by Jeff Edwards
He heard the muted growls of outbound RAMs and Sea Sparrows, punctuated several times by the harsh metallic zipper sound of the CIWS guns firing. Friendly missile symbols flickered briefly on the tactical displays, and hostile symbols winked out of existence. They were getting some of the Vipers. How many, he didn’t know, but there were two or three left on the screen when the first of the enemy missiles slammed into the starboard side of the superstructure.
The admiral was thrown against his seatbelt so hard that he felt like someone had pounded him in the stomach with a Louisville slugger. The lighting flickered, but the power seemed to be holding, at least in Flag Plot.
His ears rang and his eyes didn’t want to focus properly. He could smell smoke, and he could hear someone shouting what sounded like orders, but the words didn’t make any sense to him.
He lifted his head and his eyes found the big tactical screens. Four of them were dark, but the screen on the far right still showed the weaving ballet of colorful icons. An odd red emblem bore straight for the heart of a bright blue circle.
The symbols touched, and the admiral felt himself thrown violently against his seatbelt again.
The lights went out.
CHAPTER 44
WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM
WASHINGTON, DC
MONDAY; 01 DECEMBER
9:48 AM EST
President Wainright flipped open the blue-jacketed folder and began to scan the top page of the briefing package it contained. After skimming the material for nearly two minutes, he looked up. “Okay, I’ve seen the charts and figures. Now, I want somebody to translate it into English for me.”
He closed the folder and dropped it on the table. “How bad is it?”
Admiral Casey, the Chief of Naval Operations, stood up. “It’s not good, Mr. President.”
He pointed a remote toward the wall-sized Situation Room display screen. The presidential seal was replaced by a series of still pictures of the aircraft carrier, USS Midway. The ship was listing fifteen or twenty degrees to starboard, and several of the images showed smoke billowing from a hole in the superstructure and another (larger) hole in the lower hull. Close-up photos of the two damaged areas had apparently been taken at a later time, after the fires had been extinguished.
“We’re looking at the impact points of two anti-ship cruise missiles,” the CNO said. “Based on flight profiles, electronic emissions, and battle damage assessment, we believe that both missiles were Chinese air-launched variants of the SSN-27 Sizzler.”
The display screen sequenced through a dozen more close-up images, taken from a variety of angles. From this range, the impact points looked like craters. The edges of the blast holes were blackened and irregular, the steel and aluminum structures of the enormous ship broken, charred, and twisted into ragged shapes of chaos.
Admiral Casey halted the march of images with another flick of the remote. The screen showed a medium distance shot of the wounded ship, apparently taken from a helicopter. The angle of the carrier’s list seemed to be even more evident than in the earlier shots.
“As you can see,” the admiral said, “one of the missiles impacted right at the waterline, causing damage above and below the water, and opening the hull to major flooding. This has resulted in a pronounced list to starboard, which was further increased by firefighting water pumped in to extinguish the fires.”
The CNO laid the remote on the conference table. “Given the severity of the damage, personnel casualties have been relatively light. Six dead, and nineteen injured. Three of the wounded are in critical condition, and some or all of them may not make it.”
The president sighed heavily. “How much do we know about the attack?”
The Secretary of Defense closed her own briefing folder and stood up. “Well, Mr. President—not to put too fine a point on it—we got suckered.”
She reached for the remote, and Admiral Casey handed it to her.
SECDEF thumbed several buttons, and the image of the damaged aircraft carrier was replaced by a map of the Bay of Bengal. The blue iconic silhouettes of three Navy destroyers formed a loose triangle, with the silhouette of an aircraft carrier at the center.
“The raid took place in two waves,” the Secretary of Defense said. “The first wave was detected at approximately 1728 hours, that is 5:28 PM local time.”
