Ashes of Victory

— 25 —

By the time Hartwell Prost reached a quiet street just north of campus, his team with no name had vetted every faculty member in the school of law and had zeroed in on a Dr. Teng Soh, professor of international law. A background check placed him at Oxford at the exact time that Xi Jiechi had attended the British university. Though now an American citizen, Dr. Soh had made multiple visits to Beijing in the past few years; according to university records, they were related to joint research projects with Peking University.

It’s gotta be him.

Standard tradecraft protocols required Prost to cross-check the intel by monitoring the professor’s phone conversations, hacking into his email account, and perhaps even shadowing the professor to make sure he wasn’t under surveillance. But time was of the essence, and more so now that, despite the best US Navy ASW precautions, the damn ghost sub had managed to launch three torpedoes at Vinson and damaged it. So, the DNI had made the call to approach the mark as soon as his people performed a quick and dirty check for tails, which had brought him here this late evening in a somewhat desperate move.

He stopped at a three-story brownstone halfway down the block. Standing in the shadow of a chestnut oak tree, he inspected the place, noticing the first-floor lights were on. The intelligence report indicated that the professor lived alone.

Here we go, he thought, walking between two parked cars and crossing the street and opposite sidewalk before stepping up to the front door and knocking twice.

A moment later, the door opened, and an Asian man well into his sixties, wearing khaki slacks, a white shirt, and a brown cardigan sweater, opened the door. He looked every bit the stereotypical professor.

“May I help you?”

“Professor Teng Soh?”

“Yes?”

“Professor, my name is Hartwell Prost. I’m the director of national intelligence for the United States—“

“Good,” he interrupted before stepping away from the doorway to let him in. “Xi said someone like you might be stopping by. Took you people long enough.”

Restless and unable to sleep, President Cord Macklin crawled out of bed a few minutes before midnight and walked down to the Treaty Room. He couldn’t get the bizarre conversation with President Jiechi out of his mind, and the news that the ghost sub had actually fired torpedoes at Vinson and damaged her, however small, had kept him tossing and turning. He hoped to God that his navy guys in the strait could get that carrier moving again and blow that damn sub to hell — and also that Prost’s hunch might pan out. His DNI, as well as the rest of the motley crew, were due to meet again at five in the morning.

After ordering coffee and doughnuts from the kitchen, he browsed through a folder containing the latest in a long list of Chinese infractions from the summer of 2006 to the present.

The US Treasury Department had frozen the assets of the state-owned China Great Wall Industry Corporation for brazenly assisting in the modernization of the Iranian ballistic missile program. Beijing had been providing highly classified US guidance systems for the Shahab-3 intermediate range missile.

The extended-range variant of the Shahab-3, the 3ER, was an available delivery system for nuclear weapons. Israeli defense officials were deeply concerned that the 1,600-mile range missile could destroy Israel’s Dimona nuclear reactor. And if those Qader cruise missiles fired at Lincoln were any indication of the caliber of the guidance systems in the Shahab-3ER…

Macklin sighed in frustration. His eyes drifted to Healy’s The Peacemakers. But as his tired eyes drifted from the equally tired face of Abraham Lincoln to the calmly poised General Grant, the intense General Sherman to the stoic Admiral Porter, the president could think of one thing only: coffee. He needed lots of caffeine, and he needed it now.

What’s taking so damn long?

He considered calling the kitchen but decided against taking out his frustration on his hardworking staff. Instead, he returned to the documents. In addition to the Iranian ballistic missile concerns, China had helped Tehran build several underground production facilities for the Shahab series. US space-based assets had identified numerous deeply buried targets in Iran.

Macklin carefully studied an enlarged schematic diagram of the classified Massive Ordnance Penetrator. Short of a nuclear explosion, the MOP was a thirty-thousand-pound behemoth designed to overwhelm underground targets in Iran and North Korea. Where reinforced tunnels connected various research and development facilities, several MOPs would be dropped at the same time on vulnerable sections.

After his coffee and snack finally arrived, the president took a moment to refuel before spending the next two hours browsing through dozens of pages of Chinese misdeeds and transgressions leading up to the present situation. China had long been challenging the US maritime presence in the Strait of Malacca, as well as the South China Sea.

Removing his reading glasses, Macklin decided it was time to give the Chinese leadership in Beijing something to consider, especially after they had provoked US Naval vessels on a number of occasions, including this most recent incident.

