by Robert Gandt
The submarine was halfway through its course reversal, bow tilting toward the depths. The sonarman called out, “Detonation on Track 1102.” And then, in the next breath, “Detonation on Track 1302. Both weapons detonated, sir.”
As programmed, the torpedoes had struck their respective targets almost simultaneously. No alerts, no warnings. Already Daytona Beach’s sonar was receiving the agonizing sounds of the Chinese ships in their death throes—tearing metal, tinkling glass, imploding compartments, screams of panicked seamen.
Sprague could visualize the chaos aboard Hoi Wan and Hoi Lin. The Mk 48 ADCAPs had detonated directly beneath the freighters. The explosions tore through each hull like a blunt cleaver. The unlucky souls below decks, those in the engine rooms and lower deck working spaces, were already dead. As the freighter’s hulls collapsed upon themselves, deck crewmen were being swept like ants into the sea. The fast-sinking hulks were sucking them along on a mile-and-a-half descent to the floor of the ocean.
Sprague put it out of his mind. He had more urgent business at hand. Daytona Beach could outrun the Chinese frigates escorting the freighters, but not their torpedoes. Nor could he outdistance their anti-submarine helicopters. He had to dive, stay passive, go quiet.
And listen.
Five minutes passed. Sounds of chaos still came from where Hoi Wan and Hoi Lin had gone down. There were engine noises, small craft, the beat of rotor-winged aircraft. But nothing seemed to be tracking Daytona Beach. Most of the surface activity was from the rescue of survivors. Sprague guessed that confusion and panic was running rampant through the convoy.
Maybe he had gotten away with it. He wouldn’t be sure for another half an hour.
Sprague glanced around the control room. The faces of his young crewmen were taut, each expression sober and thoughtful. No cheering, no high fives, no smartass remarks.
As it should be, he thought. The deaths of Chinese seamen were not a cause for celebration.
There was nothing personal about it, Sprague reminded himself. Submarine warfare hadn’t changed since the first torpedo killed its unsuspecting prey. It was a messy, homicidal business. If you dwelled too long on the finer moral issues, you became a drunk or a suicide.
Sprague promised himself that when Daytona Beach was out of danger and the adrenaline of combat had subsided, he would address his crew. He would remind them that they were submariners—U.S. Navy submariners—and warriors. It was their duty to carry out the orders of their Commander-in-Chief. They had performed that duty with honor and skill. He was proud of them.
Yeah, that’s what he’d tell them. But not yet. Not until they’d lived through the next thirty minutes.
Chapter 17 — FIGMO
USS Ronald Reagan
South China Sea
0845 Monday, 30 April
“Good morning, boys and girls,” said Boyce.
He held up a sheaf of paper. “Here’s what we’ve been waiting for.”
The overhead fluorescent lights in the flag intel compartment glistened off his shiny pate. He stood at the podium and gazed out at his audience. As usual, Admiral Hightree was in the first row, with Capt. Piles Poindexter positioned like a fixture at his elbow. All three of the Black Star crews were there, sprawled in the last two rows, wearing the same drab flight suits, no patches. Harvey Wentz, looking slightly bored, stood at the control panel for the plasma screen on the bulkhead.
Boyce noticed that Dana Boudroux didn’t take her usual perch on the corner of the desk in the back. Today she arrived with Maxwell and dropped into the padded leather seat beside him. Is the Ice Queen warming up?
Boyce gave Maxwell a questioning look. He got a blank stare back.
“The tasking order is arriving in installments,” said Boyce. “It keeps changing because the Spratly Island situation is very fluid. Little by little, the action seems to be zeroing in on Swallow Reef.”
Boyce nodded to Wentz, and the lights dimmed in the compartment. A map of the South China Sea flashed onto the plasma screen. Boyce turned to the screen and aimed his laser pointer at one of the islands in the northwest portion of the Spratly archipelago.
“The Chinese appear to be using the Swallow Reef base as the hinge point of their effort to grab the Spratly oil deposits. They’ve moved a squadron of Flankers from Lingshui to the air field at Swallow, and for the last two days they’ve been keeping a full time CAP over the region. They’re controlling the fighters with their new IL-76 AWACS-type aircraft, which stays in an orbit off the eastern shore of Hainan.”
