by Dale Brown
What they had determined once the entire system was in place was that the sensors were so sensitive that they could not only detect and track the white-hot rocket plume during ascent or the red-hot warheads during reentry, but even detect the heat trail behind the rocket motor, which gave them even more precise tracking and targeting data. But this time, there was something strange about this heat trail. Martin turned to her deputy controller, Master Sergeant Ed Ingalls, a fifteen-year veteran of U.S. Space Command. “What do you make of that track, Ed?” she asked. “Are we not getting a good look at it?”
“I’d say it’s not a ballistic missile, but a cruise missile, ma’am,” Ingalls responded after a few moments. “Rumor had it the Chinese were deploying antiship cruise missiles, along with ballistic missiles. We might be watching one right now. They stay low so that the atmosphere attenuates their heat trail.”
Martin’s intercom beeped, and she moved the microphone to her lips. “Martin here, go ahead, SPACECOM.”
“What do you have, Sally?” the senior controller at Space Command headquarters asked.
“Master Sergeant Ingalls thinks we have a cruise missile, sir,” Martin replied. “Speed is over the Mach and accelerating, and it’s not rising through the atmosphere. Heading south-southeast.”
“Impact point?”
“Stand by.” Martin studied the display closer and waited to see what the depiction would show, but nothing was happening yet. “The missile is maneuvering slightly, so the computer’s not making any guesses yet, sir,” she said. “It looks like it’ll pass west of the Paracel Islands, but it could impact anywhere between Vietnam and the Philippines and as far out as Malaysia—it’s too early to tell for sure. But my guess would be somewhere in the Spratly Islands. If we have any ships out there, they’d better be notified.”
“I’ll pass the word to PACOM,” the controller at SPACECOM said. “When the computer gives you a definite impact point, give me a shout.”
“Wilco, sir.”
THE SOUTH CHINA SEA, SOUTH OF SPRATLY ISLAND
SEVERAL MINUTES LATER
“Unidentified vessel south of Nansha Dao,” Captain Dang Van Chien of the Vietnamese frigate Shark heard in Chinese, “this is the People’s Liberation Army Navy patrol vessel Qíyú; identify yourself!”
“Is this man dense?” Dang muttered aloud. “Comm, you have been sending out those warnings, yes?”
“Yes, sir. For the last ten minutes, in Vietnamese, English, and Chinese.”
“Continue,” the captain said. “Combat, range to that Chinese patrol boat?”
“Ten kilometers. Heading right for us.”
“Secure from gunnery practice, sound action stations, no drill,” Dang said. The alarms sounded again, but the skipper didn’t feel excitement this time, only dread. He picked up the microphone and changed the channel to the emergency maritime frequency. “Patrol vessel Qíyú, this is the frigate Cá map of the Socialist Republic of Vietnam Navy,” he radioed in Chinese. “You are on a collision course with this vessel. Alter course immediately.” No reply. Dang was now watching the radar repeater on the bridge, and he could see the Chinese vessel was not changing course. “Helm, steady up on course two-two-zero.” That would put them head to head, presenting the smallest profile to the incoming ship. “Combat, stand by on the -176, target that Chinese patrol boat, stand by to fire warning shots.”
“AK-176 ready.”
“Fire a warning shot,” Dang ordered. “Radar-guided warning shot, single-round burst, battery released.”
“On the way,” came the reply, and moments later the AK-176 cannon let loose. In warning shot mode, the fire control system on the Shark’s cannon was designed to land a shell precisely one hundred meters directly in front of a radar target.
On the radio again, Dang spoke, “Patrol vessel Qíyú, this is your last warning. Alter course immediately!” Still no response. Dang closed his eyes for a moment. I do not want to do this, he thought, but he wasn’t going to turn and let this little Chinese pipsqueak chase him out of his own waters. “Combat, fire another warning . . .”
“Target turning, sir,” the radar officer reported. “Turning south . . . now continuing the turn to the east.”
Thank the stars, Dang thought—the last thing he wanted to do was shoot at a Chinese naval vessel, even if it was violating Vietnamese waters. “Very well. Reduce speed to ten knots, maintain this heading until the target is . . .”
