by Don Brown
Respectfully,
Irwin Lopez
Secretary of Defense
“Wow!” The XO rubbed his hand through his wavy red hair. “Talk about a detour, Skipper.”
Kruger re-read the FLASH message. “Something hot’s going on out there.”
“Could be, sir. But it looks like they are ordering us away from the action.”
“Or right into the teeth of it. Helmsman!”
“Aye, Captain.”
“Set the Vicksburg on a new course to latitude 15.749963, longitude 111.873779. All ahead full!”
“All ahead full! Aye, Captain!”
“XO, open the 1MC.”
The XO flipped a switch on the control panel and handed the captain a microphone.
“Now hear this. This is the captain. USS Vicksburg has just received new orders.” He paused as his voice reverberated throughout the ship. “We are changing course to two-seven-niner degrees, where our destination will be the PRC civilian freighter Shemnong.
“Shemnong is in the custody of the ROC Navy. We’ve been ordered to commandeer Shemnong and to accompany her to US Naval Station, Guam, unless relieved by other US naval warships.” Another pause. “We don’t know how China or Taiwan will react. But we know that this situation is a powder keg, and we’ve been authorized to use full force short of nukes to defend ourselves.
“We will intercept the Shemnong around midnight. Boarding party, prepare to board. All hands, be ready to go to Battle Stations at my direction. This is the captain.”
CHAPTER 15
Forward watch station
USS Emory S. Land
South China Sea
Emory Land plowed through the late-afternoon chill in a sea of a dozen splendid colors, lit by the deep-orange glow of sunset. Purplish clouds and a deepening blue sky surrendered to the dusk above the aqua hue of the sea. Off to the eastern horizon, patches of blue sky were breaking through the remnants of the thick, dark clouds now drifting off toward the Philippines whose driving showers earlier had blinded search efforts.
A magnificent seascape!
But the grandeur of the nautical colors at dusk was dimmed by fear. For the sight of the setting sun was a clock ticking down—an hourglass draining its last granules of hope for finding life on the sea.
She had tried to absorb and enjoy the great array of colors, as she had on other days on this voyage before this day arrived. Surely a God magnificent enough to display his handiwork in the heavens held the power to save the lives of this helicopter crew.
But the hope of finding anyone alive faded as the bottom of the sun kissed the edge of the sea.
Off in the distance, a buzzing sound disturbed the peace. The buzzing got louder, giving way to a mechanical roar.
The sound of an aircraft! Perhaps a rescue chopper to help in the search! Or perhaps the missing Seahawk itself had gotten disoriented and was now coming in for a safe landing on the Emory Land. Excitement flooded her body. She rushed to the port gunwale and searched the skies in the direction of the noise.
The rotor noise grew louder as the light faded. Still nothing. She searched the skies with her binoculars … sweeping … sweeping … still nothing. No sign of the approaching chopper. Just deepening blue skies and the darkening edge of the sea.
Or was there more than one plane? Now it sounded like multiple engines slicing through the air.
There! Coming from behind the ship! She held her binoculars still and her heart sank. Four turbo-jet engines stretched across the wings. The fuselage hung under the wings. The plane looked like a large seaplane. Most likely a military plane.
But whose?
She gripped her binoculars, arms against her body, to stabilize the view. The roaring grew louder.
The plane had nearly caught up with the stern of the ship, and now the sight of the single orange star painted on the fuselage jumpstarted her pulse!
Stephanie picked up the deck phone, opening a line to the bridge. “Bridge! Forward lookout! Aircraft approaching portside appears to be PRC military!”
“We see it, Ensign Surber,” the XO’s voice came over the dedicated line. “We’ve been tracking it on radar for a few miles now. Looks like a Chinese Navy plane. Looks like we’ve been spotted.” Static. She heard the XO saying something to someone else on the bridge, but couldn’t make out what he was saying. “Stephanie, the skipper wants to know if you’ve seen any sign of wreckage or anything out on the water that could be from the missing chopper.”
“No, sir.” Sobering reality of failure. “Nothing yet, sir.”
