by Don Brown
“I agree, Admiral,” the secretary of defense said.
“He’s looking for a fight,” the national security adviser said.
“Arnie, cut this crap off,” Surber said. “I can’t take any more of it.”
“Yes, sir, Mister President.” Brubaker reached down and picked up a remote control. The screens went blank.
“Lady and gentlemen,” Surber said, “we have a powder keg on our hands. We can’t afford any missteps.” He nodded at Secretary Mauney. “Bobby, prepare a response to that communiqué, laying out the positions we just discussed.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Arnie, get the speechwriters ready for my address to the nation in the morning. You know my criteria. Brief. Factual. To the point.”
“Done, Mister President.”
“Admiral Jones, Secretary Lopez, reinforce the message to US naval forces in the area. We defend ourselves against attacks from anyone. And remind the skipper of the Vicksburg that he is to defend against the Chinese or anyone else who tries to wrest control of that freighter from us.”
“Yes, sir, Mister President.”
“All right, we’ve got a ton of work to do. Let’s get to it.”
CHAPTER 20
Z-10 attack helicopter (codename Tiger Three)
People’s Liberation Naval Air Force
altitude 2,000 feet
South China Sea
course 094 degrees
10:00 a.m. local time
Lieutenant Pang Wenjun, his right hand gripping the controls of his Z-10 attack helicopter, looked out to his left and then to his right. Two MI-17-V7 troop transport choppers carrying armed Marines from the People’s Liberation Army-Navy flew alongside, thundering east through the bright morning sky over the South China Sea.
The three helicopters and the platoon of Marines were attached to the Chinese aircraft carrier Shi Lang, which was operating at an undisclosed location in the area. All had taken part in the attack against Itu Aba Island, where Pang Wenjun had been third in command, behind Senior Lieutenant Wang Ju and Lieutenant Zhang Li.
Neither Wang Ju nor Zhang Li had been available to fly this morning’s mission because they were, at this very moment, about to receive the Hero’s Medal and the Meritorious Service Medal, the highest and second-highest awards given by the Chinese military, for their work in leading Operation Lightning Bolt.
President Tang himself would present the medals, and Pang Wenjun knew the entire crew and air wing of the Shi Lang was abuzz with excitement. Rumors were flying all over the ship that the entire squadron would receive a unit decoration when the ship returned to port, and that Tang would make that presentation too.
But the prospect of a unit citation did not excite Pang Wenjun. For when the entire unit received a citation, no one individual stood out. He needed an individual citation to stay abreast of his rival from the Dalian Naval Academy, Zhang Li.
Wang Ju was of no concern, for Wang Ju was four years his superior. But Zhang Li was a different story. The two had been pitted against each other since they stepped on the campus at Dalian, where they were ranked one and two in their class. At Dalian, Pang had bested Zhang Li by a half point.
After graduation, it seemed as if the People’s Liberation Navy wanted to let them fight it out to see which one would ascend to the rank of admiral. And now, Pang thought, they had even been placed in the same helicopter squadron for the prestigious assignment aboard the Shi Lang, the new and glorious flagship of the PRC fleet.
Although at the academy, it was he, Pang Wenjun, who held the slight advantage, since graduation, the slight edge had gone to Zhang Li, as evidenced by his luck in being chosen to receive China’s second-highest military honor, the Meritorious Service Medal.
Such was Zhang Li’s luck. For if he, Pang Wenjun, had been selected for second in command of Operation Lightning Bolt, it would be he, Pang Wenjun, who would be having the president hang the MSM around his neck. And truth is that Pang Wenjun had come within a cat’s whisker of being selected as the number two, as each had flown as Wang Ju’s number two on previous missions.
Pang had hoped for one more training mission prior to Lightning Bolt, which would have put him in the rotation for second in command and would have put him in Beijing today.
But now, an opportunity perhaps even more glorious than Lightning Bolt! He smiled.
