Violent Peace: The War With China: Aftermath of Armageddon

by David Poyer

  The Okhotnik disappeared in a soundless blast, a flash of white light succeeded instantly by black smoke out of which pieces tumbled. Then the video winked black, at the same instant the controller said, “Forward laser, overheat indication, automatic shutdown. Commencing LNX dump for chilldown.”

  “Aft mount, take the missile,” Cheryl said into her throat mike. “Take the fucking missile! Now!” Her other defensive weapons, RAM and evolved Sparrow, were too slow to stop a Zircon. It would rip through her defenses like a cleaver through cream cheese. Even the railgun would be useless unless it connected with the first shot. The ramjet-propelled weapon was just too fast.

  Only photons were speedier. But her forward laser was offline now, until a liquid nitrogen dump could cool it down. And both lasers tended to overheat and shut down far too often. The system worked, but it wasn’t robust.

  She’d just have to push the after one until it broke too, and hope that would be good enough.

  Chief Terranova toggled the display to remote video from one of their own recon drones. It wasn’t as sharp as before, but Cheryl could make out the Okhotnik still corkscrewing down toward the sea far below. Pieces kept falling off it and fluttering away, and it bled a stain of brown smoke as if the sky were rusting. She couldn’t see the incoming Zircon at all. The video slanted left, searching for it, but caught only a single canted freeze-frame glimpse of a blanched smoke-trail, low over the wavetops. Headed her way.

  A low ping diverted her attention from the video.

  REPLAY: Confirm receipt.

  Without conscious input, outside her knowledge until she saw it on the screen, her fingers and some subroutine in her brain typed,

  TANGLER: Under attack engaged archer zircon incoming.

  The laser controller: “After mount locked on. Dwelling … target destroyed. Warhead detonation. Range, eight thousand yards.”

  “Fuck,” Mills breathed, beside her. His voice shook. “That was just too goddamned close.”

  She stifled a hiccup, and clicked to the weapons control circuit. “This is the CO. Barrel temperature, aft laser? Status, forward laser?”

  “Lima Two, temp high but operational.”

  “Lima One, still down. Chilling.”

  Video came back up, this time from a flight deck camera. A monstrous bloom on the jagged wave-horizon. Frighteningly near. Fragment-splashes boiled the blue-gray sea beneath it. Beam on to those seas, Savo was picking up the roll, big as she was.

  The compartment tilted around her. Cheryl eased a breath out, suddenly feeling sick to her stomach, hiccuping again. Wondering now if she should have been running this from within her VR helmet. She’d have better access, better overall picture … but right now she just didn’t have the ten to twelve seconds it would take to plug in, settle it on her shoulders, and orient herself. “Status, foward laser,” she snapped into her throat mike again. “Keep me updated, I don’t—hic—want to have to keep asking!”

  “Still emergency cooling, Captain.”

  “Cool it fast, we need it back.” She took a deep slow breath. Sometimes that stopped the hiccups.

  Mills said, “Did they intend to fire that missile?”

  She blinked at him. Said, without letting go of her held breath, “What do you mean?”

  “We hit it with the laser. Started burning it. Then it dropped the missile, and the booster ignited. I’m saying, maybe nobody actually sent it a fire signal. As such.”

  She frowned. “XO? You agreed, overt threat. Before it ever fired.”

  “Yeah. I did. But I just—”

  Ping.

  REPLAY: Overhead assets report explosions roughly your position. Status.

  “Screw that, I don’t have time to update them,” she growled. “Let’s slow to … no, that’ll make this roll worse. And degrade our tracking. We need to stay beam to.” She didn’t need to add, to protect the ships behind them, who didn’t have lasers.

  “Two more drones leaving main formation,” the surface warfare coordinator said in her earbuds.

  “This isn’t good,” Mills said.

  Too many voices were trying to talk at once, fouling the command circuit. She pushed a button, and pressed the lever on the ancient 21MC box in front of her. “Comm, CO. Do we have a deconfliction frequency with the Russians?”

  A second’s delay, then a surprised voice. “Captain? Uh, no. No, we don’t. But … we have international distress up. HF common single sideband. They should be monitoring that.”