Another image flashed onto the screen. It was a heavy, four-engine jet transport with a top-mounted, saucer-shaped radome. “They’ve just deployed this bird, and it’s their pride and joy. See that radome on the roof? It doesn’t rotate like ours, but its got a three-module antenna inside that gives it a 360 degree coverage. It’s a high value asset. They’re gonna keep it protected at all times with their Flanker fighters.”
“Just like we protected our Hawkeye,” muttered a voice on the back row.
Boyce shot him a scowl. “For your information, we haven’t forgotten. An eye for an eye, bird for a bird. The Chinese are going to feel a little pain.”
Boyce told them about how some of the pain was going to be inflicted. They were going to engage the SU-27s in the air and maybe on the ground. They were going to target the PLA’s new IL-76 AWACS ship which they had just purchased from the Russians and which, according to intel reports, contained advanced radar capability copied from Israeli technology. An AWACS for an AWACS. It was only right.
He aimed the red laser pointer at the Chinese-held island. “Swallow Reef is going to be cordoned off by sea and by air. No resupply, no reinforcement of the PLA garrison on the island, no air support from Hainan or the mainland.”
“Does that mean we’re going to take the island back from them?” This time it was Gypsy Palmer asking the question.
“Not ‘we,’ Captain. Our Rules of Engagement prohibit any overt use of U.S. forces. We expect the island to be reoccupied by its previous owners.”
She nodded. “The Vietnamese. But how—”
“You don’t want to know how. If any of you, God forbid, is captured by the ChiComs, all they’re going to extract from you is your own little piece of the big puzzle. Nothing more.”
The truth was, Boyce didn’t know the details about the Vietnamese landing either. He knew only that a sufficient force of Vietnamese troops would somehow be landed on Swallow Reef to overwhelm the thousand-strong PLA garrison already on the island. By air? No way, he thought. The Vietnamese air force’s obsolete Russian-built transport aircraft would have no chance against PLA air force fighters, especially if the Chinese deployed the Dong-jin. The picture would be even uglier if the Viets attempted a seaborne assault using ships from of their rusty old merchant fleet. They would be creamed by the PLA navy and air force. The Rules of Engagement mandated by Washington forbade any visible support from U.S. ships or aircraft to the Vietnamese.
Which left only one means of inserting troops onto Swallow Reef. By submarine.
It was a gutsy play, Boyce reflected. He hoped that the tacticians who planned the operation knew what the hell they were doing. He could think of several spectacular disasters in which U.S. forces had backed an outgunned ally—the Bay of Pigs, the Iran hostage debacle, Beirut, Somalia.
He finished the briefing, then turned to the matter of the Black Stars. “Have the IR sensors on the aircraft and the Sidewinders been modified, Dr. Boudroux?”
“Not all,” said Dana Boudroux. “On two aircraft so far, and only the primary sensor. We decided to keep one of the Black Stars in its original sensor configuration until we’ve had empirical results to support the change.”
This was news to Boyce. He frowned and said, “We?”
“Commander Maxwell and I. We also decided to modify just two Sidewinder seeker heads out of the four mounted on each jet.”
Boyce nodded at this fresh snippet of news. Commander Maxwell an
d I? Boyce could feel his anger bubbling to the surface. He glowered at Boudroux for a moment, then at Maxwell. He had an overwhelming urge to tear both their heads off right here in front of the group.
“Okay, folks, that’s the overview,” said Boyce. “The final intel briefing is an hour from now. T-time at 1430, subject to update. Everyone is dismissed. Everyone except Dr. Boudroux and Commander Maxwell.”
<>
Maxwell had seen that look on Boyce’s face before. He knew what was coming.
The admiral slowly removed the cigar from between his teeth. He fixed his gaze on Maxwell and Boudroux. “Do either of you free thinkers happen to know the difference between a military unit and a civilian research lab?”
