by Don Brown
“Roger that! Fire and break!”
Qui Jian depressed the fire button on his control stick. The J-11 jumped in the air as it fired a PJ-9 air-to-surface missile. Qui Jian pulled the plane hard to the left to pull it out of the direct path of the American missiles.
“Break to the sun!” he barked at Long Xiang, then pulled his yoke back hard, causing the plane to climb. G-forces pushed him down hard into the seat.
The idea here was to pull the plane into a high bank toward the sun’s rays, then fire chaff and electronic countermeasures to try to throw the inbound missile off target.
The J-11 climbed, pushing Qui Jian farther down into the cockpit seat.
“Leopard Cat Two. Leopard Cat Leader. Report.”
“I got one missile off, sir. Now climbing in evasive maneuver.”
The plane shook in its furious climb. Qui Jian found the missile alarm system and flipped on the audible warning system.
“Thirty seconds to missile impact …” the computerized voice said.
“Twenty-seven seconds to missile impact. Twenty-five seconds to missile impact.”
Bridge
USS Vicksburg
South China Sea
Skipper, we got two inbound missiles! Looks like they got a couple of shots off before starting evasive maneuvers, sir.”
“Time to impact, Lieutenant,” Kruger said.
“Forty seconds on the first missile, Captain. Forty-five seconds on the second.”
“Launch interceptors.”
“Launch interceptors. Aye, Captain.”
With two sudden bursts of fire, the aft section of the Vicksburg lit up.
Billowing white smoke rose above the fire bursts, and then two SM-3 antiballistic missiles shot straight up and away from the aft deck.
The interceptor missiles climbed into the sky and then curved out from a vertical trajectory into a horizontal one, now flying parallel to the contour of the sea. Behind them streaks of white smoke marked their race to the west.
Internal guidance systems within the nose cones of the interceptors interfaced with computerized data being fed by radar from the ship. This data then steered the interceptors in their flight on a collision course with the inbound enemy missiles.
In theory, this was the way things were supposed to work.
Vicksburg had drilled for this moment a hundred times or more. And now, the real moment had come.
The life-or-death fate of his crew depended on the accuracy of those interceptors. The intercept had worked about 50 percent of the time in drills, which of course meant that the other 50 percent of the time …
“Projected time to first missile intercept.”
“Twenty-five seconds to projected intercept, Captain.”
With the sky above the South China Sea streaked with missiles crisscrossing in east-west and west-east trajectories, all Lennie Kruger could do was hold his breath—and pray.
J-11 fighter jet (codename Leopard Cat Leader)
People’s Liberation Naval Air Force
South China Sea
altitude 1,600 feet
course 091 degrees
Beep … beep … beep …
“Fifteen seconds to missile impact,” the computerized voice continued its countdown.
“Thirteen seconds to missile impact.”
Still climbing toward the sun, Lieutenant Qui Jian calculated, in what could be the last few seconds of his life, that he did not know if the missile was heat-seeking or radar controlled. To have any chance of survival, he had to fire decoys designed to fool both. He would have to fire decoys in sequential one-second intervals, then break hard, and if he survived that, execute the same maneuver with the second missile.
“Nine seconds to missile impact … Eight seconds …”
Qui put his thumb on the decoy flare. Fire … Poof. Burning flares flew into the air behind the jet.
Half a second later, he depressed the foil chaff release … Fire … Poof. Electronic chaff shot out to fool the missile’s radar.
“Four seconds to missile impact …
“Three seconds to missile impact.”
“Break! Break!” he yelled as he jerked the control stick hard to the left, peeling off like the top of a banana peel being yanked away from the banana.
The centrifugal forces pushed him hard into the seat in the abrupt turn, and the plane shook hard from great g-forces in the sudden turn.
“One seconds to missile impact,” the countdown voice said.
Qui Jian closed his eyes … and then … the missile alarm went silent.
Out to his right, a fireball lit the blue sky. The first missile had missed!
