by Don Brown
“Master-at-Arms! Open the door!”
“Aye, Captain!”
The master-at-arms opened the bridge door, and the loud roar of helicopters flooded into the bridge.
Captain Wilson reholstered his firearm.
Senior Chief Vasquez, visibly winded, stumbled onto the bridge with the First Daughter of the United States in tow. Stephanie’s face looked pale, her sparkling green eyes a mix of fear and anger.
“Reseal the door!” Captain Wilson ordered, yelling to be heard over the helicopter rotors.
“Aye, sir!” The master-at-arms complied, sealing the steel hatch.
“What’s going on down there, Senior Chief?”
“Not good, sir.” Vasquez’s face was grim. His voice and his hands were shaking.
The captain looked over at Stephanie. Her eyes were transfixed on the bulkhead, as if she was in a daze.
“Where’s the XO?”
Vasquez dropped his head, his eyes to the deck. His lips trembled. “I’m sorry, sir. The XO was a good man.” The senior chief rubbed his eyes.
The senior chief’s words were a jarring punch to the captain’s midsection. Bobby Roddick had been Wilson’s right-hand man. And he wasn’t just a good man. He was a great man of promise who was destined to command a naval warship. Roddick was the best naval officer Wilson had ever been around.
Captain Wilson turned and walked over to the windshield. He looked out. A second Chinese troop chopper, black with a single orange star on its tail, was unloading a second group of Communist Marines down below.
As he watched, the weight of a thousand bricks descended upon his shoulders.
He faced a decision that only the captain of a warship could face—to surrender his ship or to fight to the death.
CHAPTER 28
Headquarters
United States Seventh Fleet
US Naval Base
Yokosuka, Japan
Sir, could I see you for a moment?”
Captain Dave Draxler, grateful that he had not been relieved of his duties as chief of staff to Seventh Fleet, looked up from behind his desk at his assistant, Commander Wesley Walls.
Walls was holding a single sheet of white paper. He looked worried.
“Sure, Wes. What’s up?”
“We’ve got a problem with the Emory Land.”
“What are you talking about, Wes?” Draxler whipped off his glasses. “Is Ensign Surber okay?”
“We don’t know. But they tried to send a FLASH message twenty minutes ago. The message was broken up. Our efforts to contact the ship have failed. Take a look at this FLASH message, sir.” Walls slid the paper onto Draxler’s desk. “I’m afraid they might be under attack.”
“What?” Draxler picked up the message and slipped his glasses back on.
FROM: Commanding Officer, USS Emory S. Land
TO: Commander Seventh Fleet
PRECEDENCE: FLASH
CLASSIFICATION: TOP SECRET – URGENT
1. Shipboard radar shows seven (7) enemy aircraft approaching from the southwest.
2. Based upon speed and acoustic and electronic signature, approaching aircraft are believed to be PRC military helicopters.
3. Request immediate air support.
4. Current coordinates of USS Emory S. Land are
END TRANSMISSON
Draxler looked up at Walls. “So the message breaks up before we could copy coordinates?”
“Correct.”
“This doesn’t look good.”
“Agree, sir.”
“Sounds like they’re trying a helo assault,” Draxler said. “Just like they tried against the Vicksburg.”
“Agreed, sir,” Walls said. “Except messing with the Vicksburg is like trying to pick a fight in a back alley with Iron Mike Tyson. Messing with the Emory Land is more like arm wrestling the tooth fairy.”
“When did we last get a mark on the ship’s coordinates?” Draxler asked.
“Last night, sir. She replenished USS Boise and then at sunset local time, she rescued Lieutenant Commander McCormick. Nothing since then.”
“When will Carl Vinson be in range?”
“Another six hours before her jets are in range.”
“Dang.” Draxler pounded his fist on the table. “What about USS Shiloh?”
“Aside from the subs out there, with Vicksburg steaming out of the area, Shiloh is the only show in town.”
Draxler thought for a second. “Okay. Message the Shiloh. Tell the skipper to get both choppers up and scour the area for any signs of the Emory Land. I’ll notify Admiral Wesson. I’m sure he will want to message Washington.” He paused. “I can’t even imagine how the president will react to this.”
Control Room
USS Boise
South China Sea
150 nautical miles north of Itu Aba Island
The Bloodhound tried suppressing his grin. For this was a mental game that he had played over and over again against the acoustics computer. For him, this was man against machine. His pure instinct and hearing ability pitted against a sophisticated array of circuits and microchips and electronics.
He glanced again at the computer, which displayed numbers rolling across the screen at a lightning pace, reflecting the sonar computer’s fast-and-furious attempt to match the sound pouring in from the sub’s passive radar sensors against the thousands of ship engine sounds programmed into its database.
Bloodhound already knew. He was waiting for the computer to catch up.
If it ever got to the point that the machine was beating him more than he beat the machine, he would submit his retirement papers on the spot.
So far, he had not submitted his retirement papers. Not even close.
And at the moment, King sensed the exhilarating thrill of victory over the computer—once again!
