As he scanned the images of warships smoking and sinking, Wang thought the wait was almost worth it. The only ships unscathed were the slow, toothless American transport vessels now waiting to be scooped up.
“Show me this one,” said Wang, tapping the image of the largest warship in the task force. It was immediately recognizable as their novel Zumwalt class. So the Americans had indeed brought back their strange experiment, just as the intelligence reports had claimed. It confirmed all his assumptions that this was the last victory the Directorate would need, just as he had argued to the Presidium. Using a ship like that was simultaneously an act of innovation and of desperation. Indeed, the same was true of the Americans’ entire operation today.
The image zoomed in on the massive ship, tied up next to one of their stricken small helicopter carriers. The warship was indeed sleek and lethal-looking, but it was now dead in the water, smoking from what looked to be at least three missile strikes. Smoldering steel debris littered its deck, blocking its main gun turret.
He walked toward the bridge using the exterior gangway. Taking the longer route gave him the chance to breathe in the fresh air, to savor the salinity and the moment itself. He fished in his pants pocket for a stim tab and unwrapped it, then tossed the foil bubble into the wind. He had resisted taking one at the beginning of the battle, the need to exude calm being paramount. Now was the time for energetic aggression.
“‘Prize the quick victory,130 not the protracted engagement,’” he quoted to the aide. “Signal to the task force for all ships to advance at flank speed. It is time to close in for the kill and end this war.”
USS Zumwalt, Below Decks
Mike peered into the dark hallway, inhaling deeply from the firefighting breathing unit. Until they could vent the unit, the air was too toxic for anyone to spend time here, but the louvered covers on the vent openings had melted shut and it was going to take some doing, or at least a few minutes with a crowbar, to get those back open.
“Bridge, this is damage-control team. Bridge, this is damage-control team,” said Mike. His voice echoed inside the firefighting mask.
“Glad you’re okay, Chief,” said a familiar voice. “What do you have for me?”
“Good to hear you too, son . . . sir. The news isn’t good. Multiple casualties, more than I can keep track of. Starboard-side superstructure is melting; the composite just can’t handle the hits and the heat. It’s still a mess at the laser turret, and debris is blocking the rail gun’s movement. That’s not the real problem for the gun, though. Those shots took down the whole auxiliary power network. We’ve got break points across the ship,” said Mike. “The VLS, well, we’re not going to get our deposit back. Most of the cell hatches look like they got peeled back with a rusty can opener. But there’s something worse away from the impact points. We’ve got reports of leaks below decks, and the superstructure and hull seam look iffy on the starboard, right below the helo deck.”
“What’s the good news?” said Simmons.
“Ship’s afloat, and we’re still breathing, you and I,” his father responded.
“We need the ship in the fight. How long before I can get the laser and rail gun back online?” said the captain.
“Martin will be graduating college before that laser’s back in business. Ninety minutes at least on the rail gun to clear it, and even then, who knows. But I’m not sure you heard me . . . sir. We’re taking on water below. Even if it works, we can’t shoot the rail gun and keep the ship afloat with no auxiliary power. We gotta have power for the pumps.”
“Chief, just get the rail gun back online,” said Simmons.
“Aye, Captain,” said Mike. He paused and then added, “Or should I say Admiral? Heard you got a promotion.”
“Not really,” said Simmons.
“Well, congratulations either way,” said Mike. “Wear it proud. I am.”
“Just get the rail gun ready, Chief,” said Simmons. “We’re counting on you all down there.”
Mike turned to address the crew, most of whom were working slowly, unable to shake their dazed looks.
“You heard the captain. Take stim tabs if ya got ’em, and then let’s get to work,” said Mike. “Brooks, have your team concentrate on getting this debris cut away topside. Dr. Li, you’re with me, we’re going to unfuck this wiring. Captain wants us back in the fight, and we’re not going to let him down.”