He exhaled a sigh of relief …
“Leopard Cat Leader! I cannot shake this missile!”
“Leopard Cat Two! Release chaff! Release flares!”
“Leopard Cat Leader! Flares and chaff malfunction. I can’t shake it! Leopard Cat Leader! Help me!”
“Leopard Cat Two! Bail out! Bail out!”
“AAAAAaahhhhhh.” Static.
Then, out to the left of his cockpit, Qui Jian saw a huge fireball in the sky. He looked down and saw parts of the obliterated J-11 dropping toward the sea. A wing. The burning tail section.
Beep … beep … beep … beep …
The missile warning alarm. The first American missile had missed, but the second had locked onto him with a vengeance.
“Thirty seconds to missile impact …
“Twenty-nine seconds …”
Bridge
USS Vicksburg
South China Sea
Fifteen seconds to intercept, sir.”
Capain Kruger stood, arms folded, his eyes locked on the closed-circuit monitor in the upper-left corner of the bridge. The images on the screen, enhanced by a powerful telephoto lens installed in the closed-circuit cameras on the ship’s aft superstructure, showed the SM-3 anti-ballistic interceptors that had been launched only seconds earlier from Vicksburg. The two missiles that looked about the size of a pencil tip streaking through the sky were leaving long white contrails in their wake.
“Eight seconds to intercept, Captain.”
Kruger wiped sweat from his forehead.
“Come on, baby!” the XO mumbled.
“Five seconds to intercept, Skipper …
“Four …
“Three …
“Two …
“One …”
The explosion on the right side of the screen set off cheering pandemonium on the bridge.
“Pipe down!” Kruger ordered. “Pipe down!”
The cheering morphed to silence.
“Where’s the second missile?” Kruger demanded.
“Sir, second missile is still inbound,” the radar officer said. “The interceptor missed it.”
“God help us,” Kruger said. “Time to impact.”
“T minus thirty seconds, sir.”
“Weapons officer!”
“Aye, Captain.”
“Prepare to fire the Phalanx.”
“Aye, Captain. Preparing Phalanx.”
“XO. On the 1MC. Alert the crew. Brace for missile impact.”
“Aye, sir!” The XO picked up the microphone. “Now hear this! This is the XO! Brace for missile impact!”
J-11 fighter jet (codename Leopard Cat Leader)
People’s Liberation Naval Air Force
South China Sea
altitude 3,000 feet
Twelve seconds to missile impact.” The computerized voice continued its ominous countdown.
Senior Lieutenant Qui Jian felt a sense of déjà vu.
Once again, as he had done earlier when he had evaded the first American missile, he put his J-11 fighter jet into a steep climb and hit the afterburners. He could do this. Just evade one more missile.
“Ten seconds to missile impact.”
As he placed his thumb on the electronic chaff-release button, his mind raced to thoughts of his seven-year-old twin sons, Quing and Xu. Before he deployed, they h
ad spent their last day together in the small skiff he had bought them, fishing for mullet in the Yangtze River. The boys, with twinkling excitement in their dark eyes, had caught two mullet apiece. And as the last fish was flopping in the bottom of the boat, Xu made him promise to take them fishing again the day he returned.
“Dear God, if you’re there, let me take my boys fishing again!”
“Nine seconds to missile impact.
“Eight seconds.”
Qui pressed the electronic jamming button.
Then he hit the decoy flare button.
A buzzing, then a warning light appeared on the control panel.
“Flare Malfunction.”
“Five seconds to missile impact.”
Beep … beep … beep … beep …
“Dear God! No! Not this plane too!”
“Three seconds …”
Qui Jian pulled hard on the stick, jerking the jet into a hard left peeling maneuver.
“Two seconds to missile impact.”
“One second …”
“Please! No!”
The blinding flash blocked his vision, then searing, iron-like heat covered his chest, his back, neck, throat, stomach, arms, face, feet …
His vision returned, but only long enough to provide a glimpse of the flames burning the flesh of his lap, knees, arms, and hands.
