by Don Keith
Foster checked the fire control solutions and calmly said, “Solution ready, both weapons.”
“Ship ready,” Esteban confirmed.
“Two torpedoes bearing three-four-five. No bearing drift.” Chief Vincent’s voice was tight with tension over the 21MC. “The other two have a right bearing drift. They are heading for the destroyer.”
The Chinese SSNs were shooting at everything they could see or hear.
Allison looked over at the weapons control panel just as the weapons officer yelled, “Weapons ready.”
“Shoot tubes one and two,” Allison ordered. He felt a sudden shudder as the impulse ram forced high-pressure water around the stern of each two-ton ADCAP torpedo and flushed them out of the tubes into the sea.
“Normal launch, both tubes,” the weapons officer reported, as calmly as if this were just another drill and they had launched water slugs or exercise torpedoes.
Turning to the chief of the watch, Allison ordered, “Launch the EMATT, launch a pair of evasion devices. Wait fifteen seconds and launch two more evasion devices.”
The EMATT, or Expendable Mobile ASW Training Target, was designed to simulate a submarine while training operators. However, since the device sounded and behaved just like a real submarine, it made a good decoy. Hopefully good enough to fool the two oncoming weapons zooming toward Boise.
“Hold both weapons running normally,” Chief Vincent reported. “Inbound weapons still bear three-four-five and three-four-three.”
With the counterattack launched, it was time to get out of town. Allison ordered, “Ahead flank. Make your depth three hundred feet. Steady course zero-eight-zero.”
Foster had moved back to the ECDIS display. “Skipper, recommend stay on this course for thirty seconds, then come left to zero-six-five. And depth four hundred feet.”
Boise jumped ahead and angled downward.
“Incoming weapons still bear three-four-three and three-four-five. Loud splashes bearing three-four-zero. Sounds like multiple Mark Forty-Six torpedoes on that bearing.”
The Taiwanese destroyer had added to the fusillade aimed at the two Chinese boats. Allison mumbled to no one in particular, “That would be the ASROCs. At least the destroyer shot at the right guys.” He looked quickly at the ECDIS that Foster was watching. Allison could tell that she was guiding him behind Dongsha Atoll, staying as close to the coral mountain as possible.
Good tactic. Maybe it would be enough to keep them alive if the evasion devices failed.
The XO held up her hand and then signaled.
“Come left, steer course zero-six-five, come to four hundred feet,” Allison ordered.
“Loud explosion on the bearing to Sierra One-Seven,” Chief Vincent called out. It appeared that at least that part of the Chinese subs’ attack was successful. Boise’s task remained to be sure that the other part would not be.
“Loss of contact on the incoming weapons. Blocked by the countermeasures,” Vincent reported. Maybe the Chinese torpedoes would go for the countermeasures. Or maybe they would be lured off by the EMATT.
“Detect, first weapon!” Weps yelled. “Detect! Weapon shifted to acquisition.” The bloodhound from Boise’s tube one was on the scent.
“Loss of wire continuity, tube one,” Weps reported. The fine cable that connected the torpedo to the submarine had snapped. Allison knew that their maneuvering could have broken the wire. Or maybe it had found the enemy and blown them up already. With a speed of sound in water of fifteen hundred yards per second, it would be over six seconds before they would know if that was the case.
“Re-acquired both incoming weapons. First weapon bears three-two-six. Looks like it is tracking the EMATT.” Chief Vincent’s voice carried pure relief. It appeared that the little electronic device was going to sacrifice itself to save the Boise.
“Loss of wire continuity, tube two,” Weps reported. The reports were coming so fast Allison had a hard time absorbing them all.
“Second weapon bears three-four-three. Still closing.” Damn! No relief on this one. One of the Chinese torpedoes was still doggedly on their trail.
“Launch two evasion devices,” Allison ordered. “Then wait ten seconds and launch two more.”
