by Don Brown
Three others bore the shape of troop transport ships that Taiwan called its Chung Hai – class LSTs, which were in reality World War II – vintage LSTs that also had been purchased from the United States Navy.
Tan picked up his microphone and set his radio frequency for the Shi Lang.
“Shi Lang. Tiger Cat Leader.”
“Tiger Cat Leader. Shi Lang Control. Go ahead.”
“Shi Lang. We have a visual on six Taiwanese warships, one-five-zero nautical miles north of your current position. Flotilla consists of three Kee Lung – class destroyers and three Chung Hai – class LSTs, steaming at twenty-five knots on a course of one-eight-zero degrees. Directly toward Itu Aba!”
“Tiger Cat Leader. Copy that. Six enemy warships headed on course one-eight-zero degrees. Excellent work. Tiger Cat Leader, return to the ship. Tiger Cat Two is to remain on patrol to monitor the position of the enemy flotilla until further orders.”
CHAPTER 24
Office of the Minister of National Defense, Chief of Staff
People’s Liberation Army-Navy
Zhongnanhai Compound
Beijing, People’s Republic of China
11:00 a.m. local time
The office of the minister of national defense for the People’s Republic of China was housed in a three-story gray stone building with a red sloping tile roof that was located in the highly secretive Zhongnanhai Compound. The building was across the narrow two-lane street from the Presidential Palace.
Because of fast-breaking events in the South China Sea, General Shang Xiang—the minister of national defense and the highest-ranking military officer in the Chinese armed forces, had stayed away from this morning’s nationally televised ceremonies at Tiananmen Square to monitor the military situation.
Shang had dispatched his second in command, Admiral Zou Kai—commander of the People’s Liberation Army-Navy—to the ceremonies decorating the two helicopter pilots from Operation Lightning Bolt for their heroism, which seemed appropriate because the pilots were naval officers.
And in the last two hours, the situation in the South China Sea had exploded.
Neither President Tang nor Admiral Zou had returned from Tiananmen, but Zou was due back any minute. Shang had sent word that he was to report to his office as soon as he returned.
Shang was again reading the second TOP SECRET communiqué that had arrived from Vice Admiral Gu Hongmen, commander of the People’s Liberation Army-Navy South Sea Fleet.
The subject was titled: “US NAVAL FORCES ATTACKS ON PLA NAVY AIRCRAFT.”
The subject line of the first communiqué, which had arrived about the time that President Tang had been addressing the nation, was titled: “DEATH OF FU CHEUK-YAN CAPTAIN OF M/V SHEMNONG.”
Now, only minutes ago, a third TOP SECRET message had arrived. The subject on this third message read: “URGENT – VISUAL CONFIRMATION OF TAIWANESE WARSHIPS STEAMING TOWARD ITU ABA.”
A knock on his office door.
“Enter.”
Colonel Ding Yiping, the general’s chief of staff, stepped in. “Admiral Zou has arrived, sir.”
“Send him in.”
“Yes, sir.”
The commander in chief of the Navy walked in, a broad smile on his face, still basking in the glow of the nationalistic glory that had flooded every corner of Tiananmen Square.
“How did things go at Tiananmen, Zou Kai?”
“You did not watch on television?” The admiral’s smile vanished. “Is something wrong, General?”
“Yes. While you were at Tiananmen, we have had a crisis erupt in the South China Sea.”
“What’s going on, General?”
“We have had three communiqués from South Sea Fleet within the last hour.”
“From Vice Admiral Gu Hongmen?”
“Yes. This is the most recent one.” He handed the communiqué to Zou.
“Two helicopters and two jets!” Zou snapped.
“Correct, Admiral. All attacked by the USS Vicksburg. And we still did not get our Marines on board the Shemnong.”
Admiral Zou handed the paper back. “Tang is not going to like this.”
“No, he is not,” General Shang said. “And I fear he will like this even less.” He slid the first communiqué across the desk. “This we received about thirty minutes before the one you just read.”
