“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.”
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 Roads, 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.”