She keyed the remote, and a cluster of red aircraft shapes appeared to the left and slightly below the strike group. “Twenty jet aircraft, inbound from the southwest. We don’t know exactly which kind of hardware was used, but it seems likely that the entire wave consisted of Unmanned Aerial Vehicles, equipped with advanced electronic deception systems. We suspect they were launched from the Chinese carrier, but that’s only an assumption at this point. They were able to closely simulate a group of Chinese J-10 aircraft. And, due to their angle of approach and radar characteristics, they were misidentified as an actual raid against the Midway.”
She keyed the remote again, and a group of red missile silhouettes appeared to the right of the strike group. “The second wave appeared from the east, approximately ten minutes later, as the carrier’s escorts and aircraft were engaging the decoys of the first wave. The second wave consisted of forty anti-ship cruise missiles, all targeted on the aircraft carrier.”
She nodded toward the CNO. “As Admiral Casey pointed out, these missiles were probably a Chinese air-launched variant of the SSN-27 Sizzler. The launching platforms were not detected, leading us to assume that the attacking aircraft stayed extremely low to the water, and fired from close to the maximum range of the SSN-27. Roughly 160 nautical miles. The missiles remained undetected until they switched on their radars for the terminal phase, and accelerated to Mach 2.”
SECDEF pressed another key on the remote, and the easternmost of the blue destroyer silhouettes was highlighted on the display. “The only shooter in a position to intercept was USS Frank W. Fenno. The targeting window was extremely narrow, but the Fenno successfully killed thirty-one of the inbound missiles. The Midway’s defensive weapons managed to knock out seven of the remaining nine.”
The Secretary of Defense sat down. “The last two missiles made it all the way through to the Midway. And we’ve just seen the results of that.”
President Wainwright looked at the map on the big screen. “So the second wave, the planes that launched the attack, came from the Chinese aircraft carrier as well?”
The CNO shook his head. “Probably not, Mr. President. To stay outside the radar coverage of our strike group, aircraft from the Liaoning would have had to divert east, past the Andaman and Nicobar Islands; turn north and fly up the long axis of the Andaman Sea; and then turn west, back into the Bay of Bengal. Even with several aerial refuelings, that’s beyond the capacity of Chinese carrier-based aircraft. And then, they’d have to turn around and do it all in reverse, on the return leg.”
“Okay,” the president said, “where the hell did they come from?”
“We don’t know for certain,” the Secretary of Defense said, “but our best guess is Myanmar. They share a border with China, and the PRC is a close ally of the Burmese, as well as one of their top economic trading partners. We don’t think the Burmese military actually launched the attack, but they may have permitted their airbases to be used as a staging area for Chinese strike planes.”
The president suppressed a grimace. The Republic of Myanmar had no particular love for the United States. The U.S. had been imposing economic sanctions against the country since the late 1990s, to penalize the government for decades of continually worsening human rights violations.
During his days in the Senate, Wainwright himself had led a multinational initiative to convince the European Union to tighten their economic sanctions against Myanmar. The Burmese government didn’t have the military or economic muscle to stand directly against the United States, but they might welcome the opportunity to help their Chinese buddies poke America in the eye.
“Alright,” the preside
nt said. “What are our options?”
No one spoke for several seconds.
Finally, the Chief of Naval Operations leaned forward. The lined skin of his tanned face gave his features the weather beaten gravitas of that famous Gloucester Fisherman painting by Joseph Margulies. “Frankly, Mr. President, I think it’s time for us to turn up the heat. Just before the strike on the Midway, we issued new Rules of Engagement to our naval forces in the area. Since the attack, we’ve been on a defensive footing. I say we continue with the plan, and go after the Chinese carrier, and every PRC military unit in the region.”
The president shook his head. “How in the name of God did we end up in a shooting match with the Chinese Navy?”
Admiral Casey’s eyebrows went up. “Is that a rhetorical question, Mr. President?”
“Hell no, it’s not rhetorical,” the president said. “When my alarm clock went off this morning, I did not expect to be at war with the People’s Republic of China by lunch time.”
