But Liaodong Bay is not much deeper than 100 feet anywhere, bounded as it is by great salt flats, so when an SSN leaves here it must not only run to the choke point on the surface, it must proceed south on the surface for another 400 miles before reaching any deep water whatsoever. The northern Yellow Sea is a strange place to build underwater warships. The weather in winter is shocking, the border of the snowswept plains of Inner Mongolia being only 100 miles away. Huludao possesses only one advantage, that of privacy, indeed, secrecy.
Curiously, another of the major Chinese shipyards is also located up in those northern waters — the one at Dalian (Dawan), on the northern peninsula of the choke point, where they build most of the great workhorses of the Chinese Navy, the Luda-class destroyers.
Judd stared at the chart, trying to put himself in the Chinese captain’s mind: What would I do if I were in a brand-new ICBM submarine, and was almost certainly being watched by an American nuclear boat somewhere?
Well, the Yellow Sea’s deeper to the east along the Korean shore, so I’d come to the choke point and keep running southwest for maybe four hundred miles. I’d stay on the surface until I was down here…where am I? Thirty-four degrees north…then I’d run north of the island of Cheng Do…then I’d make a beeline for the deep water…over by these islands west of Nagasaki…then I’d dive, real quick as a matter of fact…that’s what he’ll do, I think. That’s where I’ll be waiting for him.
Judd Crocker called a conference of his key personnel in the control room: Lt. Commander Clark; Lt. Commander Rothstein; the navigator, Lt. Shawn Pearson; the sonar officer, Lt. Kyle Frank; the marine engineering officer, Lt. Commander Rich Thompson; the chief of the boat, Master PO Brad Stockton; and the officer of the deck, Lt. Andy Warren.
“Gentlemen,” said the CO as he closed the door, “I have asked you to come in for a briefing on the nature of our mission. In short, we are going to China, to the eastern waters of the Yellow Sea, where we are trying to pick up their brand-new ICBM submarine, the new Xia, track it south, and then ascertain its precise measurements from keel to upper casing.”
“How exactly do we do that, sir?” asked Rothstein. “They probably won’t invite us over with a tape measure.”
“Cy, we have to get under its keel, directly under, and then use an upward sonar to get a complete picture of the underwater shape and depth of the submarine, from surface to keel. Then we range her from surface to casing and that way we have a dead accurate measurement of her precise height.”
“Yes, I see. But what exactly do you mean directly under its keel — you mean a couple of hundred feet below?”
“Cy, I actually mean a hell of a lot closer than that.”
“Can you tell us why we’re doing this, sir?”
“Yes, Brad, I guess so. Inside that submarine will be the very latest intercontinental ballistic missiles, the one they’ll throw at L.A. should they ever decide on such a course of action. For obvious reasons, we must know the precise range of that missile, how far it will go and whether they really could hit our West Coast from the far side of the Pacific Ocean. Basic intelligence, really. We’re on a top-classified spying mission, and we must not get caught.”
“Presumably, sir, we’re discussing the technology they stole from the USA in the final years of the nineties?”
“And a bit before that, Cy. Anyway, you all know the theory. We can’t measure the missile, but if we measure the submarine that carries it, we’ll know its height. Which I’m guessing will be around forty-five to fifty feet. There’s probably around nine feet of engine in there, and maybe four feet of warhead. The rest’s fuel, and our guys can ascertain within about a hundred yards how far that baby will fly.”
“How about the diameter, sir?”
“They have that. Picked up the hatch measurements from the satellite photographs.”
“Sir, I’ve known you for a lot of years,” said Brad Stockton. “And I can tell you’re holding back the bad news…”
They all laughed, and the CO continued, “There’s so much of that I’m not sure where to start!
“First of all we have to find the submarine, but we’ll have plenty of assistance from the overheads so long as she’s on the surface. Second, they’ll guess the Americans are watching, so they’ll be pretty vigilant watching for us. Third, Fort Meade is afraid they have stolen our most up-to-date ASW system, which will allow them to spot us underwater from space, from their own satellite. Which would make us pretty easy prey if the water’s not deep and they send ship after ship to look for us.”
“Jesus Christ. Do we know if they have this stuff operational?”
