Arnold joined Tucson’s XO at the plotting table. A digital chart of the northern half of the South China Sea was displayed. Tucson’s position was marked with a blue submarine icon. A red X marked Master Four Nine.
“What do you think, Hal?” asked Arnold.
“Very odd, skipper, coming up from the deep like that.”
Arnold started to comment when the intercom speaker blared out a new report. “Conn, sonar, Master Four Nine has accelerated to thirty knots and is definitely tracking us. Range three hundred eighty yards and closing.”
Arnold muttered an expletive and keyed his mic. “Sonar, conn, standby.” He addressed the OOD next. “Steady as she goes, all ahead flank. Make your depth one thousand two-hundred feet.”
* * * *
Viperina Six—V-6―continued its pursuit of the target. The autonomous underwater sentry was in attack mode. Slinking upward from the deep, the robotic serpent accelerated. Its eighty-two-foot-long neutrally buoyant sinuous body undulated up to twenty feet from side to side. Propelled by internal servomechanisms that mimicked muscle power, the mechanical serpent was capable of reaching burst speeds of nearly forty knots.
V-6 was not alone. Its hunting partner, V-5 maneuvered to the east, preparing to set the trap.
Hunting in pairs, the AUVs patrolled offshore of Hainan Island, ranging up to a hundred miles from seabed Viper HUB Station 1. When within a hundred meters of each other, the vipers communicated with lasers. Beyond the optical limit, they used sonar.
Both units were low on battery power and were scheduled to return to their home base for recharging soon. However, twenty minutes earlier while suspended vertically in the water column fifteen hundred feet below the surface, both Viperinas detected the American submarine as it approached from the southeast.
While in monitoring mode, the vipers had communicated optically, devising the attack plan. Battery power was critical but enough juice was left to prosecute the attack. As V-6 advanced on the target, V-5 slinked eastward, anticipating in advance how their prey would react.
* * * *
“Conn, sonar. Master Four Nine is now running at thirty-three knots and accelerating. Range three hundred yards.”
Captain Arnold didn’t have time to answer sonar’s latest warning. Instead, he issued new orders to the OOD. “Launch countermeasures. Come right to new course of one three zero.”
Within a couple of heartbeats, two canisters were ejected from the hull. The cylinders began discharging compressed air. The deluge of expanding air bubbles flooded the water column with a deafening roar. The noisemakers helped mask the Tucson’s high-speed retreat.
* * * *
V-6 swam into the bubble cloud. Overwhelmed by the racket, its sonar sensors lost contact with the target. V-6’s computer cut power to propulsion. Still engulfed by the bubbles, it attempted to reacquire sonar lock on the target but failed.
V-5 detected the underwater storm as it slithered into position. Based on the prey’s maneuvers, V-5’s CPU, programmed with China’s latest AI algorithms, refined the attack plan.
* * * *
The USS Tucson raced through the depths. Tension inside the control room was electric. Captain Arnold and his crew worked together flawlessly, the years of training and endless drills coalescing into textbook evasion procedures.
Captain Arnold keyed his handheld mike. “Sonar, conn. Contact update.”
“Conn, sonar. Noisemakers at eighty-three percent. Master Four Nine has dropped off the screen.”
“Very well. If Four Nine shows up again, I want to know immediately.”
“Sonar, aye.”
Arnold stood next to the plot table with his executive officer. “Skipper, what the hell was that thing?”
“I don’t know. Let’s just hope we outran it because—”
The overhead speaker interrupted Arnold. “Conn, sonar. Reacquired Master Four Nine. Range increasing to six hundred sixty yards. Speed decreasing to twenty knots.”
“Sonar, conn. Keep on Four Nine. I want to know ASAP if it increases speed.”
“Sonar, aye.”
Lieutenant Commander Russell said, “Looks like whatever it is doesn’t have long legs.”
Arnold remained miffed. “I don’t know what the Chinese are doing but they’re up to something. Anyway, will continue at flank for another—”
Again, Commander Arnold was interrupted. “Conn, sonar. New contact. Similar acoustic output as Master Four Nine. Rising from depth. Bearing zero seven two—oh my God, range is just a hundred yards.”
Sensing imminent disaster, Arnold engaged the 1MC and activated the ship wide intercom system. “This is the captain. Rig the boat for collision.”
Seconds later an an enormous clang reverberated throughout the control room, bursting eardrums and knocking those standing to the deck.
Chapter 23
Commander Arnold struggled to pick himself up from the deck. His ears rang, the coppery bite of blood flooded his mouth and his head ached. He grasped a handhold on a control panel to steady himself. His right temple grazed the edge of a console on his way down. After catching his breath, Arnold made a quick survey of the control room. The other dozen men were in various stages of recovery; some had already remanned their stations.
Arnold located the officer of the deck. Standing beside the twin periscopes, the lieutenant took damage reports. The OOD wore a headset, which allowed him access to every department on the boat. “Status report, Mr. Johnson,” Arnold said.
“Captain, the ship continues on a heading of one three zero at twenty-eight knots. Our depth is one thousand one hundred seventy-two feet. No reported flooding.”
