Korea Strait (13 page)

He went into the sonar compartment for a while and discussed the search procedures with Henrickson. The ship leaned in a couple more tight turns while he was in there. He figured it was normal evasive maneuvering in the vicinity of a sub. He borrowed the sonar-men's tables and worked out the effective acoustic range of their torpedoes. They were homing torpedoes, of course, Mark 46s, using a small active sonar in the nose to pick up and then zero in on their target.

This triggered another thought, and he ran down his attack checklist and went out into CIC again and checked that their own
antitorpedo countermeasures were streamed. The SLQ-25 was the same decoy the U.S. Navy employed. It howled the identical noise spectrum into the water as a ship's screw. A fish approaching from astern would home on it and explode, instead of going into the propeller.

He was occupied with this when he glanced at the DRT.

The green pencil trace—
Dae Jon's
—was crossing almost directly over the datum.

He froze, not believing what he saw. His first thought was that the plotters had erred. He shoved between them and fingered the trace. “Is this good? Is this valid data?”

Even as he asked he knew it was. The track had diverged nine minutes earlier, about the time he'd gone into sonar. The evaluator gave him a blank look. Dan swore and wheeled, charging up the ladder to the bridge.

The pilothouse was absolutely dark and unfamiliar and he blundered into someone, who shot back abuse in Korean. Dan said the only phrase he could muster, “Sorry.”

“Commander Lenson?”

It was Yu; of course if you were going to run into someone, it had to be the captain. On the other hand, Yu had tactical command of both ships. Dan said quickly, “Sorry, sir, but I can't see yet. Captain:
Dae Jon
is very close to
San Francisco's
safety zone. Maybe inside it by now.”

“She is making attack.”

“I understand that, but your plot shows her far too close in, sir.” He peered out the windows, expecting any moment to see the red flare from the submarine that meant
danger, disengage.
But there was nothing but the black of midnight sea. The speed disks roared. Rain hammered on the windscreens. “I strongly advise you signal ‘disengage' at once and withdraw to a safe distance.”

“Commodore is not on the bridge—”

“Sir, he's not OTC for this event.
You
are.” At that moment a distant red-orange spark caught Dan's eye out the starboard wing window. He swiveled instantly and pointed. “And the sub's
at periscope depth.
Sir, you have to disengage.”

His eyes were adapting now and he could make out the men and equipment as black shapes against the faint luminescence from dials
and indicator lamps. He left Yu standing and crossed the bridge and undogged the starboard door.

The warm rain cascaded down out of blackness. It smelled like a root cellar and like coal smoke and it soaked him within seconds. He ignored it. His face was welded to the little three-power scope on top of the pelorus stand. Through it he made out the orange wink of the strobe far away. He twisted the scope and made out the silhouette of a destroyer only a few degrees off it. Yeah. Showing a port running light. It was bearing down on the strobe, and by the distance intervals on the plot below, at flank speed.

It seemed like minutes as he fought his way through the door again, groped in the dark for the right microphone, and hit the button. Perhaps a tenth of second elapsed between pressing the button to speak and the red transmit light illuminating. In that instant his brain warned him he'd pay for this. But then he remembered the men in a fragile envelope not far below the surface. The knife-edged bow of the old destroyer, flank speed, bad visibility… an electric shock ran up the injured nerves of his spine. He couldn't wait for someone else to act.

“Buffalo, Buffalo,” he said as clearly and slowly as he could. “Event terminated.
Dae Jon, Dae Jon:
Speed zero, I say again, speed zero. Turn to safety course due north immediately. Acknowledge.”

He wanted her dead in the water,
now.
An accented voice came back with a stilted interrogative. Dan repeated the order till he got a roger. Then said, “I say again, Buffalo, Buffalo. All units clear and disengage to safe standoff distance.”

The Koreans were shouting at him. He felt a hand on his shoulder. He shoved it off and went through the litany again, slowly, precisely, sending in the clear so everyone could hear and not waste one precious second searching a signal book. He signed off, let up off the button. Took a deep breath. Then turned.

The bridge was emptying. He could only guess, but someone must have ordered it cleared.