“No. We only know that they have it. We’re not sure whether they know how to use it. Anyway, if we stay in deep water, we’re fairly safe. They have nothing that will catch us, nothing remotely fast enough.”
“And sir, if we had to, could we blow ’em out of the water?”
“Andy, that would be frowned upon. If they hit us, they’d probably get away with it — a marauding American nuclear boat creeping through Chinese waters, et cetera. But if we hit them, I’m afraid it would be regarded as an act of war, since we really have no reason to be there, four thousand miles from our home base.”
“You mean you’d just let them destroy us?”
“No, Andy, if it came down to a straight us or them, well, there could be only one answer to that.”
“Not us. Right, sir?”
“Not us. That’s correct, Andy. But officially, we’re not allowed to do that. Our orders are to stay undetected.”
“But that, as we all know, may be easier said than done,” said Cy Rothstein quietly.
“Correct. But we have to try. And we have to get our mindset straight. We are in a devastatingly powerful attack submarine. We could probably take out half the Chinese fleet if it came right down to it. But that’s not our job. We will be thanked profoundly at home only if we come back quietly with information, photographic evidence of what the hell the goddamned Chinese are up to…and how much of our stuff they have stolen and utilized.”
“Is that our only mission, sir?”
“Not quite. The Chinese have recently commissioned their third and newest Luhai-class destroyer, a big six-thousand-ton gas-turbine ship with an endurance of fourteen thousand miles, and guided missiles they can project to seventy miles. The Pentagon thinks the damn thing may have a ballistic trajectory ASW weapon. It’s called a CY-1. They want us to locate the destroyer and take a look. But we’ll need to be careful. CNO thinks it might be fitted with China’s first decent towed-array, developed from the stuff they stole from us.”
“Guess we better be careful,” said Lt. Pearson. “Especially if they got the ole CY-1 into action.”
230700JUN06.
North of the Ryukyu Islands.
29.10N 129.30E.
Speed 30. Depth 300. Course 305.
Seawolf ran swiftly underwater into the approaches to the East China Sea on Friday morning, five days after leaving Pearl. The journey through the great Pacific wilderness had been uneventful. They never even heard another ship. Nine times during the journey Seawolf’s periscope came jutting out of the water, but the one-second signal from the satellite was always the same: The new Xia was still moored securely alongside in Huludao, her reactor still running.
Seawolf’s Operations Area
Judd Crocker slowed to 20 knots as they picked their way through the tiny Japanese islands, with 1,500 feet of water beneath their keel. Up ahead was the unseen line of the south-flowing Japanese current that forms the seaward frontier of the China Sea.
Seawolf was not going that far, and when Pearson called out their position at longitude 129 degrees, the CO ordered, “Right standard rudder…make your course three-six-zero…speed twenty knots…depth two hundred feet.”
To Clarke he added, “We’ll make our patrol area just south of the entrance to the Korean Strait — the water’s deep and Japanese. We can hang around here until something sha
kes loose, then we can creep up to the one-hundred-meter line and wait for the Chinaman. That’s if I’m right about the course he’s bound to take over here to the east. If he’s on the other side, we’re in trouble, because we can’t track him underwater. Alternately, if he’s over there he’ll be on the surface anyway, so the overheads can track him, and we’ll catch up with him later.”
And so they slid along the eastern side of the Yellow Sea, off the far southern coastline of Japan’s 130-mile-long province of Kyushu. This is the last major land before the flag of the Rising Sun peters out into its lonely chain of remote Pacific islands, running southwest for 540 miles, almost to Taiwan.
But around these islands is the only deep water in the entire area, before the great continental shelf of the People’s Republic of China rises up to meet incoming submarines, driving them inevitably to the surface, or at least forcing them to leave behind the giveaway trail of a swirling wake.
Seawolf’s CO planned to do neither, and in 350 feet of water they patrolled silently below the surface, their speed now down to only 10 knots, the senior officers hoping to God the Chinese had not yet mastered the satellite sub-spotting techniques they had hijacked from the laboratories in California.