  “Get them on the horn and patch me in. Ask for their task force actual. Ask for”—she hesitated, not knowing what the Russians actually called their task force—“ask for the admiral. For Vitaly Aznavuryan. Say, the American commander asks for Vitaly Aznavuryan.”

  She twisted in her chair to face the ops officer. “Noah, you were comm-oh. Who do we have who speaks Russian?”

  “Petty Officer Golubuvs speaks Russian.”

  “Right, the electrician. Get him to—no. Get him up here, please.”

  On the displays, the lead units of the Russian force were tracking on converging courses. As if they planned to approach her funnel in a more compact body. Well, that made sense. Interlocking their fields of fire. Concentrating their forces in one solid punch-through, like the liquid metal jet fired by a shaped-charge warhead. A jet that would penetrate many feet of hardened steel.

  Like the warheads the Zircons aboard those rapidly approaching Okhotniks carried.

  Terranova called, “Aircraft launching from Priboy.”

  The Wasp-equivalent assault carrier. Each STOVL fighter could carry from two to four antiship missiles. And those still-only-vaguely-localized submarines on her left flank would carry dozens more.

  “He’s launching an attack,” Mills said. “They’ll use those UAVs to kick open the door, then push the strike train through the breach.”

  “Might just be defensive CAP.” She frowned. Carrier air patrols, to protect the formation in case of enemy attack.

  “If it’s a strike, each of those planes has two to four antiship missiles. Maybe not all Zircons, but threats. And we still don’t have firm datums on those subs, on our left flank.”

  She studied the displays, mind racing as fast as she’d ever thought. No sleepiness now. Even the hiccups had stopped.

  Well, the fucking waiting was over anyway. Hours doing nothing. Now death was streaking at them. Regardless of its formation, her force was going to take hits. They would already be at general quarters, but she put the order out on TG chat.

  Enemy strike imminent. Condition One air, surface, ASW. Acknowledge.

  Ping.

  HUSKY: Interrogative.

  Husky was IndoPac, Honolulu. Bypassing Fleet to ask her, essentially, what the fuck was going down. “God damn it,” she muttered, suddenly so enraged her hands shook. Could they not see what was happening? Could they not let her deal with it, without interrupting every sixty seconds? She seized the keyboard.

  TANGLER: Under attack. Preparing to receive missile and a/c strike. Request air support. Request missile support. ASAP.

  Beside her Mills was talking urgently into the IC phone at the same time he was typing. Cheryl snapped to the Weps Control circuit. “I’m not hearing a status on that forward laser.”

  “Forward laser still in overheat shutdown.”

  “Crap … Stand by on railguns. Slow to ten knots.” They’d roll like a pregnant pig, but she had to make electrical power available. Reroute it from propulsion to recharge the massive capacitor banks. The lasers sucked electrical power by the megawatt. The railguns propelled terminally guided slugs, but they too would deplete her banks, and their rate of fire wasn’t that great. Ten rounds a minute, less if the lasers were drawing power at the same time. “Stand by on RAM and decoys. Nulka to automatic. XO, did we get a roger from every formation unit? EW, you on the line?”

  Mills: “All units rogered up.”

  The electronic warfare petty officer: “Standing by, Captain.”

&n
bsp; A husky, smooth-faced, butter-haired petty officer edged around into her field of vision. “You called for me, Captain?”

  “Pavel. Yeah. Hold on a minute, may need you to translate.” She hit the 21MC again. “Comm, CO: is my circuit to Aznavuryan up yet?”

  “We have a staffer on the line, Skipper. Asked him to patch in the admiral. Not sure if he will. Or can.”

  She gnawed her lower lip, trying not to look concerned, but sweating under the coveralls. If her opponent didn’t want to talk, that meant her whole strategy had been so much hopeful bullshit. And they were all toast. Not to put too fine a point on it.

  Yeah, they’d be avenged. The US was still mobilized for war, and overall the Pacific Fleet and air forces already in theater dwarfed anything the Russians could bring to bear.

  But that wouldn’t mean much to scorched, swollen corpses bobbing in the Sea of Japan.

  The 21MC clicked on. “Putting you on terminal 2, CO. Staffer says the admiral will be there in a minute. Remember, this is open frequency.”

