The listing Liaoning turned out to be the lucky one. The remaining Shrike hit its flight deck at an angle. It punched straight through the tilted flight deck and then went out through the hangar deck and into the sea below. The drone felt no disappointment at its failure to completely sink its target, just as its wing mates felt no pride at their success.
USS Zumwalt Ship Mission Center
“Sir, Port Royal is requesting to be released from escort duty so it can advance on the enemy force.”
“Permission denied. That battle cruiser’s main gun range is two miles longer than the Port Royal’s gun. They’ll just stand off and pound the Port Royal, especially at that reduced speed. You heard the old man on the radio. Let’s give him a little more time before we play the martyr,” said Simmons, sounding confident for the crew but inside hoping he was right to trust his father.
“Range is now twenty-eight miles,” said Richter, tracking the four ships of the enemy surface task force in, since the two fleets were now too close for radar jamming to be effective. When the ships were roughly thirteen miles away, they would come into visual range and her job would become redundant.
“Are they following the amphibs?” Simmons had ordered the transport ships in the task force to position themselves where they could support the troops ashore but were as distant as possible from the brewing battle between the surface ships.
“No, sir. Still steaming toward us,” said Cortez. “They want to finish this.”
“So do we,” said Captain Simmons.
USS Zumwalt, Forward Rail-Gun Turret
Vern dried her palm on her pant leg again and then picked up the plastic soldering gun by its greasy handle. This was the last section of wiring to lock back down, which she was thankful for because she could not take any more of the smoke, the smell, and the confinement inside the rail-gun turret. As for the fear, she had long since set that aside, balled it up somewhere next to the nausea in her stomach.
“Almost there,” she said, knowing that Mike was less than a foot from her and could see it just as well. The radio on his tool harness squawked and she heard the captain’s voice.
“All right, damage control. Time’s up. Clear out.”
Vern pulled the trigger on the soldering gun again and ran it smoothly over the surface of the insulated coupling for the rail gun’s high power line; the plastic of the fitting liquefied and melded together.
She heard Mike curse under his breath. He cleared his throat and keyed the microphone with an aggressive click: “Zumwalt Actual, we need one more minute. That’s all. Vern’s literally down to the last wires here.”
“If he doesn’t give us more time, we’re going to get a cold weld. It’s not going to fully fuse, and the bond might snap right at the seam line if it gets any added force on it,” Vern said.
“Damage control, repeat, clear decks, copy!” said the captain.
“When I say we’re almost there, you know damn well I mean it,” said Mike. “Hold for just one minute. Do you copy?”
Klaxon horns sounded an alert across the ship.
“All hands, this is the captain, clear decks; rail-gun battery preparing to fire. Powering down main systems.”
Vern looked up at Mike and then went back to soldering, a wisp rising from the soldering gun’s hot tip. Mike grabbed her around the waist and carried her out of the turret and through two hatches. At last, he set her on her feet.
“Your son is really a pain in the ass. Where did he get that from?” said Vern, wiping the sweat from her glasses with the inside of one of her pants pockets.
“No idea at all.” Mike shook his head as he caught his breath.
The red wash of the auxiliary lighting gave the hallway a surreal glow. They leaned against the bulkhead next to each other and waited.
Then the lighting in the hallway darkened as the power system began to transfer. In the pitch-black, Vern felt a rough hand reach to hold hers. She squeezed it.
There was a crack from the rail-gun turret above. But it was not the triumphant sound of one of the rounds being propelled toward a target. It was the terse clap of an electrical problem. The auxiliary lights went dark and then turned back on with a series of disconcerting strobelike pulses.
Mike felt Vern’s hand slip from his grasp as she started down the hallway, running back toward the turret.
USS Zumwalt Ship Mission Center
“Sir, we’ve got power failures across the ship. Engineering reports engines not powering up. The misfire caused some kind of surge,” said Cortez.
Simmons stared at the systems feed, and he could feel everyone in the cavernous room looking up to see how he would respond. He kept his face blank and set his jaw. Inside, though, he cursed himself, hearing his dad’s voice in his head. If he’d just shown a little patience and listened, they would already be engaging the enemy fleet.
“We can worry about the engines later. ETA to get the gun back online?” said Simmons.
“Don’t know, sir. The chief and Dr. Li are already back in the turret, working the problem again,” said Cortez.
“Range to the enemy?” asked Simmons.
“Twenty-one miles,” Richter responded. On one screen, ATHENA mapped out estimated locations of the enemy task force based on their jamming emissions and radar sweeps of the area. A second screen showed the status of the Z’s weapons systems; a red sphere over the rail gun indicated it was offline.
“Get me Port Royal,” Simmons said.
Captain Anderson appeared on the screen, replacing the weapons-systems view.
“Captain Anderson, bad news, our main gun is still offline and we’ve got engine power loss. We’re not going to be able to contribute to the fight the way we planned. But we’re still going to play our part. As the larger target, we’re the one they’re going to focus their fires on. I want you to position the Port Royal and the America behind us to ensure that. When they open up, that’s when I want you to make your attack run. There’ll hopefully be enough smoke and confusion from what’s happening to us to get you in range.”
