USS Towers Box Set

by Jeff Edwards

  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.

  The XO picked up the phone and punched three digits. “We’re ready, sir.”

  Captain Bowie arrived about four minutes later. He nodded in greeting to the assembled officers, and then poured himself a cup of coffee before taking his seat at the head of the table.

  “I apologize for the lateness of the hour and for the short notice,” he said. “I know that some of you haven’t had much sleep.”

  Lieutenant Meyer nearly responded by reflex, but she caught herself in time. She was a hard-charger who didn’t allow herself a lot of rest. Her favorite comment on the subject of sleep was blunt, politically incorrect, and sexually suggestive. Sleep is for pussies. As it was her commanding officer speaking, she decided to keep that particular opinion to herself this time.

  Bowie continued without interruption. “Our tactical situation has changed, and we need to make some decisions. In view of the damage sustained during the air attack yesterday evening, Admiral Zimmerman has decided to move the Midway out of the Bay of Bengal.”

  The XO looked surprised. “We’re pulling out of the op area?”

  Bowie smiled. “That depends on how you define the word ‘we.’ The carrier is definitely pulling out, but the admiral is thinking about detaching two of the destroyers for independent ops. That’s why I called this meeting at oh-my-God-o’clock. The admiral has ordered us to come up with a plan for taking out the Chinese carrier’s escorts. He wants to see at least a rough outline by 0600.”

  Captain Bowie looked at the clock. “That gives us about two and a half hours to hammer out a basic plan of attack.”

  Lieutenant Meyer pursed her lips. “Why bother with the escort ships? The biggest threat is the Chinese air wing. We should be going after the carrier.”

  “Admiral Zimmerman has a plan for that,” Bowie said. “He’s going to use the Midway’s air power to knock out the Liaoning. Our job is to soften up the Chinese battle group in preparation for the main attack.”

  “I thought the Midway was out of action,” the XO said. “How is she supposed to launch aircraft?”

  “I’ve been told not to worry about that,” Bowie said. “Admiral Zimmerman has a plan. We’re supposed to concentrate on wiping out the escorts.”

  The Combat Systems Officer raised an eyebrow. “Wiping them out?”

  “Yes,” Bowie said. “We’re not just supposed to take them out of the fight. Our orders are to sink them. Every escort ship in the Chinese battle group.”

  Captain Bowie paused to let the assembled officers absorb his words. Not damage the Chinese ships. Not defeat them. Sink them. Destroy them completely.

  After several seconds of silence, Commander Silva spoke up. “What about the Chinese submarines? Do we go after them? Or do we try to avoid them?”

  “USS California will be assigned to handle the hostile subs,” Bowie said. “If we happen to encounter one, we can engage it. But we’re not supposed to seek ASW opportunities.”

  The Combat Systems Officer raised a finger. “I assume that we’ll be operating with the Donald Gerrard…”

  “That’s correct,” Bowie said. “The Fenno has already expended 80 missiles—the majority of her inventory—so she’ll be sticking with the Midway to provide cover. That leaves the Towers and the Gerrard to stick around and do the dirty work.”

  He took a swallow of coffee and set his cup down. “That pretty much defines our mission parameters. Now all we need is a plan for carrying it out.”

  No one spoke for several minutes as everyone mulled over the problem and searched for a workable tactical approach.

  Again, it was Commander Silva who broke the silence. “I think we should run like hell,” she said. “The Midway is pulling out, and we should go too. Full retreat. Admit that we got our asses kicked, and run home.”

  Three or four people started to respond, but Bowie held up a hand. “Go on…”

  Silva looked at the shocked and puzzled faces around the table. She didn’t speak immediately, enjoying the moment of incredulous silence.

  “I was just thinking about Sun Tzu,” she said finally. “That famous piece from The Art of War, where he talks about all warfare being based on deception… Attacking when you appear to be unable, and making yourself seem far away when you’re near. I never bothered to memorize that passage, but the concept applies pretty well to our current situation.”

  No one responded, so she continued. “The Chinese blasted the hell out of the INS Vikrant. The Indian navy responded by pulling their carrier battle group all the way up the northern end of the bay, where it can draw on their coastal defenses and shore-based air cover. That’s a reasonable response. When you get your fingers burned, you pull your hand away from the fire. Well… The Chinese have blasted the hell out of our carrier too, and they know that we haven’t lost an aircraft carrier in combat since World War II. They also know how important carriers are to our national deterrence. If we circle the wagons and escort our carrier out of the danger zone, I’m betting they’ll interpret that as a reasonable response too.”

  Bowie nodded. “Continue…”

  “So,” Commander Silva said, “we maintain our places in the defensive screen, and cover the Midway’s retreat from the Bay of Bengal, until…”

  The XO slapped his palm on the table. “Until we reach the passage through the Nicobar Islands. Then, the Midway continues through into the Andaman Sea, while we break off and haul ass down the coast—using the sea traffic and the radar clutter of the island chain to mask our run to the south.”

  Silva smiled. “You catch on fast, Brian.”

  The other officers began exchanging interested glances.

  Bowie nodded appreciatively. “We could make our final approach after sunset tomorrow evening. Go in dark and quiet—full EMCON, and full stealth mode.”

  “Exactly,” Silva said. “If we do it right, we can get all the way inside their defensive perimeter. Then, we open up and blow their doors off.”

  Lieutenant Meyer grinned. “I like the way you think, ma’am. You’re one sneaky bitch.”

  The executive officer shot her a look. “Lieutenant…”

  The Operations Officer raised her hands in a gesture of surrender. “Sorry, XO, but I couldn’t think of what else to say. Sneaky bastard didn’t seem to fit, and son-of-a-bitch just isn’t right…”

  The XO pounded the table. “That’s enough, Lieutenant!”

  The Ops Officer grimaced. “Sorry, XO. It won’t happen again, sir.” She turned toward Commander Sil
va. “No disrespect intended, ma’am.”

  The XO looked like he was going to say something further, but Captain Bowie spoke up again. ‘I think it’s an excellent plan, Commander Silva. Let’s work out the details, and then I’ll take it to the admiral.”

  The tactical discussion began in earnest.

  About ten minutes into it, the exchange with Lieutenant Meyer popped into Silva’s head again, and she had to suppress a grin. Sneaky bitch… She could live with that.

  CHAPTER 46

  HONG’QI-12 MISSILE DEFENSE BATTERY

  ZIGONG, CHINA

  TUESDAY; 02 DECEMBER

  11:58 AM

  TIME ZONE +8 ‘HOTEL’

  The flashing amber light caught Chao Péng’s attention immediately. He tapped the button to acknowledge the alert, pre-empting the alarm buzzer that was programmed to sound if the warning went unanswered for more than five seconds.

  Chao’s rank was Xia Shi, the Chinese equivalent to the rank of technical sergeant. He was good at his job, and proud of it. He had been a radar intercept operator for three years, and the alarm had never once sounded while he was on watch. The computer had never caught him napping, and he was determined that it never would.

  With a brief flurry of keystrokes, Chao summoned up the system alert queue and scrolled through the flight characteristics of the new target. The data glowed bright red on the screen of his console.

  Parked at the center of a circle of six mobile KS-1A missile launchers, the H-200 passively-scanned electronic array was a highly-effective radar sensor. The slab-shaped phased-array antenna was capable of detecting, identifying, and tracking three simultaneous air targets, and it could launch and control up to six interceptor missiles.

  The H-200’s sensitivity was both a blessing and a curse. It made the radar very difficult to hide from, but it also resulted in a high number of false target alerts. The system latched on to commercial airliners and private aircraft with almost monotonous regularity.