The second and third planes attacked in quick succession. Missiles flashed off wings, sought targets, and blew up as the SRBOC mortars continued to chug.
How many decoys did the Queen have? Ryson couldn’t remember. He hoped it was enough.
Then one of the Chinese jet jockeys made a mistake. Previous runs had been made from the west, toward the missile boat’s stern, but this pilot decided to tackle the Queen head on. And more than that, to come in low under the chaff, skimming the wave tops.
And since missiles weren’t getting through, the pilot decided to use the plane’s secondary weapons. His 30mm GSh-30-1 autocannon was loaded with a hundred and fifty rounds, half of which splashed into the sea before he got close, leaving him with only seventy-five shells to put on the target.
What the pilot hadn’t considered was the fact that the Camo Queen’s bow gun could elevate high enough to engage planes, and that Gunner’s Mate Wes Cory was itching to bag a jet. “Come on motherfucker! Eat lead!”
And the Sukhoi did eat lead. A lot of it, even as rockets flared off the airplane’s wings, seeking the enemy. One went astray while the other struck the bridge. The force of the explosion destroyed the windscreen, killed Conte, and took the helmsman’s head clean off.
Blood flew everywhere, and the deck was slick with it, as Ryson stepped in to take control of the wheel. Wind buffeted his face as the bow cannon roared. The jet seemed to hesitate, and a wing dipped into the water. Ryson turned the boat to port to avoid the wreckage, while Cory screamed. “Yes! Yes! Fuck yes! That’s for my brother, you goddamned mother fucker!”
“Willkie,” Ryson said. “Conte’s down. So’s the quartermaster. Both are dead. What’s our status?”
“We took a hit aft of the radar mast, starboard side,” Willkie replied. “Both members of Stinger Team 2 were wounded. One is still on the job.
“The fast movers are closing from the west. They’re visible from the stern. And the target incoming from the east can be seen on the horizon.”
Ryson looked to his left. And sure enough, a ship was visible in the distance. A destroyer? Yes. Or a frigate. “What about the sub? Any news?”
“None so far.”
This sucks, Ryson thought, as the third plane attacked. I’ll join the army next time.
***
Aboard the United States submarine SSTN North Dakota in the South China Sea
Tim Hassan had been a sonar operator for only three months. But it was an easy call to make. “We have high speed screws in from the east. Plus, active sonar.”
Bonner swore. He had two choices. Surface and die. Or run and hide, leaving the men and women on the missile boat to perish. But that was unacceptable. “Palpate et moriar.” (Touch me and die.) That was the boat’s motto. A leftover from its previous incarnation as a ballistic missile sub. Before it was reduced to a tanker.
But the Dakota had four torpedo tubes. Each loaded with a Mk-48 torpedo. The weapons could be wire guided. Or, thanks to onboard AI, the fish could locate targets on their own. And that was the mode Bonner chose. The orders startled everyone.
“Bring the boat up to photonics depth. Standby to fire torpedoes. Program them to run independently.”
A sailor said, “This shit is getting real.”
“Belay that,” Ford ordered. “And see me when this is over.”
The deck tilted slightly as the North Dakota rose, the photonics package broke the surface, and Bonner hurried to take a look. It was a tin can alright, a Type 052D guided-missile destroyer, according to the data on the screen.
A quick pivot revealed the Type 22 boat as well, black smoke boiling up from midships, dead in the water. Why was she still afloat? The tin can could have destroyed the boat from a long way off. Maybe the enemy warship had orders to capture Allied personnel if they could. What a propaganda coup that would be! “I think they made us,” Hardy said. “They’re in range.”
It was a suggestion disguised as a comment. And Bonner knew the XO was correct. A Mk-48 could travel for more than twenty miles and still strike its target. And the tin can was only ten miles away. He didn’t have time to play cat and mouse. So, the best strategy was to fire everything he had, and hope that at least one of his weapons hit the target. “Stand by to fire tubes 1, 2, 3, and 4,” Bonner said. “Fire!”