And then the bastards claimed we were violating their airspace.

Macklin rubbed his temples, feeling a headache coming, but that didn’t stop him from conceptualizing a plan that would be overt in some ways and covert in others. The president wanted the leadership in Beijing to become paranoid about their military standing in South and East Asia. Flexing their military and economic powers, the Chinese were in the initial process of restoring their supremacy in the Asian region.

President Macklin, in order to maintain the United States military preeminence in the Western Pacific, needed to send Beijing a strong, unequivocal message. If China continued to challenge America’s military position in the region, Beijing and her alliances in Southeast Asia would suffer great losses, both militarily and economically.

The president knew the risk factor, but the alternative would be more pokes and jabs from the Chinese. The time had arrived to paint a new picture for the combined civilian and military leadership in Beijing.

The time had arrived to “go downtown” on China.

A few hours later, Hartwell Prost, General Les Chalmers, and Admiral Denny Blevins assembled in the Situation Room for their scheduled session.

Reading glasses in hand, Macklin stepped in as everyone took their seats. “Gentlemen, I’ll come right to the point,” the president said firmly. “With Vinson floating in the strait, we’re in a very tenuous position, and I intend to take some major threats off the table.”

All eyes were riveted on Macklin as he continued his discourse. “I want to confront these threats before they emerge. Send a strong, tough message to those who might consider harming us in any way.”

Turning to Prost, Macklin asked, “Did you deliver the package?”

“Yes, sir. President Jiechi should have it by now.”

Macklin nodded. “Good. Unfortunately, though, I can’t wait for him to rein in his damn generals, Hart. If he can’t get his military under control, pretty soon he will not have a military to control.”

“What… what do you have in mind, sir?” Prost inquired.

The president smiled before explaining his plan.

“Bobby, i have not traveled across the Indian Ocean and the South China Sea, and gotten my ass chewed off by COMSUBPAC twice, just to miss him now,” Cmdr. Frank Kelly groaned to his XO.

“Gotta give that old Soviet Navy some credit, boss,” Lt. Cmdr. Robert Giannotti replied quietly. “They sure knew how to train their skippers.”

Kelly shook his head at the bizarre turn of events following the sinking of Morgenthau and the interrogation of the freighter crew by CIA contractors. That had prompted Commander, US Pacific Fleet (COMPACFLT) to order COMSUBPAC to order the Mighty Mo on a course directly to Vinson, where he had been lying in wait, engines off, for the ghost sub to make its move.

The commander cringed. The bastard had indeed made one, shooting three torpedoes at the carrier — a move that had telegraphed its position. But the nimbler Seahawk had beaten Missouri to the punch, firing three torpedoes in return and apparently damaging it. Now Kelly once more waited in complete silence, drifting at one hundred feet near its last known location.

“Training or not,” Giannotti added, “that Russian skipper has some balls trying to go after another carrier. I mean, he had to know we’re onto him, right?”

Kelly shrugged. He just wanted to finish this and give his brother — and everyone else who had lost relatives or friends aboard North Dakota—some sense of closure. And then get whatever ass he had left back to the Indian Ocean, where he didn’t have to worry about enemy subs.

“Conn, sonar,” Petty Office Second Class Marshon Chappelle said from the quiet sonar station, which Kelly had boosted by deploying a TB-33 towable sonar array two hundred feet from the stern to give them some rear coverage.

“Sonar, conn,” Kelly calmly replied. “Chappy, tell me some good news for a change.”

“Sorry, sir,” Chappelle reported as he stared at his waterfall display. “Not a thing — he has to be lying stationary on the bottom.”

“I think our boy’s right,” Kelly whispered to his XO. “Bastard’s on the bottom, playing possum, waiting for us to go away.”

“Could be,” Giannotti said. “That grinding sound that Chappy recorded had to be from battle damage. Unless… it was a ruse to throw us off. He may have used a decoy. The weird noise is certainly a new twist.”

Kelly crossed his arms, considered the possibility, and quickly discarded it. “I don’t think so, and neither do you.”

The large XO shrugged. “Why don’t we give him a few to see if our boy can detect him?”

Kelly gave him a rueful look. “If Chappy can’t find him, then he’s skipped town for deeper territory.”

“Maybe,” Giannotti admitted. “However, I think we wait for him to make the first move. He can’t stay here very long, and he knows it.”