Maxwell saw that Dana was about to answer. He headed her off. “It was my mistake,” said Maxwell. “I should have—”
“It was a scientific matter,” said Dana Boudroux. “Not a military one.”
Boyce’s face darkened. “Excuse me?”
“With all respect, Admiral, I’m a scientist and you are not. I’m the one who knows best how to configure the sensing spectrum of infrared sensors.”
Boyce’s eyeballs bulged like he’d been walloped from behind. “Dr. Boudroux, if I didn’t know better, I’d think that you were deliberately trying to get yourself kicked off this team.”
“Not at all. It just seems to me that you’re being a bit autocratic about—”
“What Dana means,” said Maxwell, “is that we should have consulted with you before making any configuration changes to the Black Star sensors.”
She turned to him. “That’s not what I—”
“For which we apologize,” said Maxwell, keeping his eyes riveted on Dana. Shut up, damnit. “You can be sure that we’ll run everything by you from now on. Isn’t that right, Dr. Boudroux?”
She was staring at him as if he had just landed from Pluto. He prompted her with his knee.
“Yes,” she muttered. “I suppose.”
Boyce didn’t look mollified. He kept his eyes fixed on Dana. “Let me explain something, Doctor. Despite what you would like to believe, the U.S. Navy is not a democracy. I’m the only one here who gets a vote. Your services are valuable, but no one is indispensable. Not me, not Commander Maxwell, and definitely not you. If I sense any further lack of cooperation from you, I will arrange a bucket seat on the next cargo flight to the U.S. Is there any part of what I just said that you do not understand?”
Maxwell could see the redness spreading over her face and neck. He nudged her again.
“I understand.” Her voice was barely audible.
“Wonderful,” said Boyce. He jammed the cigar back in his teeth, and headed for the door. “Now let’s get this mission in the air.”
<>
Dana Boudroux was staring at the door that Boyce had just slammed behind him. “Did I blow it?”
“If you mean, did you make any points with Boyce,” said Maxwell, “I’d score it something less than zero.”
She looked as if she might cry. That was a first. He didn’t think Dana Boudroux knew how to cry.
“I don’t know why I do it,” she said. “I hate that in myself.”
“What? Telling flag officers that you’re smarter than they are?”
“I am smart. But I’m so goddamn stupid. I keep telling people that I know more than they do.”
“I can confirm that.”
“Not just you. People like Admiral Boyce whom I really shouldn’t say that to.”
“At least you’re nondiscriminatory. You piss off admirals the same as us lower ranks.”
She chewed on her lower lip. “I’ve had good jobs. I was hired to direct the phototonic department in the DARPA lab at Los Alamos.”
Maxwell nodded. DARPA— Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency—was the U.S. military’s most exotic research branch. “What happened?”
“I got fired. Or, to be accurate, I was reassigned.”
“Because?”
“I told the lab director that he was an under-educated shoe clerk.”
“Was he?”
“Sure. It didn’t matter. He’s still there, I’m gone.”
“I think I see a pattern here.”
“The awful thing is, I respect Admiral Boyce. Now he’s going to get rid of me.”
Maxwell didn’t answer. He knew Boyce. Boyce would get over being furious at her. Especially if it turned out that she had tweaked the Black Star so that it could kill Chinese stealth jets. But she didn’t need to know that.
“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe he’ll wait to see if you got the message.”
She clutched her arms around her and stared morosely at the closed door. “What message?”
“That we’ve got a mission to fly. What do you say we get back to work?”
<>
The final intel briefing was mercifully short.
Maxwell and O’Toole finished suiting up. They walked down the passageway toward the ladder to the hangar deck.
“You okay, Sharp?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not running your mouth like a magpie. Something wrong?”
O’Toole looked uncharacteristically sheepish. A grin spread over his face.
“Nothing wrong,” said O’Toole. “In fact, things have never been so good.”
They turned the corner and followed the amidships passageway. Beneath the weight of flying gear and survival equipment, their boots made a clunking noise on the steel deck.
“How so?” said Maxwell. “Your love life take a turn for the better?”