Bridge
USS Vicksburg
South China Sea
Some compared it to a fat white trash can with a short gun barrel protruding from the middle of it. Others compared it to the famous Star Wars droid R2-D2.
For the crew of the Vicksburg, their lives now depended not just on the human skills of the ship’s weapons officer, Lieutenant Drue Jordan of San Diego, but also on the accuracy of the weapon called the Phalanx.
It was a “close-in” weapon of last resort, designed to be used at the last second against inbound missiles—like the one threatening Vicksburg—when defensive interceptor missiles failed to block a missile fired by an enemy. Consisting of a radar-guided 20mm Gatling gun mounted on a swiveling base, the Phalanx was designed to fire a virtual wall of bullets, at the rate of 4,500 rounds per minute, at an inbound enemy missile in hopes of destroying the missile before the missile struck and destroyed the ship.
Sometimes the Phalanx worked.
Sometimes it did not.
If it failed, deaths were certain. Perhaps even total destruction of the ship.
Part of the problem, indeed part of the challenge to the weapons system was the great speed at which an opposing missile came flying at a ship.
A slower-moving cruise missile provided an easier target for the Phalanx.
But faster anti-ship rockets fired from screeching jet aircraft came flying in faster than the speed of sound, providing a difficult target even for the sophisticated Phalanx.
The monitor showed a split screen, with the fat R2-D2–like Phalanx on the left and the inbound missile, its image now picked up on a powerful telephoto lens, on the right.
For Captain Kruger, a feeling of helplessness saturated his body. The defense of his ship was now out of his hands. It was all up to a computerized machine gun, the Phalanx, and divine intervention.
“Ten seconds to impact, Captain.”
The moving streak on the right side of the screen grew larger. At the tip of the streaking contrail, the image of the missile was now visible.
On the left of the split screen, the Phalanx sat like a silent watchman, its short single Gatling-gun barrel pointing skyward, awaiting its challenge from a deadly opponent. This was an OK Corral – style showdown on the high seas between two machines that would decide the lives of everyone on board the ship. And they could do nothing but watch.
“Prepare to fire, WEPS.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Missile approaching from starboard, Captain!”
The XO and three other officers rushed to the starboard windows, as if responding to a sick impulse to witness their own death.
Captain Kruger stood at the center of the bridge, continuing his stare at the flat-screen, watching the missile rocketing closer by the second.
“Seven seconds to impact, sir!”
Kruger gripped hard against the captain’s chair and gritted his teeth. “Six seconds to missile impact!
“Five seconds, sir!”
“Fire Phalanx!”
“Firing Phalanx! Aye!” The weapons officer depressed the fire-control button.
The Phalanx responded, shaking like an angry jackhammer on the left side of the screen. Like a fire hose streaming pressurized water from the ground up to a burning window on the third floor, it spewed a black stream of incendiary bullets into the sky.
On the right of the screen, the missile continued to rocket toward the ship.
“I see it!” someone yelled.
“Here it comes!”
“Two seconds!”
“One second!”
The explosion lit the bridge and shook the ship. Clanging alarms rang out.
The screen went blank.
Chaos on the bridge.
Kruger picked up the 1MC. “All departments! This is the captain. I want damage reports ASAP!” He looked at Commander Bennett. “XO. Take a crew starboard and aft, assess the situation, and report back.”
“Aye, Captain,” the XO said. “Chief. Petty Officer Johnson. Come with me.”
Just as the XO was stepping off the bridge, “Bridge Engineering.”
“Go ahead, CHENG,” he replied to the ship’s engineering officer.
“Sir, all power systems appear to be up. Not sure about electrical, sir. We lost closed-circuit TV from the explosion. I’m sending a damage-control team out on deck to better assess the situation.”
“Very well. Keep me posted, CHENG.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Bridge. Combat Systems.”
“Go ahead, Commander.”
“Sir, the Aegis system appears operational. I’m concerned we may have sustained damage to the Phalanx.”
“Bridge. Navigation.”
