China Star

by Maurice Medland

  Sam eased back into the control room behind the officer. He must have heard him. For a big man, Sam moved like a cat. Matt raised his hands.

  In one fluid movement, Sam grabbed the officer around the neck with his right arm and jerked up on the barrel of the shotgun with his left hand. Matt dropped to the deck as the twelve-gauge exploded with a shattering roar, raining debris from the overhead down on him. Ears ringing, he came to his feet and stared up at the damage to the overhead. A few pipes were dented, and the insulation on a brace of electrical cables had been peeled back by the blast, exposing bare copper wires.

  “Jesus Christ, Sam.”

  “Sorry, Skipper. He was a little quicker on the trigger than I thought he’d be.” Sam handed the shotgun to Matt. “Think we can still get under way?”

  Matt was more worried about being able to dive, but there was no going back now. He turned to the officer and held out his hand. “The keys to the small arms locker.”

  The officer removed a chain from around his neck and handed it to Matt.

  Matt tossed the keys to Sam. “Secure it, Sam, then get back up there.”

  “I will if you stop getting into trouble.”

  Matt motioned to the number two with his pistol. “Up on the bridge.”

  “Who are you and what do you want?”

  “We’re getting under way. Now. Do you understand me?”

  “We can’t get under way.”

  “Why? What’s the problem?”

  “The engines are down.”

  Matt didn’t believe him. One, maybe, but not both. He turned to Wen, who hadn’t understood their conversation in English. “Which engine is down?” he asked in Mandarin.

  “The port engine. It’s not running properly. One piston is faulty.”

  One engine was enough to get them into position, but two would be better when it came time to run. He remembered a technique he’d heard about from an uncle who’d sailed on diesels in World War II.

  “Can you sling it?”

  “Wo bu dong.” I don’t understand.

  “Disconnect it from the crankshaft and sling it at the top of its stroke. The engine will still run while you make the repairs.”

  Wen’s eyes opened wider. “Wo dong.” I understand.

  “Are the batteries charged?”

  “About 80 percent.”

  Matt removed the tape from Corporal Wu’s hands and nodded toward Wen. “Go with him. Do what he says. If you want to save your life, help him get those engines running. Now.” He racked the shotgun, ejecting the spent shell and loading a new one. “Beth, can you handle this?”

  “I’ve never held a gun in my life.”

  “Time to learn. Here. Keep an eye on the control room. Make sure nobody touches anything. I’m going to be busy topside.” He turned back to the officer. “What’s your name?”

  “Lien.”

  “You lied to me about the engines, Lien. Don’t do that again.”

  “Your Mandarin is quite impressive. So’s your knowledge of diesel engines.”

  Matt heard the starboard diesel engine turn over and begin its rattling idle. He pulled the pistol from his belt and motioned to Lien.

  “Up to the bridge. You first.”

  Matt followed him up the ladder, eager to get out of the sub and nervous about what he’d find when he got there. He wasn’t worried about resistance from the surface ships - they’d be expecting them to get under way - and he wasn’t worried about undue resistance from the number two, simply because he had no idea what Matt intended to do. Yet. The big question was, had Captain Chen blown the whistle? Would he have a contingent of marines waiting for him on the launch platform when he stuck his head above deck?

  He emerged onto the bridge and looked around. The launch platform was empty except for a few stragglers walking toward the command ship and a pair of line handlers standing by the sub. He looked behind him. Zhuhai was gone. He could see her a half-mile away, moving fast. There weren’t any marines waiting for him. Was Captain Chen going to give him the free shot he’d asked for, or was he just getting into position to sink him when he pulled away from the launch platform?

  The two line handlers, obviously seamen from the crew of the boat, stood by the lines, waiting to cast off. They looked at Matt curiously but seemed to accept his presence on the bridge with the number two officer. The command ship and launch platform were full of foreigners doing strange things.

  “All right, Lien. You’re going to take her out. Station the maneuvering watch.”