“Okay, we’ve got about fifteen minutes of daylight. Keep an eye on that plane, and we’ll call off the search in another twenty minutes.”
“Aye, sir. Twenty more minutes.”
The four-engine seaplane flew out in front of the ship, then turned, banking in a large circle to the right. Now the Communist orange star was visible as the plane cut a path in front of the ship’s bow. Turning wide right, it flew back toward the stern, and then made another right turn, making one complete circle around the ship. Then the plane turned away from Emory Land and headed to the north, toward the Chinese mainland.
A late-afternoon rainbow stretched to the west, falling into the water out beyond the horizon. High in the sky, lit by the fading rays of the sun, the colors of the rainbow were brightest. The plane crossed high in front of the broad tapestry of the rainbow in a slight left-right angle.
The rainbow’s beauty distracted her eyes from the seaplane, and she noticed that the colors faded as they cascaded down to the water.
She blinked her eyes hard for a double-take.
Down on the surface, partially camouflaged by the orange of the rainbow, was something—something orange—bobbing on the water. Something orange!
She picked up the telephone and yelled into it, “Forward Watch to Bridge!”
Harbin SH-5 maritime bomber
People’s Liberation Naval Air Force
altitude 3,000 feet
en route to Yantian Naval Base in Shenzhen
Guangdong Provence
South China Sea
Senior Lieutenant Jung Hai, in his drab-olive flight suit, had been selected to the prestigious position of senior pilot of one of only six SH-5 maritime bombers of the air fleet of the People’s Liberation Naval Air Force. He looked back over his shoulder, away from the setting sun, and took a final look at the ship cutting a path in the darkening waters.
Long-range reconnaissance was one of the principle roles of the SH-5, and Jung Hai knew that this discovery would please his superiors.
He turned his plane to a course of three-five-four degrees, almost due north, on a route back to Yantian Naval Base in Shenzhen, China.
“Yantian Control. Air Ostrich One. Final coordinates of US Navy warship are as follows: 15 degrees, 18 minutes, 57 seconds north latitude; 112 degrees, 7 minutes, 35 seconds east longitude. Course bearing one-zero-four degrees.
“Ship is believed to be a US Navy submarine tender. Possibly USS Emory S. Land. Returning to base. Over.”
“Feel like celebrating, boss?” the copilot asked.
Jung Hai grinned. “Put it this way, Lieutenant. We will capture the admiral’s attention. Perhaps I will take you out for a shot of baijiu when we get back to base.”
“Great idea, sir. But I think it’s my turn to buy.”
A burst of static over the radio. “Air Ostrich One. Yantian Control. Roger that. Copy last known coordinates of American warship at 15 degrees, 18 minutes, 57 seconds north latitude; 112 degrees, 7 minutes, 35 seconds east longitude.” More static. “Belay return to base. Repeat. Belay return to base. Stand by for new orders.”
Senior Lieutenant Jung Hai looked at his copilot. “Stand by for new orders?”
“Perhaps they want us to follow the American ship for a while longer. That would seem logical,” the copilot said.
“Perhaps it would make sense had we discovered a carrier or a cruiser. But a sub tender?”
“How does a freighter disappear?” the copilot asked.
“Good question, Lieutenant,” Jung Hai said. He pressed the broadcast button. “Roger that, Yantian Control. Altering course for Yǒngxīng Dǎo, Paracel Islands, to refuel and commence search for M/V Shemnong.”
US Navy life raft
South China Sea
somewhere between USS Vicksburg and USS Emory S. Land
Gunner had thanked the Creator for the fresh water from the heavens, for the floating refuge, and for calm seas. Then, feeling drowsy and remembering the maxim to conserve energy and with dusk falling over the sea, he had zipped up the raft and decided to settle in for an evening of rest.
The khaki uniform pants he had wrapped over his head to avoid debilitating sunburn now served another purpose. Lying flat on his back, the makeshift balled-up pants-turned-pillow under his neck kept the back of his head out of the thin covering of rainwater in the bottom of the raft.
