The admiral’s face hardened.
“I remember your successes in our past,” he said, “but this is bold. Show us your plan.”
Yang rolled a shiny stainless steel pen onto the table and Renard picked it up.
“It’s magnetic,” Yang said. “Just touch and drag.”
Renard pressed the pen against the triangle that represented the Hai Lang and dragged it. The triangle followed.
“Two operations, each complementing the other,” Renard said. “The first is to hunt Chinese submarines. Once that’s done, the convoy begins its egress under the protection of the same friendly assets as used in the hunt. Any adversary that survives the first operation will be disoriented, poorly positioned, and in need of snorkeling.”
Renard pushed the tankers back into port and shuffled the surface combatants and helicopters to his liking.
When he was done, heads began to nod in approval.
“This is impressive,” Yang said, “but it relies heavily upon the success of the Hai Lang. It is still unproven in combat.”
“But its leaders are proven,” Renard said. “And you have no choice but to trust that we will succeed. If you do not take the offensive, the Chinese will whittle your convoys away until your island starves.”
“I must review this new plan,” Yang said.
“Yes,” Renard said. “Of course.”
“With my staff,” Yang said. “Alone.”
CHAPTER 14
Commander Diego Rodriguez stared at the man beside him. Although the ensign had picked a movie for off-watch enjoyment, he spent more time glaring at the electrical system diagram he had opened on the table. Rodriguez pushed the diagram into the ensign’s lap.
“There’ll be plenty of time for studying later,” Rodriguez said. “Relax and watch the movie.”
The faces lit by the television monitors tried to smile at Rodriguez’ attempt at levity, but each officer was too stressed to do more than smirk.
The USS Hawaii, the third hull of the Virginia class attack submarine, was on station in waters claimed by China as an economic exclusion zone. Tasked with monitoring Chinese submarine activity, Rodriguez had the crew on a port and starboard two-section watch. Rodriguez considered the Hawaii the most advanced and automated submarine but could see that his crew grew fatigued.
Four more weeks, he thought, and we’ll be relieved. I’ll be able to give them a port call. They’ve earned it.
The Hawaii had tracked five distinct Romeo class submarines and one Ming, and Rodriguez believed that he knew their patrol areas as well as the Chinese. His crew had collected useful data, and they had operated their magnificent war machine well, he decided.
At the expense of speed and depth, the Virginia class had been built with every other advantage. Sonar configuration and sound quieting optimized it to defeat diesel submarines in short-range or coastal combat. Rodriguez’ submarine could defeat anything in the Chinese fleet.
Although he had yet to discover a coveted Kilo, he wanted to test his ship and crew against his adversary’s best. But his rules of engagement precluded him from attacking unless in self-defense. After the loss of the La Jolla, presumably at the hands of a Chinese Kilo, naval combat protocols had become conservative while politicians debated the response to the sunken submarine.
Light from the passageway entered the wardroom as a sailor popped his head through a door.
“Captain,” the zit-faced sailor said. “The executive officer wants you on the conn.”
Rodriguez trotted out of the room. Memories from past submarines told him to climb a ladder, but the central nervous system of the Hawaii spanned the middle deck. A photo-optics mast and monitor system had replaced the old-world, hull-penetrating periscope, freeing the control room to move to a wider, mid-deck location.
The design took getting used to, Rodriguez reflected as he entered the spacious control room.
A jogger, Rodriguez considered his mind and body as one. Allowing one to fall into disrepair dragged the other into atrophy, he had thought — until he met Richard Jones, his executive officer.
Jones wore coke-bottle glasses and filled his blue cotton jumpsuit from neck to thigh with one, smooth, convex contour that defied gravity and reminded Rodriguez of a Dr. Seuss character. But Jones was the smartest man he had met, and his intellect kept him in the navy despite failure to meet height, weight, and physical training requirements.
The mass of Jones’ body made the portly chief petty officer beside him appear normal. Rodriguez felt like a stick as he stepped between them.
“What do you have, executive officer?” he asked.
“Maybe another Romeo, sir. We don’t know yet.”
Rodriguez glanced at the monitor that showed raw sonar data. Fifty-hertz lines representing an electric generator and several lines at the higher frequencies of a diesel engine had appeared on the same bearing.
“We’ve got the lower frequencies on the towed array and contour array,” Jones said. “We picked up the higher-frequency lines on the sphere. We’ve solved the range.”
Rodriguez read the screen. Five thousand yards… Two and a half nautical miles.
“And we just picked him up?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” the chief said.
Chief Petty Officer Jerome Bartlett’s mustache wiggled while he spoke. He continued.
“We might have run right under him if he didn’t just fire up his diesel. We’re just below the acoustic layer, so we should hear him better when he goes deep again.”
“He might hear us, too, and his hands aren’t tied by rules of engagement. Back us off, executive officer,” Rodriguez said. “Let’s track this guy as long as we can.”
If the bureaucrats had any balls, Rodriguez thought, I’d shoot and let a salvage team identify him later.
The Hawaii had spiraled four miles away from the snorkeling submarine. Rodriguez reclined in his chair on the elevated conn.
In front of him, Jones and Bartlett integrated data into a useful tactical scenario. To his left, monitors and control stations for managing tactical data and weapons lined the side of the hull. In silence, a handful of men studied those screens. To his right, a team of sonar operators sifted through raw acoustic sound.
Jones spoke over his shoulder.
“Sir, he’s secured snorkeling,” he said.
Rodriguez called up the frequency data on his monitor. The lines began to shrink and collapse into history. He yelled across the room.
“Any hull popping?” he asked.
A chief petty officer seated with the sonar team pushed a headset behind his ear, stood, and shook his head.
“No, sir,” he said. “It could be the acoustic layer, or it could be that he’s got real solid hull construction. Maybe he hasn’t gotten deep enough to hear his hull compressing yet.”
“Keep listening,” Rodriguez said.
I’ve got a Kilo, he thought. Damn! Why won’t the bureaucrats let me shoot?
“We’ve got some hull popping,” the far away sonar chief said. “Not much, but enough. He’s coming down — passing through the surface layer. Should be in the same acoustic layer as us soon.”
“Rig ship for ultra-quiet operations,” Rodriguez said. “Make turns for four knots.”
Tense, silent moments passed. Rodriguez flipped through screens showing acoustic data, but nothing appeared.