  Lien keyed the microphone on the Chinese version of the 1MC, the boat’s communication system, and spoke in Mandarin. “Now station the maneuvering watch. Station the maneuvering watch.”

  Several seamen emerged on deck and pulled on sound-powered telephones. The one forward plugged the phone into a jack near the number one line and turned to face the bridge, waiting for orders. Behind Matt, a pair of lookouts climbed into the periscope shears with binoculars.

  “Take in the number two and number three lines,” Lien said. “Single up number one and number four.”

  Matt watched the seamen work the lines, numbered one at the bow and four at the stern. The excitement of getting a sub under way came flooding back. If this was going to be his last act on earth, it wasn’t a bad way to go out.

  “Take in the number one and the number four lines,” Lien said. “All ahead one third. Right 15 degrees rudder.”

  The line handlers on the platform lifted the eye splices off the bollards and tossed the lines into the blue equatorial water. As the boat eased away from the launch platform, the line handlers on the sub covered their ears with their hands, waiting for the blast. Lien sounded three short blasts on the air horn, the international signal to every ship within a mile radius that the submarine was under way.

  Matt looked out over the 250-foot sub cutting cleanly through the water. It felt good to have a ship beneath him. The command ship sounded its horn, signaling the last call to leave the platform. He leaned into the wind and watched the deck crew clean up, stowing lines and capstan wrenches. They finished up and went below, dogging down the escape trunk hatch behind them. If they’d been in a crowded port, they’d have stayed on deck a little longer to drop anchor in case steering was lost, but in the open sea, there was no need.

  He scanned the horizon. Harbin and the two frigates were about a mile out, cruising around the platform in a screening perimeter. Zhuhai was turning, moving into position - to do what? Take her place in the screen, or blow him out of the water? He looked at Beth’s watch. Nine forty. He had to get into position quickly.

  “Now that we’re under way,” Lien said, “I can’t imagine what you expect to accomplish with this little stunt of yours.”

  “Take her out a half-mile,” Matt said.

  “My orders are to take her out a mile.”

  “You’ve got new orders. One half-mile. Then come around facing the launch platform and heave to.”

  Lien looked at him. “You’re a sub commander, aren’t you?”

  Matt was too busy making plans to make conversation, but he had to keep the guy calm until they got into position.

  “Your job,” he said. “XO of an attack boat.”

  “You’re too young to have ever sailed on diesels. America hasn’t had diesels for decades. You must be a nuclear officer.”

  “Ex,” Matt said.

  “What class of boat?”

  “Los Angeles.” He looked at Beth’s watch. Nine forty-five. The erector arm should be coming down soon, signaling the last fifteen minutes of the countdown. The second diesel engine fired up, running with a ragged edge.

  “Here we are, that’s far enough. Bring her around. I want the bow facing the platform.”

  Lien complied, then ordered All Stop. The sub hove to, blue water slapping against the black hull, diesel engines idling with their deep-throated murmur. Scattered whitecaps dotted the expanse between the sub and the launch platform. The sun blazed brilliantly
in the eastern sky. A perfect shot. All he needed was one good torpedo. Where the hell was Sam?

  “Order battle stations, torpedo,” Matt said.

  Lien stared at him. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Skipper!” Sam yelled up the trunk from the control room. “There’s only six fish aboard, four forward and two aft. We got four loaded in the bow, tubes one and two, three and four. Two in the stern, tubes seven and eight. They’re old, they got pistol-type detonators, but they’re ready to shoot.”

  Lien’s mouth fell open. “You are serious.”

  Matt heard a whistling sound, an incoming shell. It exploded fifty yards off the starboard bow. He looked to the east. Zhuhai was turning toward them. The senior colonel must have figured out what he was doing and ordered Zhuhai to stop him. That first shot from Captain Chen was a warning. He had to get this done. “Give the order.”

  “No.”

  Matt pressed his pistol against Lien’s temple. “If I have to give it, you won’t hear it.”

