 6. Depth 300
.
Course: racetrack pattern
.

Seawolf
’s quarry had slowed right down and gone deeper, and Linus Clarke seized the opportunity to take a fast look at the surface picture. He ordered the American submarine to periscope depth, but he didn’t see much. A tallow-colored mist hung low over the South China Sea, and visibility was down to a matter of perhaps 40 yards. He activated the lens into its all-seeing nighttime mode, but still there seemed to be nothing around. The seas were deserted, except for
Seawolf
and Admiral Zhang’s ballistic missile ship
Xia
, and she was two miles away, 500 feet below the surface.

These heavy mists are commonplace in July, around the 180-mile-long, tropical island of Hainan, home of yet another sprawling Chinese naval base in the northern town of Haikou. With the onset of the monsoon from the southwest, this was the heavy rain season, and the heat
along Hainan’s spectacular beaches was ghastly, the humidity in the high nineties.

The operations area of the
Xia
was more or less where the brains onboard
Seawolf
had expected, 60 miles east of the Haikou base, 170 miles south-southeast of Fleet Headquarters, within easy reach of assistance and rescue, a process not entirely new to the Chinese Navy, given their track record of trying to run nuclear submarines.

Linus Clarke ordered
Seawolf
back into the depths. The sonar was quiet, and on the lower decks the men played poker between watches and ate steaks for lunch in the time-honored tradition of serving the best food in the U.S. military to the men who serve underwater, in the crowded, windowless ships, constantly in harm’s way during the course of their duties. Tonight being Monday, they were showing a rerun of an old football game between the Giants and the Redskins from the ship’s sizeable library of sports videos. A sweepstakes was being run, five dollars a chance for the nearest guess at the date of the game, winner take all. The competitive nature of
Monday Night Football
dies hard, even 300 feet below the surface of the South China Sea.

The evening was full of promise, except for one piece of potentially bad news. “Einstein” reckoned he had the sweepstakes buttoned up. He’d recognized the picture of the Washington running back on the videocassette cover, and claimed he’d used to go to the Redskins games with his father on his birthday. If he could just get the year right, he was home and hosed.
Trust Einstein. Golden sonofabitch
.

Still, if they ever had to fight, Lt. Commander Rothstein, the combat systems officer, would be their man at the sharp end, and in a sense they would be in his hands. The best hands, they all knew. No one could outthink the tall, cool intellect of the missiles. That was why Captain Crocker had specially requested him for the officer complement. Nonetheless, it was still a bitch that he’d probably wrapped up the football sweepstakes before the game
even started.
Let’s all hope he gets the year wrong.…Fat chance. That running back only played two seasons…and fucking Einstein has been a Redskins fan since he was born
.

Despite the fact that he was built like a running back himself, Judd Crocker would miss the game tonight; he hoped to get some sleep. Linus Clarke wanted to see the game and volunteered for the midnight watch afterward, assisted by Brad Stockton and Kyle Frank, who would both be on duty.

And the night passed predictably. They stayed in contact at three miles distance with the
Xia
; the Redskins mowed down the Giants; and Einstein won the sweepstakes with the date of his birthday. Tony Fontana, who was next closest by only three weeks, came grumbling down the companionway muttering, “Sonofabitch…he even remembered it was an afternoon game played in bright sunshine…if we’d both got the date right, he’da done me on the fucking time of day. Sonofabitch. I mean, Jesus, how could we have picked a game played on Einstein’s sixteenth fucking birthday?”

Everyone in earshot fell over laughing at the indignation of the engineer from Ohio, and Rothstein graciously offered Tony his five bucks back, admitting he had been on a strong inside track right from the start. Fontana took it, too. Quickly.

Meanwhile, the track of
Xia III
appeared to be south-westward, along the coast of China. She was still deep, and relatively silent, for her, and at 2300 still seemed to be in no hurry, moving forward at only around seven knots. The CO came wide off track to 7,000 yards, and swung onto course two-seven-zero to follow her, slowly and carefully, at the same speed.

By the time Linus came back to the conn, Judd Crocker had
Seawolf
running silently in the
Xia
’s stern arcs again, three miles back, moving easily through the warm calm waters. Up on the surface there was steady rain sweeping across the seascape, the warmth of the air
causing the sea fret to gather into a pale, luminous haze right above the water, lit by the moonlight. It would have been quite ghostly had anyone been up there sightseeing. But all around the two steel predators in the deep, there was nothing, hardly a sound, and no one was looking.

Seawolf
’s XO had an uneventful watch, but he’d been awake for 12 hours straight, and he was tired out by 0400 on this July Fourth holiday morning, except, of course, that neither he nor any of the crew was entitled to holidays out here. Judd came back to the conn for the watch change, wished Linus a happy Fourth, and told him to go get some sleep.

And once more the new watch took over the ship two hours before dawn would break over the South China Sea. Frank had been aware of no other ships in the area. And
Xia III
still ran slowly west-sou’west, three miles out in front. The navigator reckoned she’d covered only about 28 miles all night.

It was difficult to maintain a mental state of urgency as he rested through the stillness of the uncluttered night, but Judd Crocker was trying to get himself up for this. His mission was clear, the prime part of his mission, that is: to establish the length of the vertical missile tubes on the Chinese ICBM submarine. And his opportunity could come at any time, maybe at dawn, if she surfaced. That would be the time to conduct the most dangerous project he had ever known. If he screwed it up and the Chinese ship heard him, they would plainly get on his track and send for their cavalry, China’s aircraft, fast-attack ships, destroyers, frigates, helos, and God knows what, and try to sink him. And they were within 200 miles of two substantial PLAN bases—less than an hour’s flying time for a good patrol aircraft, and helicopters loaded with Russian sonobuoys.