  “Got it. Put it on speaker. We may need to translate.” She pushed the button to activate the handset and tucked it under her chin. Above their heads, a hidden speaker crackled and hissed. A live circuit. Distant, muffled voices.

  Finally a single one, louder, hoarse. A smoker’s rasp. “This is Admiral Aznavuryan.”

  “Uh, this is Commodore Staurulakis.” Not an official rank, but commonly used for a squadron or task group commander. “Welcome to the Sea of Japan, Admiral.”

  More muffled voices. Then, “Commodore. You have shot down unarmed reconnaissance drone. This is act of war.”

  “Your armed drone was approaching with hostile intent. A violation of the Code for Unplanned Encounters at Sea.” She hesitated, unsure just how to play this. Maybe, conciliatory at first? “However, if it will help, I apologize.”

  “Apology not enough.” Angry-sounding Russian followed, which Golubuvs translated as “You will provide my force safe passage through strait.”

  Okay, being nice wasn’t going to work. She exchanged glances with Mills, and regripped the handset, which was growing slick with hydrocortisone ointment and sweat. “My orders do not permit that, Admiral.”

  “I am transiting the strait. If you fire again, I will destroy you.”

  She took a deep breath, making sure that when she responded her voice was as firm as she could make it. With even a hint of glee. “Do you really want to? I have eight submarines behind me, if you manage to make it through. Three carriers on their way to back me up. America’s already mobilized, Admiral. Locked and loaded for another war, if you want one. So … make my day. I hope you feel lucky, punk.”

  Golubuvs gaped. At her console, Terranova snorted, a sound that came out as if she were choking. Mills looked shocked. Disbelieving.

  But Cheryl felt pretty sure anyone who liked American movies would get the reference. And apparently her Russian counterpart did, because for a full eight seconds there was just hissing silence on the line.

  “I accept apology,” the hoarse voice said at last. “But we must pass. I have orders too.”

  “I suggest you see if they can be changed, then.” She grinned at Mills, but the exec didn’t look amused. At all. She scribbled on a Post-it and pushed it to him. To all units. Initiate lock-on with all available fire control radars.

  Another few seconds of empty air. Sweat trickled under her arms. The compartment reeled around her, and she checked the clinometer. A ten-degree roll. The lasers could cope with that. She scribbled again. Stand by to take incoming drones.

  “Maybe we won’t have to,” Mills muttered, laying a hand over hers. Then, as if remembering himself, quickly removed it. Sorry, he mouthed. And nodded toward the displays.

  She lifted her gaze, to see the two Okhotniks that had been approaching shifting gradually to split left and right. Skating across the front of her own formation.

  Aznavuryan, on the circuit. Sounding angry. “I am requesting orders.”

  She adjusted her grip on the gray plastic handset. It nearly shot out of her hand, it was so greasy. She grabbed for it, but kept her tone icy cool. “I understand, Admiral. I will stand by for your decision.” To Mills, letting up on the Transmit button, she added, “You’re on nanochat to Fleet, right? Ask where that fucking air is. Don’t we have fighters back in Okinawa yet?” She’d stalled the Russian advance, but they could resume it in mere minutes. She needed backup, now. Reinforcements. Something that would show up on her adversary’s radar.

  The surface warfare coordinator spoke in her earbud. “Captain, lead ships on the oncoming formation’s screens have slowed. Steering various courses … appear to be zigzagging within their sectors.”

  “Very well.”

  Four contacts suddenly popped on the display. To the west, over Pusan, South Korea. Their readouts spun as they gained altitude. She hooked them and queried. EEFI information appeared beside the readouts.

  “ROK Air Force,” Mills said. “T-50s, out of Gimhae.”

  “That’s got to be about all they have left.” Cheryl wondered why they even had those. “Didn’t they lose most of their planes when the North occupied them?”

  The air warfare coordinator again. “A few escaped to Japan.”

  Cheryl hissed in through her front teeth as the readouts spun upward. The new air contacts contracted into a diamond formation, so tight that from sweep to sweep the radar occasionally registered them as a single blip. They accelerated, still maintaining that incredible closeness. She muttered, “What the…”

  The FAWC said, “T-50s … jet trainers … I’m thinking this might be their national aerobatics team.”

