Island Warriors
( Carrier - 18 )
Keith Douglass
China launches a full-scale invasion on Taiwan, its tiny capitalist island neighbor. While diplomats wage a battle of words in the United Nations, the real dirty work is to be done by Carrier Battle Group Fourteen-the only fighting force standing between the juggernaut of the Chinese military and the total annihilation of Taiwan.
Keith Douglass
Island Warriors
ONE
The Chinese submarine Jungwei
Submerged, off the western coast of Taiwan
Tuesday, September 3
0200 local (GMT +8)
Ku K’ai-Chih stared straight ahead as the water crept up his torso. It was cold, around fifty-five degrees farenheit, but his insulated dry suit made it more a pressure than a temperature change. Water continued to pour into the small lockout chamber of the submarine at a rate that would have panicked many men, but Ku had done this too many times to be concerned. Another few minutes, and he would no longer have the option of breathing the air that was rapidly hissing out through the exhaust tubes. Then, the lockout procedure itself: undogging the hatch by forcing the heavy wheel to turn, and swimming out in the black, featureless water.
The first few seconds were always the worst, the shock of going from the dim red lights of the lockout chamber into the utter blackness of the ocean. The sub would be shallow, and reaching the surface would not take long.
The weather predictions called for a mostly cloudy night, with even a slight chance of rain. The moon was a mere sliver, its pale light blocked out by the cloud cover. It would hide him from prying eyes, from anyone who might wonder what a swimmer was doing out in the middle of the ocean.
Not that they would wonder for long. Not if the submarine realized they were there. A sailboat might sneak by, but anything with an engine would be picked up by the submarine’s sonar.
It was a shame, really, but some innocent fishermen might have to die simply because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. But such are the fortunes of war. The innocent always suffer along with the actual military forces, and indeed, with every Chinese man serving a two-year tour in the armed forces and then a lengthy reserve commitment, the line between military forces and civilians was virtually undetectable.
He wondered how it would be, to be on such a fishing boat. Perhaps they had had a good day, drawn their nets in, and were quietly transiting to a new fishing area. Most of the crew would be asleep, only a small duty section on watch. Someone to guide the ship, perhaps an engineer — no more than two or three.
They would not even have time to wake the rest of the crew. A very alert lookout might catch a glimpse of the torpedo in the water, but probably not. It would travel through the water submerged, leaving the wake that could be detected only under clear conditions, and probably not at all at night.
Ku smiled slightly at the thought. All those innocents, asleep, believing themselves as safe as anyone ever was at sea. Perhaps they would be dreaming of their families, of the end of the voyage when they would return home marginally richer, or at least with sufficient funds to put food on the table for another few weeks. They would live mainly on fish and rice, supplementing it occasionally with a few vegetables bought in those ridiculous markets.
Or maybe they would have bad dreams. Perhaps someone would be tossing in his bunk, contemplating getting up and taking a turn around the deck to settle his head. Perhaps he would even be walking along the weatherdecks, staring up at the cloud cover and wondering why he couldn’t sleep.
Perhaps, indeed. In a way it might be better to remain below decks, where death at least would be swift and certain, if decidedly unpleasant. No, someone wandering the weatherdecks would have a chance of surviving at least the initial explosion.
The torpedo would intercept the keel of the fishing boat, which would be deep in the water. Fishing boats were like icebergs, with most of their mass out of sight. It would easily penetrate the old wooden hull, passing through several layers of bulkheads quite easily. Once it had reached several meters inside the hull, it would detonate, immediately shattering strakes, bulkheads, and every other structural member of the ship. How long the ship would stay afloat after that would depend on which part of the hull the torpedo hit, but the conclusion would be inevitable. The frigid sea would crash in, breaking down any barriers between storage holds, immediately flooding the lower regions and going to work on the upper. The boat would be dragged down, perhaps by its stern.
Inside, the crew would have only moments to do anything useful, and the odds of anyone managing to deploy a life raft or small boat in time were virtually nil, if indeed they even carried such equipment.
Even supposing that they did, the chances of surviving for more than ten minutes was nonexistent. Jungwei was under strict orders — no survivors.
It was the government’s fault, wasn’t it? Ku considered this question again as the water filled the remainder of the lockout.
Sun Yat Yat-Sen was across from him, another veteran of lockouts. It had become their habit not to talk during lockout. He wasn’t certain exactly why, but they’d fallen into that routine many years ago, and neither one wanted to be the first to break the silence.
Yes, if fishermen died, it would be Taiwan’s fault. They were Chinese, rightfully a part of a great nation. Just as the islands to the north, the Kuriles were, which had lived for so long under the oafish Russians’ domination. And to the south, the Spratley Islands, with their oil-rich seabed floors. Yes, by marriage or conquest, over the centuries, all of this part of the world was properly a part of the Chinese hegemony.
And soon Taiwan would return to the fold. It had been carefully explained to him. Indeed, Taiwan would have rejoined the mainland many decades ago as one united nation had it not been for the continual interference of the United States.
