by Larry Bond
“With the Indian blockade in place, we’ve already turned off that spigot, Professor. We have to look for other ways to inflict pain on our enemy.”
“By widening the war.” Komamura sighed tiredly.
“Let’s go to your brief,” urged the admiral. He led the elderly academic into a briefing theater, half full.
Commander Sato was among those waiting. Kubo said, “With your approval, Commander Sato will accompany you, as your ‘secretary.’”
Komamura turned and gave the officer a closer examination. In his forties, and almost as tall as the professor, he seemed eager. “If he has your endorsement, Admiral, then I am sure he will do very well.”
The commander bowed deeply. “It is an honor to work with you, Professor. I will work hard to earn your trust.”
Komamura bowed in return, but replied, “We will have to see how much honor this war leaves us. I put myself in your hands.”
A small woman in her twenties stood next to Sato, dressed in green-patterned fatigues and gleaming black boots. “This is Captain Yoruichi of the Special Forces Group. She will be in charge of your security detail,” Kubo explained.
Komamura tried to hide his surprise. “I hadn’t expected a security detail at all.” To himself, he thought, I have a niece older than you.
“We will do our best to stay out of sight,” she said softly. She bowed, and a ponytail tied high on her head bobbed.
The professor also bowed slightly. “Please take good care of me.”
Kubo explained, “They will sit in on your briefing.” He glanced at the wall clock. “We’d best get started. Your plane leaves in four hours.” He nodded to a staff officer while he motioned Komamura to a seat.
5 September 2016
1700 Local Time
Vietnamese Frigate Ly Thai To, HQ-012
West of Spratly Island, South China Sea
The battle was still going on. The Chinese just didn’t know it yet, and if Trung was lucky, they wouldn’t find out until it was too late.
The bright afternoon sunshine did not lend itself to concealment, but the beachhead was over a hundred kilometers away, on Spratly Island. Resistance had ended about an hour ago, with the last voice transmissions describing deadly airstrikes by helicopter gunships and naval gunfire.
Captain Trung Hu had listened to the radio transmission with tears in his eyes. They were too late. The Chinese had secured Spratly Island, and captured the all-important airstrip. Intelligence said that a container ship accompanied the task force, loaded with air-defense weapons, supplies, and equipment. The Chinese would turn it into an all-weather air base capable of supporting a squadron of Flanker fighters.
His squadron had raced to the scene, but the landings had started two days earlier and the garrison just couldn’t hold on. He’d been forced to listen helplessly to the increasingly desperate calls for assistance. They were almost two hundred kilometers out when the last transmission came through.
He hadn’t known the officer speaking—an army captain, but he’d been brave and defiant, and now Trung had to honor his sacrifice. The race for the island was lost, but Trung had adopted a new strategy.
Trung’s ship was a new Russian-built Gepard frigate. Ly Thai To had only been commissioned in 2011, and it was well armed, with a 76mm gun, anti-ship cruise missiles, torpedoes, even a Ka-28 helicopter on a pad aft. She and her sister were the two biggest and most capable ships in the Vietnamese People’s Navy, and Trung was proud to be her captain.
For this operation, he’d actually been made a commodore, in fact, if not the actual rank. A squadron of Molniya missile patrol boats had been placed under his command. They were smaller than his frigate, but they were also well armed.
He could see them now, not in a neat formation, but in a very ragged line abreast, with his ship in the center. Any spit-and-polish naval officer would throw a fit at such poor station keeping. Each ship was on a different course, although all tended eastward. Each ship was at a different speed, although none was slower than eight knots, or faster than sixteen.
Aside from his own ships, he could see half a dozen other vessels, a mix of scruffy little fishing boats and larger coastal freighters, all going about their business. This part of the South China Sea was thick with coastal freighters and fishing craft. The war, if they were even aware of it, was over the horizon, and they hoped it stayed there and left them alone. Some of the fishermen waved to the warships as they passed.
