Men of War (2013)

by John Schettler

  The fear of imminent war was circling the globe, and when Taiwan issued a joint resolution by both the executive and legislative Yuans formally declaring independence a quiet hush settled over the region. Mainland China had their answer. Washington grimaced at the announcement, failing to prevent it by diplomatic arm twisting that had gone on for the last 24 hours. Taiwan was calling the Dragon’s bluff, and whistling for the hounds to come to its aid, invoking its longstanding mutual defense treaty with the US.

  Washington had walked a careful tightrope stretched between the island and the Chinese mainland since 1955. On the one hand they pledged to defend Taiwan from outside aggression, while on the other they threw a bone to the People’s Republic by inserting careful language into the treaty upon its ratification: “It is the understanding of the Senate that nothing in the treaty shall be construed as affecting or modifying the legal status or sovereignty of the territories to which it applies.”

  It suited the US for decades to favor both Japan and Taiwan with promises of military aid and support in exchange for bases and allied states that would help America contain the great Dragon of the East. But now the Chinese had finally gone to sea, building a navy that would allow them to project real power there.

  Tonight that navy was also moving. Amphibious ships were slipping away from their quays and piers, escorted by fast new frigates, China’s new destroyers formed up in flotillas in the vanguard of these task forces, and a host of silent submarines crept out from the long coastline. They were all bound for the contested choke points and routes of approach to the region, the first trip wire that any intruder would have to face.

  Back on the mainland hundreds of aircraft were queuing up at the military airfields, ready for takeoff, some sleek and stealthy, already climbing into the night with missiles hidden within their sculpted bellies, others more conventional, with their wings heavy with bombs and other ordinance. At locations all over the mainland coastline thousands of mobile ballistic missile launchers emerged from hidden caves, bunkers, and tunnels and their blood red noses lifted slowly toward the silver moon. A cold “East Wind” was about to blow as the deadly Dong Feng missiles prepared for launching. There were over 1100 DF-11 and DF-15 missiles available for land based targets and a another thousand older tactical missiles. With these were up to 200 of the deadly DF-21 ship killers like those that had hit a bull’s eye and ravaged the Japanese helicopter carrier DDH Hyuga in the recent hot engagement over the Senkaku / Diaoyutai Islands.

  Lt. Commander Reed had explained it as a game of darts and arrows to the White House Chief of Staff Leyman, but it was about to become a very real nightmare. Signals intelligence and satellites were watching it all with tense alertness while a great debate raged in the White House Situation Room: should the United states preemptively attack and destroy China’s intelligence and GPS satellite network?

  While they were talking about it 2nd Lieutenant Matt Eden at US NAVINTEL saw something very interesting on his own spy satellite monitoring station at Hawaii. Satellite NROL-50 picked up the obvious back flash of three missiles being launched from Shuangchengzi Space and Missile Center and Eden quickly reached for his alert phone.

  “Deep Black Ten reporting. Red One, Red One, Red One,” he said three times quickly. “I have back flash on three Red Arrows out of Sierra-Mike-Charlie, confidence high. Do you copy?”

  “Roger that Deep Black Ten, Red One, three times. Will confirm.”

  Hot damn I hope they move on this one in a hurry, he thought, because one of those bad boys could be coming up after my NROL-50. NORAD, STRATCOM, and J-SOC, the Joint Space Operations Center, would be all over this as well. They surely picked up that back flash on infrared and know what’s coming. If he was going to have to move his bird he need confirming radar and SIGINT on the missiles, and a clear line on their presumed orbital entry point and threat vector. Satellites were killed by simply putting an infrared seeking warhead into orbit for what would end up looking like a collision of two particles in an accelerator. The warhead would take an orbital path retrograde to that of the target satellite and come flashing in to collide with it at over 18,000 miles per hour.

  So while the West discussed the matter and debated the relative merits of this and that, the East acted. All that came before in the Senkaku Island group was just an overture. The three missiles Eden had spotted were now the opening salvo of a war that might indeed be the one to end all others, but they would be the last he would see.

