by Dale Brown
Although the Vietnamese Navy communications detachment there was real and provided a radio and telephone link between fishing vessels and the mainland, in the age of satellite communications the detachment was mostly superfluous—its real mission was to maintain a strong military presence on the island to reinforce Vietnam’s claim on it and eleven other islands and cays it occupied in the archipelago. Five other countries claimed islands in the Spratlys, and two other countries, the People’s Republic of China and the Philippines, claimed ownership of the entire archipelago.
The captain of the Shark, Thuong tá (Captain) Dang Van Chien, was on the bridge sipping a mug of tea. Thin and athletic, the veteran sailor was obviously enjoying being in command of one of his country’s finest pieces of military hardware. He could not sit still: if he was not on the bridge marveling at the electronic controls and extensive communications systems, he was in the combat center or the engine room, studying everything and asking to be briefed on how something worked. He knew he was making a nuisance of himself, but he was the captain, and he felt it was his responsibility as well as his right to ask his sailors about their specialties.
Dang checked his watch and smiled. They had scheduled a surprise gunnery exercise, and that would start in a few minutes. Only he and a few department heads knew about it. Their target was an old fishing vessel that had been seized by the Border Guards several months earlier for smuggling heroin—its crew had been executed after a one-day trial, and now they were going to destroy their drug-running ship for the benefit of the navy. The target ship should be showing up on radar at any moment.
“Bridge, Combat,” he heard a few moments later. “Radar contact, aircraft, bearing three-zero-zero, heading south, range fifty kilometers, altitude one thousand meters, speed three hundred, no transponder.”
Low, slow, and with no identification beacon, way out here in the middle of the South China Sea—that usually meant smugglers or foreign patrol planes, Dang thought. But the target ship was off to the south and the airplane was north, so it shouldn’t be a factor. “Very well,” he responded. “Continue to monitor.”
“Bridge, Combat, surface contact, bearing one-six-five, range twenty, speed ten, heading east, friendly beacon code received and verified. Second surface contact, appears to be following the first contact, one hundred meters behind it.”
The ship with the electronic radar beacon would be an oceangoing tug towing the target ship, Dang knew. “Any other surface contacts nearby?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
“Very well.” He checked his watch to note the time, then turned to the officer of the deck. “Action stations,” he said. “Prepare to engage surface target. Flank speed.” The alarm bells, the gradual acceleration of the Shark, and the sound of boots running on the decks and ladders and hatches slamming shut was always exhilarating, and he felt his heart race in anticipation.
The bosun’s mate handed Dang a helmet and life jacket. By the time he donned them, the officer of the deck reported, “The ship is at action stations, sir. We are at flank speed, heading one-nine-zero.”
“Very well. Combat, range to target?”
“Fifteen kilometers, sir.”
“Prepare to engage with the AK-176,” Dang ordered. The AK-176 was the multipurpose 76-millimeter gun mounted forward. Able to fire twelve kilogram shells as far as fifteen kilometers, the Shark had been fitted with the newest model, able to fire at up to two rounds a second and not requiring a long cool-down period afterward. The gun was also steerable with television and imaging infrared cameras as well as by the AK-630 fire control radar.
“AK-176 is ready, deck is clear, sir,” the tactical action officer reported.
“Very well. Make sure you target the right ship—do not kill our tug, xin.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Shoal water ahead, sir,” the navigation officer reported.
“Maneuver east,” Dang ordered.
“Maneuver east, yes, sir.” That put the target off the nose. Dang checked the electronic chart—they would be clear of shoal water in just a few minutes.
“Bridge, Combat, air target has closed to within twenty kilometers, still heading south. It has descended to five hundred meters. They are sweeping us with search radar.”
Probably not a smuggler, Dang thought. “Still no transponder?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
He wondered if he should cancel their gunnery practice, then decided as long as the plane stayed to the north they were safe. They were close enough that they should see a pretty good show. “Very well,” he responded. “Continue to monitor. Let me know if he gets within ten kilometers.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Clear of shoal waters, sir,” the navigator reported.