This time, it was he, Pang Wenjun, who was at the right place at the right time. As the senior helicopter pilot on board the Shi Lang at the very moment that Wang Ju and Zhang Li were off in Beijing, he had been tapped by the admiral as the flight leader for Operation Extract, the codename for the military operation to rescue the M/V Shemnong.
As he cut through clear skies with little headwind at five hundred feet above the water, Pang considered the impact of this mission. He replayed in his mind the admiral’s briefing to the pilots and Marines just thirty minutes before takeoff.
“Gentlemen, I cannot stress enough the importance of Operation Extract to the war effort. As you prepare to launch, you will be facing known and unknown dangers. We do not know why the Shemnong is under escort by an American warship. We do not know why she is off course. We do not know why she doesn’t respond to our attempts to raise her by radio. And we do not know how the Americans will react when our Marines attempt to board.
“But here is what we do know. First, we know that Shemnong is carrying weapons and ammunition that our forces on Itu Aba need to repel an invasion by the enemy. This we know … and this is important.” The admiral had paused and nearly choked up. “Our great president, Tang Qhichen, as you know, was abandoned by his mother as a boy. His mother left him, along with his sister and his half brother, in their flat to die. But they were found by government workers and were taken to a state orphanage in Harbin.” The admiral choked up again. “What I have to tell you, gentlemen, is that the captain of the Shemnong, Captain Fu Cheuk-Yan, is the half brother of our president!”
Those last words had been ringing in his mind since takeoff. “The captain of the Shemnong, Captain Fu Cheuk-Yan, is the half brother of our president!”
Lieutenant Pang Wenjun looked out at the great blue vista of water and sky. Nothing on the horizon. Nothing in the water. And other than the two choppers on his flanks, nothing in the sky.
“Ensign Xu,” he said, “what is our current position?”
“Range to target … one hundred miles,” the copilot replied.
Bridge
USS Vicksburg
South China Sea
10:05 a.m. local time
Navigator, what’s our time to course correction?” Captain Leonard Kruger asked.
“Course correction to one-three-five-zero degrees is scheduled in three minutes, Skipper.”
“Very well,” Kruger said. “Steady as she goes, gentlemen.”
“Steady as she goes. Aye, Captain.”
Kruger checked his watch. Thirty minutes ago, he had ordered a course correction, hoping that changing course to the southeast might throw off any more PRC search planes. The new course would take the ships straight through the middle of the Philippine Islands and provide additional cover from Chinese search efforts. Once they cleared the Philippines, they would set a course due east for Guam.
At this point, Kruger was second-guessing himself in one respect. He almost wished he’d ordered the course change a couple of hours earlier. He did not do that because of his hunch that the Chinese aircraft carrier might be somewhere to the south, and he wanted to steam as far to the east as possible before changing course to avoid cutting into a sector where her planes might be making routine patrols.
Of course, that gamble cut both ways. Part of the problem with having maintained his current course is that it would become very simple for the Chinese to plot his speed, plot his course based on his last bearing, and, after extrapolating his current position, send their aircraft right straight toward the Vicksburg.
The decision on when to execute the course change had b
een one of those “catch-22” situations where the right answer would not be known until after the outcome. But one of his professors at the Naval War College, a retired surface warfare admiral, to be exact, had taught him, “If you’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t, then pick a dam.”
Kruger had picked his dam. Now he wished in his gut that he had picked the other one.
“Two minutes to navigational correction, sir.”
“Very well,” Kruger said. “Keep me apprised at thirty-second intervals.”
“Aye, sir.”
Kruger stepped over to the left side of the bridge, picked up his binoculars, and gazed out at the Shemnong. The freighter was steaming parallel to the Vicksburg, a couple of hundred yards off to port. Shemnong was being run by a handful of young officers from his own ship, including the assistant navigator and assistant helmsman and several experienced chief petty officers.
Kruger was grateful for calm seas and good weather, especially since the windshield on the bridge had been shot out during the Taiwanese attack and the bridge had suffered damage. Still, the “second team,” as they started calling themselves since this mission began, had displayed excellent seamanship in keeping the freighter on track. Even more remarkable, the “second team” had gotten some unexpected cooperation from the Shemnong’s first mate, an English-speaking Chinese mariner who had survived the attack.
