Thick, black smoke was pouring from every opening of USS Lincoln, and she was dead in the water. There were dozens of black puncture wounds in the side of the aircraft carrier where she had been struck by missiles, and the carrier’s Island superstructure was completely destroyed, reduced to a mangled heap of blackened, twisted metal. Lincoln was also listing twenty degrees to starboard. She’d been torpedoed as well. Lincoln would not survive. Without propulsion, it was only a matter of time before she was finished off.
Harrow couldn’t pull his eyes from the burning aircraft carrier. This wasn’t supposed to happen. The United States Navy was the most powerful navy in the world. Yes, a few ships would be lost in an all-out confrontation with China or Russia, but the United States would easily prevail. At least that’s what the war games had proven. Disbelief washed over Harrow.
How had they been so wrong?
The aircraft carrier’s Officer of the Deck, Lieutenant Commander Michael Beresford, stopped beside Harrow, staring at their sister ship. Harrow’s thoughts turned to the status of their aircraft when Beresford spoke. “Lincoln’s air wing has been directed to land on Nimitz.”
Harrow nodded. It looked like Captain Helen Corcoran had picked up yet a third air wing. It was going to be a crowded ship. Luckily, the fires on the Hangar Deck had been extinguished, and the elevators between the Hangar and Flight Deck were still operational.
Harrow’s thoughts returned to Lincoln, listing even farther to starboard now. Lincoln had been torpedoed, so Chinese submarines were out there, and Harrow struggled to understand where they had come from. Both strike groups had been traveling at ahead full, so whatever submarine had torpedoed the Lincoln couldn’t have snuck up from behind. It must have slipped through the fast attack screen in front. But Harrow had difficulty believing the Chinese submarines had defeated their American counterparts.
With his thoughts dwelling on the underwater threat, he glanced at the MH-60R anti-submarine warfare helicopters, hovering nearby with their sonars dipped beneath the ocean surface, searching for Chinese submarines. The carrier’s fast pace was hindering the MH-60Rs, forcing them to reposition frequently to keep up.
The first indication that Nimitz was in jeopardy was when a torpedo suddenly dropped from one of the MH-60Rs hovering eight thousand yards off the starboard bow. Harrow’s eyes followed the Lightweight torpedo into the ocean, his eyes drawn to a thin streak of light green water headed toward Nimitz. The information coalesced quickly in Harrow’s mind. The MH-60R had detected a Chinese submarine and attacked it. But not before the submarine had launched a Heavyweight torpedo toward Nimitz.
Lieutenant Commander Beresford also noticed the light green streak of water. He assumed the Conn from the more junior Conning Officer as he bellowed out, “Lieutenant Commander Beresford has the Deck and the Conn! Left full rudder!” The Helm acknowledged and Nimitz began twisting to port. After assessing the torpedo’s approach angle, Beresford followed up, “Steady course three-three-zero!”
Nimitz steadied up on its new course and Harrow watched as the torpedo traveled in a straight line; it hadn’t detected the carrier and would pass behind them. He was about to breathe a sigh of relief when he remembered the Chinese Yu-6 torpedo, when fired in surface mode, was a wake homer. It would detect the carrier’s white, frothy wake, then turn back and cross it again and again, weaving its way up the carrier’s trail.
There was no point in launching torpedo decoys. As a wake homer, the Yu-6 was programmed to ignore acoustic decoys. As the light green trail crossed the carrier’s wake, Harrow watched the torpedo turn toward Nimitz, beginning its snakelike approach, weaving back and forth across the carrier’s wake, slowly gaining on them. Their only hope was to confuse the torpedo by maneuvering the aircraft carrier back across its own wake, forcing the torpedo to decide which way to continue. However, Harrow was no ship-driver; like all aircraft carrier commanding officers, he was a pilot. To evade the incoming torpedo, he would have to rely on the experience of his General Quarters’ Officer of the Deck, Lieutenant Commander Beresford.
“Left full rudder!” Beresford called out. The Helm complied and the hundred-thousand-ton carrier tilted to starboard as the pair of twenty-by-thirty-foot rudders dug into the ocean. Beresford kept the rudder on as the carrier circled around. Beresford was conducting an Anderson turn, a complete circle. As the torpedo followed behind them, once Nimitz crossed its wake where they began their turn, the torpedo would be forced to choose which wake to follow. Hopefully, it would choose the wrong one.