Judd Crocker was playing for higher stakes than Einstein and Fontana. It was no wonder that he had been unable to raise any enthusiasm for
Monday Night Football
.

Dawn came flooding across the misty water from out of the eastern reaches of the Pacific shortly after 0540. The rain had stopped. The sonar room still had strong tabs on the
Xia
, and
Seawolf
was working her way along at periscope depth, making a long covert approach, waiting in case the Chinese submarine should surface. Judd thought this could happen at any time, and kept himself ready for urgent action. After all, she was only on workup and might not stay dived for extended periods.

The CO had all of
Seawolf
’s intelligence-gathering equipment on the top line, and the Electrical Intercept (ELINT) and the Communications Intercept (COMINT) were on high alert, the ESM Mast jutting up out of the water with the periscope. Judd was observing a beautiful calm morning on the surface, but with very poor visibility, as they made their way quietly through the known operations area of the
Xia
.

Sonar called that the
Xia
was making unusual noises and could be preparing to surface, but Judd could not see very far through the sunlit mist. His sonar chief thought the
Xia
had gone quiet as she waited between trials, whatever it was they were testing. And suddenly
Seawolf
’s comms picked him up again on the ESM mast.

“Captain-ESM. Racket two-seven-zero…STRENGTH FOUR-TWO…X-Band…approach danger level.”

“Captain, AYE…DOWN ALL MASTS!”

Still at periscope depth, the Americans ran on for 4,000 more yards, the CO occasionally raising the periscope, straining for a fleeting glimpse. And quite suddenly, lo and behold, there she was, a dim shape in the haze, right up ahead.

“My God!” breathed Judd Crocker. “There she is, our top priority. Is this some kind of a break or what?”

“Captain-Comms. We have an extremely loud signal on your periscope warner.”

“Captain, aye.”

But
Seawolf
had her target in the cross-hairs. Linus
Clarke returned to the conn, drawn by the bush telegraph of a submarine when something big is about to happen.

“We got her, sir…?”

“We got her, Linus. She’s just lying there, doing zilch, surfaced, making about five knots, on two-seven-zero.

“I don’t think they have the remotest idea we’re around. They reckon if that barrage back off Taiwan hit nothing, nothing was there.”

“Well, it is oh-six-hundred, sir. They probably think the entire United States Navy is on vacation for the Fourth—and they’re dead safe to sit down for a nice breakfast. Sweet and sour cornflakes. Chopsticks drawn!”

“Heh, heh, heh.” Despite their obvious differences, the CO liked the company of Linus Clarke, and he said quietly, “I’m going right in under his stern for the underhull fathometer run.”

“Aye, sir.”

Seawolf
hurried on, into water already shelving up as they closed on the distant mainland. It was not an easy patrol. This being their first day in the area, they had no feel for local inhabitants, no idea who might be scouting around, no place to hide if they should get caught.

Clarke was plainly excited by the prospect of the next hour. He was mercurial in his thoughts: “Should we move under quickly…get right in and do our business…or should we take it slow and quiet?…Personally I’m in favor of speed…let’s go for it.…I mean, we don’t want to get caught out here off her stern with our pants down.”

And for once he got it roughly right.

The captain said, “I just wish we had more time for a thorough recon of the whole area over here, but time we don’t have. Linus, I’m going straight in.”

Seawolf
came forward at six knots, leaving no wake on the surface. At 350 yards the CO took a last look to confirm the exact bearing and distance of the
Xia
.

“FIVE DOWN…MAKE YOUR DEPTH 110 FEET…make your speed eight.

“Conn me in on sonar, XO.”

“Passing eighty feet, sir.”

“UP PERISCOPE.”

At this close range, every yard counted. And for the first time,
Seawolf
seemed sluggish, not getting down quickly enough, as if hanging in the water, still going straight, with momentum that appeared to be lasting forever.

“CHRIST! Sir, she’s real close,” called Linus.

“Okay, okay. I got you. Keep talking me in…come on,
Seawolf
, for Christ’s sake, fast down and level…”

“There’s her screws. Bearing. MARK.”

“Bearing right ahead, sir. True. Two-seven-zero.”

“Read off the sky-search angle, someone.”

“Three degrees below horizontal, Captain!”

Linus’s voice was rising.

“Good.”

“Bubble amidships, sir. Depth one hundred ten feet…course two-seven-zero.” Andy Cannizaro’s voice betrayed tension, but it was firm and clear.

“Captain, aye…that angle’s not so bad as you think…it’s the refraction, Linus…the periscope’s gonna pass underneath her, believe me…start the fathometers.”

“Upward fathometer recording, sir. Steady trace from the surface, fifty-six feet from the top of our sail, sir.”

“Captain, that’s nice.”

Judd Crocker was now performing the most delicate balancing act of his life, as
Seawolf
matched speed with the bigger Chinese boat, which now rumbled along the surface directly overhead, casting a mammoth black shadow over them, its massive screws thrashing water right above them, threatening instant decapitation of the sail if the American submarine rose more than about 15 feet in the water. But the burly yachtsman from Cape Cod knew all too well what happened when the propellers of a big nuclear ship smash into the hull of another: A lot of
steel and sometimes a lot of people end up littering the ocean floor.

Judd held her steady, at six knots, keeping his ship exactly under the center of the
Xia
’s keel, with no time now for even a thought about the Chinese sonar room right above them.

“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.”