“You are a very daring man, Major General Chin. Perhaps too daring for your own good.”
Chin shook his head. “Beijing will question my actions only if we lose.”
“You do realize that an American battle group carries more firepower than — ”
Chin raised a hand. “I know the statistics. They don’t concern me.”
“Why not?”
“Because an aircraft carrier battle group is only as good as its carrier.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I have some surprises in store for our American friends.”
1400 local (+8 GMT)
CDF Patrol Boat
South China Sea
The Coastal Defense Force patrol boat had seemed large and capable enough in Victoria Harbor, but in the open sea its limitations became obvious. Still, it had been modified for that environment with an extra-heavy keel, sealed doors on all hatches and ports, and a snorkel intake for the engine that helped keep water out. It could be completely submerged without any danger of shipping water and sinking.
That didn’t mean that riding in it in these conditions was a pleasure. But that was all right. Chou and his men were not being paid to have fun.
“Distance?” Chou asked the radar operator.
“One hundred and fifty kilometers.”
“And our ducks?”
“Unless the aircraft carrier alters course, the ducks will converge on the intercept location just before dawn.”
“Not too much before. They’ll need light to see what they’re doing.”
The radar man nodded. “I’ll keep an eye on it. But these conditions make predicting anything very difficult.”
“The ducks have been well paid already, and know they’ll receive double that amount when they return — if they do what they’re supposed to do. It’s more money than any of them expected to see in ten lifetimes. I think that’s plenty of incentive to get them where they’re supposed to be when they’re supposed to be there.”
“This storm is turning into a typhoon. Many of the ducks will never make it back to Hong Kong at all.”
“Then they won’t be paid.” Chou turned to the radio operator. “You’re still in touch with all the ducks?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And they understand the importance of coordination? Everything must happen exactly on our signal. They understand that?”
“They understand.”
Chou nodded. “Carry on.”
1450 local (+8 GMT)
Bridge
USS Jefferson
Coyote was swaying on his feet from exhaustion, although he was trying to pretend that it was just the unpredictable motion of the ship. Despite all odds, Dr. George had been right; during the night, the weather conditions had graduated to “tropical storm,” and were moving rapidly onward. Satellite data showed the clear cloud patterns of a typhoon developing to the southeast.
Outside, the horizon line was smudged from existence by wind-whipped spray, pounding rain and streamers of cloud. Everything was shades and tints of gray. This was weather only fools and Navy sailors — assuming there was a difference — would be out in.
Then he saw the first junk.
Later, there would be questions asked of the officer of the deck and the junior officer of the deck who was responsible for watching the SPA-25G radar repeater on the bridge, and of the lookouts, and of the boatswain’s mate of the watch, who was supposed to be keeping an eye out for obstacles in the water, but no blame would be laid. Not in conditions like these, where curtains of visibility were opened and closed at random.
The junk looked ridiculous out here, a silly toy with its elevated stern house and stubby bow. The sails were furled, of course, leaving the job of propulsion to some kind of rinky-dink engine that had to fight winds currently peaking at over eighty mph, not to mention seas that must look like mountains from the deck of the junk.
Before Coyote could say anything, he heard one of the lookouts say, “Holy shit” in a wondering voice.
Coyote turned back toward the windows. His eyes widened.
The junk was not alone. The ocean was full of boats. Not ships but boats, none more than forty feet long. Junks, sampans, rectangular houseboats, sportfishing cruisers. At a glance, they were all in pretty sorry shape; not one looked like the kind of vessel you’d want to take out of protected waters even during mild weather — never mind this.
But there they were, bobbing around like rubber ducks in a bathtub while 97,000 tons of nuclear-powered aircraft carrier ploughed through them.
“Oh, lord,” Coyote said. “OOD, back off to bare steerageway. Just pray nobody’s right in front of us.” But he wasn’t going to call for evasive action. For one thing, an aircraft carrier was not a cigarette boat; a carrier turned as nimbly as a skyscraper with a keel. For another, in this weather the visibility in any direction, including straight ahead, was so intermittent and limited that attempting to set any kind of avoidance course was pointless.