THE confrontation wasn't pleasant. Midway through it, with Yu spluttering in a spit-spattering froth of English and Korean, trying to tear him a new asshole without the vocabulary for it,
San Francisco
came up on the tactical coordination net. Laying it out in dry phrases,
a midwestern voice from the American sub notified the overall exercise OTC—Commodore Jung, though Hwang had been the one who actually answered the radio—that
San Francisco
would no longer participate in exercise play. He was withdrawing to the east for the remainder of the dark hours and would report his pullout to SUB-PAC. He requested that all Korean units stay well clear of him west of 127 degrees east longitude.

“May I talk to him?” Dan asked Hwang. He got a hesitation; then the handset.

“Romeo Kilo, this is TAG exercise coordinator. Request to speak to Romeo Kilo actual. Over.”

“This is Romeo Kilo actual. Over.” The sub's skipper, in person.

“This is TAG coordinator. Request to know reason for your dropping out of exercise. Over.”

“This is Romeo Kilo. I can't play with these idiots. Over.”

Dan cleared his throat, conscious of Hwang, and Yu, and the officer of the deck, Kim #2, he thought, listening to the exchange, which was being piped over the speaker as well as through his handset. Plus everybody in CIC as well, no doubt. “Uh, this is TAG coordinator. Understand there was a violation of standoff distance. Over.”

“Romeo Kilo. You could call it that. I call it irresponsible maneuvering, too close at too high a speed. He missed me by less than two hundred yards. That's too dangerous for me to continue participation. Over.”

Dan rubbed his forehead. Without the sub, they no longer had an event. “This is TAG coordinator. The signal for a dangerously close approach is a red flare. Over.”

The sub skipper explained he'd tried to fire one, but it had hung up in the ejection tube. When the inner door had been opened to extract it, it had ignited and fallen out on the deck. Dan closed his eyes. No wonder the guy was pulling out. At periscope depth, with a destroyer charging down on him, and a fire aboard too. “Any casualties? Is the fire under control? Over.”

“Romeo Kilo. Fire is out. A couple guys down with smoke. Over.”

Dan eased off the button, trying to think. He thought he knew where the Koreans were coming from. They had the fighting spirit. He didn't want to discourage that. But he also understood the sub skipper's misgivings. Captaining a billion dollars' worth of nuclear submarine was as
exacting a trade as there was. His job was to get everyone working together. That was the only way to keep the exercise going. But at the moment, it was falling apart.

“Commander Lenson?”

Hwang. The staff officer tugged at his sleeve. Past him, in the corner of the pilothouse, Dan saw Commodore Jung. His stocky shape stood square in the dimness, like a rock around which the surf seethed. Dan steeled himself and went over. “Commodore. Commander Lenson here.”

“I understand you interfered in Captain Yu's conduct of this event.”

“Sir,
Dae Jon
was within
San Francisco's
standoff distance. The sub was at periscope depth. It was too dangerous to continue.”

“Yu is the OTC. You could have advised him. Rather than causing him to… rather than assuming his responsibilities.”

Jung's tone was iron, the silence in the pilothouse complete. Dan decided diplomacy might be in order. “Sir, it's U.S. Navy doctrine that anyone observing a hazard during an exercise may terminate the exercise.
Must
terminate the exercise. If that's not Korean procedure, I most humbly apologize. Both to you and to the captain.” He bowed, both to Jung and Yu, to make it plain even to those who didn't follow English what he was doing.

Jung cleared his throat but didn't respond, so Dan pressed on. “Unfortunately we have a problem.”

He explained about
San Francisco's
onboard fire, her CO's reaction to the close pass, and his withdrawal from the exercise. Jung's shadow stroked its chin. Said slowly, “If they leave, the only submarine involved will be
Chang Bo Go.
That won't be sufficient?”

“Well, sir, no, it won't. The free play just won't work with only one sub.”

Jung said angrily, “I'm not happy about this, Commander. Korean doctrine too emphasizes safety. But after all, we also train the way we fight. And I don't plan to admonish any of my skippers for being too combative. No. I will not do that.”

“No, sir. I understand where you're coming from on that. And if I acted too hastily, I apologize once again.”