“Very well. Steer one-nine-five, prepare to engage surface target.” The Shark responded like the thoroughbred she was. Dang felt the anticipation grow even more as he watched the AK-176’s turret turn left to track the target.
“Range to target?” Dang shouted.
“Ten kilometers to target, sir.” A moment later: “Bridge, Combat, new surface contact, bearing two-three-zero, range thirty, heading east at twenty-five knots.”
“Pretty fast,” Dang commented to the officer of the deck. “Comm, Bridge, broadcast on all frequencies in Vietnamese, Chinese, and English our identity and position; advise that we will be conducting gunnery practice shortly; and warn other ships to stay clear of the area within thirty kilometers of Spratly Island. Combat, verify you are not locked onto the target with the beacon.”
“Verified, sir. Tug is not being tracked.”
“Very well. Officer of the Deck, sound alarm.” When the alarm horn stopped, Dang picked up the shipwide intercom handset. “All hands, this is the captain, prepare to fire guns.” He switched channels back to the Combat Center. “Combat, this is the captain, batteries released, fire when ready, rate thirty, radar guided.”
“Batteries released, fire when ready, rate thirty, radar guided, yes, sir.”
The sound of his 76-millimeter gun firing was music to his ears, and he rarely wore ear protection. Dang raised his binoculars to his eyes and was excited to see flashes of fire and puffs of smoke as the rounds hit the fishing vessel. “Cease fire,” he ordered. “Good shooting, Combat. Switch to infrared tracking, rate thirty. I do not want to blast our target apart quite yet. Batteries released, fire when ready.”
SOUTH FLEET HEADQUARTERS, ZHANJIANG, CHINA
THAT SAME MOMENT
An aide hustled into the commander’s office, carrying a message. “Sir, urgent report from one of our patrol planes near Spratly Island.”
“What is it?” Admiral Zhen Peng, commander of the People’s Liberation Army Navy South Fleet, asked distractedly without looking up from his work.
“A Vietnamese frigate is firing guns south of Nansha Dao,” the aide said, using the Chinese name for the Spratly Islands. “It appears to be firing at a target vessel being towed by a tug.”
He was about to say he didn’t care what the Vietnamese were doing, but then he stopped what he was doing. General Zu Kai had made it quite clear to the general staff and the major headquarters staffs as well: China was going to take control of the Nansha and Xisha Dao. Certainly he would not permit a foreign warship to be firing guns near Nansha Dao.
He looked at a large wall chart across his office, which showed the position of each and every vessel in his command, from the aircraft carrier Zhenyuan to the smallest barge, updated hourly. The Zhenyuan battle group was back in port and available for action, but even if it sortied immediately—more likely, it would take a day or two at best—it would not reach the Vietnamese frigate for almost two days. He resolved to make sure the group spent more time on patrol and less time in port. The second Chinese carrier group, led by the aircraft carrier Zheng He, a former Brazilian aircraft carrier, was even farther away; and a third aircraft carrier group, led by the Tongyi, a former Spanish amphibious assault craft and helicopt
er carrier, was still about a year from deploying, and its main area of responsibility was the East Sea, opposite Taiwan. South Fleet appeared to not be in position to do anything about the Vietnamese ship cruising around in Chinese waters. He thought about his fleet of Xian H-6 bombers with their antiship cruise missiles, but even they would take several hours to generate a sortie—he resolved to start placing more H-6 bombers on alert from now on, loaded and ready for action—but for today they were not available.
There was one small Chinese boat, a Type-062 patrol boat, not far from Spratly Island. Zhen called his senior controller in the command post. “See if the patrol plane near Nansha Dao has contact with P-71.”
A moment later: “Radio contact established, sir,” the controller reported.
The Type-062 was fast and agile, but it carried just one twin-barreled heavy cannon and one twin-barreled heavy machine gun—no match for a Vietnamese frigate . . .