But now, ah, now… it was time to strike. With most of America’s forces deployed to the Middle East, quelling the constant conflict there, and her mightiest carrier, the USS Jefferson, seriously damaged, it was time to strike. The United States could do no more than howl ineffectively over the latest series of Chinese long-range missile tests.
The diplomatic protests would be a mere formality. Both Taiwan and the United States had been lulled into some degree of complacency by the missile tests in the past. Prior tests had skirted Taiwan by a large margin, and at least half the time the missiles failed to launch at all. Yes, it had been a long and careful plan of deception.
This time, it would be different. The missiles would fly on schedule and begin their trajectories just as every other test had in the past. But at some point, the missiles would turn south and burrow into the city of Taipei, destroying the treasonous rebels by the thousands, if not millions. And the most delicious part of the entire scheme would be that the United States would believe Taiwan was at fault. If Ku carried out his mission successfully, he would be single-handedly responsible for severing the relationship between the U.S. and China’s wayward province.
Ku glanced at the waterproof pack at his side, and looked over to double-check Sun. The homing beacons were advanced, the best that China could produce. During the next missile tests, the missiles would veer off course “accidentally”—on purpose, of course — and strike several military targets. There would be plenty of evidence in the electromagnetic spectrum to show that Taiwan herself had caused the disaster.
The water covered his face now, as the last of the air hissed out. He waited another few seconds, and nodded at Sun. His massive partner reached up and easily turned the locking wheel, opening the connection between the sea and the lockout chamber. For just a moment, Ku felt a surge of nervousness, which he qui
ckly repressed. Six hours, that was all. Then they would be back at the submarine, safely extracted, and on their way back to China. No one would even know that they’d been there — although they might suspect after the next test went so terribly wrong.
Ku stretched one last time, feeling his muscles and bones crack. Then he pulled himself up the ladder, fluttering his leg slightly, and swam out into the cold dark sea.
Once they were ashore, the mission went without incident. As had Ku and Sun’s stealthy approach on the hospital, and the actual planting of the laser beacon. Now, with everything done, he was tempted to relax. But no, that would not be wise, not until he was back on the submarine.
Still, despite his best intentions, he found his concentration slipping. Part of it was from the sheer physical exhaustion of the swim, and the dread of having to do it again. Oh, of course he could — that wasn’t even a question. But he dreaded the prospect of the hours undersea again, fighting down the moments of worry, and waiting to be picked up. He did not anticipate any problems — he had done this too many times before, although not under these exact circumstances.
Ku made his way back to the edge of the water where he’d stowed his gear. Right here, high above the water line, well out of the reach of anything except a tidal wave. He walked confidently to the location, moved to the rock he’d picked as a landmark, and then stared.
No gear.
Had he somehow been mistaken? Perhaps it was the next one over — or the next. He searched location after location, wandering further and further away from his original spot, his concern growing with every moment. It was not possible that he had forgotten exactly where it was — no, not possible at all.
Then he stopped dead at the sound of someone clearing his throat, and turned, coldly certain at that moment what had happened. Behind him were five man garbed in camouflage uniforms. Even the camouflage paint could not change the shape of their eyes or the lanky structure of their bodies. Americans — not Taiwanese.
One of them spoke, and although Ku understood the dialect, he elected not to reply. He had been discovered — his mission goal had changed. With the missile beacons planted, his only remaining objective was to maintain his silence until he died.
One of the men stepped forward and secured Ku’s hands behind him with a plastic strap. Two others conducted a fast but thorough pat-down search, missing nothing. A fourth took his knapsack and searched it. Within minutes, they surrounded him and prodded him to move forward.
Americans. This would be easy. They were not trained, hardened warriors, at least not in the traditions of honor and mercilessness that Ku’s own culture demanded. Prison, even a military one, would be child’s play to endure.
But the Americans did not take him to their own facilities. Instead, he was tossed into a Humvee and taken to Taiwanese military headquarters in Taipei. There, surrounded by men of his own blood, Ku began to know fear.
Ku had dreaded the swim ashore. It was nothing compared to what he would experience in the next five hours. And, in the end, he died without speaking.
Outside the Taiwanese compound, the senior member of the American SEAL team powered up his portable, secure satellite communications set. His radioman scanned the horizon with the parabolic mike, then grunted when the link was at maximum strength and clarity. With a nod, he passed the headset to the lieutenant.
“Yeah, the Taiwanese have got him,” the lieutenant said, once he’d been quickly patched through to Don Stroh at CIA headquarters. “But we kept the gear we found. No maps, no charts, nothing like that. But what I got is enough.” He held up his hand and surveyed the small piece of equipment he’d found there. “Transmitter — he had one spare, maybe in case something broke. And from the looks of it, it’s got long-range capabilities.”
The lieutenant listened for a moment, nodding in agreement with the man on the other end. Stroh had been in this business of deploying covert forces to problem spots all over the world far longer than the SEAL officer had, and he understood immediately what was going on.