Zou grimaced as he read the message. “I’ve heard that he is close to his half brother and his sister.”
“Think about it,” General Shang said. “You’re sent off to a cold orphanage at nine years old with your sister and your half brother. And it’s the three of you against the rest of the world. Could you not see how they would become close to one another?”
Admiral Zou nodded. “I see your point, General.”
“Put it this way,” General Shang added. “The Shemnong did not receive that rich shipping contract to Itu Aba and Bangkok for no reason.”
“True, General. And I fear that because of who Fu Cheuk-Yan was that this changes the situation.”
“My concerns exactly, Admiral. Our military response, including the appropriate levels of force and the appropriate strategy, should be based on the military situation at hand—not on the fact that the individual who was killed just happened to be the half brother of the president.”
Admiral Zou, who had been standing, sat down as Shang made that comment. He crossed his legs and toyed with his chin. “It appears, General, that we share some of the very same concerns.”
“Admiral, they do not call him the Raging Dragon for no reason.”
“True, Shang Xiang. It is not in the best interests to overreact based on this or to misallocate military resources in our fight against Taiwan for the sole purpose of exacting revenge against the Americans for the death of Captain Fu.”
“The Americans blame the Taiwanese,” General Shang said. “Which may be accurate. But given the fact that the Americans attacked our aircraft, I’m not certain that Tang will buy it.”
“Agreed, General. He will blame the Americans for his brother’s death.”
“Perhaps,” Shang said. “But as much as Tang wishes to eclipse the Americans, the fact remains that Taiwan remains our principal opponent in this conflict. Here is the third communiqué we received, which underscores my point.” Shang slid the third communiqué across the desk.
Admiral Zou picked up the document. “Three destroyers and three troop transports? They are probably planning to hit Itu Aba with cruise missiles launched from the destroyers, then let their Marines on the LSTs pick up the pieces. And that kind of firepower from those three ships would be more than enough to destroy our forces entrenched on the island.” He slid the memo back toward the general.
“I agree with you, Admiral,” Shang said. “If they make it that far, our forces would be vulnerable, since they haven’t been reinforced with the anti-missile batteries on board the Shemnong.”
The admiral walked over to the window and looked out. “His motorcade is arriving right now.” Zou turned around and looked at Shang. “The question now is, how do we break the news to ensure that his reaction is restrained?”
General Shang stood and walked over to his coat hanger. He grabbed his uniform jacket and put it on. “We should tell him now. Let us hope he contains himself.”
Forward Watch
USS Emory S. Land
South China Sea
11:05 a.m. local time
The north breeze across the bow offered a fresh antidote to the tropical sun beating down. Standing at the forward watch station, Stephanie brought the binoculars down from her eyes, closed her eyes, and turned her face into the wind.
After crying herself to sleep—something that would have been humiliating had any member of the crew known about it—the XO had approached her this morning at breakfast and lifted her spirits, as only he could seem to do.
“We would never have saved Commander McCormick’s life without you, Stephanie,” Commander Bobby Roddick had said in that r
ich Charleston accent. “The captain and I have been talking,” he had said. “We can’t pick up everything on radar and sonar. And even when we can, we can’t always identify what we’re picking up. We still rely on human eyes on watch on the high seas. We’re promoting you to officer in charge of our external deck watches. It’s an important job, especially in times like this. You showed yesterday that you have a knack for it.”
While the “promotion” was not an elevation in rank or in pay, it had boosted her with a renewed sense of mission and importance. She had gotten the promotion based on her performance alone. Her father’s name had nothing to do with it. His name had not saved Gunner McCormick’s life, a point the XO had brought up during morning mess.
The distant thunder of jet engines from behind her made her do a one-eighty to look off the port bow.
Dark silhouettes of two jets, off in the distance, streaking perhaps a thousand feet over the water, bore down in the direction of the Emory S. Land. The jets left black streams of smoke in their wake. She pulled her binoculars to her eyes and trained them on the jets.