His thoughts became blurred somewhere on the road between consciousness and unconsciousness, and the sound of water sloshing morphed into the sounds of rural Virginia—wind whipping over green peanut crops, the roar of the green John Deere tractor crossing a field as it headed toward the house.
His brother Gorman is driving the tractor, its engine chugging and roaring as he pulls up to the edge of the field, turns it off, and gets off. Gunner embraces him with a bear hug befitting a long-lost brother, and they go into the house, greeted by the smell of the luscious roast in the electric roaster their mother has been cooking all day.
Gunner hears the horn of the tractor …
The second long blast on the tractor’s horn pops open his eyes. It’s almost dark inside the orange raft-tent and, heart racing, he realizes that the long rapping blast is no tractor!
Gunner pushes himself up and unzips the tent. The dim light of dusk lit the inside of his tent-raft. Outside, perhaps a hundred yards away, a great steel ship, its massive gray bow rising from the water, towers into the darkening skies. The ship’s horn goes silent, and from off to the right, a spotlight splashes his face, then moves away to focus on the orange tent. He squints at the light. A small boat, the silhouettes of two figures seated in it, is puttering toward the raft. He hears the click of a loudspeaker echo across the water.
“Ahoy in the life raft! This is the USS Emory Land!”
CHAPTER 16
Bridge
USS Vicksburg
South China Sea
100 miles east of Da Nang, Vietnam
ten minutes before midnight
The bridge of a US Navy warship, the nucleus of activity in times of war and peace, was, in the early twenty-first century, an electronic command center capable of obliterating any major population center on the planet. But despite the great destructive power matched by few other instruments of war and surpassed only by God himself, the level of activity on the bridge varied.
Routine missions with low alert levels permitted a more relaxed atmosphere on the bridge, often with a skeleton crew left to the charge of the officer of the deck, while the captain and executive officer were off attending to other duties on the ship or even in their wardrooms sleeping, depending on the watch.
But tonight, as the long sweeping hand of the clock on the bulkhead crept to within ten minutes before twelve local time, the routine on the bridge of the Vicksburg was anything but routine.
As midnight approached some one hundred miles off the Vietnamese coast, the bridge of the USS Vicksburg was a bustling panorama of flashing lights, gadgets, and the rhythmic beep of sweeping radar screens. With crew members glued to monitors, many with their ears covered with headsets, the tension aboard Vicksburg rose like the mercury in a thermometer in Death Valley.
Captain Leonard Kruger, perched in the captain’s chair at the center of the bridge, focused his binoculars on the lights of two ships in the distance.
His crew was on edge, he knew, not so much because of the Taiwanese destroyer and Chinese freighter out in front of his ship, neither of which would be any match for the firepower of the Vicksburg, but rather because of what was unseen beyond the dark horizon.
Out there, somewhere, still, was the elusive and deadly Chinese aircraft carrier Shi Lang.
Actually, it wasn’t the Shi Lang that worried Kruger. What worried him were the warplanes stationed aboard her. The power of an aircraft carrier rests in her air wing, in the ability to launch aircraft to fly out hundreds of miles and then launch deadly anti-ship missiles that can fly hundreds of miles more to a target, strike the target, set it ablaze, and sink it almost in the blink of an eye.
Kruger remembered the history of the attacks by anti-ship missiles against NATO warships. French-made Exocet missiles had wreaked havoc on the British destroyer HMS Sheffield during the Falklands War, sending her to the bottom of the Atlantic. Two British frigates, HMS Ardent and HMS Antelope, were attacked and sunk by Argentinean aircraft.
In 1987, two Exocet missiles fired by an Iraqi warplane struck the frigate USS Stark in the Persian Gulf. Stark survived the attack, but thirty-seven Americans died. The captain of the Stark could have faced a court-martial for dereliction of duty. Instead he was reprimanded, relieved of his command, and forced into early retirement.
Kruger remained confident the Vicksburg could defend herself against missiles better than the British ships sunk in the Falklands War and better than the Stark. But he worried about the prospect of facing multiple missiles launched from multiple aircraft at the same time. This was a cruiser commander’s nightmare.