The weekend passed without any change. Four times they accessed the American satellite, and each time there was confirmation that the Xia had not moved. At 0900 on Monday morning, June 26, however, one of Frank’s sonar operators thought he picked up something out to the west: “Hard to explain…just a slight rise in the background level…doesn’t sound much like weather.”
The CO joined Frank standing behind the operator’s chair, and several minutes went by before they picked up any further sight or sound. “There it is again, sir…right there…we got faint engine lines coming up. Relative one-twenty-five…”
“Come right to one-thirty-five to resolve ambiguity.”
Seawolf swerved around while the sonar men tried to resolve the bearing. It took more than 10 minutes because the lines continued to be faint. Kyle Frank called it at 0922: “Bearing two-eight-zero.”
By now the “waterfall” screen was showing a much more definite picture of the engine lines, and the computer was scanning and comparing at high speed, trying to pinpoint the exact ship they were locating.
“It’s a submarine, sir, no doubt about that,” said Frank as his eyes darted from one screen to another. For a few moments he was silent, and then he blurted out, “Jesus, sir, it’s Russian…right, here we got ourselves a real live Russky…look at that. It’s a Kilo-class boat, I’d guess ten thousand yards off our starboard quarter…what the hell’s that doing here?”
“Possibly the same as us — waiting for the Xia?” asked Rothstein.
“I doubt it,” replied Judd. “The damn thing’s stacked with Russian technology anyway. I’d be surprised if there was anything they don’t know about it. They’re all best friends these days. They don’t need to spy. I’d say the Kilo was Chinese — I think they have about five of them now, and one of them is out here on some kind of exercise.”
“Shall we go a little closer, sir…see if we can learn anything?”
“I think we might, Linus. But I don’t want to go too close, maybe five thousand yards off track. Steer course two-five-zero…make your speed six knots…”
Seawolf edged in closer, and as she did Kyle Frank’s man picked up a new sound, machinery noise only, bearing one-four-zero.
“This is possibly a surface ship, sir, moving left slow or stopped, with a diesel engine running…puts us right between the Kilo and him.”
“I’ll have a look down the bearing, Sonar.” Seawolf’s CO kept the periscope up for a span of about seven seconds. He instantly identified the contact as a 5,000-ton Dazhi-class support ship. The computer told the sonar room it was 40 years old and carried four electrohydraulic cranes and a large stock of torpedoes.
“Know what I think?” said the captain.
But before anyone could answer, Kyle Frank’s sonar operator had picked up another passive contact very close to the Kilo.
“Jesus Christ!” said the operator to himself. “Bastards’ve opened fire on us.” But he was all pro when he made his announcement.
“TORPEDOES…INCOMING…POSSIBLY TWO…BEARING TWO-EIGHT-THREE…BEARING STEADY…”
Lt. Commander Clarke said, “My God, sir…what if they have warheads…STAND BY FULL DECOY PATTERN…we ought to be firing back…these bastards are shooting at us…trying to sink us, sir.”
“Negative, XO,” replied Captain Crocker.
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, NEGATIVE!” Linus Clarke’s voice was almost out of control. “I’M LOOKING AT TWO TORPEDOES INCOMING FROM A CHINESE SUBMARINE!”
“Sure, Linus. Just shut up for a minute, willya? I’m gonna let ’em go right by. RIGHT STANDARD RUDDER…MAKE YOUR COURSE TWO-EIGHT-THREE.”
“But how the hell do you know they’re going right by, sir?”
“Well, first of all they haven’t gone active. Second, it’s gotta be about a hundred to one against the torpedoes being at the same depth as us. And five hundred to one against them being on the exact right course to hit us. That’s an acceptable risk.”
“POSITIVE TWO TORPEDOES BEARING TWO-EIGHT-THREE…BEARING STILL STEADY, SIR,” called the sonar operator.
“’Course it is,” replied the captain. “We’ve just wandered into a torpedo test-firing exercise. That old Dazhi support ship I saw is acting as a TRV, torpedo recovery vessel — and none of the Chinese on either ship has the remotest idea we’re here. We’d sure know if they did.”
Right now, not for the first time in this submarine, the CO and his XO had totally different mindsets.
