Ramsey checked the fusion plot behind him, verifying their torpedo decoy had been launched. Now the questions were—would the Yu-6 torpedo suck up on their countermeasure, and would the Chinese submarine be around long enough to wire-guide it toward the evading Annapolis?
CNS JIAOLONG
“Target maneuver. Contact One has turned away.”
Commander Zhao listened to the report from his Executive Officer, watching the contact solution update on the plasma display above the bank of fire control consoles. This old Los Angeles class submarine was surprisingly nimble. However, it would not get away—it could not outrun their Yu-6 torpedo once it was wire-guided onto the submarine’s new course.
While the XO determined what that new course was, Zhao turned to a more pressing matter. The American torpedo was still inbound. He called to Sonar. “Transmit the MK 48 termination pulse.”
The Sonar Supervisor acknowledged, and a few seconds later, a single pulse echoed into the ocean. However, instead of the usual report from Sonar—MK 48 torpedo has shut down, Sonar reported, “Control, Sonar. MK 48 torpedo remains inbound. Termination pulse had no effect.”
Zhao quickly ordered, “Send MK 48 termination pulse again.” As Sonar acknowledged, he turned to the plasma screen above the combat control consoles again, studying the geographic display with renewed interest. The MK 48 torpedo was dangerously close and Zhao had kept his submarine at ahead full, headed directly toward their adversary and their torpedo. He had waited to dud the torpedo, not wanting to interrupt his torpedo launch preparations. The Sonar Supervisor’s excited report came across the Control Room speakers.
“Captain, Sonar. Second termination pulse sent. MK 48 torpedo has not shut down!”
Zhao called out, “Helm ahead flank! Right hard rudder! Launch decoy!” But he knew it was already too late. The MK 48 torpedo was less than two thousand yards away, and the decoy would not distract the American torpedo from the larger submarine beside it.
As Zhao’s submarine began to swing to starboard, Sonar reported, “MK 48 torpedo is increasing frequency and speed! Torpedo is homing!”
USS ANNAPOLIS
“Target acquired!” the Weapons Officer announced, reviewing the telemetry data being sent back to Annapolis over the torpedo wire.
The position of the Chinese submarine on the combat system updated, but there was little change. Their solution had been almost perfect. Ramsey watched on the display as the green inverted V closed on the red U, the two symbols merging a few seconds later.
An explosion rumbled through the Control Room, announcing their torpedo software had indeed been corrected and their adversary vanquished.
“Loss of wire continuity, Tube One,” the Weapon Control Coordinator announced.
Ramsey turned his attention to the Chinese torpedo, examining Lieutenant Hogarth’s geographic display. The Yu-6 torpedo was circling their decoy, and there was no submarine to wire-guide it toward Annapolis. Ramsey turned back toward the Ship Control Panel.
“Helm, ahead standard. Left ten-degree rudder, steady course two-seven-zero.”
Annapolis slowed, blending back into the ocean environment and reducing the flow noise across her sensors.
“Conn, Sonar. Hold a new contact, designated Sierra two-five, bearing two-nine-three, classified submerged.”
Ramsey acknowledged Sonar. The Atlantic Fleet submarines now had functioning torpedoes. And they had plenty of targets to use them on.
The Unites States Submarine Force was back in business.
70
BOSO PENINSULA, JAPAN
On the eastern shore of the Chiba Prefecture, only three kilometers from the Pacific Ocean, Major Suzuki Koki picked his way through the rubble of the Iioka Railway Station, offering encouraging words to the remaining men in his company. Less than half of his men were alive and half of those injured, including him. His limp was getting worse, but he tried to ignore the throbbing in his left leg from the shrapnel buried in his thigh. He tried to hide the pain and set an example for his weary men.