The crew scattered, foraging in their pockets for whatever stims they had left, not thinking about the last time they had had something to eat or a stretch of calm to sleep.
Vern, her hair matted with sweat, began to head down the passageway toward the rail-gun turret, but then she stopped and turned, her face angry.
“I thought I found you—your body,” said Vern.
“Doesn’t seem like it,” said Mike.
“It was Davidson,” said Vern. “He’s gone.”
“You confused me with that reeking tub of guts?” said Mike, knowing his old friend wouldn’t want him to answer any other way.
She reached into a pocket on her vest just below her heart and pulled out two square foil packets. “This thing’s stocked like a pharmacy,” she said, handing one of the stim tabs to Mike.
He shook his head. “Not sure my heart can take it. I think, though, when we get back to shore I’ll have a stiff drink. I think we’ve earned it.”
“It’s a date, then.” She smiled.
USS Zumwalt Ship Mission Center
If it was possible to be calm aboard a sinking ship, the Z’s crew was managing it. There was a studiousness in the mission center, as if the hull breaches below decks were the least of their problems. And to the captain of the Zumwalt, they were.
Cortez was below decks, checking on the largest breach. One of the monitors near the captain’s chair, which Simmons still hated using, showed the view from Cortez’s glasses. It was just aft and below where the superstructure joined the hull, a foot-long opening two inches wide. The worry was that it had ripped open on its own, almost like bark peeling from a tree. There were sure to be more such breaches soon.
“Sir, we’ve got a homing-pigeon drone coming in. It’s from the Orzel,” said the communications officer.
“Let’s have it,” said Simmons, feeling his stomach knot. If the Poles, safely hidden away beneath the ocean’s surface, had broken cover to pass along a message, it had to be bad news.
“‘Three enemy carriers detected,’” the officer read. “‘Quadrant seventy-four X, fifty-six G. The Shanghai131 and two Admiral Kuznetsov–class carriers, one believed to be the Russian original and the other the Liaoning,132 accompanied by five escort ships. Will engage after communications drone launches.’” The communications officer stumbled through the next sentence. “‘Za wolność Naszą i Waszą. For our freedom and yours.’”
“Anything more?” said Simmons.
“That’s all we have, sir,” said the officer. “Database has the closing lines as something from their history, a saying by doomed Polish resistance fighters.”
Simmons was silent, thinking not of the Polish sailors, he shamefully realized, but of the need to decide the next course of action.
“Order the combat air patrol to that quadrant,” said Simmons.
The tactical action officer cleared his throat before speaking in a parched voice: “Sir, they’re armed only for air-to-air. They’ll be able to engage the remaining enemy planes, but that’s it. They’re not carrying any bombs or anti-ship ordnance.”
“You neglected to mention that tasking out our combat air patrol will also leave us naked without overhead cover,” said Simmons.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good; don’t be afraid to challenge me when it is needed. Just not too often,” said Simmons. “I understand your concern, but they’re an asset we have to use, in this case just like the original designers of drones intended. Deadly, but disposable. Order them out, command protocol Divine Wind.”133
Fifty-Five Miles Northwest of t
he Zumwalt, Pacific Ocean
The remaining Shrikes climbed steeply up to sixty-five thousand feet and raced toward the coordinates provided by the Orzel. They flew in a tight stack of wedges, each pilotless aircraft programmed to hold itself exactly seventeen inches away from the next. The distance had been chosen by the Shrike software designer after reading that the closest that human pilots would risk was the eighteen inches of distance that Blue Angels pilots put between their planes during their Diamond 360 maneuver.134 The effect was to blur the drones’ already small radar signatures into one.
Within minutes, the formation crossed the white wakes of the Russian and Chinese surface-ship formation, arced out in a wide curve.
They relayed the image back to the bridge of the Zumwalt.