“XO, sound General Quarters. Lieutenant, after we go to General Quarters, open a frequency to the Taiwanese destroyer.”
“Aye, Captain,” the XO said.
“Yes, sir,” the communications officer said.
Bells rang out all over the Vicksburg, as the XO flipped on the 1MC. “General Quarters! General Quarters! General Quarters! All hands to Battle Stations!”
Sailors scrambled to man missiles, radar screens, antiaircraft guns, and medical stations. These were the positions they manned in the event of actual hostilities, ready in a hair-trigger instant to carry out any battle orders issued by the captain.
A moment later, the XO reported, “General Quarters executed, sir. The Vicksburg is at Battle Stations, awaiting your orders.”
Kruger checked his watch. Execution of his General Quarters command was still thirty seconds too long! Any other time and he’d tear the XO a new one, as he had tasked the XO with the job of improving the ship’s General Quarters execution time. “Very well, XO.” Kruger fumed. “Lieutenant Morrison. Open frequency to the Kee Lung.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Kruger waited as his communications officer punched several buttons on the control panel.
“Frequency open, sir.” He handed the captain a headset with microphone. “At your pleasure, Captain.”
Kruger put on the headset. “To the captain of the ROC destroyer Kee Lung. This is the captain of the USS Vicksburg. We are one thousand yards off your starboard. Please acknowledge.”
Five seconds passed. No word. Kruger was about to rebroadcast, and then—
“Good evening, USS Vicksburg.” The voice spoke understandable English with a dose of a Chinese accent. “This is Captain Won Lee of the ROCS Kee Lung.” Static crackled. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Captain.”
The XO, Commander Bennett, shook his head nervously. “Sounds friendly enough,” he mumbled.
Kruger held the microphone back up to his mouth and said, “Likewise, it is a pleasure, Captain. Greetings to you and your crew on behalf of the president o
f the United States, who has sent us here on a mission which will require your cooperation.”
Static. “And how may we be of assistance to President Surber tonight, Captain?”
More static. Kruger said, “We are ordered to seize the PRC freighter that you have commandeered and to escort it to a location under the control of the United States Navy. We would appreciate your full cooperation.”
Another pause. The second hand on the bridge clock swept off seven seconds. “Captain, are you aware of the cargo being carried by this freighter?”
Kruger replied, “We are somewhat aware, Captain. The US Navy doctor aboard the freighter is from this ship. Again, we ask for your cooperation.”
“It is not only the medical atrocities that concern the Republic of China. Shemnong carries sophisticated weaponry destined for Itu Aba Island … to reinforce the illegal invasion by Communist forces against ROC territory.” Transmission static. “Those weapons would become problematic for Republic of China forces attempting to retake the island. My government intends to prevent those weapons from falling into Communist hands.”
Captain Kruger thought for a second. Would the Taiwanese skipper pose a problem? The last thing Kruger wanted was to sink the ROC destroyer to get access to the Shemnong. But if he had to, he would blow the Kee Lung out of the water if the Taiwanese captain gave him even the slightest reason to do so. “Captain, I’m a naval officer, not a diplomat. I can assure you that the weapons on board the freighter will not wind up in Communist hands. The US Navy will remove the Shemnong, along with all of its contents, from the area.”
Twenty seconds ran off the clock. “Please stand by, Captain,” the ROC captain said. Then thirty seconds more passed.
Kruger looked at Bennett, who stood there with his arms crossed. “My patience is running thin, XO,” Kruger said as he waited.
“We’ll improve the speed on the General Quarters execution, Captain.”
“We do need to shave it down another thirty seconds.” Kruger glanced at his watch. Then the thought struck him. What if the Taiwanese destroyer decided to take a shot, point-blank, at his ship? That seemed inconceivable. But then, both Vicksburg and Kee Lung were vying for the same trophy, the Shemnong, and were in the middle of a shooting war between China and Taiwan. That changed the dynamic.