On the screen, the numbers turned faster and faster … then faster …
And then …
TARGET MATCHED
Vessel Type: Aircraft Carrier
Varyang/Shi Lang – class (PLA Navy)
Probability of Accuracy Based upon Acoustical Data: 85%
“Yes!” The Bloodhound pumped his fist in the air to celebrate having laid another butt-kicking on the computer.
“Whatcha got, Chief?” Commander Graham Hardison asked.
“Sir, I was right. The computer verifies it. We’ve found ourselves a Chinese aircraft carrier!”
“Estimated range?”
“Six … maybe seven miles, I’d say.”
“Helmsman,” the skipper said. “Let’s get in behind that carrier. Stay in her wash and hide behind the sound of her engines. Last thing we need is to let them know we’re on their tail.”
“Aye, Skipper.”
“Great work, Bloodhound!” Captain Hardison delivered an affectionate slap on the back. “Keep those super-ears peeled. I want you to tell me about every little squeak that carrier makes. I want to come into periscope depth for a look when we’re close enough.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.” The Bloodhound broke into a grin.
Bridge
USS Emory S. Land
South China Sea
At most, he had a couple of minutes. Perhaps only a few seconds. Chinese Marines were about to kick down the hatch into the bridge.
For Captain Auclair Wilson, this was the moment of truth. Either defend his ship to the death or surrender it.
He looked around at the men on the bridge. And at the one woman.
All eyes were on him.
Why did Bobby Roddick have to die? If the XO had lived, at least he would have been another seasoned and experienced officer to discuss the matter with. But now … the officers left on the bridge were so young … so green.
He remembered the words of the English poet John Donne: “No man is an island.”
But today, at this heavy moment, Captain Auclair Wilson was an island unto himself.
“Skipper,” his communications officer said.
“Yes, L
ieutenant.”
“Permission to speak.”
“Better make it fast, Lieutenant.”
“I say let’s fight ‘em, sir! I’ll stand with you and fight ‘em to the death.”
“Yeah!” someone said.
“Me too!” This was from a young petty officer standing on the left side of the bridge.
“Sir. Permission to speak!”
The woman’s voice drew Wilson’s gaze to his right, where Stephanie Surber stared at him, her green eyes blazing with fire, her jaw steeled with determination. An incredible metamorphosis had erased her vacant shell-shock look.
“Same thing I told Lieutenant Rogers. Make it fast.”
Bang-bang-bang! Hard raps on the bridge door. “Open up! We are Marines of the People’s Republic of China! Open the door or we will kill you!”
“Captain!” Stephanie said. “Do not surrender the ship. Not on account of me!” Her eyes were pleading. “I want to fight them, Captain! We all know we’re outnumbered and outgunned. But I will give my life for my country, and I want to take them out with me! Right here! Right now! I am with you, sir!”
Residence of the Secretary of Defense
Arlington, Virginia
thirty minutes past midnight local time
Secretary Lopez had turned in early, with plans to rise at 4:00 a.m. to head to the White House, where he would help the president put the final touches on his national address at 8:00 a.m.
But when the hotline from the Pentagon buzzed at thirty-three minutes after midnight, Lopez knew there would be no more sleep.
“Secretary Lopez.”
“This is General Gordon at the Pentagon, sir. We’ve lost contact with USS Emory S. Land in the South China Sea.”
“How did that happen?” Lopez waited as the officer explained that Seventh Fleet had received a broken message indicating a possible air assault by Chinese helicopters. “Okay, thanks. Convene the joint chiefs in the tank. I’ll call the president.”
Lopez hung up the Pentagon hotline phone and picked up the line to the White House chief of staff. Almost instantly, the tireless Arnie Brubaker was on the other end.
“Has the president gone to bed, Arnie?”
“He’s been in bed for an hour.”
“Get him up. Something’s breaking with the Emory Land. We’ve lost contact. It doesn’t sound good. I’m on my way.”
Bridge
USS Emory S. Land
South China Sea
12:31 p.m. local time
Ladies and gentlemen.” Captain Wilson eyed his officers and senior enlisted men who were with him on the bridge. “I am proud to be your captain and moved by your courage.”
His words were interrupted by continued kicks on the door.
“We will blow open this door in fifteen seconds!”
Wilson looked at Stephanie. Her eyes showed strength and grit and willingness to fight.
The young woman was a national treasure. But she was also someone’s daughter. Forget the fact that she was the president’s daughter.
What if she were his own daughter?
“You have ten seconds!”
“I am moved by your bravery. But I cannot in good conscience order you into a battle that will result in suicide. Even if we fight them off here, we can’t survive another anti-ship missile fired from a chopper at point-blank range. I have no choice but to surrender the ship. I am ordering you to lay down your weapons. Hands in the air! Now!”
“Five seconds!”
“Senior Chief Vasquez! Open the hatch!”
“Aye, sir!”
Vasquez unlatched the door.
Angry-faced Marines of the People’s Liberation Army-Navy streamed onto the bridge. They wore dark green camouflage uniforms, and they aimed their guns at every American on the bridge. “Who is the captain?” The one who had jammed his gun barrel at Wilson’s face screamed this in English.
“I am the captain,” Wilson said. “What do you want?”
“We want your ship, Captain! Either surrender it, or your crew will die!”