“Understood,” said Anderson. “We’ll do our best to make them pay.”
“Thank you. It’s been an honor. Zumwalt out.”
Simmons turned back to Cortez. “Damage-control parties standing by?”
Cortez nodded and offered Simmons a stim tab from his uniform’s breast pocket. “Last one,” said the XO.
Simmons tore open the foil with his teeth and began to chew the gum, eyes fixed on the monitors. He tried to ignore the lost looks that more than a few of the youngest sailors had as they snuck peeks up at the main screens, which were back to showing the tactical map and weapons-systems status, all glowing red.
“Two minutes until the enemy has us within range,” said Richter, her voice steady, professional.
Then the red sphere representing the rail gun pulsed green.
“Rail gun back online! Updating the targeting solution,” said the tactical action officer. A cheer went up in the room and the crew leaned into their workstations.
Mike’s voice echoed through the two-story-high room.
“Bridge, we’ve got the fix, and the rail gun is ready. It’s an ugly solution here in the turret, but it should work.”
Jamie cued up the line to his father.
“Did you say here in the turret?”
“That’s affirmative.” His father’s voice sounded softer than he’d ever heard it.
“Damn it, Dad, what are you doing in there? Clear out! We have to fire now. We’re sitting ducks.”
“Jamie, the power coupling won’t stay in without a little help. The impact shook loose the mountings and cracked the last repair job we did even wider. We’ve patched it again,” said Mike. “But the thing is . . . just another weld on a gap like that isn’t going to hold unless we get at least another half hour at it. Vern and I are kind of wedging the power line into the coupling so that the heat will fuse the plastic of the fitting fully this time.”
; “What heat? You mean the heat from the rail gun firing? That won’t work; we can’t fire it with you in there.”
“Yes, Jamie, you can and you will. Vern and I understand the consequences,” said Mike. “You know what you have to do.”
“Thirty seconds until enemy contact,” said the tactical action officer, focused on his task, paying no attention to the conversation behind him. “ATHENA’s targeting solution is online. Ready for rail-gun release on your order, sir.”
“Jamie, just take care of those kids. Be there for them. Be better than me,” said Mike. The channel went quiet.
After a second of silence, Cortez cleared his throat. “Sir, we have to act,” he said, eyeing his captain with concern. “If it’s needed, I can take over, sir.”
Simmons blinked away tears and spoke.
“Battery release . . . do it. Fire the rail gun.”
Admiral Zheng He
Water from the spray over the bow soaked his uniform jacket as the flagship cut through the water at almost thirty knots, the rest of the task force arrayed behind it.
Wang knew he should be waiting calmly in his ready room, but his blood was up. It was not just the stims; it was the moment. On deck was where a sailor should be, especially for a fight that was ending like this. It was also the kind of image his sailors needed to see. Their fleet had felt the sting, but now they would gain their revenge and taste victory, all the more sweet up close.
Beside him, one of the main 130 mm gun turrets began to swivel, its turn aligning the barrel with the enemy’s largest ship. The ship was not yet visible in the distance, but small plumes of smoke indicated it lay directly ahead.
Wang took the groan of the gun turret moving as his signal to go back to the bridge. He turned quickly, not wanting to wait anymore, and the next thing he knew, he was splayed out on the slick deck, flat on his back. Of all the times to slip and fall.
His aide helped him up with the care he would show a withered old woman who’d fallen while feeding pigeons in the park.
Wang nodded his thanks and took the stairs up to the bridge, aggressively, fast, two at a time, to show them he was not such an old man as they thought. His left knee cried out with every step as his aide rushed to keep pace behind him.
On the bridge, the tactical map was projected into the center of the room; the sailors went silent when the admiral entered. He wondered if they had seen him fall. No matter—the moment would be forgotten amid the glory.
The hologram showed the American task force, blue icons indicating each one’s suspected class, name, and status. What was more important, though, was the parallel series of dotted red lines that steadily drew ever closer to the blue. The lines represented the targeting envelopes of the various weapons in the force; the Zheng He’s main battery of 130 mm guns were the closest red line to the American fleet. All that was needed was for the red line to cross the blue icon of their primary target.
He stood before the screen, not engaged in his usual contemplative pacing but instead trying to take the weight off his aching knee. He willed the line closer so that this would all be over sooner.
There!
“In range, sir. On your orders, we are ready to engage,” said his aide. He held up the tablet screen, ready for Wang to press the icon to clear all ships to fire.
Wang extended his trigger finger and then paused, holding it in the air six inches from the screen. It sounded like a freight train was racing right past the bridge. The very steel of the superstructure seemed to vibrate, tickling the soles of his boots. A giant splash erupted on the port side of the Admiral Zheng He, the water spray rising higher than the ship itself. A few seconds later, another erupted to the starboard side, sending water hundreds of feet in the air in a sharp fantail of white and blue.