He grabbed for the phone.
1455 local (+8 GMT)
CDF Patrol Boat
South China Sea
“All ducks reporting in,” the radio operator said. “They are in position, and the carrier is in sight.”
Chou nodded, although he doubted all the ducks were truly in position. Not in this wind and these seas. Many of the ducks were almost certainly far off the mark, and simply denying it. But that was all right. There were a lot of ducks out there; only a handful had to have reached their positions on time.
“Begin the countdown,” he told the radioman.
“Countdown begins,” the radioman said into his headset, broadcasting to all the ducks in the South China Sea.
“On my mark,” Chou said. He raised a hand. “Ten — ”
“Ten,” the radio operator repeated into his headset.
“Nine — ”
“Nine,” the radio operator repeated.
“Eight…”
1500 local (+8 GMT)
Bridge
USS Jefferson
Refugees, Coyote thought. It was the only possible explanation for this haphazard flotilla — Hong Kong citizens making a truly desperate attempt to escape the abrupt iron hand of the People’s Republic. Fools, but brave fools. Imagine deliberately sailing out into this weather, with a typhoon roaring into existence just over the horizon. You had to admire —
His thought was cut off by a small but intense flare of light in the distance, down near the water. This was followed by another, then another, and another, originating from points all over the compass. The flares turned into long streamers unwinding toward Jefferson.
Before Coyote had quite registered what the streamers meant, the carrier’s Phalanx Close-In Weapons System began to roar.
1510 local (+8 GMT)
Main holding cell
PLA prison
Tombstone was beginning to fear the guards would never arrive with lunch. His butt was going numb from sitting in one spot, waiting.
But finally he heard the heavy thud of the bolt sliding back. The door swung open, revealing the usual arrangement: one guard standing at the ready, AK-47 raised, with another guard behind him holding two bowls of rice and a jug of fresh water.
The armed guard looked at Tombstone sitting against the wall, a coarse blanket pulled halfway up his chest. His naked chest. Tombstone saw the man’s eyes register the nakedness, then move to the tufts of short brown hair exposed above the top edge of the blanket. Move down to the unmistakably feminine shape the blanket made under Tombstone’s curled arm.
The guard grinned and said something over his shoulder to the guard with the food, who laughed. Both men walked into the room. The armed guard kept grinning, but never lowered the muzzle of his automatic rifle.
Neither man saw or heard Lobo step out from behind the privacy curtain. Her feet were bare. Tombstone was careful not to let his gaze even flicker in her direction, but his view of her was clear no
netheless as she set her feet, then charged straight at the guard with the food. She slammed into his back with all her weight, driving him into the back of the armed guard.
Tombstone was already moving, rolling to one side in case the guard reflexively triggered the AK-47. At the same time, he tightened his grip on the handle of the empty waste bucket he’d been holding under the blanket.
There was no gunfire. Tombstone stumbled to his feet, cursing the numbness of his legs, as the two guards stumbled toward him. He swung the bucket over his head and down like a sledgehammer, smashing it with all his strength and fury against the back of the armed guard’s skull. The wooden slats of the bucket exploded in all direction. Without hesitation, Tombstone took a step and drove the point of his elbow into the second guard’s throat. Both guards crashed to the floor, one unconscious and bleeding, the other coughing and gagging. Tombstone raised a foot and stomped down on the latter man’s head once, twice. Felt the surrendering snap of bone. The gagging sounds stopped.
Tombstone looked at Lobo. “Guess I’ll have to report you for a grooming violation,” he said, trying to keep the quiver out of his voice. “That haircut’s awful.”
Lobo bent down and unholstered the second guard’s side-arm. “Are you kidding? People in Paris pay a fortune to have their hair look like this.”