Normally Bonner would monitor the torpedoes while taking steps to avoid whatever reprisal the destroyer might be capable of. But he had a different priority, and that was to rescue the people on the missile boat. “We have a job to do. Give me flank speed.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Aboard the Camo Queen, in the South China Sea
The missile boat was out of decoys by the time the third plane swooped in to fire a missile. The weapon struck just aft of the superstructure. Hot gasses and flying shrapnel penetrated the space below. “Doc” Crayton and an operations specialist were killed. “We have three missiles left,” Ryson said. “Kill the C 14 missile boats.”
“Yes, sir,” Willkie replied. “Firing 1, firing 2, and firing 3. Tracking.”
“Prepare to abandon ship,” Ryson announced. “Don PFDs and launch rafts.”
“Hits!” Willkie announced. “One C 14 destroyed, and one damaged.”
That made Ryson feel slightly better, but not much. “Well done. Get on deck, Lieutenant. And I mean now. We’re taking water.”
Ryson stepped out of the wheelhouse and onto the main deck. Distant thumps were heard. Two of them. “Look!” a sailor yelled, as he pointed east.
Ryson had to squint into the light reflecting off the sea. Something was wrong with the Chinese destroyer. Smoke was billowing up from a fire below deck and the ship had taken on a pronounced list. But why? There weren’t any Allied planes in the sky—and Allied surface vessels were nowhere to be seen.
Then it came to him. The North Dakota! It seemed that the submarine still had a set of torpedo tubes. And a captain who knew how to use them. “Clear the ship!” Ryson yelled. “Get clear!”
An eight-person raft was bobbing two yards away. Chief Bossert waved. “Jump Skipper!”
Ryson remained where he was. “Is everyone accounted for?”
“Yes, sir!” Bossert replied. “We had to leave the dead behind.”
That, unfortunately, was a fact of life. Or death.
Ryson jumped, landed in the water, and surfaced to discover hands reaching for him. Strong arms pulled him up and over the side. And there, sitting no more than a foot away, was Kelsey. Her sister was slumped in the stern.
Ryson pointed a finger at Kelsey. “Throw the bitch overboard.”
Kelsey blanched and tried to pull away. “Sorry, sir,” Bossert replied. “No can do.”
Ryson was about to give the order a second time when the sea started to boil, and a conning tower appeared. “Paddle!” Chief Bossert ordered. “Paddle hard!”
The remaining jet had been circling. Now, upon spotting the sub, it attacked.
***
Aboard the United States submarine SSTN North Dakota in the South China Sea
Orders flew as the submarine North Dakota surfaced. “Missile teams, on deck! Rescue teams, on deck! Prepare to take personnel aboard. Some could be wounded.”
Sailors boiled up out of the conning tower and descended to the deck. The Stinger teams were the first to arrive with launchers loaded. Ford was in charge. “Here they come! Acquire targets! Fire when ready!”
The fighter was already diving on the sub. So there were only seconds in which to aim and fire. The missiles leapt out of their tubes, seemed to pause for a second, and took off trailing spirals of gray smoke behind them. “Reload!” Ford ordered. “Prepare to fire!”
But there was no need. Both Stingers hit the jet. There was a flash of light followed by a resonant boom as the Sukhoi ceased to exist.
Meanwhile the first raft came alongside. It wasn’t easy to bring people up and over the sub’s rounded hull. But ropes were thrown. And except for the wounded, the incoming sailors manag
ed to pull themselves up, shoes slipping as they fought for traction.
Two of Ryson’s crewmembers weren’t in any condition to do that. Fortunately, Chief Bossert was there to expertly rope each casualty, so the sub’s crew could pull the casualties up and carry them below.
As the second raft arrived, a missile fell on what remained of the missile boat. Chinese warships were arriving from the west with orders to finish the Camo Queen off. There was a thump, followed by a muted boom, and the Type 22 was gone.
Strangely, Ryson felt badly about that. The Camo Queen had been his boat. For a while anyway, and he’d been fond of her.
The surviving members of Ryson’s crew were below deck by that time, and the sub was beginning to submerge. The Dakota was designed to carry up to sixty special forces personnel. That meant there was plenty of space for the survivors.