They flew in fast, and their roar burgeoned from distant, to loud, and then deafening.
Swooosh …
Swooosh …
The sleek fighter jets, each with a single orange star on its fuselage, shot across the bow of the ship, perhaps a hundred feet above the deck, the sound of their screaming engines booming throughout the ship.
Startled by a hand on her shoulder, Stephanie jumped back.
“XO!”
He looked up at the jets, now starting a banking turn out in front of the ship for another pass. “Chinese,” he said. “We picked ‘em up on radar a few minutes ago, and I wanted to come out and have a look. Their carrier is somewhere in the area.” He looked at her. “You okay?”
“Yes, sir. Such a low overpass.”
The jets made their turn and came rushing back toward the ship for another flyover.
After thundering over the top of them, the jets screamed away from the ship and headed back in the direction from which they had come. “Are they bullying us with those low overpasses, sir?”
“That’s exactly what they’re doing.” His blue eyes shifted from the disappearing jets to her face. “We just got a message in from Seventh Fleet. Things could get real hot real quick.”
“What happened, sir?”
“The Vicksburg just took out two of their jets and two of their choppers.”
She felt like a cinder block had just dropped into the pit of her stomach. “Shot them down?”
“That’s correct.”
“When?”
“Just happened. Seventh Fleet message traffic is buzzing. I’m sure that flyover was a muscle-flexing exercise to let us know they’re out there. Fortunately, they didn’t take a shot at us this time. Unfortunately, we don’t have an antiaircraft defense system like the Vicksburg.”
“What can I do, XO?”
“Be ready to man Battle Stations on a moment’s notice.”
“Aye, sir.”
Under the blazing sun, as mid-morning was turning to noon, war fever was descending on the Emory S. Land.
She glanced at her battle-station position, the .50-caliber machine gun that had limited rounds of ammunition. Her battle helmet and flak jacket were in a steel foot locker at the base of the gun. If General Quarters were sounded, she had replayed a hundred times her route to that station from any place on the ship. Something was about to happen, and soon. She could feel it.
“I’ll be ready, XO. You can count on me.”
Control Room
USS Boise submarine
South China Sea
108 nautical miles north of Itu Aba Island
depth 200 feet
11:00 a.m. local time
Sonarman Chief Petty Officer John King, the legendary “Bloodhound” of the US Navy submarine force, sat at his station in the control room of the nuclear submarine USS Boise and adjusted the headset over his ears.
He was born to be enraptured by the gurgling sounds of the sea. But at the moment, through the melodic gurgles and harmonic bubbling, the distant but clear humming of powerful engines turning two large propellers on a very large ship had widened his grin to the point that his cheeks nearly hurt.
“Whatcha got, Bloodhound?” Commander Graham Hardison, skipper of the Boise, asked from over his left shoulder.
King removed the earphones and turned around. “Definitely a big gun, sir. She’s still a ways away, but I’d bet money that we’ve found our target.”
Commander Hardison, wearing a USS Boise ball cap and a navy blue submariner’s jumpsuit with silver oak leaves on the collars, unleashed a grin almost as wide as the Bloodhound’s. “Chief, if I were a betting man, I’d bet you’re right.”
“Thank you, sir,” the Bloodhound said.
“Helmsman.”
“Aye, Captain.”
“Float the communications buoy. Alert Seventh Fleet that we’ve identified the target.”
“Yes, sir!”
CHAPTER 25
Office of the President
Presidential Palace
Zhongnanhai Compound
Beijing, People’s Republic of China
11:15 a.m. local time
Let me see if—” The president of the People’s Republic of China stopped midstream, stood up, slammed his fist on his desk, turned around, and walked to the window. He appeared to be looking out across the street toward the Ministry of Defense. He folded his arms, then turned around and glared at the two top-ranking officers in the Chinese military. “We have lost two helicopters and two fighter jets, we inflicted no damage on the attackers, and we still did not take control of the Shemnong?”