His men were firing through jagged holes blown in the railway station wall, attempting to repel the latest PLA onslaught. After completing his round, his senses numbed by the staccato firing of rifles and the rumbling explosions of incoming artillery rounds, Suzuki leaned back against the cool cinder block wall, taking care not to put weight on his left leg as he slid slowly to the ground. Placing his pistol on the floor next to him, he winced as he pulled his left knee up with both hands to examine the deep gash in his thigh, protected from the dust and rubble by a wrapping of blood-stained gauze. Lifting the edge of the bandage up, he confirmed the bleeding had stopped. After the never-ending flood of bad news over the last eleven days, this was good news indeed.
Eleven days ago, seated at his desk in the Ministry of Defense Headquarters in Tokyo, he had watched China’s surprise attack unfold on his computer monitor. Once the shock wore off, he had raced to the outskirts of Tokyo to join his unit. Japan was ill prepared for a land invasion, convinced their sea power would thwart any attempt. But China had prepared well and struck fast, devastating Japanese naval forces. With the American Pacific Fleet destroyed, there was nothing to deter the flow of Chinese soldiers and equipment onto the Japanese home islands.
The fighting had been fierce around the dozen Chinese beachheads on the western shore of Japan’s main island, but the PLA gained a foothold and once they broke out from their beachheads, Suzuki’s company, like the rest of the Japanese Ground Self-Defense Force, had been in full retreat mode. Until now, that is. Suzuki and the rest of 1st Division had been ordered to hold their position along the Sobu Rail Line at all cost; retreat or surrender was not an option. An explanation hadn’t been provided, but given their proximity to the eastern shore, Suzuki figured the sixty kilometers of Kujukuri’s straight, reef-less shore was the only viable beachhead remaining for America’s Marine Expeditionary Forces.
Major Suzuki was in command of the entire 34th Infantry Regiment now. The Colonel—hell, every officer senior to him—had been killed or injured, those surviving too incapacitated to issue commands. By good fortune, Suzuki’s regiment had linked up with a medical unit, and even now one of the Medics was making his way through the rubble, checking on the injured men assigned to the front line.
As the Medic made his way toward Suzuki, an explosion rocked the railway station. Twenty feet away, stone and men were blown backward as a gaping hole appeared in the railway station wall. As Suzuki gazed at the hole, he realized something had changed. This wasn’t the result of an artillery shell. He rolled to his side, peering through a ragged one-foot-wide hole in the cinder block wall. Emerging from the tree line, a dozen turrets appeared, and he heard the faint clanking of metal treads.
The Chinese had ferried tanks onto the island.
The situation was hopeless. They needed shoulder-fired anti-tank missiles, weapons Suzuki’s company didn’t possess. Against advancing tanks, they’d be forced to wait until the tanks crashed through the railway station walls, then his men would toss grenades into the tank tracks, disabling them to prevent their advance toward the beach behind them. Unfortunately, there would be little left of Suzuki’s company afterward. Protected behind each tank, a platoon of Chinese infantry was advancing toward the railway station. Once the railway station walls were breached, what was left of Suzuki’s company would be overwhelmed.
However, his orders were clear.
This was their final stand.
There was a puff of white smoke from one of the tank turrets, and this time a section of the railway station to Suzuki’s right vaporized in a shower of debris, ricocheting in every direction. Suzuki shouted to his men, but he couldn’t hear himself—there was a loud ringing in his ears from the two explosions. No one responded as the dust drifted through the terminal, partially obscuring his vision. He pulled himself to his feet, ignoring the pain shooting through his thigh. If his men couldn’t hear him, he would lead by example. He climbed over the
rubble toward the nearest injured man, grabbing him under his shoulders, dragging him away from the gaping hole in the wall. His men recovered from their daze, scrambling toward the injured, pulling them to temporary safety behind intact sections of the railway station.