  “Aerobatics?” She rubbed her face, incredulous. A stunt team?

  More contacts winked on, this time populating above western Kyushu. “F-15Js,” the AWC said. “Counting two, three, four … six.”

  Maybe Fleet and PACOM hadn’t been as unconcerned as she’d thought. She steadied her voice. “We might have a chance, folks. I don’t know about the aerobatics team, but Aznavuryan might not know that’s what they are. And if the Japanese back us up, or even look like they might be about to, this could be a different ball game.”

  * * *

  THE next twenty minutes stretched out interminably. She rested her forehead on the tips of her fingers, elbows planted on the desk. Closing her eyes, and counting slow breaths. In. Out. Sensing the intermittent trembling of her muscles. The sigh of air in and out of her nasal passages. Fortunately the hiccups stayed gone. Scared out of her, no doubt.

  Suddenly she yearned to live through this. To bring them all through. Everyone aboard, and the rest of the task force. No one needed to die for Dalian. Moscow was just scavenging for whatever they could snatch, as long as nobody else was watching. Gambling human lives for a little more land.

  Well, the world was watching now.

  The T-50s closed the range rapidly, maintaining the same diamond, so tightly packed they consistently registered as a single return, even to Savo’s highly discriminating radars.

  The F-15Js proceeded west at a more leisurely pace. They settled into racetracks near the outer edge of Japan’s Self-Defense Identification Zone, just south of Tsushima Island.

  The Korean jets crossed the strait, still holding that tight formation, as if they were entertaining a crowd at an air show. They executed a slow 180 and hurtled back, passing south of Cheryl’s rearmost elements. She made sure Air Control deconflicted them. This wasn’t the time for any blue-on-blue casualties.

  The Russians, Okhotniks and strike fighters, crossed and recrossed her front, just out of Standard range, though her Alliances could have reached them. Each time they altered course she tensed, staring up at the displays. Would they come out of their turns headed for the task group? But no; they stayed distant. A threatening display, but not yet quite an attack.

  Her command desk screen blinked.

  REPLAY: USAF scrambling Taiwan for your support. F-35s + Valkyrie UAVs + tank
er support.

  TANGLER: Good news. ETA?

  REPLAY: Launch approx 8 minutes ETA to follow.

  “Outstanding,” she murmured to Mills. “They haven’t forgotten us.”

  “They were probably just stood down, after the armistice,” the XO said. “Took them some time to get back on line. But, yeah. Some fighters out front, that’ll make ’em think twice. Maybe not even bother to try.”

  She was allowing herself a tentative smile when Terranova called from her console, “Skipper! You need to see this. Putting it on the left LSD.”

  The picture came up, expanded so far to the north that the strait and the tip of the Korean Peninsula were not even visible. She looked down on Okhotsk and Kamchatka. Above them, air contacts were blinking into existence. Rising from distant airfields. Eight. Ten. Twelve. More.

  “Bombers,” Mills said, and his tone was flat. Dull. Dead, almost.

  She snarled, “I don’t need you to tell me that, XO!”

  “Sorry, Captain—”

  “No, I’m sorry.” She took another deep breath. In the last minutes of their lives, she didn’t need to be biting pieces off her own people.

  They weren’t the ones at fault. The diplomats and higher-ups had failed, again, and it was the sailors at sea who would pay. “We’ll take whoever crosses the ROE line first. Then expend our Alliances on the bombers as they come into range. Fight as long as we can, try to cover the rest of the force’s retreat. That’s all we can do.”

  Her exec’s handsome features hardened. “Hold and die?”

  “I’m afraid so, Matt.”

  Her desk pinged again.

  REPLAY: Russian Federation Defense Ministry announces major strategic maneuver exercise “Vostok.” Combined arms groups including elements Eastern Fleet will engage in simulated air strikes and air defense. Goal of exercise: improving command and control of joint military operations across multiple services in the eastern theater of operations. Coordinating operations between Pacific air forces and the Pacific Fleet. Exercise will take place in the northern areas of the Sea of Japan, Sea of Okhotsk, and northern Pacific.