“I’m afraid that is correct, Mister President,” Shang said. “Our aircraft were shot down by antiaircraft missile batteries from the USS Vicksburg, the ship that has commandeered the Shemnong.”
Tang unleashed a profanity-laced tirade and slammed his fist on his desk again.
“Did we not attack the Vicksburg?”
“Mr. President, two of our J-11 fighter jets launched anti-ship missiles at the Vicksburg, but the ship’s anti-ballistic missiles intercepted our missiles.”
“Unacceptable!” More fist slams. “This wasn’t part of the plan!” Another string of profanity. Tang turned, grabbed some papers off his desk, balled them up, and threw them against the wall. Then he swept an arm across his desk, strewing documents on the floor while screaming profanities at the top of his lungs.
In a corner of the room, Tang’s young military attaché, Captain Lo Chen, stood at an erect parade rest, a stunned look on his face. Seated in a wingback chair just a few feet from where Shang was sitting, Admiral Zou raised an eyebrow, and Shang saw that Zou was attempting to suppress a grimace.
Shang sensed that he and Zou were reading each other’s minds. The worst news was yet to be delivered to Tang, and both the general and the admiral knew it.
Shang had considered ordering Zou to break the news. After all, the whole affair now unraveling in the South China Sea, including the death of the president’s half brother, was primarily a naval matter. And Zou was China’s senior naval officer.
But in the Chinese military, the Navy remained under the command of the Army. And he, Shang, was the nation’s top-ranked military officer. This would be one of those dreaded duties that he would have to shoulder himself.
Shang’s concern was the president’s emotional stability. Tang had earned the reputation as China’s most brilliant leader since Chairman Mao himself, but also the most volatile. And while that emotional tinge in public speeches had been a useful rhetorical tactic in wooing the support of millions, behind closed doors, the president’s penchant for explosions had been the hot topic of hush-hush private concern among senior officers of the Army and the Navy.
Tang sat down and folded his arms, as if momentarily out of words, but, based on the contorted look on his face, was still fuming.
Shang looked at Admiral Zou, who looked back and nodded. It was time.
“Mister President, I regret to have to inform you that there is more bad news,” General Shang said.
Tang glared at him with almost a hypnotic stare. “General, you are not about to tell me that the Americans have shot down any more of our aircraft, are you?”
Shang resisted the urge to squirm in his seat, opting instead for the unreadability of a poker face. With enough bad news, especially the news that Shang was about to deliver, Tang might launch into another tantrum and unleash his wrath on the military leaders, firing him, firing Admiral Zou, and firing anybody else with any link to the events. Or worse.
“Mister President, we received a TOP SECRET message from the Americans.”
“What kind of message?”
“Sir, the Americans claim that the Taiwanese Navy attacked the Shemnong. They claim that they were requested by the Taiwanese to provide medical assistance after the attack. They say the Taiwanese attack inflicted casualties on the civilian crew of the freighter.”
Tang folded his hands and raised an eyebrow. “Casualties?” A pause. “How bad?”
“Some of the sailors have been shot up. Some with life-threatening injuries. And I regret to inform you, Mister President, that the captain of the Shemnong died.”
Tang looked at him with an expressionless blank stare.
The president sat there, motionless. The only movement was the expansion and contraction of his rib cage.
“Noooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!” Tang screamed as he stood, knocking more papers on the floor. “He is my brother!” Tang grabbed the gold lamp off his desk. “Nooooooo!!!!!!!!” He slung the lamp across the room, smashing it. He picked up a figurine and turned and slammed that against the bulletproof glass behind his desk, smashing the figurine.
Then he turned around and stood there, facing the admiral and the general. In a strange voice barely above a whisper, his tone an eerie contrast to the blood-curdling screams he had just unleashed, he said, “And where is the body of my brother?”