. . . but maybe it didn’t have to be. There was one weapons system he knew about that would do the job. It was not under his command, but it was available and would certainly be effective. “Is that patrol plane near Nansha Dao capable of target datalink?” he asked the senior controller on duty.
“Yes, sir,” the controller responded a few moments later. “All our long-range patrol planes can send secure digital target information to our headquarters or to any other authorized user.”
That would be perfect, Zhen thought. Maybe his ships couldn’t prosecute this target, but perhaps he could assist someone else who could.
“Call in the entire battle staff,” Zhen ordered. “I want the Zhenyuan and Zheng He battle groups to make all preparations to get under way. Then get me General Zu, secure, immediately! Our patrol boat is under attack by the Vietnamese Navy south of Nansha Dao, and I want something done about it!”
ELEVENTH TACTICAL ROCKET DIVISION HEADQUARTERS, BEIJING, CHINA
A FEW MINUTES LATER
Major General Hua Zhilun hurried into his command center almost at a run. “Report!” he shouted as soon as he was in the door.
“Datalink confirmed, sir,” the senior controller reported. “A navy patrol plane, about fifteen kilometers north of the target. Solid lock.”
“No, damn you, Hu Zhao,” Hua said. “ ‘Tiger’s Claw.’ Status report!”
It took several moments to check all the available batteries, but soon: “No Tiger’s Claw batteries available within range, sir,” the controller reported.
“Méiyou?” Hua exclaimed. “None?” But he shouldn’t be that surprised: although tensions were high in the western Pacific and Indian Oceans that the DF-21s covered, they did not keep them on alert, but safely stowed in garrisons until ordered to deploy to presurveyed launch points. They were quite mobile, but they still took the crews some time to get them ready to launch. The missiles they had now were armed only with nonnuclear high-explosive payloads, which severely restricted their range. “What else do we have available within the next ten minutes?”
“Stand by, sir,” the controller said. A few moments later: “Sir, Battery Two, CJ-20 Changjian, Wuzshan, Hainan Dao, reports up and ready,” the senior controller said with a smile. “It was participating in a simulated launch drill. The commander reports the missile is armed with a high-explosive warhead only. Awaiting orders.”
“That is most excellent,” Hua said. The CJ-20 Changjian, or “Long Sword,” was a new class of long-range antiship cruise missiles being fielded by the People’s Liberation Army. Developed from the CJ-10 supersonic land-attack cruise missile, the CJ-20 was fired from a road-mobile transporter-erector-launcher. Like the Dong Feng–21, the nonnuclear version of the CJ-20 did not have the long range or high speed as the nuclear-tipped version, but in this case it was well within range and would do the job. It used the same high-speed radar terminal guidance system as Tiger’s Claw and was extremely accurate, even at long range, high speeds, bad weather, and against moving targets.
Hua’s expression was deadly serious as he contemplated what they had been ordered to do, but when he looked at the smile of anticipation on his senior controller’s face, he couldn’t help but smile himself. “Battery released,” Hua said in a quiet voice. “Launch when ready.”
HAINAN ISLAND, PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF CHINA
THAT SAME TIME
“Zhàn wèi! Battle stations!” the squadron commander shouted as he slammed the telephone receiver down on its cradle. An electronic horn sounded outside his command vehicle. “Firing stations! Report when missile ready. Call up the feed from that patrol plane.”
The targeting officer typed furiously on his computer keyboard, and soon a map of the South China Sea south of Spratly Island came into view. Four targets were highlighted on the screen, showing their tracks and speeds. He zoomed the display in so just the three surface targets showed. “What do we have, Lieutenant?”
“The northernmost vessel is the Vietnamese frigate, sir,” the targeting officer said. He pointed to the screen. “The target to the southeast is a tug. The third is a target fishing boat that is being fired on by the frigate. The westernmost return is our Type-062 patrol boat.”
“Designate the frigate as target one,” the commander ordered. “Begin data transfer immediately.”