“Then maybe Parisian barbers should start cutting with wood slivers.” Tombstone gathered up a couple of the blankets and threw one to her. Then he grabbed the AK-47 off the floor. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
1511 local (+8 GMT)
USS Jefferson
The Phalanx CIWS was a carrier’s last-ditch line of defense. There were two Phalanx installations on Jefferson; one mounted on the port bow, the other on the starboard stern. At a glance, they looked like giant water heaters mounted on top of M-61A1 Gatling guns. The water heaters were actually housings for the systems’ automatic search-and-track radars, along with 1,550 rounds of ammunition. The Gatlings were, in turn, mounted on balanced, motorized carriages that could rotate, pivot and rock through all three axis.
A Phalanx system was designed to detect an incoming airborne threat with its radar and pass this data on to the carriage’s motors, which immediately swung the Gatling gun toward the threat. The gun then spewed ammo at the rate of 4,500 rounds per minute, creating a curtain of metal through which virtually nothing could pass intact. Everything happened with breathtaking speed, the 13,600-pound Phalanx unit bobbing and twisting as nimbly as a flyweight boxer.
At least, it sounded good on paper. But even though the Phalanx system had surpassed its performance specifications in all tests, it was still not much trusted by sailors. How could you really put your faith in something almost untested in actual combat? Especially since to activate the system, an incoming missile or enemy aircraft had to first make it safely through the other defenses of the fleet, including the cruisers and frigates with their ship-to-air missiles, Hawkeyes and their radar net, and numerous fighters flying BARCAP. This was something that simply did not happen.
Until now.
A total of fifteen missiles raced toward Jefferson from various boats in the Hong Kong flotilla. Eleven of the bogeys were FIM-92 Stingers, American-made hand-launchable heat-seeking missiles designed for foot soldiers to use against low-flying helicopters and aircraft. The Stinger had a dual-thrust rocket motor capable of pushing its 2.2 pound armor-penetrating warhead to Mach one in a couple of seconds. From there, a heat-seeking head equipped with a reprogrammable microprocessor would guide the missile to its target over a maximum range of approximately three miles.
The other missiles in the salvo were AT-4 anti-tank missiles, also fired from hand-held, expendable launchers. But the AT-4 was designed for one purpose only: to destroy armored land vehicles. It had a range of only a thousand yards, which it reached in less two seconds; then, at the moment of impact, an 84mm HEAT shaped-charge warhead would go off, flash-melting a hole in even rolled homogenous armor plating of up to 400mm thickness. The rest of the warhead’s energy would turn the interior of the vehicle into a fiery cauldron.
Even an AT-40’s guidance system was optimized for striking at large, slow-moving targets: It had none. AT-4s were aimed by eye, like a gun; and their missiles, like bullets, could not be redirected after being sent on their way.
The fifteen missiles came at Jefferson from all sides, and all within a few seconds of one another. Two of the Stingers fizzled out well short of the carrier, having been fired from almost five miles away. A third Stinger and one AT-4 veered off into the storm, the Stingers’ infrared seeker heads confused by the cold spray, the AT-4’s trajectory thrown off by a last-moment tilt of the boat from which it was fired. All these missiles disappeared into the raging rain.
Of the remaining eleven missiles, seven were met by the the Phalanx weapons, which detected them, targeted them, then spewed masses of slugs out at them. When the missiles met the barrage they exploded, sending sparkling debris streaking through the gloom. For a few seconds, Jefferson was surrounded by a garden of bright, short-lived flowers.
But the Phalanx system was subject to the same physical laws as any other piece of machinery. Nimble as they were, neither unit could aim at two simultaneously, nor reverse direction faster than momentum would allow.
Two missiles got untouched through the barrage. One was a Stinger, fired late but from almost dead astern; the other, an AT-4 aimed from the deckhouse of a junk on Jefferson’s port side.
The moment the Stinger lofted out of its fiberglass launching tube, its infrared-sensing head sought a heat signature. Although no aircraft were currently launching from Jefferson, the carrier’s stern was crowded with parked aircraft that had recently trapped. To the Stinger, their steaming exhausts stood out like beacons against the cold steel of the ship. The missile whipped toward this feast, and from the embarrassment of riches, selected an F-14 carrying a full complement of ordnance. It sang right up inside the left exhaust.