Nimitz crossed its original wake a minute later, the torpedo not far behind. “Shift your rudder!” Beresford ordered, “Steady course north.”
Beresford was steering the carrier off on a thirty-degree tangent to their original course, hoping the torpedo chose the wake heading to the left rather than the right. All eyes on the Bridge turned aft, watching the snaking torpedo reach the two intersecting wakes. Harrow momentarily lost the torpedo’s light green trail as the torpedo traveled into the intersection of the wakes, his hope rising each second the torpedo failed to reappear. Finally, a light green trail emerged, snaking along the starboard wake.
The torpedo hadn’t been fooled.
By now the torpedo was a thousand yards behind Nimitz. Harrow estimated they had less than a minute before it reached the carrier’s stern, the last place he wanted to get hit by a torpedo. It would destroy the rudders and propellers, reducing the carrier to a drifting hunk of metal, awaiting the coup de grâce. As the torpedo steadily gained on Nimitz, Harrow glanced forward. One of Lincoln’s escorts, USS Bunker Hill, with black smoke billowing upward from fires raging inside the cruiser, was adrift just off the port bow, five hundred yards ahead.
“Head for Bunker Hill!” Harrow shouted to his Officer of the Deck.
Beresford looked ahead, quickly deciphering Harrow’s plan. “Helm, come left to course three-five-zero.”
The Helm complied, and Nimitz steadied up on its new course, headed toward Bunker Hill. The Helmsman turned to the ship’s Officer of the Deck, looking for a new Helm order.
Beresford replied calmly, “Steady as she goes.”
Lieutenant Commander Beresford had maneuvered the carrier perfectly. They would collide with the cruiser in a glancing blow just before the torpedo reached Nimitz. As Nimitz passed by Bunker Hill, the expanding wake would encapsulate the cruiser, and it was possible the torpedo would detonate on Bunker Hill instead of the carrier speeding away. Harrow had no idea if it would work. But it was a plan that offered hope.
Hell, it was his only plan.
Beresford took station next to the Helm, talking quietly to the nervous Helmsman as he maintained Nimitz on the ordered course, speeding toward the cruiser. Returning his attention to the torpedo chasing them, Harrow watched it slowly close on the carrier’s stern. The torpedo was now centered in the carrier’s wake, only two hundred yards behind. Harrow shifted his gaze from the torpedo chasing them to the cruiser they were about to ram. Counting down the seconds, Harrow braced himself for impact.
A screech of metal tore through the air as the starboard side of the carrier’s bow collided with the cruiser. Nimitz listed slightly to port as the cruiser scraped down the starboard side of the carrier, sparks flying. Nimitz rolled back to even keel as Bunker Hill cleared the carrier’s stern, and Harrow stared aft at the torpedo chasing them. Bunker Hill was now encapsulated within the carrier’s wake, and the torpedo veered toward the cruiser, exploding a second later.
A two-hundred-foot-high plume of water jetted into the air, whipsawing Bunker Hill like a rubber toy, breaking the cruiser’s keel, splitting the ship in half. The two halves of the cruiser started taking on water, the stern and bow tilting upward as Nimitz sped away with a new lease on life.
* * *
Nimitz’s six escorts had fallen far behind by now, struggling to keep up with the speedy aircraft carrier. There wasn’t much Harrow could do for his escorts. Nimitz would remain at maximum speed. Now that they
had successfully evaded the torpedo, he could return to base course and initiate flight operations, retrieving the air wings circling above. Due to losses sustained to date, Nimitz’s and George Washington’s air wings were about half-strength, with Lincoln’s around eighty percent. It was going to be a crowded carrier. They were going to have to pack them in tight on the Hanger and Flight Decks.
Harrow was about to issue orders when the Tactical Action Officer’s report blared across the Bridge speakers. “Torpedo in the water, bearing zero-four-zero relative!” Harrow looked up through the Bridge windows.
Forty degrees off the starboard bow, a light green trail had appeared in the water, streaking toward Nimitz. Before Beresford could order evasive maneuvers to the west, the TAO reported, “Torpedo in the water, bearing three-zero-zero relative!” Another light green streak appeared just off the port beam.