It did not take long. The position, heading, and speed of the Vietnamese frigate was electronically transferred to the flight computers aboard a Changjian-20 cruise missile. The information was checked and rechecked several times in moments. Meanwhile, the thirty-two-thousand-pound CJ-20 missile was being elevated from its transporter-erector-launcher into firing position. The solid-fueled CJ-20 did not need to be fueled—as soon as it was elevated, its gyros aligned, its present position updated by satellite, and its target information received and verified, it was ready to fly.
“Do we have a position from Yaogan-9?” the commander shouted. “I want verification and another line of position of the target’s position.” Yaogan-9 was a constellation of three ocean-scanning radar satellites that provided an around-the-clock scan of the South China Sea and western Pacific Ocean with radar imagery and targeting information, fed to the entire fleet of DF-21D ballistic antiship missiles and CJ-20 antiship cruise missiles.
“No, sir,” the targeting officer reported. “Yaogan-9 appears to be off-line.”
“How about Chángyuan de mùguang?” the commander asked. Chángyuan de mùguāng, or Long Gaze, was the over-the-horizon backscatter radar located at Chongqing, Guizhou Province. The system reflected radar beams off the ionosphere, down to Earth, back to the ionosphere, and back to a receiver, allowing radar returns to be picked up thousands of miles away, hundreds of times farther than line-of-sight radar signals. The radar beam could be electronically angled to sweep the ocean and skies, locating ships and aircraft at impossibly long range.
“No contact by Long Gaze, sir,” the targeting officer reported. “Long Gaze appears to be down for maintenance.”
It was not surprising—over-the-horizon backscatter radar was not new technology, but it was new for China, and it was not perfect. “How about that patrol boat?” the commander asked.
A few moments later: “Negative, sir. Navigation radar only. No datalink.”
It appeared that the only targeting cues they would have were from the patrol plane’s radar. It was adequate, but multiple azimuths were always preferred. “Very well,” the commander said. “Status?”
“Gyro alignment complete,” the controller reported. “Missile is elevated, course laid in.”
“Very well.” The commander reached up to the top of his control console, withdrew a key from around his neck, inserted it into a lock, and turned it to the left, which immediately alerted command posts all across the area by satellite that a missile was about to be launched. Moments later the telephone beside him rang, and he picked it up immediately. After he gave and received authentication codes, he reported, “Prelaunch checks complete, missile is ready, sir.”
“Launch when ready, Colonel,” Genera
l Hua Zhilun ordered.
“Launch order acknowledged, sir,” the commander said, and he turned the key off, waited a few moments, then turned it all the way to the right.
At the launch site, an alarm bell sounded, and moments later a CJ-20 cruise missile shot from its storage canister atop the transporter-erector-launcher and blasted off into the night sky. It climbed to ten thousand feet in the blink of an eye, clearing the mountains in the center of Hainan Island with ease. Moments later wings popped out of the missile body, and the CJ-20 began a slow descent to one hundred feet above the South China Sea as it accelerated to almost twice the speed of sound.
SPACE BASED INFRARED SYSTEM MISSION CONTROL STATION, BUCKLEY AIR FORCE BASE, AURORA, COLORADO
THAT SAME MOMENT
“Missile launch detection!” the sensor technician shouted. That immediately riveted everyone’s attention, and console operators turned back to their computer screens.
“Origin?” the senior controller, Air Force Captain Sally Martin, asked.
“Looks like Hainan Island, China,” the sensor technician replied. “We’ll get the precise launch pad shortly. Heading is south-southeast, accelerating, approaching the Mach.”
“Alert Pacific Command,” Martin said. “Missile departing Hainan Island heading south-southeast supersonic, target unknown.” She studied the large monitor in front of her as the computer displayed a graphical depiction of the missile in flight they had detected. Martin was the duty officer in charge of the Air Force’s Space Based Infrared System, or SBIRS, a network of high, low, and geostationary heat-seeking satellites that was designed to detect and track ballistic missiles, determine their launch and impact points, track and classify their warheads and determine if any were decoys, and pass targeting information to land- or sea-based missile defense units.