As he gave the commands, the skipper glanced at the ECDIS display. It showed that they were just rounding the corner of Dongsha Atoll. But not by much. How accurate was this little electronic wonder? Accurate enough to bet the lives of every member of the crew?
“Multiple explosions on the bearings of Master One and Master Two.”
Well, Vincent was reporting that something was happening back where it all started. No telling what, but those two SSNs were definitely in the middle of it.
“Range gating on incoming weapon,” Vincent yelled. He really did not need to use the 21MC. The fear in his voice rolled right through the door from Sonar.
Allison rolled the dice in his head.
“Come to course north. Make your depth one hundred feet.”
According to ECDIS, they would just skirt the reefs on the east side of the atoll. That is, if the charts were accurate. And if they were where they believed they were.
The big sub angled over as it swung around to the new course.
“Incoming weapon still range gating,” Chief Vincent reported. “Now bearing two-seven-seven.”
Allison looked at the plot. If the weapon was where they thought it was and if they were where they thought they were, the remaining torpedo was taking a straight-line course directly at them. That would take it right over the shallow reef at the south end of the atoll.
Allison and the crew had done all they could. Now, their lives depended on billions of coral polyps and calcium carbonate standing in the path of that deadly weapon hurtling their way.
A tremendous explosion rocked the Boise. Lights flashed off, then back on again.
Chet Allison tried to grab hold of something but was knocked to the deck, banging his head brutally on something hard and unmoving. The last thing he heard was a 1MC announcement—"Flooding, flooding in the engine room!”—echoing, growing fainter, until it was lost in a dull roar.
Then, darkness.
Ψ
Chet Allison seemed to be groping his way through a long tunnel toward an incredibly bright white light. His legs felt like they were mired in molasses, but there was a voice. A voice urging him to stop struggling.
“Easy, Skipper. Just lie still.” It was Henrietta Foster. “You got a pretty nasty bump on your head. Doc just gave you an injection for pain.”
Allison opened his eyes and tried to focus. He was still in the conn. His XO was cradling his head and wiping the blood away from a gash behind his right ear.
“The… the boat?” he stammered.
“Boise is okay,” Foster answered. “Looks like that last torpedo hit the coral just aft of us. That still gave us enough of a jolt to cause some flooding through the stern tube. We’re bobbing on the surface right now, inspecting damages.”
“And...”
“Crew is good. Few bumps and bruises, like you. Damage reports coming in. Port turbine generator breaker popped open. Re-shut okay. Steam leak on the evaporator, isolated now. Sonar reports loss of the TB-34 towed array. No signal and no continuity. All in all, looks like we were pretty lucky.”
Allison tried to shake his head, but it hurt like mortal hell. “We wouldn’t have been so lucky if you hadn’t thought of sneaking behind the atoll, XO. Good thinking. You saved our butts. We know anything about the rest of the players?”
Foster answered, “Heavy fighting on the island. Must have been assault troops on those rubber boats the Chinese were launching. It appears the Kee Lung was sunk. And both of the Chinese subs. There’s no way to tell who hit what in all that mess. But folks died. Lots of folks.”
Allison nodded, grimaced with the pain even that small amount of movement caused, then held his head as a wave of nausea rolled over him. He relaxed and sucked in a deep breath, which seemed to help.
>
“Just as well. I imagine there will be a lot of finger pointing from all points of the compass.” He felt himself drifting back into the darkness. “Good job, XO. Relay that to the crew, too. Something tells me we have steamed right square into the middle of a massive shit storm.”
“You may have gotten a good crack on the noggin, Skipper,” Foster told him, “but your navigation instincts are impeccable.”
16
Soo Be Xian was absolutely ecstatic. Finally, here was the chance to put his over-reaching rival, Yon Ba Deng, and his upstart submariner brother in their proper place. That would preferably be a place of disgrace, far from the corridors of power. Apparently, the Assistant Vice Deputy to the Minister of National Defense for Naval Matters had lost control of his own navy. And certainly, his brother’s submarine force. How else to explain a pair of rogue submarines trying to start a war with Taiwan? And possibly, by extension, with the rest of the world.
