Onslaught

by David Poyer

  “Bird one away,” the 1MC announced.

  Dan eased a breath out. “Time to let everybody know what’s going on. Matt, inform Fleet we’re entering the strait to take on the invasion fleet, in support of our commitments to the Republic of China. We’ve opened fire on two Chinese aircraft who were in attack profiles. That’s within our self-defense ROEs. They’re not going to say anything, but get a roger, so they can’t say we never informed them.”

  The ship’s fabric shuddered again. “Bird two away,” Nuckols said over the announcing system. Eleven seconds between each launch, to prevent buildup of exhaust and clear the guidance for the succeeding round. Two. Three. Four.

  Three blue semicircles clicked into existence and began tracking outward from the circle-in-a-cross that was Own Ship. Dan frowned. He had a radar return from the last round, but the track data looked different. He gave it five seconds, then swiveled in his seat. “Status on Standards.”

  “Round Four’s not responding to semiactive guidance.” The console operator lifted her head. “Permission to abort and destroy.”

  “Matt?”

  “It’s out there seekering on its own, Captain. If it misses the H-6s, it’ll cross the air transport corridor. Recommend we let it go.”

  “Uh … okay. I guess.”

  The EW operator called across the space, voice going high, “Vampire, vampire, vampire! Missile seeker. X-band. Bearing … two four zero. Correlates with C-601 terminal radar seeker. Designate Vampire Alfa.”

  Dan nodded grimly. The H-6s were launching before his weapons reached them. Might even have detected them on their way. Muffled thuds came from outside. In the cameras, smoke trails smeared the sky, tipped with flame-hot pinpoints. “Chaff away,” Wenck murmured. “Deploy rubber duckies?”

  Inflatable decoys, released from aft. “Let’s hold off on them,” Dan said. “Donnie, can you spoof these guys off us? I hate to waste more birds on them. Range to the nearest picket?”

  “Vampire, vampire—”

  “Belay verbal reports, got ’em on the screen. Unless they get within twenty miles.”

  “Range to picket, thirty-two miles, Captain. Classify as Type 054 frigate.”

  Hunched, staring up at the diplays, he was running the numbers in his head. As, no doubt, Mills and Fang were too. Dependent for so many years on carrier aircraft for sea control, the Navy had neglected long-range missiles. Resulting in his main antiship weapon being the Harpoon, with both a shorter range—only around seventy miles—and a lighter warhead than those of comparable Chinese weapons. On the other hand, long-range missiles were useless without targeting information. And both sides had destroyed the others’ recon satellites.

  Unfortunately, the H-6s orbiting behind the Chinese coast were probably feeding targeting on him at that very moment. It would take time to percolate up and then down again. But that time might be measured in minutes, or mere seconds.

  “Surface contact, designate Skunk Alfa. Looks like that Type 054. Designate to track … lock on.”

  “He’s a shooter. Soon as you have a firm lock, bust him and the guys with him. Coordinate with Mitscher. Simultaneous launch. Bust ’em hard.”

  Mills passed that over the net, then clicked back to Weps Control circuit. “Stand by on ’Poon. Four engagement, salvo fire … batteries released.”

  Again the ship vibrated to the rumble of outgoing freight. That was half his Harpoons gone. Only four left, in the slanted racks on his fantail. Savo just hadn’t been loaded out for surface action. “Stand by for intercept, tracks 0207, 0208,” Terranova said, voice soft, but carrying.

  Dan glanced over, gauging her expression. Bland. “Roger, Petty Officer Terranova,” he said, and got a level look back from the Terror.

  He was back on the display when the friendly-missile and hostile-aircraft callouts merged. At the same time, the EW stack operator called, “Vampire, vampire close! CSSC-2 seeker, locked on.”

  “Taking for action,” Wenck muttered, head down.

  Dan risked a glance. He didn’t like the chief’s expression. “Can you fox it?”

  “Don’t know—trying to take control now.”

  “If you can’t, crash it. We’ve got other problems.”

  From EW: “Launch indications, Skunk Bravo, Skunk Delta, Skunk Kilo. Multiple fire-control radar lock-ons. Noise jamming from two six five. Correlates with Heart Ache. Commencing ECM.”

  “Shifting to antijam waveform,” Terranova called over the console.