  Lien hit a lever on the bridge. An insistent gonging sound reverberated throughout the ship. He keyed the microphone, glaring at Matt.

  “Battle stations, torpedo. Battle stations, torpedo.”

  “Flood tubes one and two,” Matt said.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Matt pressed the muzzle of the pistol deeper into his flesh. “Say it.”

  “Flood tubes one and two,” Lien said into the microphone.

  “Open the outer doors on tubes one and two,” Matt said.

  “This has gone far enough,” Lien said.

  “Do it.”

  “Open outer doors. Tubes one and two,” Lien said. “This is insane.”

  Another shell exploded, close enough to lift the bow of the sub up out of the water. It eased back down into position, rocking back and forth. Captain Chen was putting on a good show, but he couldn’t stall much longer.

  “No need to mark the range or bearing,” Matt said. “Fire one. Fire two.”

  “I won’t do it.”

  The rocket engines ignited. He looked at Beth’s watch. Five minutes till lift-off. They were cutting the countdown short.

  “That destroyer’s got our range. The next one’s going to hit the bridge. I’m not going to dive until we fire. Do it.”

  Lien looked back and forth between the launch platform and Zhuhai bearing down on them. “I can’t.”

  Matt grabbed the microphone and shoved him out of the way. “Sam! Fire one! Fire two!”

  Seconds ticked by. Matt held his breath. “Come on, goddamn it, come on.”

  The number one torpedo spun out of its tube and churned toward the launch platform, followed by the number two. The rocket engines were brighter now, the platform trembling, the air crackling.

  “Hurry up, you son of a bitch. Hurry up.”

  The rocket shuddered and started to lift off. The number one torpedo slammed into the ballast tank beneath it and exploded. The rocket swayed and tilted to the west, engines blazing. The number two torpedo drove into what must have been a fuel storage tank beneath the hangar. The platform lifted up, an orange ball of flame erupting beneath it. The rocket lifted off, tilting farther to the west. A fireball erupted around the engines, climbing the length of the first stage, then a massive, shuddering explosion split the air.

  Matt instinctively shielded his face from the heat. Through narrowed eyes, he watched the rocket disintegrate and fall burning into the sea. Beth let out a whoop from below.

  He stared at the wreckage, mesmerized. Burning fuel on the surface of the launch platform spread to the hangar on the opposite end. Fuel storage tanks ignited, then detonated, throwing flames 100 feet in the air, igniting the phony wooden containers on the deck of the command ship. The ships that had been screening broke off and headed toward her to fight the fire.

  He looked to the east. Zhuhai had kicked it into high gear and was steaming toward them at flank speed. He’d had his free shot. Captain Chen wouldn’t miss again - there was no way he could allow Matt to get away to tell his story. He hit the lever for the Klaxon horn twice and shoved Lien toward the hatch.

  “Clear the bridge. Dive! Dive!”

  A shell exploded on the starboard side of the boat, slamming him against the bulwark. A searing pain shot through his left side. Grimacing, he made a quick check for damage. There was a large dent in the ballast tanks, but he couldn’t see any breaks in the hull. He shoved the lookouts down the trunk behind Lien, then dropped down the ladder behind them and sealed the hatch.

  Lien stood at his post as diving officer. He glared at Matt.

  “You fool. You’ve just killed us all.”

  “Secure diesel engines,” Matt said, holding his left side, breathing hard. “Shift to battery power. All ahead full. Take her down to periscope depth.”

  “Periscope depth? Are you crazy? That’s a destroyer. We need to go deep.”

  Matt pointed the pistol at Lien’s head. “Do it.”

  Lien rang up Battery Power on the motor-order telegraph and repeated the order in Mandarin to the two planesmen. They started their motors and set the planes on a 10-degree dive angle.

  Lien stepped over to the hydraulic manifold and opened the tank vents. He closed the main induction valve and looked up at the light board.

  “White board.”