The Tomcat’s fuel tank was almost empty — but fumes, not fuel itself, is what burns. The rear half of the Tomcat disintegrated in a blinding flare, instantly killing three nearby brown shirts and blowing their blazing corpses into the ocean. Simultaneously, the front half of the jet obeyed Newton’s Third Law of Motion by lunging away from the impact like a giant piston, crashing into the adjacent nose-tail-nose mosaic of parked aircraft. There was a rapid propagation of crumpling metal as wheels broke loose from tie-down chains, landing gear struts collapsed, knife-edged wings swung wildly. Aluminum skins ruptured. Jet fuel poured out onto the non-skid. Flames raised a roaring, yellow-and-black wall. In an instant, seven aircraft sat cooking wildly in the rain.
The missile fired from the junk, the AT-4, had been intended to strike the “island,” the heart of the carrier that included Pri-Fly, the bridge, and all the major communication and tracking equipment of the ship — and therefore the entire battle group. But even at point-blank range, Jefferson was a difficult target to hit from the lunging deck of a small wooden boat. The AT-4, flying straight and true, did not strike the island.
Instead, it struck the underside of the protruding flight deck, just above the closed door to the aft elevator. Its conical warhead, a shaped charge designed to concentrate virtually all its explosive energy on a single spot, liquified the steel plate of Jefferson’s hull and passed straight through, spraying molten metal and chunks of shattered steel before it at high velocity. The majority of the shock wave slammed up into the deck over the hangar bay, buckling it and sending a wave-shaped ripple through the flight deck above. There, sailors were flung off their feet as if someone had jumped on a trampoline beside them. Aircraft yanked and shuddered against their tie-downs, and deck plates sprang free from their rivets. Within seconds, what had been a flat surface the length of three football fields became a warped, rippled mess.
In the hangar bay itself, the results were even worse. Flaming debris rained down on the parked aircraft and the hundreds of men and women wor
king on the planes. Sections of catwalk scaffolding collapsed. There was a wild scramble for cover under fuselages and half-folded wings. Smoke filled the air, permeated by sirens, claxons, and screaming.
Outside, the bow Phalanx immediately swung through ninety degrees in an attempt to acquire the last missile in the air, a Stinger that had been fired from almost directly off the bow. The horizontal blizzard of Phalanx projectiles reached the missile just as it made an abrupt vertical juke to follow a cloud of exploding jet fuel. The slugs nipped the missile’s tail, shearing it off and sending the rest of the missile into an uncontrolled cartwheel. It broke into pieces from the centrifugal force, and in that condition almost accomplished the job for which one of the AT-4s had been intended: Although the seeker head arched a hundred feet into the air and vaulted Jefferson entirely, and the explosive warhead skimmed past the bridge by four feet and spent its explosion in the water, the center section of the missile whirled directly into the island, shearing off antennas and destroying radar masts.
In less than thirty seconds, the USS Thomas Jefferson was transformed from one of the most potent weapons in the world to a smoking, flaming hulk.
1520 local (+8 GMT)
Headquarters, PLA Air Force
Hong Kong Garrison
Tombstone knew the entire enterprise was hopeless, of course. Even if he and Lobo managed to escape all the way from the prison complex — not guaranteed, to say the least — what then? After all, they were being held somewhere in Communist China; for all he knew, just outside Beijing. It wasn’t as if a Caucasian man and woman could wander around unnoticed.
Still, they had to try. Tombstone Magruder was not going to end up like his father, dying in some POW hellhole. And he knew Lobo was with him on that decision.
He already knew that this was not a prison of the sort familiar to Americans, nor even a POW camp like the one he’d heard described by Vietnam vets. It was more like a dungeon. Still, he was surprised to find that the short corridor outside the cell was not itself guarded. He glanced in both directions, and saw a door at either end. Whenever he and Lobo were dragged in or out of their cell, they were first blindfolded with a black hood, which Tombstone had always assumed was part of the psychological terror. But he’d noticed that trips to the outdoor compound were made to the right, so he now turned left.
Typhoon Season c-14 Page 22