Soo Be Xian rubbed his chin as he relished the situation. Yes, it was unfortunate that his country would be seen as the aggressor against Taiwan over such a bit of worthless flotsam, a little coral atoll of no real value. Still, assuming it did not kick off another world war, was there something he could personally gain from this situation? Maybe a way to remove Yon Ba Deng from the Party position that the blowhard so liked to flaunt. Perhaps he could even wrangle himself a path to reach a Party position?
But, how to proceed? What should his strategy be? Soo Be Xian doodled on a scrap of paper as he pondered the possibilities. There were two possible approaches in which to deal with the current ugly situation.
They could always order a hasty retreat, abandoning the Jiaolong Assault Team special operators still fighting against superior forces on the atoll. After the media had moved on to their next click-bait and ratings, tensions would quickly de-escalate. Yes, there would be a significant loss of face, not to mention the loss of some good and loyal soldiers, but that would be fleeting. Soon, those who complained the loudest—with the exception of the pretenders in Taiwan itself—would be coming around again, wanting to complete trade deals, accept investment capital, and bask in the glow of China’s growth and prosperity. But, at least in the interim, China would be seen as a paper tiger, cowed by a tiny break-away part of the homeland.
The other option was far more visceral and much more likely to save face. They could decide to be the big tiger in the jungle. Shove aside the Taiwanese and, after all these years of threats and bluster, take back at least this small island that was rightfully Chinese territory in the first place. If Taiwan—or anyone else—still believed that such a clump of coral was worth an all-out war, then so be it. China was ready and had plenty of cannon fodder to use to make its claim stick.
Plus—and it was a big plus—the PLAN could still claim, and with considerable evidence, that a Taiwanese warship had brutally attacked Chinese vessels conducting basic operations in territorial waters. Taiwan started it. China was merely protecting the assets and brave patriots of its navy, ambushed for no apparent reason.
“Bien Sung!” Soo Be Xian suddenly yelled.
His general factotum peeked through the narrowly opened door.
“You called, Minister?”
“Yes. Yes, I did. I want you to contact the Party Secretary’s staff at once. It is time for the Politburo to discuss the Dongsha matter. Then get Colonel General Xiang on a secure video call. We have some actions that must be set in motion. And we must do it quickly.”
Ψ
Yon Ba Deng furiously massaged his temples, as if that might make his crushing headache disappear. He struggled to remain calm. Equilibrium was the key. He must maintain a level balance if he was to avoid allowing anger and frustration to replace clear thinking. As the ancient master Laozi taught, he would have to get back in harmony with the tao, with “the way.”
Yon Ba Deng sat upright and forced a calm smile. The Tianshi, the Celestial Masters, pointed the way to the wu wei, a state of perfect knowledge, of perfect efficaciousness, of perfect economy of energy. Now, more than ever before, he needed to center his thoughts and find the way.
As his breathing stabilized, Yon Ba Deng idly caressed his ancient copy of the Taishang Ganying Pian—Treatise on the Response of the Tao—drawing calming comfort from the yellowing xuan paper with its faintly musty smell and smooth rice-paper texture.
But then the high-level Communist Party functionary lost control of his emotions once again when he glanced at the message on his computer screen. His quest for calm was immediately shattered. Yesterday it had been that pompous, fat pig of a monarch, King Tofuwanga, trying his very best to start a shooting war in the South Pacific, and just to grab all the gold long before Yon Ba Deng was ready to claim it and parse it out properly.
Now, though, new details on the screen sent his blood pressure soaring. A couple of submarine captains, sent on a simple diversionary mission, instructed to shoot up some out-of-the-way Taiwanese guard compound, had decided, apparently on their own, to launch an invasion. To make matters far worse, for some reason, they had attacked and sunk a Taiwanese destroyer in the process. The intelligence report said that heavy fighting continued on the little island. And now, the Taiwanese Air Force was flying combat sorties over it. And the worst of it? It was all over CNN and Times International.