“No way we could search every building within range, and there’s no telling how long he’s been ashore,” the lieutenant said finally. He glanced overhead, as though already seeing the flights of missiles inbound. “But yeah, I gotta agree — there’s something up with this, and the missile test they announced last week looks like a good candidate.”
The other men in the squad moved uneasily. Armed men on the ground or in the water were one thing — dangerous business, but business they’d been trained to take care of. Missiles overhead were an entirely different matter. The only successful tactic was to be somewhere else, and each one of the SEALs had a deep aversion to cut-and-run.
The lieutenant handed the headset back to the radioman. “Okay, that’s it. Like we thought, they’re going to pass the buck to the Taiwanese forces. They may already know more than we do, if they got that bastard to talk.” The lieutenant remembered the cold, flat expression in the Chinese frogman’s face. “Or maybe not. He didn’t look like the talkative sort. Anyway, Stroh’s going to sanitize the source and dump the warning into all the normal channels. It’ll put the good guys on alert, anyway.”
“Alert for what, El-Tee?” the radioman asked.
“Good question, Barker. A very good question.” Without saying anymore, the lieutenant lead them back to their operations center.
TWO
USNS Observation Island
Northern Pacific
0300 local (GMT +8)
Retired Master Sergeant Colin Waterson whistled softly as he studied the data on his screen. It was faint, but it was there — a heat bloom.
“Judy, Judy, Judy,” he said as he tweaked the gain on the screen. “You funning me, girl, or are we going all the way?”
Processing error? An innocent explanation, like a hot water geyser? Or the start of something that could get way, way out of hand?
Waterson glanced over at Jim Vail, the junior sensor analyst on this shift. As usual, Vail seemed lost in his own world, his eyes focused blankly on his screen but his thoughts clearly elsewhere. In contrast to Waterson’s stocky, bullet-shaped body, Vail was a slender man, one who looked more like a poet than an analyst. In the three months they’d worked together, Waterson had come to the conclusion that Vail needed to find the guts to quit and find something that suited him better. It wasn’t that Vail was a bad guy — to the contrary. He just didn’t have the fire in his belly that Waterson liked to see in an analyst.
After three decades in uniform as an Air Force intelligence specialist, Waterson had found that stalking elusive trout in his Montana hideaway hadn’t proved as fulfilling as he would have hoped. While his military retirement check covered all of his necessities, it couldn’t provide the one thing in life he was missing — the sheer raw excitement of his military career.
In his last tour, Waterson had been the senior enlisted man at Cheyenne Mountain, the facility dug deep into rock that controlled all strategic sensors and weapons. Waterson was a veteran of countless periods of increasing tension and had seen what happened when someone thought that the next world war was about to start. It was heady stuff, and despite the long hours, days and weeks during which absolutely nothing happened, he missed those moments when everything was on the line, when the slightest screw-up or hesitation could spell the difference between war and peace.
So he’d gone back to it, at least part-time. Not in Cheyenne Mountain, but as a senior analyst onboard the USNS Observation Island, a ship operated by the Military Sea Lift command that was primarily composed of antennas and sensors. The Judy in his life was Cobra Judy, the sensor system fitted on the ship.
Cobra Judy was one leg of a detection triad that kept a close eye on every area of the world that possessed ballistic missile launch capability. Waterson’s Judy consisted of a solid-state based array fitted into the stern of the USNS Observation Island. The four-story high structure monitored the exo-atmospheric portions of Russia and Chinese ballistic miss
ile test flights. Cobra Judy operated in conjunction with Cobra Dane as well as a dedicated satellite network.
Waterson had been to Cobra Dane, the massive shore-based radar located at Shamir Air Force Base on Shemya Island. He’d stared up at the single, circular-phased array radar thirty meters in diameter. The face of the radar was covered with more than 35,000 elements and faced southwest, covering an arc of one hundred and twenty degrees. Initially operational in 1977, Cobra Dane was upgraded in the nineties to improve its capabilities. It could follow one hundred targets at once, as originally configured, and as part of an early warning network, could track two hundred targets.
The final leg of the triad, and the only one Waterson hadn’t visited in situ, although he had seen one of them before launch, was a defense support program consisting of satellites positioned about twenty-two thousand miles above the equator. The satellites monitored other areas known to have ballistic missile launch capabilities and, along with large ocean areas’ satellites sensors, detected the heat generated from a missile launch and transmitted data to ground stations.
All three legs of the triad were operated by and reported to the United States Air Force Space Command, which provided strategic warning of detected missiles to the National Command Authority.
“Got it on Dane and overhead,” Vail said. The correlating data blipped into being on Waterson’s screen, confirming the detection his Judy had brought him. “Cheyenne’s got a copy on the data.”
Waterson felt his stomach tighten. Suddenly, he had the urgent need to take a leak, as his body responded to the flood of adrenaline.
Observation Island operated alone. No fighter cover, no missile cruisers, nothing. For self-defense, she possessed two close-in weapons system setups, as much as a reassurance to the crew as for any real protection value.
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