Ryson was sitting on the edge of a bunk, wrapped in a blanket, and staring at the deck under his bare feet. The mission had been a lie, precious lives had been lost, and the Sea Dragon continued to prowl the seas. It was the worst moment of his life. Depression pulled him down.
***
The mood in the Dakota’s control room was different. “The destroyer is on her side,” Hardy said exultantly. “She’ll sink soon.”
“Wonderful,” Bonner said. “Did you take pictures?”
“Of course,” his XO replied. “Why?”
“Because no one will believe us if you didn’t.” Bonner answered.
Hardy laughed. “The fast attack submarine, Gas Can. We rock.”
***
Aboard the semi-submersible cruiser Sea Dragon, off Sumatra
Captain Ko eyed the most recent weather report. A storm was brewing. And a good thing too, since it would be critical to a successful attack on Bangkok, Thailand’s capitol.
The mission came as a surprise to Ko because the PRC had been friendly with Thailand since 1975, and been regarded as a regional ally until the month before.
The country was governed by a military junta, a prime minister and, to a lesser extent, a king. All of which worked well from a Chinese perspective. But when Rama X died unexpectedly, and his son Rama XI inherited the throne, everything changed.
The young King Yingluck Chulaloke had been educated in the west, was demonstrably empathetic to his subjects, and therefore popular. So popular, that the majority of Thai citizens supported Chulaloke’s decision to join the Alliance, despite the dangers that posed.
It was a bet really, a bet that the Allies would win the war, thereby placing Thailand on the right side of history. And a gamble that China wouldn’t invade.
Much to everyone’s surprise the ruling junta backed Chulaloke’s plan. After all, they reasoned, if China sent troops to Thailand—they’d have to pass through either Myanmar or Laos. And if the invasion went poorly the Allies might attack China from the south.
But President Lau wasn’t about to sit still for that sort of thing, and summoned Vice Admiral Chao who, as the architect of the attack on Okinawa, was something of a favorite.
After explaining the strategic situation, Lau made his pitch. “Since a land invasion might fail, what about an attack from the sea? The sort of attack that would turn the populace against Chulaloke and, if properly planned, might even result in his death?”
Chao had a tendency to like all of Lau’s ideas, especially those that could help him make full admiral.
Ko saw Chao as a version of Abraham Maslow’s man with a hammer, meaning a person to whom everything looks like a nail. And the Sea Dragon was that nail.
And so the order came down. “Take the Sea Dragon, attack Bangkok, and use information supplied by MSS to kill Rama XI.”
It was a stupid plan. Because in order to reach the Gulf of Thailand and launch missiles, the Sea Dragon would have to round the Cambodian coast, and pass through the part of the South China Sea dominated by the Allies. All of whom were searching for Ko’s ship.
That’s where the storm came in. According to the government meteorologists a tropical storm was brewing. And not just any tropical storm, but one that might produce cyclones. A fact that would send most, if not all, of the Alliance surface ships scurrying for a safe port. Meanwhile, thanks to her low center of gravity and submarine-like design, the Sea Dragon would slip through unnoticed.
That was the plan. And, after Ko made his way up into Conning Tower 1, there was every indication that the storm had arrived. The light was starting to fade, the wind was blowing the tops off waves, and cold spume was flying through the air.
In spite of her enormous size, the semi-submersible was pitching forward and back, as if bowing to Goddess Tianfei who would protect them. And that was just as well, since no one else could.
***
The sour stench of vomit hung in the air as Lieutenant Jev Jing was thrown sideways into a steel hatch. Then the Sea Dragon dipped into the trough between a couple of waves, causing unsecured equipment and litter to cascade down the main passageway. Jing battled to keep his footing and barely managed to do so. He was on his way to the Operations Compartment where he was scheduled to relieve the communications officer on duty.
The shit show on Tonaki Island seemed like ancient history at that point. After killing Lieutenant Ma, who’d been intent on murdering a Japanese family, Jing had assumed he would be punished. But, when the time came for Jing to face a disciplinary panel—consisting of Captain Ko, Chief Engineer Hong, and a marine captain named Ho—he was surprised by the way it turned out. After telling the story of how the landing went, and how the sound of gunfire summoned him to the village, he discovered that one of Ma’s men had been beheaded with a samurai sword.