Once the injured men had been pulled to safety, Suzuki peered through the nearest hole in the wall. The tanks, which had closed half the distance from the tree line to the terminal, had turned their attention to adjacent buildings along the Sobu Rail Line, occupied by other 1st Division units. One of the tanks swiveled its turret back toward the Iioka Railway Station, and Suzuki swore he was staring right down the turret barrel. He fought the instinct to cover his head with his arms—there was no way to protect himself from a direct hit.
As Suzuki stared at the tank, waiting for it to fire, the turret exploded in a fireball of orange flame and black smoke, and the tank ground to a halt. The two adjacent tanks also erupted in fireballs roiling upward, one of the turrets blown completely off the tank base. A few seconds later, Harrier jets streaked overhead, headed inland as bombs fell toward PLA formations farther back. The horizon erupted in a mass of red-tinged fireballs, black smoke spiraling upward.
For the first time in eleven days, Major Suzuki Koki smiled.
The Americans had arrived.
71
BEIJING
It was a small, windowless office in the South Wing of the Great Hall. A single desk—decorated with framed photos, assorted knickknacks, and a computer monitor—occupied most of the floor space. Against one wall, a plain wooden bookshelf was crammed with notebook binders, pamphlets, and loose papers that threatened to spill onto the floor at any moment. The office door was solid—no window—offering privacy to the room’s only occupant, who stood behind the desk searching through its drawers.
Earlier this morning, when Christine stepped from the communications center, the corridors in the distance had begun filling with civilians arriving for work. Although the East and Central wings of the Great Hall were locked down due to the SEAL team intrusion, the South Wing was open for business as usual.
She thought that was odd until she recalled the Pentagon on 9/11. After American Airlines Flight 77 crashed into the Defense headquarters, only a portion of the Pentagon was evacuated, and the secretary of defense met with the Joint Chiefs of Staff in the National Military Command Center in one part of the Pentagon, while fires raged in another. Political and military organizations had difficulty abandoning their communication hubs and would remain as long as they believed they were safe.
When she had reviewed the schematics of the Great Hall of the People this morning, searching for a way out, Christine had stumbled onto an idea. But first, she decided to duck out of the way, choosing an unlocked office belonging to someone low on the food chain. The room was small and the furnishings inexpensive. But it served Christine’s purpose, offering a reprieve from discovery while she collected her thoughts and formulated her plan. Wandering around the empty Great Hall in the early morning hours was one thing. A Caucasian woman traversing crowded corridors during the day was another matter.
On second thought, crowded corridors might work to her advantage. In a few hours, it would be lunchtime and there would be many workers traveling the hallways, and hopefully a few Caucasians. Her review of the Great Hall’s schematics told here there were representatives from several Western countries with offices in the South Wing. She might blend in long enough for her plan to work.
However, there were three items she needed, and as she riffled through the desk drawers, she finally spotted the first—a roll of tape. She required two more items. One was a badge. The personnel arriving for work wore badges, and she’d stick out like a sore thumb without one. The other item she needed was something she could hide her pistol in while traversing the halls. She had luckily selected a woman’s office to hide out in, and she would almost assuredly arrive with a purse.
There was a knock on the door, accompanied by a loud, demanding request. Christine’s heart leapt to her throat—it was most likely security guards searching the South Wing, room by room. With one and probably two dead SEALs in the Great Hall, they’d be searching for another man wielding an MP7, not a woman sitting behind a desk in her office. But that was true only as long as Huan was dead or unconscious. She cursed herself for not putting a bullet into his head. If he recovered, they’d know exactly who to search for and she wouldn’t stand a chance.
The door was locked and Christine stood frozen behind the desk, hoping whoever was outside would move on. But then she heard the metal jingling of keys, and the round doorknob twitched. Another jingle and twitch. Whoever was outside had master keys and would eventually find the right one. If they discovered her in the office after she ignored their request to open the door, they’d be suspicious and examine her closely.
Her only hope was to open the door.
Christine walked toward the door, searching her memory for a Mandarin phrase that would suffice in this situation. Halfway to the door, she selected one, calling out, “It’s nice to meet you!”