  A separate battle was taking place in the radio spectrum. Along with warning and threat identification, Savo’s suite could jam, degrade, and blind the enemy’s radars, including the seekers on the incoming missiles. The cruiser didn’t have to disappear from their screens, just break its track, or present an electronic doppelganger in a different location. A second’s, two seconds’, delay could send a missile zipping harmlessly past, or force it to pop up and dive toward where the ship wasn’t.

  An arcane art, highly classified and only partially computerized. Unfortunately, the more radars their suite had to work against, the less bandwidth and power it could spare for each one. Power density, bandwidth of the victim receiver, antenna factors, propagation losses, environmental effects—he couldn’t get down in those weeds. But in high-signal-emitter environments, they could be overwhelmed.

  He just had to trust that his guys knew their business.

  He tore his gaze away. “Shift Aegis to self-defense. Sea Whiz released. Standard released. Shift chaff and decoys to slick-32 control.”

  Mills passed the commands. Voices rose behind them. The displays flickered, afflicted with some digital palsy that made the hostile symbols stutter and jump. The enemy was degrading him as well. With the A/C off, the air was growing stuffy. A nitrate stench of solid-fuel smoke penetrated. A tickle grew in his throat; he hacked out a cough. The space leaned as Savo angled herself, presenting a smaller target to the artificial intelligences her own computers were matching themselves against. He hunched over the desk, blotting sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his coveralls.

  * * *

  OVER the next fifteen minutes, still tearing south at thirty-three knots, Savo fielded six incoming Silkworms and two newer C-803s, taking the last under fire with five-inch guns and Phalanx as they shook off attempts to hijack their guidance. Red Hawk reported in and asked for orders. Dan vectored the helo to set sonobuoys to the northeast, to make sure their route out would be clear. The flat slams of the guns vibrated the stringers more sharply than the longer-drawn-out roars of departing missiles. More missiles homed in on the other ships in his battle line, and on the Koreans, miles to starboard. The bass drone of the full-auto 20mms shook dust out of the overhead. Dan stayed on the command net, counting down the miles as more and more contacts speckled the radars. Ships, aircraft, more bombers, turning toward him like T-cells targeting a dangerous microbe as whoever controlled the invasion realized the threat developing to the north.

  “We have a problem, Captain,” Fang muttered,

  “I see that.” Dan eyed a new swarm lifting from Fuzhou. Some were no doubt H-6Gs, which the red book said could remotely cue land-launched missiles onto his location.

  A shiver ran up his back. He’d expected a reaction, but not in this strength. He needed the Air Force. Needed penetrating stealth bombers, to take out the jammers and coast defense batteries that were spitting missiles like olive pits at a Greek dinner. He clicked the IC dial to the Aegis circuit. “Donnie? We’re gonna get blitzed here pretty damn soon. What’ve you got for range to the nearest fat, dumb troop transport?”

  “Roughly seventy miles. But we’re degrading. Somebody out there’s good. He’s freq-hopping about two milliseconds behind us. So we get one good return, then garbage.”

  “What are you calling it as? Amphib, commercial?”

  “Got a group of five at 138,000 yards, bearing two two five. See it up there? Four solid contacts, a smaller one that might be an escort.”

  �
�Rice Lamp fire control and Racal nav radar on that bearing. Correlates with Jiangkai I frigate,” the EW petty officer put in.

  The Jiangkais carried C-803s, a high-subsonic cruise with a jamproof homer. “He might have fired those last two we had to take with Sea Whiz,” Mills muttered. In the blue glow of the screens, his face gleamed with sweat too.

  “All right, we’re in range.” He scanned the weapons-inventory screen. “How many Harpoons left … oh yeah. Program all four rounds for simultaneous TOT. Then let’s crank the fuck out of here.” Mills nodded, murmuring into his mike, and Dan clicked back to the command net. “All units Dragonglass, this is Ringmaster. Weapons free. I say again, weapons free. On my command, turn away. Starboard column turn starboard, port column turn port. Chaff and decoys. Retire on course zero five zero. Flank speed. Acknowledge.”

  The responses came back fuzzed by a buzzsaw wail of noise jamming. “This is Mount Shiomi, roger, out.”

  “This is Steel Hammer, roger, out.”

  “Cannoneer, roger, out.”