“Go ahead, Lieutenant.”
“Sir, no damage reported to the ship’s navigation systems. That report is preliminary, sir. We’re still checking.”
“Very well. Update me if that changes.”
“Bridge. Operations.”
“Go ahead, OPS.”
“Sir, our main concern right now is the OC division. Still testing all radio equipment. No evidence of damage, but it’s too soon to tell.”
“Bridge. Weapons.”
“Go ahead, WEPS.”
“Sir, we echo the concern combat systems raised about the Phalanx. We think the Aegis is fine. All missiles appear to be operational. But the Phalanx appears to be out. We’re working on it, sir.”
“Make it fast, Lieutenant. Looks like we nailed both of those Chinese J-11s. But that carrier is still out there. And I’d hate to face another missile attack without the Phalanx.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Bridge. Supply.”
“Go ahead, Pork.”
“Sir, no damage to the supply department.”
“Very well.”
“Bridge. Engineering.”
“Go ahead, CHENG.”
“Sir, we’ve got a fire on the aft deck.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“We should have the fire extinguished in thirty minutes, Skipper. The good news is that the missile did not strike the ship. It appears the Phalanx intercepted it over the water about a hundred feet before impact. But the explosion over the water on final approach sent rocket fuel and burning missile parts everywhere. A bunch of it landed in the water. But burning missile debris slammed into the ship, sir.”
“How bad, CHENG?”
“Could be worse, Captain, but bad enough. We lost a sailor. And the Phalanx took a direct hit and is banged up.”
Kruger paused. “Who?”
“Seaman Recruit Taylor Jones. He was struck in the head by some shrapne
l from the missile when it exploded.”
Kruger thought for a moment. “Isn’t he the kid from Georgia?”
“Yes, sir. From Marietta. He was in my department.”
“Dang it!” Captain Kruger shook his head. “Thanks, CHENG.”
Just then, the XO returned to the bridge. The bridge had gone silent at the news of the young seaman’s death. “I take it you heard about Seaman Recruit Jones, sir.”
Kruger nodded. He took a moment, swallowed hard, and bit his upper lip. Tears in front of subordinates in a military command could undermine good order and discipline and confidence.
“I remember his mother, XO. Tall. Blonde. Attractive woman. She’d flown to San Diego for our sendoff at Thirty-Second Street when we deployed for WESTPAC. She made me promise to take care of her boy. Said he was her only kid. Said he had just celebrated his eighteenth birthday when she shipped him off to the Navy, against her better instincts.” He shook his head. “Now I’ve got to tell her that her boy was killed on my watch.”
“It wasn’t your fault, sir,” the XO said.
“Maybe, XO,” Kruger said. “But the kid was my responsibility. And his mother won’t be thinking about whose fault it is. She’ll be too heartbroken mourning the loss of her boy.” He looked at the XO. “Have Dr. Jeter brought back over here from the Shemnong to prepare the body.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
“All right, people,” he snapped, the authority of command returning to his voice, “let’s get back to work.”
J-11 fighter jet (codename Tiger Cat Leader)
People’s Liberation Naval Air Force
South China Sea
altitude 3,000 feet
150 nautical miles north of aircraft carrier shi Lang
10:30 a.m.
Tiger Cat Leader! Tiger Cat Two! I’ve got a small armada two thousand yards off my left wing, sir! Steaming due south. Looks like five warships. Check that! Make it six warships. I see three Kee Lung – class destroyers and three troop transport ships.”
“Tiger Cat Two. Tiger Cat Leader. Roger that.” Lieutenant Tan Zongliang put his jet into a large swooping bank to get a better look at the naval armada. Off to the right, about one thousand yards, Tan saw the six warships steaming in a diamond formation, cutting long streaks in the water.
Three bore the distinctive silhouettes of Kidd-class guided-missile destroyers—the type that Taiwan had purchased from the United States Navy. These had been dubbed Kee Lung – class destroyers, named for the first of the four ships bought from the Americans.