“He may be looking for subs,” said Delaford. “He’s got active sonar.”
“Can they find us?” asked Dog.
“I don’t believe so.
“F-8 pilots are challenging us,” said Rosen. “In pretty good English too.”
Dog tuned his attention to the Chinese fighters, giving them the standard line about being in international airspace and having no “hostile intent.”
The Chinese replied that the Yankees were overrated and would have no chance in the World Series this year.
“Couple of comedians,” said Rosen.
In the exchange that followed, Rosen proved to be a ridiculously committed LA Dodger fan, predicting the Dodgers would “whup” whomever the American league managed to put up. The Chinese pilot—he was apparently the wingman in the two-plane flight—knew more than enough baseball to scoff at Rosen’s predictions. The man inexplicably favored the Cleveland Indians, and in fact, seemed to know the entire lineup.
As the two pilots traded sports barbs, the F-8’s took a pass and then came back to work themselves roughly parallel to the Megafortress’s cockpit. This was undoubtedly their first look at an EB-52, and the pilot complimented Rosen on his “choice of conveyance.”
“Quite a vocabulary,” said Dog.
“Claims he went to Stanford.”
After the tension of the past few days, the encounter seemed almost refreshing.
Excitedly, Delaford brought the laughs to an end.
“We have a contact. Definite contact,” he said. “Shit, yeah!”
The GPS readings showed the submarine exactly thirteen miles to the south by southeast.
“They’ve made good time submerged,” Delaford answered. “These are them—Trafalgar signature. Wow! Colonel, this is pay dirt. Pay dirt. These submarines don’t exist—this is a serious coup.”
“Relax, Commander. There’ll be plenty of time to pick up the Navy Cross at the end of the mission,” said Dog. Not that he didn’t share at least some of Delaford’s excitement—especially since it meant his decision to launch without a sighting from the Orions had been vindicated. One less thing for Allen to look down his nose about. “Make sure we’re recording.”
“Oh, yeah. Big time.”
“Thirty-five knots, submerged,” said Ensign English.
“Is that fast?” asked Dog.
“It’s good. It’s very good,” said Delaford. “And they may not even by trying. We’re twenty miles behind, at forty-two knots, our max. I’m going to settle in at sixteen miles behind them. If they’re like our guys, they’ll accelerate a bit, then stop. Jesus, I wonder if they consider slow.”
“F-8’s holding their position,” said Rosen.
“I’d like to shoot south and drop a buoy ahead of the subs,” Delaford added.
“We’ll wait until the F-8s go home,” Dog told him. “They ought to be leaving pretty soon; their fuel should be just about out.”
“Copy that,” said Delarod. “This is great, Colonel. This is really great.”
Aboard Shiva in the South China Sea
1530
The distance from their target, their need to avoid the escort ships, and the storm all greatly complicated matters. When they were finally able to analyze all of the data, Admiral Balin was faced with the inescapable, if unpalatable, conclusion that their vaunted weapons had somehow missed. To add further insult to this grave disgrace, one of the Chinese escort ships somehow managed to get close enough to him as he doubled back to reconnoiter; two of its Russian-made ASW rockets had exploded close enough to do some damage to Shiva. One, but apparently only one, ballast tank vent was stuck in a closed position, a circulating pump in the environmental system had broken, and it seemed likely there had been damage to the radar mast. The ELF gear was apparently no longer functioning, as they had missed a scheduled transmission. Casualties were negligible; one man had suffered a broken arm.
Any competent Navy would have sunk them.
He was now out of Kali missiles, but had six torpedoes, one for each forward tube. In the chaos and the storm, he had lost contact with the Chinese fleet, but would find it again soon enough.
The torpedoes on board were primitive Russian twenty-one-inch unguided fish, which required him to get considerably closer than the Kalis. To guarantee a strike, he intended to close to within three thousand yards, if not closer.
Getting that close to a warship involved many dangers, but these were not to be thought of now. Soon, if not already, his own fleet would be pressing home the attack; no matter the odds, Balin owed it to them to press home his mission.
To be truthful, part of him was glad. From the moment he had launched the last missile, an inexplicable sadness had come over him. He had fulfilled his greatest ambitions; there was nothing else left to achieve. Even if he had been given a hero’s welcome, or promoted to command the entire Navy, he would, in effect, be retired. He had fought all these years to remain at sea—to remain alive. Retiring, even as a hero, seemed something akin to a slow and meek death.
Retirement was no longer a possibility. That notion somehow felt supremely comforting as he plotted a course to intercept the enemy.