“Then we better have everyone else leave the scene,” Kelly suggested. “If he thinks we’ve gone away, he might make a run for deeper water south of the strait.”

“Yup,” Giannotti replied with a confident grin. “I’ll contact Vinson and request that our ships clear this end of the strait.”

They had been drifting for nearly three hours, skimming the bottom of the strait, first at around nine knots, then slowing down to six as they approached the southern end of the strait.

Popov bolted upright. “Contact. Bearing zero-three-zero. Range one-four miles. It’s Vinson, sir. It’s heading north along with the rest of the convoy.”

“North?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Stay on them. What about the ships tracking us?”

“All heading north, sir.”

Sergeyev waited, counting the minutes, growing more confident, even allowing the possibility of escape to enter his mind again.

“Contacts fading, sir,” Popov reported. “Heading confirmed. North.”

Sergeyev nodded and said, “Set depth one thousand one hundred feet. No engine. No noise. Let’s continue drifting toward the nearest shipping lane.”

“One thousand one hundred, aye,” Anatoli Zhdanov replied.

The Type 212A had a maximum depth of more than 2,200 feet, but given the damage the ship had incurred, Sergeyev didn’t feel like testing it, settling for just half. It took another forty minutes before K-43 reached the desired depth, and once more Sergeyev looked at his sonarman.

“But we can’t reach the shipping lanes without propulsion,” added Zhdanov. “These currents can only take us so far, and we’ve already slowed down to less than four knots.”

Sergeyev silently cursed his predicament. His second in command was right. They needed propulsion to reach the shipping lanes, but he still wished he had more separation.

“Sonar, conn,” the Russian captain finally asked, his voice steady. “Do you hold any contacts?”

“Negative, not a sound,” Popov quietly replied as he closely monitored the sonar equipment. “I think we’re alone, sir.”

“Ahead one-third,” Sergeyev ordered in a voice more confident than he felt.

With his teeth clenched tightly, Zhdanov repeated the command. “All ahead one-third, aye.”

Sergeyev, and everyone aboard, cringed, waiting to see if the engine room guys had indeed fixed the main shaft vibration.

The propeller began turning but without a grinding noise.

Feeling a surge of confidence, Sergeyev turned to Zhdanov. “Steady two-four-zero on the heading,” he quietly commanded, longing for a chance to escape. “Find us the quickest ride away from here.” He added, meaning the closest tanker or container ship to hide in its baffle.

Zhdanov parroted the order before exhaling heavily.

“Conn, Sonar!” Chappelle said excitedly.

“What do you have, Chappy? Same grinding noise?” Kelly asked, trying to hide the anticipation in his voice.

“Negative, sir. They must have fixed it, but it’s our girl, all right. Bearing zero-four-five. Range zero-five miles. Depth eleven hundred feet. They’re trying to make a quiet run for the shipping lanes running on the hydrogen fuel cells.”

“Very well,” Kelly replied, and then called the crew to battle stations. Their elusive prey was trying to disappear again. “Ahead one-third.”

Giannotti relayed the commands to the pilot and copilot.

“We’ll close on the sub,” Kelly added, “and set up a shot. I think we can bag him on the first try.”

“Copy that,” Giannotti replied as they waited for the tracking party to gain a reliable picture.

“Conn, Sonar,” Popov said in a stunned voice. “I have a contact, a Virginia-class sub closing on us from the stern.”

Sergeyev vacillated a moment. He had to take drastic actions, and K-43 was limited in its ability to perform evasive maneuvers. “Ahead two-thirds,” Sergeyev ordered.

“Captain,” Zhdanov cautioned. “The vibrations.”

“Ahead two-thirds, Anatoli!” Sergeyev snapped.

Zhdanov repeated the order, and a moment later the grinding noise returned.

“Right full rudder,” Sergeyev said, knowing he couldn’t outrun the American attack submarine. He also couldn’t position K-43 to take a shot at his tormentor unless he did something daring. He was going to attempt a circling maneuver to position his sub behind the American boat.

Zhdanov carried out the order. “Right full rudder,” he said grimly.

“Captain,” Popov said, his hands over the headphones. “I’ve lost contact. We’re making so much noise, I can’t get anything!”

“Conn, Sonar,” Marshon Chappelle said with unusual trepidation.

“Conn, aye,” Frank Kelly responded with a sudden sense of concern. “What do we have, Chappy?”