  Far below, in the rugged mountains of Xinjiang province, two well camouflaged concrete doors slowly opened and a ‘device’ resembling a massive searchlight slowly emerged from a deep hidden cave bunker and rolled out on two thin rails. It rotated, angling its massive circular shape to the sky as if it were an enormous telescope peering into the heavens. Seconds later a powerful laser fired, its intense beam vanishing into the heavens above. The Dazzle Gun had just blinded Matt Eden’s satellite eyes.

  Chapter 35

  Karpov stood on the bridge of Kirov, watching the sun rise over the wide Pacific. They were right on its doorstep, just passing through the channel south of Urup Island, some 250 miles northeast of Hokkaido. He was peering through his binoculars, north to the rising cone of the island where the long sleeping volcano called the Demon was slowly rousing from its slumber. A Holocene stratovolcano with no known historic eruptions, it had begun stirring with fitful dreams that shook the region with a spate of earthquakes over the last month, and now a geologic watch was posted. The Demon was awakening.

  Up ahead he could see the three lead ships of his formation. The new frigate Admiral Golovko led the way, with the superb new destroyer Orlan cruising in her wake. Then came the heart of his surface action group. The old cruiser Varyag of the Slava Class was beyond its prime but still a potent threat with sixteen supersonic P-1000 Vulkan cruise missiles that could range out to 700 kilometers. It was the last ship in the fleet that would use that older missile. The ship also carried sixty-four of the same S-300 long range SAMs that Kirov used so effectively to savage the air forces of Britain, the United States, Italy and Japan on her mysterious sorties to a distant past. No one on Varyag knew any of that, and her Captain Myshelov was more than happy to look over his shoulder now and see the fleet’s most powerful surface ship at his back.

  Kirov was last in the main line, wounded but up and running again, the hull patch holding well in the open seas and the ship’s speed good at a steady 25 knots. Fresh new missiles were loaded in the underdeck silos, twenty Moskit–II Sunburns, ten Mos-III Hypersonic Starfires and ten more P-900 cruise missiles—more than twice the firepower of the Varyag. Karpov had taken his tail of four older Udaloy Class destroyers and sent two to either side of this main formation as screening ships. Marshal Shaposhnikov and Admiral Tributs were off the port side, and Admiral Vinogradov and Admiral Panteleyev off the starboard side. Deep beneath the sea ten submarines were fanning out in a protective arc as the fleet prepared to make its rendezvous with Admiral Kuznetsov.

  Rodenko reported an air contact just ahead and coming in at high speed, but there was no alarm. It was a flight of three Mig-29s and a single SU-33 in a low diamond formation flying in tribute to the new King of the Northern Pacific, Vladimir Karpov. The planes came in low, the sun gleaming off their swept back wings, the long white contrails lacing through the blue morning sky. The roar of the flyby was followed by cheers from the men on deck, who waved excitedly at their comrades in the sky. The three Migs then turned their noses sharply up and created a wide fan as they splayed apart in the climb, and the sole SU-33 kept strait on, saluting with a wag of its wings.

  Karpov smiled. Yes, the men were calling him that now, King of the Northern Pacific, just as they had also crowned Admiral Volsky with that title when he ruled from Severomorsk. The Admiral was now chained to his desk at Fokino, managing the coordination of all the various fleet components along with logistics, fleet air arm deployments, and the inevitable political problems all this would cause. At
the same time he was setting up the daring operation to rescue Fedorov and the others in the Caspian, with the bulk of the ship’s Marine contingent and Chief Dobrynin.

  Fedorov’s plan to use the Anatoly Alexandrov was brilliant, he thought. Knowing the fleet may have to fight very soon, was a heavy burden, and there would have been no way to safely extricate Kirov from battle to revisit the past. Yet now he felt the odd absence of Rod-25 as he sailed, like a man that had forgotten his wallet or keys, like a man trying to smile with a missing front tooth. Kirov was no longer a ship with a magic wand. The possibilities and power Rod-25 had bestowed upon them were now gone, and he felt like a god that had suddenly fallen from grace, just a common mortal man again. Yes, he realized, now it comes down to flesh, blood and steel, just as Volsky said. We no longer have time in the palm of our hand—at least I do not. Perhaps that is for the better. It removes the great temptation, and I can no longer answer the Siren Song as before. I am lashed to the main mast of the here and now. But what in the world will happen to Fedorov, Orlov and the others? The notion that his fate, and that of the world, still danced on the razor’s edge of time, was still deeply unsettling.