On deck, armed Taiwanese Marines could be seen standing guard, their uniforms whipping in the wind.
“Ninety seconds to navigational correction, sir.”
“Very well,” Kruger said. “Steady as she goes.”
“Captain! Three bogies! Inbound from the southwest!” the radar officer yelled.
Kruger dropped his binoculars and wheeled around.
“How far out?”
“Eighty-five miles and closing, sir.”
“Airspeed?”
“One-five-zero knots.”
“Analysis, Lieutenant!”
“Probably choppers, sir!”
“Okay, let’s get both our Seahawks in the air to go have a look! XO, sound General Quarters! All hands to Battle Stations!”
“Aye, Skipper! Sounding General Quarters! All hands to Battle Stations!”
Control Room
USS Boise
South China Sea
100 nautical miles north of Itu Aba Island
depth 200 feet
10:07 a.m. local time
The tight-knit submarine service of the United States Navy had an informal motto: There are two types of vessels—submarines and targets. Submariners believed this creed with every fiber of their being. Indeed, a surface ship’s greatest nightmare was to have an enemy submarine appear out of nowhere, fire a torpedo, and then disappear into the depths, vanishing from sight and sound.
This creed was embraced by Sonarman Chief Petty Officer John C. King, who earned the nickname Bloodhound in his days as a young sailor because they said he had the best ears in the Navy. As Bach and Beethoven were masters of the classics, the Bloodhound was a maestro at something the Navy called “acoustic intelligence,” otherwise known as “ACINT.”
To a layperson sitting in the cramped quarters of a submarine, two hundred feet under the surface, listening to a SONAR headset, the sound of a distant fading, bubbling hum might sound like a strange gurgling aquarium.
But to the Bloodhound, such whines and gurgles were a powerful, yet melodic, symphony orchestra.
Only God could grant a hearing ability like that of the Bloodhound, which is why the Navy authorized two special reenlistment bonuses large enough to pay off the remaining $40,000 that he and Ivy owed on their stucco ranch home in Lemon Grove, California, leaving Ivy with enough cash to go shopping at Mission Valley and Seaport Village.
At the moment, Bloodhound was sitting at the SONAR console in the control room of the fast-attack submarine USS Boise, submerged two hundred feet in the South China Sea.
His ears covered by his SONAR headset, which resembled the headset of an expensive SONY stereo system, Bloodhound studied the greenish electronic monitor connected to the acoustics computer.
There. He heard something.
Or did he?
No. There. Again!
It was gone, whatever it was.
Now, only the washing sound of the deep. Then the long, melodic moan of a humpback whale in the area. Then staccato-like clicking. Make that two humpbacks frolicking.
The Bloodhound leaned back and closed his eyes. Even in the swirl of the sub’s control room, the effectiveness of his job performance depended on his ability to relax and get lost in the sounds of the sea—faint blended sounds, possibly mechanical sounds, somewhere in the distance.
The whale song diminished into oblivion, yielding to the sounds of the watery underworld.
More bubbling and sloshing.
There! Again! A faint hum, but still … gone again. More wash sound. There! Again! Another hum. Now … a whine! Not another whale! Definitely mechanical!
“Skipper!”
“Whatcha got, Chief?” Captain Graham Hardison, commanding officer of the Boise, walked toward the SONAR station.
“I got something, sir! Somewhere to the northeast. Faint, but definitely there.”
“You got a make on it?”
“Not yet, sir. Preparing to run a narrowband analysis.”
“Let’s get on with it,” the CO said.
“Aye, Skipper.”
“Helmsman, set course for zero-four-five degrees. Let’s get a little closer to whatever it is the Bloodhound’s sniffing.”
“Aye, sir.”
Z-10 attack helicopter (codename Tiger Three)
People’s Liberation Naval Air Force
altitude 1,000 feet
South China Sea
course 045 degrees
10:10 a.m. local time
Lieutenant Pang,” the copilot said. “Two bogies approaching from projected target area! Range fifty miles. Speed one-five-zero, sir.” Pang Wenjun glanced at the radar screen.