Stubborn submarine captains often acted independently. But once these two were back in port, Yon Ba Deng would meet them at the dock to personally end their careers and their freedom.
“Excuse me, elder brother,” Bing Dou said as he stuck his head through the door. “South Sea Fleet Headquarters now reports that both of the submarines involved in the Dongsha Island affair have missed their second communications cycle. They are presuming that both submarines are lost. Likely at the hand of the destroyer before it was sunk. Searches are being launched.”
Yon Ba Deng slammed his fist onto his desk, any semblance of calm and balance now gone. The Celestial Masters had never been required to deal with such incompetent fools. Or to face the inevitable second-guessing from the Party.
Set up a diversion. That was all those idiots were supposed to do. Now it appeared they and their crews had died while effectively starting a major shooting war. Maybe even the one the West and the traitors on Taiwan had expected China to launch since 1949. And, if things went badly—as they certainly would—then the blame would surely fall on him.
Yon Ba Deng looked around the room, again attempting to draw comfort and inspiration from the ancient artifacts he had carefully assembled over the years, artifacts from when China was truly the Middle Kingdom, the center of the world. Before the Century of Shame that had been brought about by the uncivilized Westerners and their exploitation. Surely there was something in the artifacts from which he could draw on the wisdom of the ancients. A bit of guidance to how he should work toward rectifying the wrongs of the last century and return China to her rightful place as the leader of the world.
And, of course, elevate him to his deserved position along with it.
But even the ancients’ eternal wisdom was failing him when applied to this immediate crisis. Another note appeared with an ominous ding on the computer screen: The Party Committee for Internal Security was calling an emergency session, almost certainly at the behest of that toady, Soo Be Xian. The only agenda item to discuss was the Dongsha fiasco.
Yon Ba Deng needed a strategy more than ever. And it would have to be bulletproof.
Ψ
The long and bumpy open-water voyage was mercifully almost over. Two days and nights being bounced around onboard the open LCM or doing little more than lying around topside on the three patrol boats had left most of the Tongan Marines irritable, tired, and battered. Many hung onto the railings, wrung dry by repeated bouts of seasickness. That was the primary reason the high limestone bluffs of Niue that loomed on the eastern horizon were a welcome sight when they popped up from the waves, a dark splotch against the gray-pink glow of the rising sun.
The tiny Tongan armada had actually arrived off the coral island in the middle of the night, but navigating the narrow opening through the reef that surrounded Niue was too hazardous to attempt in the moonless darkness. The Tongans, though anxious to get the operation underway, wisely decided to wait a few hours for the rising sun.
Finally, when the sun was a bare glimmer on the horizon, the elements of the Tongan Navy threaded through the hole in the crashing surf, into the calm turquoise waters awaiting them inside the sheltering reef. The closest thing that Niue had to a harbor was the capital village of Alofi. It had no piers and only one small beach that the LCM landing craft could use, the only logical access for an invasion force. Everywhere else, the waves lapped up against a cliff that rose several meters above the water’s surface.
The LCM boldly drove up onto the beach and dropped its bow door so that the troops could loudly rush ashore. They were greeted by a couple of curious fishermen heading out for the morning catch and a pair of energetic Japanese tourists completing their early run.
The first company of invading troops charged down the Coast Road and then onto Tapeu-Porritt Road, the crushed coral track that led to the airport. Meanwhile, the LCM made runs out and back, shuttling the rest of the troops from the patrol boats, anchored just offshore, back to the beach.
Niue had no defense force and only a couple of constables to keep the peace. By the time the last of the Tongan marines were on dry land, the airport and the telephone exchange next door, the only real links to the outside world, were officially in the hands of the invaders. Not a shot had been fired, except the accidental discharge of one constable’s Webley pistol when he was being relieved of it. The only injury in that incident had been to a cell phone charging station that happened to be in the line of fire.