Trung could see some boats with Vietnamese flags; others were Filipino. He didn’t see any Chinese vessels, and while nobody would ever mistake his gray-painted squadron for coastal freighters, on radar they would look the same as the civilian craft, and he made sure they acted the same.
To see them at all, an observer would have to get within twenty kilometers or so, and about half that to “classify” them, or identify them as warships. Trung was working hard to make sure that the Chinese never came that close.
He stepped off the bridge wing, through the bridge, back to the command center. The cramped space was filled with equipment and men, wherever there was a place to stand. Three were clustered around the plotting table; all that would fit. One was the radio talker, another the recorder, and the third was Lieutenant Commander Mai, his executive officer. Trung didn’t even try to ask Mai a question. He just watched as the recorder called out rapid-fire bearings from the other ships in the squadron. The recorder quickly copied them down, and Mai busily plotted them on the display.
Although his ships were all fitted with radar, every set was off and red-tagged to stay that way. Radar could help a ship see hundreds of kilometers away, but it also sent out a signal that told anyone who wanted to listen exactly what direction you were in, and what type of radar you were using. In the empty expanse of the ocean, that information was very useful to an enemy.
Trung didn’t need radar to know where the Chinese were, and they didn’t care who knew. Given they’d invaded Spratly Island, concealment had been overtaken by events. The ships in the Chinese task group had lit off everything they had—air search, surface search radars, scanning the sea and sky for threats. Mai was using those signals to track the Chinese ships’ positions.
Each one of Trung’s ships had a Garpun-Bal or Monolit targeting system with a high-resolution passive radar receiver capability, and as they scanned the frequency spectrum, they passed the bearings of the different Chinese radars to Trung’s frigate, the flagship. Cross-bearings from two or more ships revealed the Chinese ships’ exact positions.
The Vietnamese surface group wouldn’t be close enough to be detected by Chinese shipborne radars for some time, but the Chinese had also launched a search helicopter. Its primary mission was to patrol for submarines, but it had its own search radar, and its close approach half an hour ago had made Mai the busiest man in the South China Sea.
It was a Kamov Ka-28 “Helix,” and Trung was very familiar with its capabilities. A nearly identical machine sat on Ly Thai To’s fantail. The VPN operated the same model, with the same sensors. Like the Chinese surface ships, the signal from its “Octopus” radar allowed Mai to plot its much more rapid movement.
Doing his best to avoid distracting Mai, Trung leaned over to study the electronic plot. They were at the edge of the helicopter’s detection range, which was good news. It had been closer for the past ten minutes, and Trung could only watch and hope the radar operator was too busy looking for periscopes.
Helicopters were too fast for a ship to outrun, and because they were higher than a ship’s mast, they could see farther. The sea surface didn’t offer any place to hide, so the only course was to pretend to be something other than a warship, and hope that they would not attract the radar operator’s interest.
“It’s headed southeast, Captain,” Mai reported triumphantly. “Look here.” He pointed to a cluster of dots some seventy kilometers away from the island in their direction. “My plot shows him dipping five times in that sector, just like the one before
.”
There were several clusters of dots, and as the helicopter darted from one sector to another, the dots marking its positions began to describe a circle centered on the island a hundred and fifty kilometers across. A much smaller circle, only forty kilometers in diameter, showed the positions of the Chinese destroyers and frigates as they patrolled their sectors. Near the center, right next to the island, two stationary symbols marked the big amphibious ship and the container ship anchored alongside, while the rest of the task force encircled them protectively.
“How soon can we increase speed?”
Mai answered immediately. “Now, sir. He’s opened the range to a hundred kilometers from us, and he’s moving away at one hundred forty-five knots—his maximum speed.” He smiled. “We won’t catch up.”
“And you’re sure it’s a southerly course,” Trung asked.
“Absolutely,” Mai confirmed, nodding.
“Good, then tell all units to increase speed to twenty-five knots with less radical course changes. And tell ‘Miss Tham’ to continue straight south.”