  Matt stared at the white glow of the lights. It was the “Christmas tree” his uncle had told him about. The World War II-era light board consisted of red and green lights that indicated hull integrity. Red meant there was an opening in the boat somewhere, green meant the hull was secure. The Chinese used white instead of green. He looked around, the realization growing that he was sealed inside a tube that was going down. Don’t think about where you are. Concentrate on what you’re doing.

  “Rig out the sonar,” Matt said.

  Without waiting for Lien’s approval, the sonar operator switched on some ancient-looking sonar gear and pulled his headphones on. He adjusted the speaker volume, and the control room began echoing with active sonar pings. Passive was the norm, despite what people saw in the movies, simply because the active pings were a double-edged sword. They established the target’s range and bearing accurately, but they also gave away your position. In this case, it didn’t matter - Zhuhai knew exactly where they were.

  The boat slipped into an eerie silence. Matt glanced around, fighting a sense of panic, looking for leaks where the shotgun blast had dented some pipes. Even a small drip at this depth could be a major problem when they went deep.

  Lien stepped over to a bank of valves that controlled compressed air blown to the tanks. He watched the barometer of the high-pressure air manifold. When he was satisfied with the level, he turned and said, “Pressure in the boat.” Everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

  Matt watched the depth gauge, trying to control his panic. Everything was in meters. One meter was a little over three feet. Periscope depth was about sixty-five feet.

  “Make your depth twenty meters.”

  Lien repeated the order, keeping his eye on the depth gauge. When it approached the target depth, he ordered, “Shut negative flood. Blow negative to the mark.”

  The auxiliaryman repeated the order. “Permission to vent negative inboard.”

  “Vent negative inboard,” Lien said.

  Matt raised the aft periscope. The target was close, and the smaller attack scope would make less of a wake. Gripping the handles, he pressed his right eye against the black rubber eyepiece and turned the scope in a half-circle. The other destroyer and the two frigates were steaming toward the command ship. The flames were higher now. A huge fireball billowed up from the deck. He turned the scope forward and grimaced from the sharp pain in his side.

  Zhuhai was steaming directly toward him. If he fought her conventionally, they wouldn’t have a chance. The two aft missile launchers on Zhuhai were fitted with CY-1 anti-submarine missiles, a system that deployed a Mark 46 torpedo comparable to the American
ASROC system. He’d seen them when he was climbing aboard the helicopter. With its built-in sonar, there was no way they could dive deep enough to escape it. The only chance he had was to kill it now, in the first few minutes of engagement, by doing something totally unexpected, the way he’d taken Sergeant Li. Doing what a sub commander would normally do would be a death sentence.

  “Hard left rudder,” Matt said, gripping his side. “Steady on course zero-three-zero. Flood tubes three and four.”

  Lien repeated the orders in English, then Mandarin.

  “Open outer doors on three and four,” Matt said. “Range.”

  “Eight hundred meters,” Lien said.

  It would be a close range shot, but he wouldn’t have to override the safety interlocks to arm the torpedoes. The old pistol-type detonators would explode on impact, just as they had on the launch platform.

  “Range,” he said again.

  “Five hundred meters,” Lien said.

  He sounded panicked, but the closer they were to Zhuhai, the less able the destroyer was to train her guns on them, and the less apt she was to fire a missile.

  “Make the torpedo depth one meter. Bearing. Mark.”

  “Zero-three-one.”

  Matt counted the distance in his head, waiting. “Range. Mark.”

  “Three hundred meters.”

  He continued tracking the distance based on the size of the destroyer in the periscope lens. He’d never seen a ship take up so much real estate.

  Now. “Fire three. Fire four. Emergency deep. Make your depth five-zero meters.”

  He felt the thump of two torpedoes leaving the boat. He snapped the handles up and lowered the periscope. From the sonar speaker, he could hear the high-pitched sound of the torpedo propellers over the low-pitched screws of Zhuhai.

  “Stay away from bulkheads. Brace for impact.”

  Lien keyed the microphone and repeated the orders in English and Mandarin.