Arnold was astonished that his command was still underway. He’d expected that the collision would have triggered an automatic shutdown of the reactor.
“Damage reports?” Arnold asked.
“All compartments and sections report nominal shock damage. No leaks. No equipment problems as yet. Minor crew injuries.”
The fog of confusion in Arnold’s brain persisted. Finally, he remembered. “The bogeys… where are they?”
“Sonar reports no contact with either Master Four Nine or the undesignated contact.” The OOD rubbed the back of his right wrist. He sprained it when thrown to the deck. “Sonar also reported a significant change to self-generated noise—it’s off the charts. We have exterior hull damage, which is also slowing us down.”
“Where on the hull?” Arnold demanded, the inflection of his voice conveying alarm.
“It’s the sail, sir. Sonar reports that MIDAS is offline. Plus, they’re picking up massive hydraulic drag racket in that area, which is consistent with exterior hull damage.” MIDAS was an acronym for Mine Detection and Avoidance Sonar.
“Reduce to ten knots, maintain depth.”
The OOD repeated the order.
Eight minutes went by. Commander Arnold wore a headset with a voice activated microphone, which allowed him to have a private conversation with the sonar supervisor in the sonar room. “Any thoughts on what might be responsible for the fairwater racket,” Arnold asked. Fairwater was another name for the sail.
“It’s possible we lost fairing covers on one or more of the masts. That might be part of the problem but I still think we have more damage than that.”
“Elaborate.”
“I believe we have major damage to the sail itself. Whatever struck us targeted the sail.”
Arnold processed the news. “Any idea what we were up against?”
“Negative sir. We’re still in the dark but this much I know…it was not a conventional torpedo, not even close. No propeller cavitation, no active search sonar, just a faint but creepy swishing signature.”
“Very well. Make a copy of all recordings. When we return to base, I want the raw data forwarded to Fleet for further analysis.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
Arnold took off the headset, careful to avoid the throbbing welt in his scalp. The tip of his tongue also pulsed. His teeth clipped it when he was tossed to the deck.
The executive officer approached Arnold. “What did sonar report?” Lieutenant Commander Russell asked.
“Still don’t know what it was. Damage appears to be limited to the fairwater.”
“Should we take a look? Plenty of dark topside.”
“Yes, but bring her up slowly. I want sonar to have a good listen before we surface. Who knows what else is around here?”
Russell acknowledged Arnold’s directive and issued new orders.
Twelve minutes later, Tucson was sixty-five feet below the surface heading east at five knots; sonar had just completed a sweep for nearby traffic. The ship was alone in this section of the South China Sea.
Arnold stood beside the Type 18 search periscope. He wanted to make a quick three sixty scan with the scope’s night vision optics before surfacing. “Up scope,” he said addressing the quartermaster of the watch.
The chief petty officer repeated the order and triggered the switch controlling the hydraulic mechanism that raised and lowered the search periscope.
The tube did not rise. “Chief?” Arnold said.
“It’s not engaging, Captain. I don’t know what’s wrong. Should I try the attack scope?”
“Yes.”
The CPO repeated the same procedure with the Type 2 attack scope to no avail.
“They must have been damaged, Captain,” the chief reported.
Arnold nodded, a new squadron of butterflies taking flight in his belly. He turned to his executive officer. “XO, surface the boat, slow and easy.”
* * * *
Commander Arnold was the first to ascend through the sail’s tunnel. After opening the top hatch and climbing onto the bridge—what remained of it—he gawked at the damage. The port, starboard and forward sides of the bridge cockpit were missing, leaving the bridge deck exposed. While grasping a metal bracket from a remnant of the cockpit he used a flashlight to survey the sail. “My god,” he muttered as he took stock of the carnage.
The forward one third of the sail from just above the tunnel hatch was peeled back like the lid of a half open tin of sardines. The torn and bent steel covered most of the sail’s topside. The wreckage blocked the radio and sensor masts and the twin side by side periscopes, preventing their deployment.
Commander Arnold leaned outboard and trained the flashlight beam on the starboard section of the sail, looking aft for additional structural damage. The rear section of the sail appeared intact except for a horizontal blemish across the aft side wall at the bridge deck level. The steel plate under the anechoic coating was gouged, as if something sharp had gripped the metal. What's this? he wondered.
Arnold knelt on the bridge deck and peered down the sail’s access tunnel into the pressure hull. The Tucson’s executive officer was a couple of stories below. “Come on up,” Arnold shouted.
Russell clambered up the tunnel ladder. “What the hell happened?” he said after joining Arnold.
“I’m not sure but we now know why we can’t raise any of the masts or scopes.”
“No kidding.” Russell directed the beam from his flashlight onto the debris. “And with all that crap hanging around here, no wonder we’re so noisy. Even the Chicoms can track us now.”
“Yes, and they may be back again.”
“What do we do, Skipper? We’ve got no scopes, comms or radar.”
Arnold reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a compact commercial portable Satphone. “We’ll have to use this to call home.”
“Wow, that’s going to be a first.”