“Mr. President, we’re not at war,” the Secretary of Defense said. “Hostilities have escalated farther than we were expecting, but this is still a regionalized conflict, with a limited scope of operations. We are not at war with the PRC.”
The president looked in her direction. “But the situation doesn’t show any signs of stabilizing, does it? It’s escalating, as you just pointed out. Can you guarantee that this conflict won’t keep spreading until we are at war with China?”
“No, sir,” SECDEF said. “I can’t give you any guarantees. All I can offer is my best counsel. And I solemnly believe that if we back away now, there will be war.”
Admiral Casey nodded in agreement. “Mr. President, we got into this dogfight to prevent India from destroying the Three Gorges site. If we walk away now, the Indians are going to carry out their attack, as planned. And you remember what happens after that... Catastrophic flooding of the Yangtze River basin. Three major cities wiped out, and half of China’s industrial base washed out to sea. A death toll in the tens of millions—possibly hundreds of millions. When the Chinese retaliate, and they will retaliate, they’re going to hammer India into the Stone Age.”
“I agree,” the Secretary of Defense said. “We could be looking at a full-scale nuclear exchange between China and India. But even if the reprisals don’t go nuclear, the casualty rate could easily dwarf the entire body-count from the Second World War.”
“And there’s another aspect to this,” Admiral Casey said. “If we get a bloody nose, and then back down from the fight, our national deterrence goes down the toilet. We signal to the entire world that China is the dominant military power on this planet. We will be effectively handing them the reins.”
The president sat in silence for several seconds. Finally, he nodded slowly. “Okay. We stay in the fight. It looks like every other alternative leads to more bloodshed in the long run.”
He turned toward the admiral. “Are we ready for this? Our primary means of force projection is damaged. Possibly crippled. It looks to me like we might not have the horsepower to do the job.”
“We’ll have to shift some additional assets into the operating area,” Admiral Casey said. “But our first step should be to get the message out to our forces in the region. Go after the bad guys, and do it now.”
President Wainwright rubbed the back of his neck. “Can they do it?”
The CNO nodded gravely. “If we give them the word, Mr. President, I promise you they’ll get the job done.”
CHAPTER 45
USS TOWERS (DDG-103)
BAY OF BENGAL
TUESDAY; 02 DECEMBER
0317 hours (3:17 AM)
TIME ZONE +6 ‘FOXTROT’
Katherine Silva was dreaming of Savannah when the call came. Random snatches of her childhood, strung together in no particular order.
The cobblestones of River Street damp and glistening after an evening rain. Ripples in the dark river tossing back wobbly reflections of the restaurant marquis lights and shop windows. The wind carried the bright salt aroma of the ocean and the hint of cities, countries, and entire continents hiding somewhere below the curve of the horizon.
Kat was eight years old, her father a tall comforting silhouette under the golden aura of the faux colonial street lamps. The world was out there. She knew that. Had known it the first time she had seen the river, and its broad mouth opening to the ocean just a few miles downstream from where she now stood. For her, the world was not here, on the bank of the river—at least not the important parts. It was out there, where the sky bent down to touch the sea.
“I’m going to be a pirate,” she said in a solemn voice.
Her father didn’t laugh. “I thought you wanted to be a shrimp boat captain,” he said.
“Or a pirate,” Kat said. “Or just build my own boat, and sail around the world.”
She threw her arms wide, to encompass the river and the ocean somewhere at the end of it. “I want to be out there,” she said.
Her father nodded. “I know.” And he did know.
Kat was twelve years old, standing on the uneven plank deck of her homemade raft, gripping the mast as the unstable vessel bobbed and rolled in the waves. Built from a pair of wooden shipping pallets nailed together with scraps of lumber, the raft was kept afloat by three truck inner tubes and two dozen empty plastic milk jugs, all tied beneath the pallets with carefully-knotted binder twine.
She had christened her raft the Spray, after the famous sloop of Joshua Slocum: the first man to sail around the world solo.