Belowdecks
USS Emory S. Land
South China Sea
12:33 p.m. local time
The spaces on a naval warship known as “belowdecks,” meaning the lower decks within the ship’s hull that are far below both the ship’s superstructure and its main deck, could be a confusing labyrinth to a first-time visitor to the ship.
Because each ship had its own unique belowdecks design, even new sailors coming aboard sometimes needed days or even weeks to figure out what was where. Some new sailors often carried maps showing all the passageways and twists and turns and compartments on their new ship.
As a submarine tender, the Emory Land was one of the larger ships in the Navy, and Gunner had never been aboard before. The intricate configurations of the passageways and hallways constituted a maze of gray steel, grated decks, and fluorescent lights. The confusion was compounded when they plucked him from the water, disoriented, and hauled him down to sick bay.
Gunner clasped the .45-caliber pistol and, like a hunting dog sniffing its prey, moved through the empty spaces. He knew if he kept moving, he would eventually find ladders leading to the main deck. The main deck, he suspected, was where the action was.
Moving cautiously down the gray passageway, he passed enlisted living quarters, small quarters with six to eight bunks in each quarter, all vacant. After a few more steps, he came to another passageway leading off to the right. Above the passageway, a blue-and-white sign proclaimed “OFFICERS COUNTRY.” This was where the commissioned officers’ living compartments are located. On most ships, Officers Country had one or more ladders leading to the upper decks to allow the ship’s commissioned officers quick access to Battle Stations in the event the ship was under attack.
Gunner pushed open the doorway and stepped into the passageway. He saw no one.
A whistle over the loudspeakers signaled an announcement over the 1MC.
“Now hear this. This is the captain.”
Gunner stopped.
“As you know, the Emory S. Land has been attacked by naval air forces of the People’s Republic of China. Even though our ship is not a full-fledged man-o’-war, we resisted the attack to our maximum capability, and I am proud of each and every one of you.”
There was a pause.
“You fought bravely. However, our ship is a submarine tender. While our mission is vital to the Navy, we are not designed for combat.
“We have been struck by two anti-ship missiles. Our fire crews have extinguished the flames and contained the damage. Our navigational systems are still operational. But we cannot stand another missile attack.”
Another pause. “We have been boarded by Marines of the People’s Republic. In fact, armed Chinese Marines are here on the bridge with me as I speak. They have demanded that I surrender the Emory Land to them. And I have … with great reluctance … and for the benefit and safety of all of you … acceded to that demand. I am surrendering … the ship. You are to stand down from General Quarters. You are ordered to lay down … all weapons. All officers on board”—the captain’s voice cracked—”All officers are to report to the fantail for muster immediately. All officers will then be escorted by Chinese Marines to their staterooms, where they will remain under guard until further orders.
“All enlisted and civilian personnel are to report to your regular duty stations to await further orders from either me or from Chinese military personnel. You are ordered to give your full cooperation to the Chinese. I regret having to make this decision, but as your captain, I must consider that several members of this crew have already died, including our XO, Commander Roddick. Your safety and well-being are my responsibility. All officers. Report to the fantail for muster immediately. This is the captain.”
The Lincoln Bedroom
the White House
12:40 a.m. local time
Under the silk satin sheets and the white presidential bedspread, President
Surber twisted, and turned, and then twisted again. The plan to get four hours of sleep before his national address at 8:00 a.m. wasn’t working.
Maybe he should just get up and head down to the Oval Office and monitor the situation from there. At least Hope-Caroline might be able to sleep.
A jarring static buzzed from the hotline beside the bed, accompanied by a flashing red light that interrupted the dark.
Surber reached over and picked up the phone. “Whatcha got, Arnie?”
“Mister President, Secretary Lopez called. We’ve lost contact with the Emory Land. Seventh Fleet thinks the Chinese have attacked her.”
“What? Are you sure?” The president felt a lead ball drop to the bottom of his stomach.
“I’m sorry, sir. Secretary Lopez is on his way.”
“Okay … okay. I’ll be right there.”
“Doug what’s going on?” This was the smooth, velvety voice of the love of his life, the beautiful First Lady of the United States, Hope-Caroline Surber. It had been that voice, along with her magnetic smile and shapely legs and that intriguing southern double name that drove him batty over her all those years ago, when he first met her at SMU, and in fact still drove him batty.
“Nothing, honey. Go back to sleep. I’ve got to meet Arnie about something.”
He flipped on the lamp beside the king-size bed. The light made him squint. His conscience nagged him. He had just lied to his wife. She would find out anyway. Stephanie was her daughter too.
“Actually,” he said, “something’s going on with Stephanie’s ship.”
“What?” She sat up and rubbed her eyes. “What about it? Is Stephanie okay?”
The president slipped on a pair of khaki slacks. “Arnie says we’ve lost contact with the Emory Land. Irwin Lopez is worried about an attack by the Chinese.”
Hope-Caroline buried her face in her hands. “I knew it was a mistake for her to go to Annapolis.”
Surber walked to the closet to grab a shirt. “I’m going to the Situation Room to meet with Arnie and Irwin.”
“Doug, I want to come.”
“That’s not a good idea.”