"Something like an Akula… "
"Wait!" Hartwell said. "Captain… you're saying that the Chinese might have bought themselves an Akula?"
"It is a possibility. The ONI would be very interested in confirming that sale, if it really happened. As I said, this could be a simple visit by a Russian submarine to a Chinese port of call. However, we have not been able to identify this particular Akula. That means she's new… but the Russians have not been adding to their own fleet lately. Upkeep has been too expensive, and too many of their first-line warships are already rusting to death in ports from the Baltic to the Pacific. If this is a new build, she may have been launched solely for sale to an export market.
"I don't need to add that even one Akula in the PLA naval forces would drastically tip things in their favor in any naval confrontation over Taiwan or the South China Sea. Ten Kilos are bad enough. An Akula is a nuke boat with unlimited range, almost as quiet as a Kilo… quieter than one of our Los Angeles boats, in fact. Besides torpedoes, she can launch SS-N-15, -16, and -17 missiles… the equivalent of our Tomahawks. One Akula could decimate a carrier battle group. One Akula supported by a wolfpack of Kilos could threaten the entire U.S. Seventh Fleet."
He paused, gauging the temper of the men in the room. They were all listening with grim intensity; Hartwell's fingers were drumming lightly and quickly on the polished mahogany surface of the table.
"Gentlemen, we need hard intel. We need to know exactly what the Chinese have in their inventory… and we especially need to know whether they have an Akula in their fleet. Washington had worked out a plan to garner that intelligence, but the missile attack on
Taiwan this morning may have stolen a march from us.
"Nevertheless, Washington's orders are to proceed with the operation, which has been dubbed 'Red Dragon,' with modifications along the way as necessary. We are immediately deploying the attack submarine Seawolf to the Strait of Formosa, where she will listen for PLA submarines and attempt to gather acoustical data on their presence and operations there. She will make a special effort to find and identify the Akula in the Hong Kong area and make an attempt to determine her nationality.
"In the meantime, the Stennis battle group will deploy to the Strait of Formosa to present Beijing with a show of our determination to stand by Taiwan. Should war break out between China and the United States, the Seawolf will already be in position to strike PLA assets along the coast between Hong Kong and Fuzhou. Commander Lawless? Is your boat ready to sail?"
One of the naval officers at the table nodded. He was Commander George Lawless, the current skipper of SSN-21, the USS Seawolf. "Yes, sir," Lawless said. "We're ready to sail on twenty-four hours' notice. My wardroom is still down by an XO, however. Commander Joslin was airlifted out to San Diego three days ago."
"I know." Lieutenant Peter Joslin, Seawolf's exec, had developed sudden and severe heart problems, problems severe enough that Seawolf had put into Yokesuka, the nearest major Navy port at the time, to transfer Joslin to the naval hospital there. He'd been transferred back to the States when it became clear that he needed better hospital facilities to treat his condition.
For Frank Gordon, Joslin's illness had provided an unexpected but most welcome opportunity. He'd been arguing for the past month that he needed one of his people on board the Seawolf if that boat was to be sent hunting for Kilos in the Formosa Strait. But even Sea-wolfs were crowded, and no skipper wanted people on board who weren't pulling their own weight. There'd been resistance to the idea.
"Some of you may know Commander Tom Garrett," he went on, "by reputation if not in person. He is a former skipper of a Los Angeles boat—my old boat, in fact — the USS Pittsburgh. In addition, he has particular expertise tracking Kilo-class submarines. I would like to suggest him as a temporary executive officer for the Seawolf. You may find his skills damned useful on this one, Commander."
"As long as he's not driving," Lawless said. He made it sound like a joke, and several at the table chuckled, but Gordon knew that Lawless still didn't like the idea. He'd broached it to him by phone yesterday and received a lot of static… mostly having to do with the fact that Garrett was still under a cloud after his collision with a Chinese sub and the subsequent hearing.
Gordon also knew that Lawless would go along with the idea. Admiral Dulany, back in San Diego, had been most emphatic. Gordon wanted a particular man on the Seawolf for Operation Red Dragon, and he would have that man, no questions asked.
And Gordon wanted Garrett on the Seawolf.
He wondered how Garrett felt about that.
7
Garrett drove his battered, secondhand Toyota down Nimitz Avenue, then turned at the bustle of the Alliance Club — a sprawling structure billed as the largest enlisted men's club in the world, three floors of discos, bars, and restaurants. It was lunchtime, and he knew he ought to be hungry, but the briefing he'd just attended had jolted him hard, leaving him weak, a bit shaken, and not at all interested in food. He wanted to make it down to the dockside area.
He wanted, no, he needed to see the Seawolf.
He was going to be assigned to a submarine again… and such a submarine! Seawolf…
It was the stuff dreams were made of. The problem was, nightmares were dreams, too. Could he do this?
His career track had definitely taken a negative turn since '99. He hadn't fallen off the straight and narrow yet, but things were definitely closing in on him. According to the charts, his expected professional development path would have seen him commanding a submarine like the Pittsburgh until he had eighteen years or a bit more in-service, then had him rotate ashore for a postcommand stretch at a SUBRON HQ or other sub-related shore facility. He might also find himself selected for a senior service college or a major command, once he hit his twenty-year mark… and all of it would be aimed at grooming him for selection as captain and a posting to a major command.
He'd now been in the Navy for twenty years. At twenty-one he would have been able to make captain, but that was such a distant dream now it wasn't even worth considering. Once you hit O-5 in this man's Navy — the rank of commander — you'd pretty much risen as far as it was possible to go without some pretty serious politicking and good friends within the infamous Old Boys' Network.
And where was he? His first command had been aborted halfway in. After leaving the Pittsburgh, he'd ended up shuffling papers at the Naval Supply Center Command in Pearl Harbor. Hawaii was a true paradise, but it had been exile nonetheless. They might as well have posted him to Adak, Alaska. Submarine skippers had their share of paper shuffling and bureaucracy, sure, but Supply had been an absolute horror of boredom with its endless paperwork, forms, and requisitions.
And after a year at Pearl he'd been transferred again, this time across the Pacific to Atsugi. That was after the divorce with Claire became final, and at least he didn't have to worry about finding housing for her in Japan, where long waiting lists made good housing on- or off-base hard to come by.