This was the maiden voyage of the Spray, and Kat had intended it as a brief excursion. Just a quick loop in the Wilmington River, using her bed sheet sail to tack upstream, and then ride the current back to her launch point in an easy glide.
But Kat had not yet equipped her vessel with a centerboard or a keel—a refinement that was apparently more necessary than she had assumed. No matter how she trimmed her sail or which way she turned the plywood rudder, the raft followed the current. She’d been out here several hours now, trying to edge her way back toward the bank as she drifted farther and farther downstream.
She knew that she had a vicious sunburn going, and she had long since guzzled down the bottle of 7-Up that had been her only provisions for the voyage. Out in the channel, a sleek-looking cabin cruiser with a turquoise hull was motoring effortlessly upriver.
Kat thought about trying to wave the boat down, but she was too proud to ask for rescue. She wasn’t hurt, and her raft was seaworthy, despite its lack of controlled steerage. She would bring the Spray back to port. As captain, that was her job.
She shielded her eyes from the sun, and studied the landmarks along the shore. She’d be sliding past the shrimp boat piers in Thunderbolt pretty soon, and she figured she could get close enough in to snag the end of one of the docks.
Kat was five years old, sitting cross-legged under a moss-draped oak tree near the edge of Daffin Park pond. Half a loaf of stale white bread lay on her lap. She was intent on her task, carefully tearing each bread slice into a dozen or so pieces, and flinging the crumbly treats toward a flock of grateful ducks.
The ducks paddled in circles and flapped their wings, darting their heads to scoop up the bread scraps as they landed in the water—occasionally snatching a piece right out of the air. They quacked, loudly and appreciatively. Kat laughed with delight, and reached for another crust of bread.
Then the telephone rang, and the dream was gone, like the popping of a soap bubble.
Kat Silva opened one eye, and groped for the phone beside her bed. She pulled the receiver out of its restraining clip, and held it to her ear. “Commander Silva speaking.”
The voice on the other end was brisk and alert. “Commander, this is the XO. Captain Bowie is calling a strategy meeting with all senior officers in the wardroom in fifteen minutes. He’d like for you to sit in.”
Silva looked at the clock and forced her eyes to focus on the lighted numerals. “Got it,” she said. “
I’m on my way.”
She fumbled for the light switch, flicked it on, and rolled out of bed. She was half-tempted to climb back in and go to sleep. Not that she particularly needed the rest. She was used to getting up at all hours, and she had long ago learned to come instantly awake and respond to the needs of the job.
The problem was that she didn’t have a job. The Chinese air strike had proven that. Bowie had commanded the ship through the entire engagement sequence, receiving reports, evaluating the situation, and issuing orders. Kat had stood around with her hands in her pockets. She had probably spoken no more than a half dozen words the whole time, none of them particularly helpful or insightful.
She’d come to the Towers to assume command. Instead, she was facing real combat for the first time in her life, and she was just along for the ride.
It wasn’t Jim Bowie’s fault. It was strictly an accident of timing. If the fracas between India and China had started a couple of weeks later, she would have been in command when the Towers deployed. It was the luck of the draw—nothing more.
Jim was certainly trying to make the situation bearable for her. He was careful to include her in the inner workings of the ship’s upper command structure, and she appreciated that. But the situation was frustrating. This wasn’t how things were supposed to work.
She reached for a set of freshly-pressed coveralls. There was enough time to wash her face and run a brush through her hair before she had to head up to the meeting.
Silva arrived in the wardroom about five seconds ahead of the executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Brian Matthews. As Silva was taking a seat, the XO did a quick visual inventory of the officers gathered around the table. The ship’s department heads were all present. The Operations Officer, Lieutenant Sue Meyer, was in her usual chair across from the door—flanked on the left by the Combat Systems Officer, Lieutenant Ben Lambert, and on the right by the Chief Engineer, Lieutenant Commander Chris Bronson, and the Supply Officer, Lieutenant Pat Connelly.