“Sir, we have a video burst from the flight. They’ve got visuals on the enemy surface task force. Looks like the Puffin missiles took out three of the smaller ships, but four biggies, including the Zheng He, are steaming in our direction at flank speed, fifty-five miles out,” said the tactical officer. “We’re in their missile range now. I’m not sure why they haven’t fired again.”
“They’re likely as low on missile stocks as we are,” said Simmons. “Looks like they’re planning on making it personal, finishing us off with guns.”
“Redirect the drone flight at them?” said the tactical officer.
“No, taking out the enemy’s remaining carriers is more important than even us,” said Simmons. “Proceed as planned.”
The drones flew onward past the surface ships, indifferent to both the tension that this bypass caused the American fleet and the relief it gave to the surface ships below.
Admiral Zheng He Bridge
The shouting on the bridge of the Admiral Zheng He subsided as the aircraft flew on. It had not been visible, but radar had initially picked it up at over thirteen miles overhead. They tried to shoot it out of the sky but it was impossible to get a radar lock. That it had not come in low pointed to its being one of the Americans’ surveillance aircraft, perhaps one of their rumored high-altitude drones. They passed on the information to the aircraft carrier element’s combat air patrol and ordered a pair of fighters to intercept.
A single surveillance plane would confirm the surface screening force’s position to the Americans. But they would also know it didn’t matter. His force was closing in on the remains of the U.S. task force to finish them off. Any kind of follow-up attack from the American mainland would come too late. They were alone, soon to be cut off, and as vulnerable as any enemy commander could hope. It would be an absolute victory, the kind Sun-Tzu had written about but never achieved in his own career.
Wang considered for a moment that perhaps, once his staff reviewed his command footage and records, he should write his own book.
USS Zumwalt, Forward Rail-Gun Turret
It was like being back on one of those road trips, the kids in the back seat of the station wagon constantly asking the same question over and over.
“Damage crew, how much longer?” said Captain Simmons into the radio.
Yet it also nagged the old man that it had taken this kind of moment for him to see his son at his best.
Mike took in the showers of welding sparks raining down onto the crew below decks frantically trying to repair the rail-gun loading mechanism and the power cable connections.
“Twenty minutes,” said Mike.
“You have ten. That battle cruiser mounts one-hundred-thirty-millimeter main guns with a fifteen-mile range. You taught me boxing, so you know that I need that rail gun to be punching at them before we get inside their swing.”
“If we’re going to fight the rail gun, Vern says we really are going to need to power down the bilge and auxiliary pumps. We can’t do that, sir, not now. This ship wasn’t designed to take hits. Big, top-heavy design like this, we risk taking on too much water and we’ll roll.”
“Chief, I understand. Just focus on your job and I’ll do mine.”
The little bastard is even starting to talk like me, thought Mike.
USS Zumwalt Ship Mission Center
The display on the far wall showed the rail-gun turret free of the debris, but then a spray of sparks shot out from one of the holes punched in the deck. Out leaped Brooks; his work overalls were already singed at the legs, and now they were blackened about the shoulders. He was literally smoking. He threw an acetylene cutting torch down on the deck and cursed, first at the malfunctioning tool, then at the hole in the ship, and then at something in the distance, evidently the enemy fleet. Then the young sailor picked up the tool and went back into the hole. In that action, Jamie saw his father’s influence.
“Sir, we’ve got a contact burning through the jamming. It must be close,” Richter at the radar station said. “Yes, I have the enemy task force at forty miles out. Four ships, one capital-ship size. That must be the Zheng He.”
The rail-gun turret tried again to swivel, but it just shook back and forth like a muzzled dog. Sneaking peeks up from their workstations, the crew whispered, getting visibly anxious.
Simmons cued his headset again, leaning forward to get a better look. “Damage control, how much longer is it going to take?”
“Jamie, I am not trying to assemble your goddamn bicycle on Christmas Eve! Just leave us alone and we’ll get it fixed,” said Mike.
A few of the crew stifled laughs as the conversation played out on the room’s speakers. Simmons grimaced in exasperation and shook his head, throwing the headset at the deck.