  He gave it a beat. Then, “War Drums, War Drums—did you copy my last? Over.”

  Jung’s drawl was casual. “This is War Drums. One swing of my sword, and blood will fly.”

  “Oh, fuck me,” Dan muttered. He exchanged a horrified glance with Fang. Said, into the mike, “This is Ringmaster actual. Admiral, we have at least twelve inbound aircraft, loaded with vampires. Recommend you expend Harpoons and turn away.”

  “This is War Drums. We will press the attack home. Do you see the larger group behind the one you just fired on? We’re taking them. First with Harpoon. Then with guns and torpedoes. Over.”

  “Fuck me,” Dan muttered again, disbelieving what he was hearing. On the screen, yes, though it wavered and blanked, a second gaggle of transports was taking shape behind the one Savo’s Harpoons were jumping toward each quarter of a second. Unescorted, as far as he could make out. On a course for Hsinchu. Five of them. No, six.

  You could put a division on six transports. Half the first wave. He couldn’t believe it wasn’t escorted. But even the PLAN didn’t have infinite numbers of cans. They’d probably front-loaded them, first across the strait, to clear any resistance and have them on station to provide gunfire support during the landing. And cover the beach assault of the air cushion craft, if Fang was right about using them to push up the riverbed.

  But there was no way Jung was getting into gun range. Not with the avalanche headed their way.

  In his ears: “Ringmaster, this is Cannoneer.” “Stony” Stonecipher, on Mitscher. Two miles ahead, four thousand yards closer to the enemy. “All ordnance expended. Interrogative execute turn away. Over.”

  “Uh, stand by … break. War Drums, this is Ringmaster. Major air reaction headed our way. Imperative we break off action now. Over.”

  “This is War Drums. You may break away, by all means. We are heading in.”

  “He’s not turning back,” Mills muttered. “We need to give Mitscher the okay. Turn away in column? Or corpen?”

  Two ways existed for a formation in line ahead to turn in the face of the enemy. To “corpen” away meant ships turned in succession, one after the other, each unit putting its rudder over in the same patch of sea as the ship in front. In classical tactics, this had meant that an enemy line could concentrate its fire on each ship in turn, “crossing the T”—a recipe for heavy damage. A “turn together” meant every unit put its wheel over at once to a common course. Resulting, if the turn away was 90 degrees, in a line abreast, or if 180 degrees, in a fast, neat, orderly reversal of direction, with the unit formerly bringing up the tail now in the lead.

  Dan had envisioned two course changes of 90 degrees, to lessen the confusion—always a good thing in battle—and reduce the possibility of collision, while allowing full play of train-limited launchers and jamming systems.

  Now Jung was refusing to break off at all. He wanted to charge for the guns.

  Just like the Light Brigade.

  Just like Pickett’s Charge.

  He gripped the edge of the table, caught in the toothed jaws of a dilemma. Joining Jung might mean their own destruction. Turning away meant leaving him to disaster.

  “Maintain course and speed,” he forced through numb lips.

  “Captain. You serious?” Mills had gone white. “This is suicide.”

  His own mouth had gone dry. “I know. But we have to do it, Matt. Close up the lines. Tighten the interval. Mutual support. I’ll try to reason with him. Meanwhile…” He reviewed the formation in his mind.… “Release Chokai. Give her a turn two seven, ninety degrees to port, so she clears Curtis Wilbur.”

  Mills rogered. Dan cased the displays again, noting yet more air contacts blinking into existence above the mainland. Once they hit angels ten, they turned toward him. For the first time, he wished Savo were a submarine. He wanted to pull the sea over him. Go deep, go silent, vanish under the opaque solidity of salt water. On the other hand, two of the five surface skunks he and Mitscher had chosen for the brunt of their attack had vanished from the screen. If Savo had to go down fighting, she wouldn’t perish alone.

  “Vampire, vampire. Multiple seekers, X-band, correlate with C-802 terminal homers, bearings two seven eight through two eight zero. Inbound.”

  He was rogering when the 21MC clicked on. Cheryl, from the bridge. “TAO, CO: Are you hearing Dreadnought on Navy Red?”

  “Dreadnought” was Seventh Fleet. His immediate superior. “Uh, this is CO. I guess I turned that remote down … a lot going on here right now.… What are you hearing, XO?”