“Right away, sir.”
Trung was back out on the bridge as the helmsman advanced the throttle. It felt good to speed up, now that it was safe to do so, but there was no point in racing toward the Chinese at flank speed. In addition to his five ships, and “Miss Tham,” their own support aircraft was inbound. All their movements had to be coordinated with an uncooperative Chinese helicopter. Everything had to be timed very carefully.
And the Chinese task force, tied to the island, wouldn’t stay there forever. The amphibious assault ship had used helicopters and air-cushion landing craft to carry troops and armored vehicles to the island, while the destroyers provided artillery support. With their conquest secure, the ship was now ferrying back the wounded and any troops that would not be part of the permanent garrison.
Trung knew the defenders had left booby traps all over the island, and especially on the pier. Those would all have to be cleared away, but once that was done, and the container ship docked, the task group would leave and his chance would be gone with them.
Mai stepped out onto the bridge wing, facing the wind and stretching. He saw Trung’s worried look and reported, “The chief has taken over watching the plot. The helicopter is heading to a southeastern patrol zone. No other changes. And our ‘air support’ has arrived. I wish it was something more potent than a patrol plane.”
Trung smiled. “Right now, over half the People’s Air Force is pummeling the Chinese base on Woody Island. It’s true we don’t get any fighters, but the Chinese won’t get any, either. Would you like to have an air battle right over our heads? Hard to make a stealthy approach.”
Mai laughed. “It’s broad daylight, our ships are roaring east at twenty-five knots, and we’re being stealthy?”
Trung laughed with him, then said, “That’s enough fresh air. Get back in there and make sure we stay hidden in plain sight.” Mai saluted and left.
5 September 2016
1730 Local Time
PLAN Destroyer Lanzhou, Hull 170
Near Spratly Island, South China Sea
Admiral Sun Lin had decided to make Lanzhou his flagship, even though the amphibious ship Jinggang Shan was fitted with a flag plot. He’d visited the landing ship and inspected the facilities before they sailed, but he knew that once the operation started, his attention would be pulled to the island and the thousand problems even a successful landing would present. He’d let General Tian and his staff, in charge of the marines, take over the spaces.
For Sun, the threat lay in the other direction, toward the open sea. The bare horizon was not reassuring. It was only forty-five kilometers away, but the enemy had missiles that reached three times as far. Lanzhou’s own weapons had even greater range, but he had to find the enemy before he could kill them.
And what did the bright blue surface hide beneath it? The greatest danger was from submarines, which had already wrought so much damage to his country. But his task group was not made up of defenseless merchant ships. They had sonar and anti-submarine weapons, as good as any in the PLAN. But he’d been in the navy too long, and watched too many Chinese submarines infiltrate formations, to ignore the threat.
By rights, he should have had two helicopters working the screen, but he’d lost two machines during the landing, one to gunfire and the other to a shoulder-fired SAM. A third had blown a compressor stage in one of its engines, and could not be fixed at sea. He could only afford to keep one aloft, busily darting from sector to sector, hurriedly searching in each with its dipping sonar.
And even without an enemy in sight, there were still problems.
The radio talker called, “Admiral, I have Colonel Xu on the radio.” Xu was the air force commander of the base on Woody Island.
Sun virtually snatched the handset from the junior officer’s hand. “This is Sun. What’s your situation?”
“We’ve got the fires out, Admiral, and we’re working to clear the wreckage,” the colonel reported happily.
“I don’t care about the fires, Colonel. When will your runway be operational?” Sun demanded.
“Sir, some of the fires were on the runway, and another threatened my ammunition storage. Now that they’re out, my ordnance people are making the area safe. Then we can start repairs to the runway surface,” he explained. “It will take another six, perhaps eight hours.”
“That’s unacceptable. The standard for repairing damage in a battle is two hours. You know that.”