Two other Chinese submarines had joined the hunt for Nimitz, bracketing the carrier.
There was nowhere to turn. Reversing course wasn’t an option, with the first submarine following behind. Turning to port or starboard wouldn’t work either, with torpedoes closing from both sides. Harrow evaluated the options, eventually deciding to maintain course. Maybe, if Nimitz was able to increase speed, the carrier could thread the needle between the two torpedoes. But Nimitz was already at ahead flank. Harrow needed more speed, and the only option was increasing reactor power above the authorized limit. Harrow had done it successfully once. Perhaps he could do it again.
Harrow picked up the 23-MC, issuing orders to DC Central. “RO, Captain. Override reactor protection and increase shaft turns to one hundred twenty percent power.”
The Reactor Officer acknowledged, and Harrow felt vibrations in the deck as the main engines began straining under the increased steam load. Nimitz surged forward as the carrier’s four propellers churned the water, and Harrow watched his ship increase speed, first one knot and then another. Stepping close to the forward Bridge window, Harrow studied the trajectory of the incoming torpedoes. Both torpedoes were continuing in a straight line, and just when it looked like there was a chance the torpedoes would pass astern of the carrier, first one, then the other torpedo veered toward Nimitz. Both torpedoes had been wire-guided toward the carrier.
A few seconds later, the first torpedo hit Nimitz. An explosion on the starboard side of the ship rocked the carrier, and a geyser of water jetted a hundred feet above the ship, falling down upon the Island and Flight Deck like rain. A moment later, a second deafening explosion rocked Nimitz, this time on the port side.
The Flooding Alarm sounded, followed by emergency announcements, reporting flooding in both Engine Rooms. He could feel his ship begin to slow, and a glance at the ship’s speed displayed on the Voyage Management System confirmed that Nimitz was coasting to a halt.
The aircraft carrier’s fate was sealed.
Without propulsion, the ship no longer had its most important asset—speed. It would be a sitting duck, waiting to be finished off by however many torpedoes it took. And there would be no place for Nimitz’s and Lincoln’s air wings to land. There was a bitter taste in Harrow’s mouth as he turned to his Officer of the Deck. “Order the air wings to land on one of the carriers to the south.”
Lieutenant Commander Beresford stared at Harrow in silence. The blood had already drained from Beresford’s face and it seemed to pale even further after Harrow’s order. Beresford stuttered as the words tumbled from his mouth. He started over, and Harrow soon realized the reason for his OOD’s ashen features.
“Sir, the Stennis and Vinson have been sunk. CDC reported the loss of both carriers a half-hour ago.”
Harrow had been preoccupied, focused on saving his ship and hadn’t taken the time to get an update on the other carriers. As he contemplated the fate of the six thousand men and women on each carrier, as well as the air wings that had nowhere to land, the TAO’s voice boomed across the MC speakers again.
“Torpedoes in the water!”
Six more torpedo trails had appeared, three approaching from the port side of the ship and three from starboard. As the torpedoes raced toward Nimitz, Harrow realized there was nothing more he could do. He dwelt at first on the fate of his crew—the men and women who would not return home. But then his thoughts turned to the carriers they’d lost—George Washington, and now Lincoln, Stennis, and Vinson, with Nimitz soon joining their fate. Only now did Captain Alex Harrow appreciate the enormity of the Pacific Fleet’s defeat.
42
NANJING, CHINA
THE PIT OF TEN THOUSAND CORPSES
A brisk morning breeze blew across the lower reaches of the Yangtze River, flowing up the eastern slope past Xiang Chenglei as he stood alone at the edge of a moat surrounding the Wall of Victims. To his left and right, rising from granite flagstones surrounding the memorial, bronze statues depicted the suffering: a man carrying dead and maimed relatives away; a dead mother sprawled on the ground, her baby suckling her breast; a family fleeing toward safety. In front of Xiang, one memory rose taller than the rest—a twenty-foot-high statue of a mother mourning, her face turned skyward as she held a dead child in her arms. Xiang dropped his eyes from the mother’s face, and as he turned east toward the orange glow on the horizon, it was fitting his next thought was that of the rising sun.