  “Denial of permission to enter the strait. Denial of permission to attack.”

  He couldn’t suppress an ironic smile. “A little late, Exec. Seems like we’re already here.”

  Savo leaned into a turn. Closing the files, as he’d ordered. Beside him Mills put his hand on his arm. “Chokai refuses order to turn away.”

  Staurulakis: “I passed that information. Fleet orders you to break contact and extract.”

  So there’d be hell to pay. “Uh, that’s my intent, but I seem to be having problems getting it through to everybody. Put it to ’em again, Matt. There’s no point everybody riding into the jaws of death here.” He coughed again, couldn’t seem to stop this time. Someone slapped his back, pounding hard.

  He caught his breath and straightened, to another thunder-clamor as more missiles departed Savo’s forward and aft magazines. Aegis was in full auto mode now. Evaluating the incoming threats. Running the detect-to-engage sequence, calculating probabilities, assigning weapons, and taking the shot, faster than any human brain could follow.

  But at the same time, depleting ordnance much faster than he liked. He could almost feel her floating lighter in the water. The weapon-inventory numbers were dropping. At this rate, his magazines would be empty in minutes.

  Someone had put the forward camera on the leftmost display. They zoomed in on a tiny glow, like a hot star, low to the horizon. Other than that, the screen was dark. He’d almost forgotten, it was night up there. The thud of the chaff mortars made him flinch. The star brightened, glowing, began to rise, then angled off to starboard. An incoming Silkworm or C-803. Following the bright infrared beacons of the burning flares.

  Then, suddenly, a reddish flash on the horizon. Not too far ahead. “What the hell was that?” Fang muttered, frowning up at it.

  Dan reached for his terminal and keyed, not trusting memory. Searching for ship class, then weaponry, then specifications. Ulsan-class frigates carried the Blue Shark. Basically a light antisubmarine torpedo, but with a surface attack mode, too. Range, about fifteen miles. At forty-five knots. But …

  “This is Cannoneer,” Stonecipher’s voice came over the tac net. Enunciating slowly. “Missile hit forward.”

  “Mitscher’s hit,” Mills announced, getting it by some other channel, apparently.

  Dan asked for damage reports. This was looking more and more like the battle Savo Island had been named after.
That had been a night action too. The Imperial Fleet had surprised, outnumbered, and outfought the overconfident, badly coordinated U.S. and Australian tin cans and cruisers.

  He couldn’t keep plowing ahead, into the dragon’s yawning jaws. But neither could he pull out, and let the Koreans throw away their lives.

  Only one possibility suggested itself. He leaned to hit the 21MC. “CO, Sonar. Carpenter, you there?”

  “Hey, yeah, Cap’n. What’cha need?”

  “Blue Shark, Rit. Korean torp. Know it?”

  “Oh yeah. Worked with ’em at TAG.”

  “Tell me it has a loiter mode. Circular cruise at low speeds until it picks something up.”

  “Like a Mark 46? Yeah, it does. I’m pretty sure.”

  “What’d be the range, running that fish out in cruise mode? A lot farther than the rated high-speed range, right?”

  “Yeah, hell of a lot. Based on how we used to tinker with the old Mark 35 on Pargo. Drop speed by a third, we’d double the range. And, hey, don’t forget ASROC. We don’t carry ’em, but some of the guys in company do.”

  The old sonarman meant the rocket-launched torpedoes some of the ships without organic helicopters carried, to extend standoff distance. “Good reminder, Rit. Yeah, that would reach out.” He eyed the screen as the bombers clicked closer. They were nearly in launch range.

  Carpenter added, “But don’t forget, if you can get to them, they can give you a dose too. We sold ’em all our torpedo know-how. Now we’re gonna pay for it.”

  Dan double-clicked off. Carpenter was right, but then, the other side didn’t know where USS Savo Island and her consorts would be in an hour. Whereas he knew pretty much exactly where they were headed. “Matt. Range to the main transport group?”

  “I’m getting … thirty-two miles.”

  He stared up at the display, visualizing the vectors, solving them in his head. If they aimed where the transports would be in fifty minutes, straight run would be less than thirty miles. He clicked to the Weps Control circuit. “CO, Torpedo Control. Mark 46, surface mode, extended range?”