“Probably choppers. Seahawks from the Vicksburg.”
“Agreed, sir.”
“Arm 30-millimeter cannon and air-to-air missiles.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pang picked up the radio and punched in the frequency for the mother ship.
“Shi Lang! Tiger Three!”
No response.
Perhaps the Americans were jamming again. Pang felt a bit of panic.
“Weapons armed, sir,” the copilot said. “Should I lock on?”
“Not yet, Ensign.” A lock-on might be unnecessarily provocative.
He depressed the transmit button again.
“Shi Lang Control! Tiger Three!”
No response from the carrier.
Maybe he should lock on now. Yes, he had the confidence to lock on. He had been given the authority if in his discretion he decided this was the best thing to do to defend the interests of the People’s Republic.
Should he fire the TY-90 air-to-air missiles at the targets before they could fire at him? Should he act now?
Operation Lightning Bolt was a conflict with Taiwanese forces, not the Americans. But Operation Extract, the mission he was now flying, presented a whole different set of military calculations. This he had to keep in mind in his on-the-spot decision-making. Attacking the Taiwanese military was one thing. Attacking the American military was quite another.
But the Americans were jamming his communications with the carrier. That was hostile. And now they had launched their Seahawks to challenge him before the PRC choppers could even make it to the Shemnong.
The Americans, he knew, wouldn’t roll over like a dead dog and let PRC Marines rope down to the Shemnong from the transport choppers. So getting the Marines aboard was up to him.
“Tiger Three, Shi Lang Control. Go ahead. Over.”
“Finally!” Pang Wenjun said. He pressed the transmit button.
“Shi Lang Control. Tiger Three. We have two bogies on ra
dar. Based on speed and direction, bogies are believed to be attack helicopters from USS Vicksburg, but no visual confirmation. Over.”
“Tiger Three, Shi Lang Control. Stand by.”
Static over the headset.
“Lieutenant!” the copilot said. “We’re receiving an IFF transmission from unidentified aircraft!”
Pang hit the transmit button to the carrier again.
“Shi Lang Control. Tiger Three. Receiving IFF transmissions from unidentified aircraft! IFF frequency is American! Repeat. IFF frequency is American! Tiger Three requesting fighter backup. Over!”
Static. “Shi Lang Control. Tiger Three. Acknowledge. Scrambling fighter support now! Stand by!”
US Navy SH-60R Seahawk helicopter (codename Seahawk One) en route between USS Vicksburg and unidentified aircraft over the South China Sea
Vicksburg Control. Seahawk One.” Lieutenant Phil Getman, a native of Sitka, Alaska, and pilot of the lead American chopper, kept his eyes forward as he called in. “Inbound bogies are not responding to IFF transmissions. Bogeys are fifty miles downrange. Anticipate visual identification in eight minutes. We’re descending to seventeen hundred feet for identification attempt.”
“Seahawk One. Vicksburg Control. Roger that. Descend to seventeen hundred feet for identification attempt.”
“Vicksburg Control. Seahawk One. Roger that. Beginning descent.”
Z-10 attack helicopter (codename Tiger Three)
People’s Liberation Naval Air Force
altitude 1,000 feet
South China Sea
Lieutenant Pang,” the copilot said. “Look! Up there!”
Pang Wenjun tipped his head back and looked up through the cockpit windshield.
Two Seahawks were overhead. US Navy SH-60R Seahawks. They executed a hard splitting maneuver, one going off to the left, the other to the right, and he lost sight of them as they moved behind his Z-10.
What should he do? Instinct told him to engage the Americans now. But the choppers had split off in two directions. If he engaged one, he would be at the mercy of the other. Should he wait for more air cover?
“Shi Lang Control. Tiger Three. Be advised. We have visual confirmation of two US Navy SH-60R Seahawks. Repeat. Aircraft are US Navy attack helicopters. Distance to targets, approximately five hundred yards. Awaiting instructions. Over.”