Japan, the Empire of the Rising Sun, was guilty of atrocities difficult to comprehend. In December 1937, Nanjing—the capital of China at the time—fell to the Japanese Imperial Army. In the following six weeks, over 300,000 unarmed men, women, and children were slaughtered by Imperial soldiers; firing squads and beheadings were common. Mass graves were prevalent throughout the city, and beneath Xiang’s feet lay the remains of ten thousand corpses. During the Second Sino-Japanese War, which raged from 1937 to 1945, the Japanese Imperial Army slaughtered 23 million ethnic Chinese.
Even more repulsive was that the atrocities weren’t simply the result of out-of-control army units. Murder and rape of civilians was endorsed by the Japanese High Command, even sanctioned and encouraged by Japan’s supreme leader. Emperor Hirohito’s “Three Alls” edict, promulgated in 1942, directed the Japanese Imperial Army to “kill all, burn all, and loot all.” After the war, the Japanese people and their emperor refused to acknowledge the magnitude of their cruelty, choosing to minimize what had occurred. Perhaps a sincere apology after the war would have assuaged, to some degree, the resentment harbored by the Chinese people; provide some measure of comfort to mitigate the hate.
Comfort and Hate. As a child, the word comfort—even the concept—was forbidden in Xiang’s home. His mother loved him, he knew, but she would never comfort him. She wouldn’t speak the word or even allow it to be uttered in her presence. It was not until Xiang became a young man that he learned the gut-wrenching reason for his mother’s aversion to the word. Although Japanese atrocities during the war knew no bounds, many attractive Chinese women were spared; they had their uses. As the Japanese Army occupied eastern China, Comfort Houses stocked with women of every Asian ethnicity were established to satiate the physical desires of the Imperial solders. One of those young women was Xiang’s mother.
Only fifteen years old, Lijuan was raped day and night for months. Serving up to thirty men each day, Xiang’s mother came to truly understand the Japanese meaning of the word comfort. After a year of sexual slavery, she was discarded in a back alley in Nanjing, gaunt and listless, her body and mind broken. She was one of the lucky ones. Only twenty-five percent of comfort women survived, with the vast majority of those unable to bear children due to the injuries inflicted and venereal diseases contracted.
Japan had never formally apologized for the atrocities committed against the Chinese people, and some government leaders even asserted the Nanjing massacre had never occurred. Halfhearted attempts had been proffered by various government officials, but true dogenza had never been performed. That, however, would be rectified, and the emperor of Japan would soon bow before Xiang, his forehead touching the groun
d at the feet of China’s supreme leader.
A movement at the edge of the memorial caught Xiang’s attention. Striding across the gray granite slabs, Huan Zhixin approached, flanked by two members of the Cadre Department in their black suits.
Huan stopped next to him. “Everything is ready, General Secretary. Your helicopter awaits.”
Xiang’s eyes lingered on the bronze statue of the mother holding her dead child. After a long moment, he turned away, joining Huan as they moved toward the waiting aircraft.
* * *
The rhythmic beat of the Harbin Z-15’s twin engines filled Xiang’s ears as the helicopter sped northeast toward the coastal city of Yancheng. Xiang peered through the window as the outskirts of Yancheng appeared through a break in the clouds. A moment later, he caught his first glimpse of the Nanjing Army Group, comprised of the 1st, 13th, and 31st Armies, which would spearhead the assault on Japan. The 130,000 men were assembled in formation on the parade field below, bleeding over into the adjoining grassland. The mass of men in their green camouflage uniforms stretched to the horizon, the red pendants at the head of each unit fluttering in the breeze.
Xiang had traveled the 120 kilometers from Nanjing in silence, collecting his thoughts. The North Sea Fleet, held in reserve up to now, had been augmented with twenty-four Yuan class diesel submarines and what remained of the East and South Sea Fleets. Xiang knew Admiral Tsou had stood before his men yesterday, inspiring them to serve the people. This morning, it would be Xiang’s turn to stand before the Army, explaining why he had been forced to make this decision. Explaining why many of them would not return home.
The helicopter landed gently on the black tarmac. An escort was waiting, headed by General Zhang Anguo, who would command the three army groups leading the assault. The stocky General with short-cropped, silver hair saluted as Xiang stepped out of the helicopter. Xiang returned his salute, then extended his hand.
Empire Rising Page 20