“Yeah, actually it has. But that’s not the big story. The real news is that I’m outta here.”
They came to the ladder that descended to the hangar deck. Maxwell stopped at the top of the ladder. “Out of here?”
“I’ve been meaning to tell you. As soon as we’re done with Dragon Flight, I’m FIGMO.”
Maxwell looked at him quizzically. “FIGMO” was a time-honored military acronym. It meant, “Fuck it, I got my orders.”
“Okay, cut the suspense. Orders to where?”
“You’re not gonna believe this, boss. I’m going into space.”
Maxwell still didn’t get it. Then he remembered. O’Toole had applied for astronaut training. “NASA? No kidding?”
“Just like you. Or almost like you. Mission specialist, next shuttle class at the Johnson Space Center.”
“When did you learn about this?”
“Last night. I was gonna tell you, but not until we’d done the mission. Man, I’m still hyped. You and Gypsy are the only ones who know.”
“Gypsy? What’s she got to do with—” And then he caught himself.
“Yeah, Gypsy.” A sly smile came over O’Toole’s face. “Another little secret. She and I are gonna tie the knot when we get back to Nevada.”
Maxwell had to shake his head. He should have known. It was right there under everyone’s nose.
He turned and started down the ladder. O’Toole was right behind him.
“Congratulations, Sharp. You’re buying the drinks for this whole outfit when we get back to Nevada.”
“Drinks?” said the marine. “Gypsy and I are gonna throw the biggest bash you guys have ever seen.”
<>
The rumble of the two GE engines shook the airframe. Out the right side of his cockpit, Maxwell saw the catapult officer giving him the power up signal.
The launch had been rolled back twice. The reason for the delay, according to the final intel brief, was to synchronize the Black Star sweep with the rotation of the SU-27s covering the Chinese AWACS. Maxwell guessed that there was more to it than that. They were synchronizing the attacks with action on the surface. And, he guessed, below the surface.
He gave the stick a full sweep, making sure the controls were free. His eyes scanned the cockpit one last time. No warnings, no cautions on the annunciator panel. He snapped a salute to the shooter, then shoved his helmet against the head rest. One and a ha
lf seconds later, the deck of the USS Reagan swept beneath him.
Ahead sprawled the hazy blue surface of the South China Sea. Maxwell retracted the gear and flaps, keeping the jet’s attitude shallow until they’d accelerated to climb speed. He rolled into a right bank, swinging the nose to the northeast. Toward the Spratly Islands.
<>
“Black Stars!” called the duty officer at the air defense command post. “Airborne from their carrier. More than one, according to the surveillance aircraft. Possibly three. They launched five minutes ago.”
It was all Zhang needed to hear. He hung up the phone, a direct line from the air defense command bunker at Lingshui. He reached across his desk and shoved the mushroom-shaped alert button for the Dong-jin crew room. In the adjoining hangar, his two other ready crews were already briefed and prepared for the mission to Swallow Reef.
It was even sweeter than he had hoped. He had been skeptical of the capability of the new Ilyushin 76 early warning aircraft, of the type the Americans called AWACS. The Ilyushin was on station over the South China Sea, monitoring the U.S. strike group led by the Reagan. Two of the ponderous, four-engine jets had cost as much as a squadron of SU-27s.
The Ilyushin was paying for itself.
The controllers on the Ilyushin had reported indications of a peculiar activity aboard the American aircraft carrier, Reagan. After a normal launch of several flights of F/A-18 and E-2C warplanes, which were easily detectable on the AWACS radar, there was another launch. The sensitive AWACS radar array had tracked the carrier again turning into the wind, plane guard helicopters and escort destroyers again taking their stations, then the indications of catapults firing.
It could only be stealth jets.
The unexpected usefulness of the Ilyushin AWACS ship coincided with the even better news from the Dong-jin research laboratory. Fong and his team had succeeded in fabricating an enhanced version of the spectrum-sensing goggles. The new goggles were based on data extracted from the U.S. research labs where the Black Star’s cloaking technology was produced. Now each of his Dong-jins was equipped with the new goggles.