He felt rivulets of sweat track their way down his back, and then chastised himself, whispering, “‘Pretend to be weak,136 that he may grow arrogant.’”
He jabbed his finger down, but it never touched the screen. The rail-gun round entered the Admiral Zheng He’s superstructure approximately thirty feet beneath where Admiral Wang stood. The strike transferred its kinetic energy with such force that the metal superstructure was literally peeled apart as the round plowed through. The ensuing explosion amidships sent a ball of flame hundreds of feet into the air as the ship’s hull cracked in two.
USS Zumwalt Ship Mission Center
“Fire again,” said Captain Simmons. He stood with the weight fully on the balls of his feet, willing the ship to make every shot count. The steady explosions of the rail gun releasing rounds continued. One round every six seconds, with a metronome’s precision.
With all auxiliary power dedicated to the weapons systems, the ship continued to drift, but ATHENA had that under control, adjusting the fire solution.
In the distance, small bright flashes and then black plumes began to appear, the only visual indicators of the steady rail-gun shots working their way through the enemy task force.
Cortez approached Simmons and kept his voice low. “Sir, water level’s rising below decks. We need to get those pumps back on before we lose her,” he said.
Simmons stared at him briefly and then responded. “Continue firing. We don’t know if the gun will work once we stop. We just need to trust the ship.”
He could hear his father speaking through him.
Epilogue
Remember those not here today,
And those unwell or far away,
And those who never lived to see,
The end of War and Victory.
—WILLIAM WALKER, “ABSENT FRIENDS”1
SR-216, McCain Senate Office Building, Washington, DC
The fifteen senators stared at the piece of parchment folded into a square and covered with what looked like nineteenth-century English script.
“You see, ladies and gentlemen, this is the actual letter of marque. The one your president signed. There is a copy in one of my vaults and a third, as you might know, has been donated to your Smithsonian Institution for its historic significance.” Sir Aeric Cavendish then playfully tapped the paper to make it spin weightlessly in front of the view screen. “It is a binding legal document. What you are asking of me is not based on, my legal team informs me, any law, terrestrial or otherwise.”
“Nobody is questioning your contribution to the war effort,” said Senator Bob Courtenay, the California Republican who chaired the committee. He tried not to show his frustration. Witnesses at congressional hearings were supposed to be intimidated, not showboating on a video screen from two hundred and fifty miles overhead. And they were supposed to be in clothing appropriate to the occasion, not in a baby-blue jumpsuit with the name Zorro embroidered on it. “But the past notwithstanding, you have to understand the present seriousness of our position.”
“What I understand is that I delivered on all terms of a business agreement, and now my partners seek to change that agreement,” said Sir Aeric. “Highly disappointing, but to be expected of politicians.”
Senator Courtenay leaned forward, twirling a ballpoint pen in his hand. It was his signal for the media cameras to focus tightly on him because he was about to drop the hammer on a witness.
“Let me be explicitly clear about what the legislation this committee is considering means: You will agree to give the space station you now occupy back to its rightful owners,” said Senator Courtenay, raising his voice. “Or, Mr. Cavendish, your properties inside the United States will be seized, and a warrant for your arrest will be issued.”
“Senator, it seems you are having trouble with a great many things, from the nuances of business to the basic matter of getting my title correct.” Sir Aeric Cavendish floated up and then steadied himself in front of the camera.
“So let me simplify this for you. You can make all the empty threats that you desire. I rather like it up here and I don’t expect to come down there in the foreseeable future.”
San Diego, California
She stayed to
the shadows on the edge of the woods. They provided good cover, were familiar, comforting. They were also cool and didn’t make her sweat as much in the wool blanket she’d cut a poncho slit into and wore in order to break up her heat signature.
From her vantage point, she could see the children in the field. Only children could be so brave, so oblivious to it all, running about in the open like that. An adult was pulling soccer balls out of a bag as the children lined up.
Suddenly, the back of her neck tingled, a sixth sense telling her that something wasn’t right. She heard it before she saw it. It was one of the new electric versions. Lightweight and cheap, but largely autonomous, able to pick up and track human signatures on its own. A shot of adrenaline, almost like an electric shock, pushed through the handful of calmers she’d taken that morning. Her pores opened up and she began to sweat profusely.
At first, she thought it would track her, but then the drone locked in on the children in the open field. She focused on the child closest to her, a little boy around six years old. He didn’t notice the drone at first. It stalked him, just thirty feet in the air, hovering at the corner of the field and then slowly moving closer until it was right above him. Then, finally, he saw it.
Her jaws clenched, locking, teeth pressing hard against each other. She wanted to run out there. But she couldn’t. Every instinct told her not to move.
The little boy was now running, the other children following him, all screaming. As fast as they were running, the drone easily kept pace.
She knew she shouldn’t stay there in the woods. She should be out there, among them, doing something. But she couldn’t. Her body wouldn’t let her move.
Ghost Fleet : A Novel of the Next World War (9780544145979) Page 43