“Sir, the grinding noise is back… like hailstones pounding on a tin roof, scattered and completely jumbled.”

“Are you able to track our target?” Kelly asked, anticipating bad news.

“Sir, that high-pitched sound blanks out our returns,” Chappelle admitted as he studied his display screen. “I think she’s close, but I can’t tell for… crap! We just lost our TB-33! Bastard’s right behind us!”

Realizing that the loss of their tactical sonar array towed two hundred feet behind the stern could only mean the 212A was about to ram them, Kelly shouted, “All ahead! Now!”

Everyone aboard Missouri was pushed back as Giannotti executed the order, and the sub suddenly accelerated.

“Do we have a VLS firing solution for the stern contact?” Kelly asked, referring to the vertical launch system.

The weapons control officer opposite Chappelle gave him a thumbs-up.

As Missouri shot ahead at almost thirty knots, Kelly said, “Fire one.”

A single MK 48 torpedo rose out of its vertical launching tube just forward of the conning tower in a burst of cold gas bubbles. The moment it cleared the hull, its pump jet engine propelled it away from the submarine, while its common broadband advanced sonar system located its target.

“Contact! Torpedo!” Popov shouted. “Bearing two-three-zero. Range one thousand feet. Bearing two-two-zero… two-one-zero! Captain, it has acquired and is turning toward us!”

“Countermeasures! Right full rudder! All ahead flank!”

The port-side ZOKA system released a pair of acoustic decoys while K-43 entered a hard turn to starboard.

“Torpedo is turning away, sir! Range two hundred feet,” announced Popov as he removed his headphones.

Sergeyev closed his eyes and grabbed an overhead pipe as a powerful explosion struck the submarine. The pressure hull trembled, as if struck by a massive hammer, before seawater gushed in from the port bow with the intensity of a dozen fire hoses.

Out of choices, Sergeyev shouted, “Emergency blow! Surface! Put us on the roof! Now!”

K-43 rose hard, tumbling several sailors, including Zhdanov. Sergeyev hung on to a pipe with both hands, nearly swinging from his feet. Popov also grabbed on to his station as electrical circuits began popping and shooting glowing sparks.

But Sergeyev’s eyes were glued to the depth meter as it crossed four hundred feet.

The vessel quivered, and for a moment he thought the internal bulkheads would collapse as the pressure started to equalize from the large amount of seawater pouring in.

Three hundred feet.

The hull creaked and rivets popped as computer screens went blank. The submarine suffered massive electrical failure as dark water cascaded from the breached bow to the stern, like white-water rapids splashing through the control room.

Two hundred feet.

His eardrums aching from the rapid pressure change, Sergeyev tightened his grip on the pipe as the metallic noises nearly drowned the roaring engine.

Ninety feet.

He held his breath when the air became thick with smoke from electrical short circuits as more electronics sparked, flickered, and went dark.

Forty feet.

The massive ship broke the surface at a speed of thirty-one knots, it’s bow rising out of the water nearly fifty feet before splashing down hard, kicking up towering curtains of white foam. The instant it settled, the submarine started listing toward the bow as the water level continued to rise.

“She won’t stay afloat long!” Sergeyev shouted. “Abandon ship! Abandon ship!”

Zhdanov staggered back and relayed the order before climbing up the conning tower as sailors rushed in from the stern and bow.

“Let’s go, men!” Sergeyev shouted, shoving them one by one up the ladder, sunlight piercing down from the open hatch.

It took less than a minute to get everyone up the tower while the water reached Sergeyev’s knees.

With a final look at his control room, the former Soviet captain placed a hand on the small bulk on his heavy jacket’s pocket and headed up the ladder to face a brisk and windy afternoon.

And that’s when he spotted the strangest ship he had ever seen off his stern. Light gray and shiny, it resembled more a submarine than a surface vessel.

“Tell me again why we shouldn’t just blow the bastards out of the water?” Cmdr. Briana Sasso asked, standing on the bridge between Cmdr. Ronald Cartwright and Art Gomez, watching as the submarine surfaced and quickly began listing toward its bow.

“You can do whatever you want with the bastards, ma’am,” Gomez said with a grin. “As soon as I get what I want from them… starting with the captain.” He pointed at the bearded man emerging from the conning tower last.

Briana took a deep breath, wondering which was the more merciful of the options for the wet and pallid crew gathered on top of their sinking vessel.