“Radar’s picked them up, sir. Thirty-nine miles now,” said Richter. “I’m guessing they’ve developed the same tactical picture we have. They’re now closing directly at us at flank speed.”
138 Miles Northwest of the Zumwalt, Pacific Ocean
The two Chinese J-31 fighter jets from the task force’s combat air patrol elevated to follow the incoming target and then went to afterburner to close for a firing solution.
The pilots were angry. They hadn’t been sent on the strike mission against the enemy fleet, which had most likely kept them from dying, but it left them furious at their impotence, all the more so when their wing mates didn’t return. And now, twenty thousand feet below, the Liaoning, the carrier they had launched from, their home for the last two years, had smoke spilling out of its stern. A submarine had somehow snuck close enough to fire off a torpedo before the destroyer escort had sunk it. They had been bystanders yet again, powerless against an attack that had left their home listing badly to starboard. They were unsure if they would be able to land on it at the end of their patrol or if they would have to divert to one of the other carriers. That was a question to be answered later, though. Now, at least they could vent their fury on the American drone.
The lead pilot radioed that the radar signature of the surveillance drone coming in above them at seventy-seven thousand feet was strange. It didn’t fit any profile in the recognition software, which conformed with the report from the surface-fleet element. He fired a long-range PL-12 air-to-air missile135 at it, and then a second one, just for good measure.
Moments later, there was an explosion above in the distance, followed by another. And yet the radar signature stayed on his screen. Still climbing altitude to close for visual range, his wing mate fired off a PL-10 short-range heat-seeking missile as added insurance.
As the fighter jets reached their maximum altitude of sixty thousand feet, they saw what looked like the silhouette of an arrowhead falling from the sky, a triangular drone of some sort diving back down to their level. At sixty-two thousand feet, when the third missile reached the target, its proximity warhead exploded a spray of metal shrapnel a mere hundred feet away. The arrowhead was clearly hit, showing a burst of orange flame and then smoke trailing as it fell toward them.
Yet as the arrowhead passed by them, the damaged drone seemed to shed a layer; a smoking plane peeled off. The rest of the triangular drone continued to dive at maximum speed at the task force below. As the two pilots pus
hed their fighter jets down to follow, straining against the g-forces as they lost altitude, their threat warnings began to sound. Somehow in the midst of its steep dive, the drone below had fired off six Sidewinder missiles, which turned and raced back up at them. They attempted to pull out, but it was too late.
The air-defense systems on the ships below tried to pick up a radar lock, but while the fighter pilots had had a silhouette view of the drones, the systems were faced with only thin, sixteen-inch wing edges coated with radar-absorbent material. At thirty thousand feet, a firing solution finally crystalized, but just as the system locked, the target seemed to dissolve. The Shrike drones spread out from one another, a closed network among them sharing a targeting algorithm that ensured they did not all select the same destination point. Lookouts on the ships began to visually pick out what looked like seven thin lines falling down toward them. At twenty-three thousand feet, one of the lines disappeared in an explosion, hit by a rising air-defense missile.
When the drones were at twenty thousand feet, the task force’s machine cannon opened up, and their tracer bullets tried to connect with six thin, sixteen-inch wedges from miles away. The drones maxed their power, creating sonic booms that fell behind them as they accelerated well past the speed of sound.
Another drone was hit at a range of six thousand feet, leaving the five remaining Shrikes to reapportion their targets in the final seconds of their terminal fall. Flying down at maximum speed from almost directly overhead, an arrowhead slammed into the flight deck of each of the two undamaged carriers. The speed of the dive combined with the drone’s mass drove each robotic kamikaze deep into the bowels of the ship. From five decks below, fiery explosions shot out through the gaping holes they had left. Then the explosions traveled across the length of the carriers, turning them into massive fireballs.
Ghost Fleet : A Novel of the Next World War (9780544145979) Page 42