And at that moment there was a tremendous explosion on the Shark’s starboard side. The ship was thrown violently to the left so steeply that its port rail briefly went into the water. Everyone on the bridge was thrown to the deck even if they were secured in their seats. The bridge filled with thick smoke, and the windows were illuminated from the fires that were erupting on the ship.
An unknown number of minutes later, Dang awoke, lying on the bridge of his once proud ship. He found he was still alive, but he couldn’t see a thing, and his throat was burning from the thick smoke that choked his beautiful bridge. Alarm bells were going off and men were screaming all around him. The ship had righted itself, but it was being buffeted by explosions. He crawled over bodies, blood, and broken glass to the starboard side of the bridge. He could see the fires, but the smoke was too thick to make out anything else. He crawled to the port side of the bridge.
“Captain!” someone shouted. Two sets of arms pulled him to his feet, and to his surprise he found his legs wobbly but working. The men supporting him had firefighting masks on—the damage control parties were on the job. They pulled Dang just outside the port side of the bridge where the air was much clearer.
“Report!” he shouted over the roar of the flames and the alert horns.
“I do not know, sir,” one of the damage control techs said after pulling off his mask and helmet. “Our damage control station is the bridge, so we reported here immediately. I have not heard anything on the radio.”
Dang stepped around the port side of the superstructure aft of the bridge. It seemed as if the entire midsection of the Shark was covered in smoke, and a massive explosion or column of fire would blast out of the smoke every few moments. But it appeared the damage was above the waterline, not below, so it was probably not caused by a torpedo. It was just too early to speculate on what hit the Shark—he had to see to his crew.
“Whoever is responsible for this will pay dearly,” Dang said aloud over the smoke and chaos all around him. “Vietnam is at war with whoever did this, I promise.”
SIX
OVER THE WESTERN PACIFIC OCEAN
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING
“Radar contact!” Patrick McLanahan heard on intercom. He was the copilot aboard a Sky Masters XB-1 Excalibur bomber, flying at thirty thousand feet over the Pacific Ocean a hundred miles northwest of the island of Guam. The pilot was Warner “Cutlass” Cuthbert, flying his first of a series of six checkout flights—along with all his other duties, he had passed the academic and simulator checks in record time and was now happily at the controls of the bomber that had always been his favorite. “Surface contact, ten o’clock, one hundred thirty miles.”
“Copy that,” Patrick said. “Karen, any ID yet?”
“Negative, sir,” said the DSO, or defensive systems officer, Karen Wells. Normally the DSO on a B-1 bomber sat in the systems officers’ compartment behind the cockpit, but in the Excalibur the manned systems officers’ compartment was on the ground back at Andersen Air Force Base on Guam, and the sensor data from the bomber datalinked by satellite. Wells was a civilian electronic warfare officer, an Air Force veteran of the B-1B and EF-111 electronic warfare aircraft; after leaving the Air Force after twenty-one years, the mother of four grown children had been flying regional airlines until joining Sky Masters Inc. for this project. “No radar . . .” And then she paused. At the same time a radar warning indication appeared on both Patrick’s and Cutlass’s multifunction displays. “Stand by, sir. It just popped up . . . got it, Golf-band long-range air search. I�
��d classify it as a Chinese Luhai-class guided-missile destroyer.”
“That’s the one we’re looking for, the one that sank that Taiwanese fishing boat and killed twenty crewmembers,” Cutlass said. “Let’s get configured to attack, crew.” Patrick made sure the cockpit was in “COMBAT” mode, then verified that the crew back at Andersen were configuring their systems. “What are the weapons aboard that destroyer, DSO?”
“Hong-Qian 9, radar-guided surface-to-air missile, maximum range sixty miles, sir,” Wells replied.
“That’s longer than the range of our Sniper targeting pod,” Patrick said. “We have to move in to at least ten miles to get a good visual ID.”
“Defense is ready for combat,” Wells reported. “SPEAR is in standby.”