“While I make the call, you go below and organize a damage control party. Let’s see if we can use a torch to cut back the debris to free up the masts and at least one scope.”
“Aye, Skipper.”
“And Hal, get the ship’s photographer up here. I want a complete photographic record of the fairwater damage before we start cutting out the debris.”
“You got it.”
Chapter 24
Day 16—Thursday
Nicolai Orlov avoided SVR headquarters whenever possible. But the director himself ordered that he return for a face to face. Nick arrived the previous evening. He departed Vancouver International on a direct flight to London where he boarded a connecting shuttle to the homeland. This morning he walked the five blocks from his hotel to Russia’s foreign intelligence HQ, located in the Yasenevo District of Moscow.
Nick was in the SVR director’s office, sitting at a conference table with Borya Smirnov. Tea had been served; both men sipped from Russian crystal hot tea glasses with antique Podstakannik metal holders.
The preliminaries were over. Smirnov commenced the debriefing. “What’s your opinion about Kirov?”
“My first reaction was that he appeared worn out, tired.” Nick set his half full tea glass onto the desk.
“And?”
“He said he’s done with Russia and that he has no intention of returning.”
Smirnov took a swallow of tea. “Go on…what else?”
“He didn’t provide me with any details other than he said he’d completed his mission in China and as far as he was concerned, his obligation to the Navy has been satisfied.”
“How did he return to Seattle?”
“I asked. He said it was classified.”
“What about his post-China mission?”
Nick squinted. “What do you mean, sir?”
“He was also involved in a U.S. operation. Did he mention that?”
“No, in fact, he wouldn’t say anything about his China mission, only that he completed what was required.”
“What do you know about his China mission?”
Nick suppressed a jet-lagged yawn. “Only what Captain Zhilkin revealed when we met with Yuri in Houston. Yuri was tasked with assisting the Navy to spy on several PLA naval bases. That’s all I know.”
“You said he told you that he’s not coming back. So, what are his plans?”
Nick’s body stiffened, uncomfortable with what he was about to reveal. “The American he lives with, Laura Newman, is wealthy and because of her position she has considerable influence.”
“Influence with whom?”
“The American government.”
Director Smirnov glared.
Nick said, “Yuri told me that Newman and her attorneys are working with the U.S. State Department to grant him political amnesty.”
“He’s defecting?!” Smirnov said, his voice elevated.
“He said no. According to Yuri, in order for him to stay in the United States, political amnesty is the only avenue open to him.”
Smirnov tugged on an ear, obviously concerned with Nick’s report. “Kirov is an officer in the Russian Navy—an intelligence officer with the GRU. Don’t think for a minute that he won’t be grilled for his secrets.”
“I said the same to him but he just waved me off.”
Smirnov’s bearing hardened.
Nick said, “He asked me to convey to you something that I found perplexing.”
“And what is that?”
“Yuri wants nothing more to do with Russia. He said he’s ashamed at what happened and has evidence to prove it.”
“Prove what?”
“He didn’t say and wouldn’t elaborate when I questioned him.”
“He threatened us?”
“Not in a direct context. It was more of a bargaining chip.” Nick leaned forward. “Sir, he repeated several times that all he wants is to live in peace with his American family.”
* * * *
Nick was on his way back to the hotel. He needed a nap, his internal clock knocked out of kilter from m
ultiple time zone changes. He was scheduled to return to headquarters in the afternoon to attend a senior staff level briefing from the chief of the SVR’s China Desk. Once again, strife brewed in the Far East.
The meeting with Smirnov left Nick anxious. Nick’s report that Yuri had requested political asylum with the U.S. had dismayed the SVR director.
Smirnov was noncommittal regarding how the SVR might respond to Yuri’s denunciation of his homeland. Still, Nick sensed peril for his friend. Betrayal, for whatever reason, was not tolerated within Russian intelligence services.
Just what the hell was Yuri involved with in China? Nick wondered.
Yuri reported that he completed his mission but offered no details.
And what is he holding over Smirnov’s head?
Nick had picked up on his boss’s unconscious body signals—stiffened spine, flush face and gritted teeth—just after Nick repeated Yuri’s warning of having “evidence.”
Something else is going on between those two but what?
Nick returned to the hotel. As a high-speed elevator car carried him skyward, another nagging thought tugged at his fatigued brain.
Why Hong Kong—especially now?
Director Smirnov informed Nick that he was being temporarily reassigned to Russia’s Consulate in Hong Kong. He was tasked with reviewing the diplomatic outpost’s security measures—and cleaning up lingering issues from a recent SVR ‘wet’ project.
Under ordinary circumstances, Nick would have welcomed the opportunity. But he suspected the MSS might have a target on his back.
Smirnov is using me as bait—bait for what?
* * * *
Yuri Kirov thought about Nick Orlov from a booth in the downtown Redmond café. It was 9:04 A.M. The breakfast rush was over; he was alone in a back corner nursing a cup of coffee. He’d taken extra care to make sure he was not followed. Yuri worried that he might have compromised Nick with his exit plan. Nevertheless, Yuri was committed—and he was about to move to the next level.
The Vigilant Spy Page 11