She winced after the words left her mouth, but it was all she could come up with on short notice, and she hoped the door muffled enough of her voice that her response was unintelligible. The keys stopped jingling and the doorknob fell still.
Christine forced a smile onto her face, then twisted the doorknob, disengaging the lock, and pulled the door open. There were three men in the hallway. The man in the middle, wearing a white shirt and blue tie, held a ring of keys in one hand. The other two men were uniformed security guards, their pistols drawn. Their eyes widened, no doubt surprised by the appearance of a Caucasian woman. If that wasn’t enough, Christine realized her inability to carry on a conversation with them in Chinese would be even more suspicious. Her only hope was to brush them off quickly. She strung together two phrases that might work.
“Good morning. How can I help?”
Christine had been prepared to utter the second expression during the planned meeting with her counterpart two weeks ago. Unfortunately, the few remaining phrases she knew were insufficient to carry on a conversation with the three men in front of her. She probably wouldn’t be able to work in “Thank you” and “It was a pleasure meeting you.”
The guard on the right replied to Christine’s greeting.
She had no idea what he had said.
Christine decided to cut the conversation short. That meant she had to answer the man’s question with something that made sense. Unfortunately, she didn’t understand his question. She guessed they were inquiring about the intruders in the Great Hall, wondering if she’d noticed anything suspicious. She decided to keep her answer simple.
“No,” she replied in Mandarin, then turned and headed to her desk, hoping her answer was sufficient and that the men would move on. However, as Christine settled into her chair, the guard moved into the doorway and asked a second question, the tone more demanding.
This question was probably more pointed and Christine had no idea how to answer it. As she stared at the man in silence, she sensed him growing impatient. She had to answer, but how? Glancing at a thick manila folder on top of the desk, she latched on to an idea.
Twisting her face into an aggravated expression, she picked up the folder, waving it excitedly at the man as she replied in English. “Does it look like I have time for this? I’ve got to finish translating this for the general secretary by noon! Do you want to explain to him why I’m not finished?”
Christine prayed the man understood English. It appeared he did, or at least enough to understand her response. Fear flickered in his eyes for a second, then he bowed his head slightly. After uttering something else in Chinese, the tone of his voice subdued, he stepped back and closed the door. Christine waited tensely for a few seconds, then her shoulders slumped in relief.
After a long moment, she stood, focusing on the next two items required to accomplish her goal. Their owner would hopefully arrive anytime now.
* * *
It was only a few minutes later, with Christine seated behind the door with the Glock in her right hand, when the doorknob turned. Christine stood as the door opened, and it began to swing shut after a Chinese woman stepped into the office, headed toward the desk. After the door shut, Christine reached over with her left hand and pressed the lock in the center of the doorknob. The woman stopped at the side of the desk, noting the absence of her chair. She dropped her purse onto the top of the desk as she turned with a perplexed look on her face, searching the office for the wayward chair. The woman spotted three things almost simultaneously—the chair by the door, a pistol pointed at her, and Christine with her index finger over her lips.
The woman’s jaw dropped but thankfully no sound came out. The finger over Christine’s mouth and the Glock pointed in her direction had communicated the desired response and consequence if directions weren’t followed.
“Do you understand English?” Christine asked.
The woman nodded, swallowing hard.
“Stay quiet and do as I say, and you won’t get hurt. Understand?”
The woman nodded again.
Christine shoved the chair toward the woman. “Take a seat.”
* * *
A few minutes was all it took before the woman was taped to her chair, her chair taped to a leg of the desk, and her mouth taped shut. Before taping the woman’s mouth shut, no coercion was required to extract the required information. The woman confirmed the peak time for traffic in the Great Hall was during lunch. Christine didn’t relish the idea of waiting the next four hours in the small office where she would be cornered if discovered, but the wait was worth the risk.
Empire Rising Page 37