“Offense is ready,” said George Wickham, the offensive systems officer, seated beside Wells in the air-conditioned container that served as their systems officers’ compartment back at Andersen. Wickham was a Navy veteran of eight years who retired as an avionics engineer for a major defense contractor before being recruited by Sky Masters—he had never been aboard an airplane except as a passenger, and this was the closest he ever aspired to being in one.
“My plan is to go in, stay at thirty thousand, take a look, and see how close we get so we can get a positive visual ID,” Cutlass said.
“If this is the guy we’re hunting for,” Patrick reminded him, “he’s killed innocent people before. He might try to do it again.”
“I guess if he takes a shot at us, we’ll know he’s our guy then,” Cutlass said. He tightened his ejection seat straps. “Everyone, stay on your toes. Patrick, double-check my configuration for low-level . . .”
“Attention, attention, unidentified aircraft, one hundred ten miles northwest of Guam at thirty thousand feet heading west,” a voice said in English on a discrete radio frequency, “this is the Sea Dragon, a destroyer of the Chinese navy. You are on course to overfly us. Turn away immediately. Stay at least twenty miles away or you will be fired on.”
“Sea Dragon, this is Masters Zero-Seven,” Patrick radioed back. “Your position is being relayed to the United States Navy and Coast Guard. I suggest you heave-to and prepare to be boarded.”
“Kiss our grits, Masters Zero-Seven,” came the reply.
“Echo-Foxtrot-band target illuminator!” Wells announced. “Solid lock-on!”
“Clear to engage SPEAR!” Cutlass ordered. “Knock that radar off the air!”
“SPEAR malfunctioned,” Wells said. “I’m reinitializing, but it’ll take several minutes!”
“Engage the TFRs and let’s go low, Patrick!” Cutlass said. Patrick’s fingers flew over his touch-screen MFDs, and soon the Excalibur was hurdling toward the ocean at ten thousand feet a minute. “Get SPEAR up and running soonest, Karen!”
“Wing sweep,” Patrick said on intercom. “Throttles. Watch your barber-poles.” The “barber-poles” were yellow-and-black warning indicators on the performance display, warning of airspeed limitations.
“Thank you,” Cutlass said. He swept the wings full aft and pulled the power back slightly to avoid going over Mach one as they did their steep computer-controlled dive.
“Passing ten thousand.”
“Range?”
“Coming up on ninety miles,” Wickham said.
“Can we forgo visual ID on this guy now?” Cutlass asked. “He’s getting ready to shoot at us.”
“The rules of engagement call for a visual ID,” Patrick reminded him. “Passing five thousand. Clearance plane set to one thousand. Starting to level off.”
“And the Rod Pod has a range of thirty miles?”
“Identification range of a ship-sized target is about twenty miles,” Wickham said.
Both Patrick and Cutlass monitored the Excalibur carefully as it did its level-off, and they quickly stepped the clearance plane down to five hundred feet. “TFRs are engaged.”
“Target illuminator and air search broke lock,” Karen reported. “SPEAR still initializing . . .” They heard a new radar warning. “X-band sea-skimmer detection radar has a lock-on,” she said. “They can slew the HQ-9 to that radar and use it to direct close-in cannons.”
“Range fifty miles. Missiles ready. Check five hundred clearance plane.” Five hundred feet was the minimum altitude from which they could launch a missile.
“Five hundred checks,” Patrick said.
“Forty miles.”
“Target illuminator is back . . . illuminator locked on,” Wells said. “With SPEAR initializing, you’ll have to do chaff and flares manually, General.”
“Copy,” Patrick said.
“Thirty miles.” The image from the Sniper targeting pod started to reveal the shape of their target—definitely a very large warship, but still too far for positive identification. “Target locked. Coming up on target ID . . .”
“Missile launch!” Wells shouted. “Break!”
“Left chaff!” Cutlass shouted, and as soon as he saw Patrick hit the touch screen he threw the Excalibur bomber into a steep right turn.
“Broke lock,” Wells said.