Judd Crocker’s thought process had told him with great clarity, Up range from us is an obvious torpedo recovery vessel. The Kilo has loosed a couple off. Neither of them is aimed at me in this small patch of water. I assess it’s at least 5,000 to I against either of the weapons hitting us, and even if one did, it plainly does not have a warhead, and it would not be in any way terminal.
Linus Clarke’s view was diametrically opposed: We are virtually in enemy waters. These bastards are shooting. Jesus Christ! My captain has placed our submarine right in the path of the torpedoes. He refuses to put out decoys. HE ACTUALLY DOES NOT WANT TO DO ANYTHING…HE MUST BE OUT OF HIS MIND. It’s a basic law of the universe…cover your ass. My God, a minute from now we could all be dead.
And even as the tortured thoughts of the XO thudded through his brain, the big TEST 96 missiles came cleaving through the water, not increasing in speed from 30 knots, not going active, but nonetheless coming nerve-wrackingly close to USS Seawolf’s position.
“Bearing’s still almost steady, sir…I now have two separate weapon tracks…but they’ll pass either side of us…the first one out to starboard, the second a little farther away to port…no danger, sir, unless they switch on active homing.”
And everyone in the control room area heard the sonar reports.
“WEAPON ONE MOVING RIGHT TWO-NINE-FIVE…LOUDER…CLOSING…NO TRANSMISSIONS ON THE BEARING.
“WEAPON TWO MOVING LEFT TWO-SIX-ZERO…LOUDER…NO TRANSMISSIONS ON THE BEARING.”
A minute later: “WEAPON ONE MOVING RIGHT FAST ZERO-ONE-FIVE…” The tension in his voice was dying. An air of calm was returning. “Weapon two moving left fast two-zero-five…”
Then, “Weapon one moving right, zero-six-five…slightly fainter…Doppler opening…weapon two moving left, one-six-three, fainter. Doppler opening.”
“Guess you called that one, sir. They just went right by as if we were just a little old hole in the water,” said Rothstein, smiling and, as he often did, contemplating the complexities of the human mind. Here we had a scenario, not four minutes long, not one minute ago, and we had two highly educated people simultaneously seeing that scenario from totally opposing perspectives. If they’d been in a courtroom giving evidence, the jury would have been in complete confusion. And rightly so. “Almost all evidence,” sai
d Cy to no one in particular, “is colored by opinion. Therefore it should largely be ignored because it is unreliable in the extreme.”
“Well, my reasoning wasn’t that difficult,” said the CO. “The Chinese obviously did not have a warhead fitted or the Dazhi wouldn’t have been right in the path of the weapons. They were just testing tube functioning, or maybe something more complicated, maybe even some kind of a tactical trial. I don’t think anyone’s ever seen a full-functioning explosive trial. Certainly not with a TRV downrange.
“Also, there’s no sign of a target. And if there were, there would be a lot of ships out here monitoring the whole event. My conclusion, therefore, was it was a non-warhead trial…but meanwhile I’m going a bit further off-track. I want to creep around behind that Kilo, hang around for a bit, ready for a second firing if there’s gonna be one. I’d like to get a full recording of the noise of the tubes being prepared and the firing sequence.
“And Linus, old buddy, have faith, willya?”
270100JUN06.
32.10N 128.OOE.
Speed 9. Depth 150.
Bearing three-six-zero.
Judd Crocker was trying to catch three or four hours’ sleep in his sparse, but private, cabin when someone knocked sharply on the door three times and then came straight in, the light from the companionway outside shining in on the sleeping CO.
“Sir, wake up,” called Frank. “I think you should see this. The Xia’s moved…cleared Huludao at nine last night. She’s making twenty-five knots through the Yellow Sea heading southwest on the surface, straight for the choke point.”
The captain’s brain whirred. “What time is it, Kyle?”
“’Bout oh-one-twenty, sir.”
“That means it’s been running for, what? Six hours. That’s one hundred and fifty miles. She’ll be right off Dalian now. What’s that…four hundred and fifty miles north of us…we wanna be looking for her around eighteen hours from now, right? Say around nineteen-thirty this evening.”
“Yessir. That’s what I have on this piece of paper, ’cept it took me ten minutes to work it out.”
U.S.S. Seawolf am-4 Page 6