  He shook this from his mind, trying to focus on the ship and his mission. Kuznetsov already had helos up with oko AEW radar panels to extend their over-the-horizon radar coverage, and the ring announcer was introducing his likely opponent.

  Carrier Strike Group Five had deployed from Yokosuka at the entrance to Tokyo Bay with a powerful squadron of the US 7th Pacific Fleet. It was comprised of CVN Washington, escorted by two Ticonderoca Class guided missile Cruisers, Antietam and Shiloh. If that were not enough, the bulk of Desron 15 followed with five of the formidable American Arleigh Burke Class Destroyers: Wilbur, McCain, Fitzgerald, Lassen, McCampbell. Two more cruised in escort for the Command Ship Blue Ridge well south of the main carrier battlegroup. Karpov knew that there would also be logistics and replenishment ships at sea, and dangerous submarines were surely beneath it as this powerful flotilla approached.

  The damn American Navy again, he thought, and not the one I blew to pieces eighty years ago. Yes, I sunk the Wasp and that old battleship, but now the odds are even. Two other American carriers were also moving into the region. CV Eisenhower was already at Singapore, and the Nimitz was hastening west from Pearl Harbor. The Chinese would have to deal with the Eisenhower, but these other two… He had thought CVBG Washington would deploy south to support the Japanese in the East China Sea. Instead it was heading east into the Pacific, ready to assume a blocking position if I take the fleet south.

  Probably waiting for the Nimitz, he thought. That was the ship where they filmed that old science fiction classic The Final Countdown. How Ironic. If the American actor Kirk Douglas only knew what I know now. He smiled, then realized the grave threat that the Nimitz group would also represent. Against one of these battlegroups, his forces were well matched…But against both?

  He had good reason to be cautious now, Nimitz would not be alone. It was the heart of Carrier Strike Group Eight, and intelligence indicated that it was escorted by the guided missile cruiser Princeton and Desron 23. This was another fistful of Arleigh Burke class destroyers: John Paul Jones, Howard, Sampson, Lawrence, Spruance, and two decent ASW frigates in Thatch and Vandegrift. So even as he led the entire Russian Pacific Fleet out that morning, the Americans were doubling down. How would he fight this battle if it came to it? He had forty-two strike planes on the Admiral Kuznetsov and additional land based air power if he stayed close to home, but the Americans were bringing nearly 200 aircraft to the fight!

  He also knew he had a stealthy and dangerous submarine out ahead of him in Kazan, one of our best, he thought. It was skulking through the deep waters south of the submerged Emperor Seamounts. Yet the Americans will have subs too, and not the old diesel boats I was killing one after another. He already knew that at least one Los Angeles Class boat was operating out of Guam, the Key West, and his threat briefing file also indicated he could expect at least one more LA class boat there. If we meet again, he mused, I will not have cigars for the Captain this time. He was the best Russia could put at the helm now, with the best ships they had. Would it be enough? Would it even be close? All he could do is have faith in his ship and crew, and in himself.

  Yes, it was coming down to this now, flesh, blood, steel and something more—mind and will power. He would need all his skill in the craft of war to survive and prevail. How would the Americans measure up? They have never faced us in real battle; we have never really faced them. So now we see just how good our Moskit-IIs are against well defended targets. This fight will be much different. There will not be the slow, measured use of weapons with his SSMs fired in ones and twos against lumbering enemy battleships. No. This time it was going to be fast, brutal and merciless combat. The struggle for the first salvo was now uppermost in his mind. Should he take the initiative and strike first to saturate at least one of these formidable battlegroups with a missile barrage so intense that he would surely devastate it? The consequences of such an act would be severe. And then what would he have left to face the second carrier?

  “Mister Rodenko,” he said calmly. “The moment you have surface returns from the helos on the Washington or Nimitz battlegroup I want the ship on full alert. Remember, you are acting Starpom. Watch them like a hawk. If you detect anything remotely resembling the launch of strike squadron, go to immediate air alert one on the new S-400 system. And Mister Samsonov, the moment we have a confirmed air strike package inbound on us I want to be ready with a full salvo of Moskit IIs.”