“Sniper still locked on . . . twenty miles!” Wickham said. “Positive ID, Chinese destroyer! Wings level, ready on bomb bay doors!” Cutlass rolled wings-level. “Doors coming open.” They all heard the rumbling as the middle bomb bay doors opened. “Missile one away . . . missile two away, doors coming closed. Left turn to three-zero-zero and center up for the photo op. Ten miles. Smile for the cameras.” Cutlass steered the bomber straight toward their target, angling slightly away so as to not fly directly over it going almost Mach one. Seconds later they overflew the “target” . . .
. . . but it was not a Chinese destroyer but the USS Sampson, a U.S. Navy Arleigh Burke-class guided-missile destroyer, one of a group of various cruisers, destroyers, and frigates the XB-1 bombers on Guam had been working with on extended overwater patrols. The story about a Chinese destroyer sinking a fishing boat was all part of the realistic scenario Patrick and Tom Hoffman had built for Excalibur crewmembers. The Sampson had been transmitting real signals of Chinese naval antiair and air search radars so the Excalibur crews could get even more realistic training. The missiles they “launched” at the Sampson were simulated AGM-65M Maverick ER extended-range attack missiles—the Excaliburs had not yet been cleared to carry any weapons.
“Very cool flyby, Masters Zero-Seven,” the skipper of the Samson radioed after the XB-1 flew past the destroyer. “It’s nice having company out here.”
“Thanks for the workout, Sampson,” Cutlass radioed back. “Masters Zero-Four should be out shortly to take up patrol stations.”
“We sure appreciate the eyes,” the skipper said. The XB-1 Excaliburs that had arrived at Andersen Air Force Base had been tasked to work with solo or small groups of Navy ships in the western Pacific, scanning out beyond the ships’ horizon for aircraft or other ships, identifying them, and relaying the information back to their charges. At altitude, the Excaliburs’ active electronically scanned array had a range of over two hundred miles for both surface or airborne targets and could precisely identify targets with great detail.
Cutlass started a climb and turned toward Guam. “Station and oxygen checks, crew,” he said, then knocked his helmet with the heel of his hand. “It’s easy for me to forget I’ve only got one crewmember,” he said.
“No, Cutlass, you still have a four-person crew—it’s just that two of them don’t need to do oxygen checks,” Patrick said. “They still have to reconfigure their stations.”
“Roger that,” Cutlass said. “Anything else?”
“It was very good overall, Cutlass,” Patrick said, checking his notes on his kneeboard. “Keep an eye on your airspeeds so we’re not returning without a Sniper pod. The flight control system should alert you, but it won’t retard the throttles for you. Also remember that when SPEAR fails, we have to deploy the ‘Little Buddy’ towed decoy manually, just like chaff and flares—I was waiting to see if you would have
remembered that. It would’ve helped out fighting off the HQ-9.” The ALE-50 towed decoy system was an aerodynamic canister towed behind an aircraft that, because of its design, had a much larger radar cross section than the aircraft, making it a juicier target for radar-guided antiaircraft missiles—it was so effective that many combat pilots dubbed it the “Little Buddy.” The improved version of the decoy had infrared emitters that could decoy heat-seeking missiles, and the canister could also be reeled in for reuse.
“I did completely forget that,” Cutless admitted.
“Karen gave you a hint when she reminded us about manually deploying chaff. I don’t think you’ll forget it next time.”
“I hope not.”
“Masters Zero-Seven, Control,” the senior controller came up on the command channel.
“Control, Zero-Seven, go ahead,” Patrick replied.
“We need you to RTB as soon as possible,” the controller said.
“We’ll be on the ground in about twenty minutes. What’s up?”
“The you-know-what hit the fan out in the South China Sea, sir,” the controller said. “All tactical units have been placed on alert.”
Less than twenty minutes later, Cutlass taxied the XB-1 Excalibur to its shelter on the First Expeditionary Bomb Wing parking ramp, and he and Patrick emerged. Security on the ramp had been noticeably beefed up. After turning the jet over to the crew chief and maintenance technicians, they headed immediately for headquarters. They found that it was not much cooler inside the normally well air-conditioned building than outside. “Power go off again?” Cutlass asked.