“Very well; that is closed. But about the submarine… what can I do about that? Is she really going to withdraw?”

“They take safety very seriously, sir. And you can't blame them.”

“Tell me what to do,” Jung said.

Dan thought a moment. He didn't like the idea, but it was all he could think of. “Well, sir,” he said slowly, “there might be one thing we can try.”

T
HE rain blew down in slanted ramps from colorless clouds as somewhere dawn broke. It sparkled on the gray decks and skipped along the coamings and whirled in the scuppers. Dan was soaked all over again as he climbed up into
Chung Nam's
motor whaleboat. The boat swayed like a cradle as he stood clutching the dripping monkey lines, waiting to lower away. The deep flute-roar of the stack ten feet away vibrated his very bones. He'd left his wallet with Henrickson. He carried a handheld radio and was laden-wet in foul weather jacket, fore-and-aft cap, and a bright orange flotation vest. Which was too tight across his chest, but it reassured him. Considering he was facing a heavy chop, with a doubtful destination. He hitched his sagging trou and looked toward the bridge.

A face he hadn't seen much of late looked back. Joe O'Quinn, back among the living. As Dan looked up, the retired captain raised two fingers from the rail like a pickup driver on a country road. Taking that as a greeting, he nodded back.

The chief shouted and pointed and a seaman pushed over a controller. The davits rotated out and the boat began its descent. Dan crouched, gripping the line as the whaleboat metronomed. The wet-glazed gray of
Chung Nam's
hull swung close, then far away. The boat crew was ragged, tentative, as if they didn't do this very often. It wasn't quite up to par with what he'd come to expect, which was a high standard in seamanship and gunnery, somewhat lower in communications and tactics. And of course near the bottom of the stack when it came to chow, showers, and the other
habitability issues. Or maybe they liked their food that way and didn't care about the rest.

The front tackle lurched. The chief screamed his head off above them, and Dan came back to where he was. He glanced down into the rain-spackled, greasy-surfaced sea. He tightened the life jacket straps, gauging his chances. If that forward hook let go it'd drop the bow into the water, flip the boat, and drag it over top of them. A gray-green sea crested and spray rattled over them. He licked it as it ran down his face. It tasted like sweat.

The flagship had checked out of the exercise. They were fifteen miles east of the op area, headed into the prevailing seas. The submarine was a black nub only occasionally visible two thousand yards distant. Her CO had refused to allow them closer. Dan didn't think that boded well for his mission, but this was all he could think of to do.

The keel hit the sea. The chief screamed again and gestured violently. The hooks released with a ragged double clank barely audible through the wind and the breaking seas and the snorting growl of the boat's diesel. The forward hook swung back at them and everybody ducked as it went through. He crouched, feeling better being unhooked and seaborne. The coxswain put the wheel over slowly, so as not to slam their stern into the hull, then gunned it.

The frigate receded into a gray shadow in the rain astern. He found a seat on the thwarts as another mass of spray boarded. Water rolled to and fro on the thwart. His pants and underwear were already sodden. He wished he had another pair of shoes. Corfam was never the same after salt water.

The sea seemed bigger and much rougher down here. Also dirtier: a scattered litter of cardboard scraps, bits of styrofoam, chunks of what looked like plastic packing material, bobbed in the dimpling rain. The diesel growled and burbled and roared. The helm groaned as the coxswain, the biggest Korean Dan had yet seen, spun the wheel, searching out an approach to each oncoming wave. As they surged to a crest Dan shaded his eyes against the rain and spray. He clicked his gaze across the horizon but saw nothing. Looking back, he couldn't see the frigate anymore either. The coxwain had his head down; Dan saw he was checking the compass.

Ten or eleven minutes later
San Francisco's
massive sail loomed
above them like a black keep just emerged from the sea. Even ballasted up the submarine was being swept from one end to the other, rolling much more violently than the frigate had. Two seamen, safety lines dragging in a track, clung to the base of the sail. The coxswain eyed Dan, then the rolling, seaswept rounded hull. Lenson swallowed, resigning himself to a swim at least, major damage at worst. This wasn't going to be pretty.