  His officer’s nodded, intrinsically understanding that the game had changed now. This was war as they had never seen it, though they had trained for it for many years. It was a war of seconds and minutes, and not one stretching over long decades to the past where they faced an unknowing opponent with ships that had little chance of ever finding or really harming Kirov.

  “The Pacific Ocean,” said Karpov. “Well it won’t be that way for long. “Welcome to hell, gentlemen. Welcome to hell on earth.”

  As if to underscore his words there was a distant rumble from the slumbering Demon volcano on Urup Island, and Karpov saw a new column of smoke and ash rising from its high conical peak. He suddenly had a very interesting idea.

  * * *

  Captain James Tanner, USN sat in the driver’s seat aboard CV Washington with a hundred things running through his mind. He had expected to be heading south now to backstop the Japanese at Okinawa and form a northern pincer to meet with CVBG Eisenhower coming up from the south, but instead his orders were suddenly revised. He was to assume a position off the coast of Japan and deter the advance of the Russian Pacific Fleet until the arrival of CVBG Nimitz. Then, pending appraisal of the situation, he would either turn this duty over to Nimitz to head southwest as originally planned, or team up with that battlegroup to back the Russians off. Either way it looked to be some very tense days ahead.

  “Ensign Pyle, where is that SITREP? I don’t have all day, Mister.”

  “Sorry, sir.” Pyle was at his side with a tablet and the latest briefing on what the Russians were sending out.

  “Well?” Tanner gave him an impatient look.

  “Yes, sir. The main body centered on that new battlecruiser is just south of Urup Island in the Kuriles. It is presently composed of battlecruiser Kirov, cruiser Varyag, four old Udaloys, one of their new frigates, and a new destroyer, sir, the Orlan. They look to be on a heading to rendezvous with this small carrier group here, the Admiral Kuznetsov, and three old Krivak class frigates.”

  “Krivak class?”

  “Yes, sir. Hot dog pack, smokestack, guns in back — Krivak.”

  Tanner gave him a disparaging look, but he remembered the old rap line on the Krivak just the same. The hot dog pack was the forward missile battery, the stacks were amidships and then the aft deck mounted a pair of twin 76mm deck gun turrets. “Haven’t seen one of those for years,” he said. “They must be scraping
the bottom of the barrel up there.”

  “It looks that way, sir. Those Udaloys aren’t much to worry about either—Vlad, Dad, Winograd and Pantywaist. Pyle had his own name for the Admiral Vladimir Tributs. He just called it Vlad. Shaposhnikov was the old Russian Marshal he called “Dad.” Winograd was short for the Admiral Vinogradov and the Pantywaist was Admiral Pantelyev.

  “But I wouldn’t short sell this Kirov class battlecruiser, sir. It’s a pretty mean looking hombre.”

  “No argument there, Pyle. We used to bump noses with its older brother up north in the Norwegian Sea before this new refit appeared.”

  “I hear this new ship is even tougher, sir.”

  “Maybe so, Pyle. Maybe So.” Tanner rubbed his chin.

  “What’s it doing out here, sir? Last time I looked Kirov was flagship of their Northern Fleet.”

  “Been doing some reading lately, Ensign? It doesn’t matter where the damn ship was last time you looked. It’s right here and about to get in our face. Alright, you can leave that pad with me and get the hell out of here. I’ve got some thinking to do and I damn well won’t need you around for that.”

  “Yes, sir. Aye, sir.” Pyle scrambled off to some other duty and the Captain grinned as he went. Krivak class frigates. He looked at his Weapon Systems Officer, Lieutenant Deaken, sometimes called “the “Wizzo” by the bridge crew, a handle they had stolen from the air force brats. “Say, Deke. What kind of AA umbrella are these old Krivaks going to be packing? It’s been a few years.”

  Deaken checked his status board, calling up the ship class and checking the data readout. “Looks to be a box of SA-N-4 Geckos, sir. Range under ten miles and a ceiling under Angels forty. Good warhead, 16kgs with a five meter frag radius. But they won’t be bothering our air wing with those, sir. That’s just missile bait.”