“Sir, this is a forward base. A regular air base has far more heavy equipment and personnel. The Vietnamese scattered air-dropped mines all over the place, and the wrecked planes can’t be removed until the mines are cleared. I’m using unqualified personnel to assist my ordnance specialists already. After that, I’ll use every able-bodied man to make the runway serviceable, but it will take at least six hours, and that assumes nothing else happens.”
Sun forced himself to listen, then simply said, “Very well. Keep me informed,” and slammed the handset into its cradle. No air cover, while his ships were still committed to defending the beachhead. This was when they needed Liaoning, and when he missed her the most. Damn the Vietnamese for crippling the carrier. And the enemy had to know they were here, had known since they’d launched the assault two days ago.
The radio operator stood quietly, trying to look attentive while avoiding the admiral’s direct gaze. Unhappy admirals could be more hazardous than the enemy.
“Contact General Tian and find out how much longer it will take to clear those demolitions.” Sun’s tone made it clear he wanted to get some good news.
Ly Thai To
Trung checked his watch and keyed the intercom. “Check the helicopter’s position again.”
Mai replied instantly. “Sir, he’s been dipping in the northeast sector of the outer screen for five minutes. He’s eighty kilometers away from Miss Tham, and slightly farther away from us.”
It was what Trung wanted to hear, but he couldn’t bring himself to smile. Not yet. “Tell Miss Tham to get ready.”
“Right away, sir.”
“And tell our boatswain to put up our battle ensign.”
“Yes, sir!”
Trung stepped out on the port bridge wing and looked aft. A sailor was already standing next to the main mast. The wind tore at his clothes, but he stood, bracing himself against the ship’s motion, and waited.
The signalmen appeared just a moment later with a red bundle. While one rating held it, another clipped it to the signal halyards, and then hauled away. The small package flew up to the top of the forward mast, about twenty meters above the main deck. The second signalman now pulled on a cord wrapped around the package and trailing down from it, and a red flag with a bright yellow star burst open, fluttering tightly in the twenty-five-knot wind.
It was the same naval ensign that Ly Thai To normally flew, but that flag was less than a meter long. Their battle ensign was three times that size,
and the color stood out vividly above the gray-painted warship.
Trung heard a few cheers from the bridge, as well as some improbable suggestions involving the Chinese and seagulls. The other sailor had hauled down the smaller ensign, and was carefully folding it.
He checked his watch again. That had taken two minutes, and it was still far too soon to hear back from Miss Tham. He looked out to the northeast. She was as close as they’d been all day, perhaps fifty-five kilometers away. That was still well out of visual range, of course. He wouldn’t see her, even when she launched. Of course, neither would the Chinese.
Trung had given her that name, although she actually had two others. The first was Dong Du, a medium-sized Vietnamese-owned container ship. The second was Ora Bhum, which was the name she would answer to if challenged by the Chinese. It hadn’t felt quite right to use the alias, but Trung was reluctant to use the container ship’s real name, even on his own ship.
Ora Bhum matched the size and configuration to Dong Du, and the freighter had even been repainted in the other ship’s colors, with the false name in white on the bow and a Singaporean flag at the stern.
Her cargo was a battery of Bastion coastal missile launchers, four vehicles each carrying two Yakhont supersonic anti-ship missiles. Lashed securely to the deck, they’d been hidden by the shells of cargo containers cannibalized to serve as camouflage. The deception was good enough to withstand even a close visual inspection.
It would take the freighter’s crew more than a few minutes to remove and discard the covers. This was the period of greatest risk, but the helicopter was the only Chinese unit that could expose them, and it was too far away.
The Russian Yakhont was faster and newer than the 3M24E Uran missiles his own ships carried, but it was also far larger. None of the VPN’s ships could be fitted with them, especially once the crisis had begun. But Vietnam had already purchased the land-based launchers from the Russians for coast defense. Now they were at sea, in a lashed-together arrangement that wasn’t pretty, but would work.