The murderer was already dead at that point, and Ma was inside a house, preparing to slaughter the killer’s family, when Jing entered. “I shot Lieutenant Ma,” Jing confessed. “The murderer was dead. And I feared that killing his family would trigger a general uprising. And, well, killing civilians is wrong.”
The last argument was the weakest. That’s the way many military men would see it. But it was true. And, fortunately for Jing, the panel agreed. No charges were filed.
In the report submitted to higher authorities Ma was listed as having been killed in action. That being a simple way to paper everything over, and avoid needless pain for Ma’s family.
As a result, Jing’s status had risen. “How about Jing?” he overheard a sailor say. “He killed an officer and got away with it!”
Jing managed to grab a railing as the ship heaved, made use of it to drag himself along, and stumbled into the com compartment. A chair offered a welcome landing spot. A tech was barfing into a waste basket. The watch had begun.
***
It was completely dark and a 34-knot wind was blowing from the south. The Sea Dragon was pitching, but thanks to the fact that most of her hull was partially submerged, the wind didn’t have much superstructure to push against. Visibility was zero. And everything of importance could be seen on radar. So, Ko sent his sailors below, and followed them down.
The main threat, other than the storm, were enemy submarines. Weather conditions were meaningless to them. But with an attack sub scouting the way for the Sea Dragon, it was very unlikely that the cruiser would be subject to a surprise attack.
The second most important threat was psychological. And had to do with morale which, in Ko’s opinion, was too good. A strange situation to be sure. But real nevertheless.
Ko put out a request for his department heads to gather in the wardroom. The officers who met there represented the deck, operations, weapons, engineering, communications, medical and intelligence departments. Only two of them were visibly seasick.
Once the officers were seated, a sailor served tea, and placed dishes of peanuts on the table. Ko knew the sailor was listening. And would share what he heard with shipmates, who would tell their friends, and so forth. An informal process that would help to spread Ko’s message.
“There is,” Ko told them from his posit
ion at the end of the table, “a proverb about pride: ‘Modesty benefits, arrogance hurts—and the modest receive benefit, while the conceited reap failure.’ And we, my friends, are both overconfident and conceited.”
Most of the officers at the table saw Ko as brilliant but eccentric. The altar to Tianfei being an obvious example of that. And here was yet another one of Captain Ko’s quirks.
After three amazing victories, with only a few casualties, the Sea Dragon was a powerful emblem of China’s martial prowess and limitless future. That was a good thing.
It was, nevertheless, necessary to maintain a Wu biaoqing de lian (expressionless face). Most of the department heads were thinking about sex, money, or power as Ko delivered a ten-minute sermon on the merits of humility. Ko closed with a quote from Confucius: “Humility is the solid foundation of all virtues.”
Once dismissed the officers hurried away. The single exception was Chief Engineer Hong. He stood. “They hear, but don’t understand.”
“That’s true,” Ko agreed. “But it was necessary to try. They don’t seem to grasp the difficulty of what lies ahead.”
Hong nodded. “We will get in. But will we get out?”
“Exactly,” Ko replied. “The answer is up to Tianfei.”
“And the Allies.”
Ko grinned. “‘And the Allies.’”
***
The storm raged for hours. But finally, around 0300, the maelstrom began to abate. The Sea Dragon’s crew was exhausted by then. Physical injuries included a broken arm, a lacerated forehead, a concussion, two sprains, and a case of dehydration so severe than an IV drip was required.
Those on duty struggled to maintain focus. And those who were off duty found it hard to sleep. Fortunately, there were no emergencies to contend with. And, from Ko’s point of view, the discomfort had been worth it as the Sea Dragon approached the Gulf of Thailand.
The ship rounded Ca Mau Cape off of Cambodia at 0546. The next leg of the journey involved steaming north through the Gulf of Thailand to the Bight of Bangkok. That would put the capitol city inside the seventy-five-mile range of the cruiser’s YJ-91 missiles. Hong’s words echoed in Ko’s head. “We will get in. But will we get out?”
Red Tide Page 28