Overwhelming Force

by Andrew Watts

  The survivor was just in front of the helicopter now. He wore what looked like some type of white space suit, with a futuristic-looking helmet. It must have been watertight and pressurized, because it looked inflated. An orange-and-white parachute dragged in the water behind the guy, eight-foot waves lifting him up and down every few seconds.

  “Twenty-five feet. Seas are a little rough.”

  “Roger.” Victoria began pulling in more power, slowing their descent. A vortex of white sea spray circled into the air around them as the rotor wash hit the ocean’s surface.

  “Fifteen feet.”

  Another smidgen of collective. Her head was turning left and right, scanning the horizon, then rechecking her instruments. The sea spray coated the cockpit windscreen now.

  “Wipers on.”

  Her copilot’s gloved hand shot up and flipped the switch that powered on the windshield wipers.

  Victoria leaned her head to the right, looking out her side window and through the chin bubble at her feet. The survivor was just ahead of them, and with the waves, this was as low as she wanted to get. “Fetternut, how’s this look?”

  “Looks good, Boss.”

  “Roger, Jump. Jump. Jump.”

  In the rear of the aircraft, AWR1 Fetternut signaled the rescue swimmer that they were ready.

  Wearing a black wet suit, gloves, mask and snorkel, the rescue swimmer shimmied his butt along the gray cabin deck of the helicopter, adrenaline pumping as he kept his legs forward and pulled himself towards the edge of the door. He tried not to think about the size of the waves as they crested mere feet below the wheels of the helicopter. The survivor was at his two o’clock position, floating face-up, arms and legs extended outward, his astronaut-style helmet closed.

  Two hard taps on his back, and AWR2 Jones pushed himself over the edge. He dropped towards the blue-and-white ocean surface, flexing his legs together, holding his fins pointed straight down, arms across his chest.

  The drop was deceptively far. He must have fallen a full twenty-five feet by the time he hit the water. The loud engines and rotor noise disappeared into dark silence as he went under. Greenish blue light above. Then his head bobbed above the waterline and the noise came back. Jones quickly threw his mask on. An imaginary timer ticked along in his head as he kicked his powerful legs and swam towards the pilot.

  When he reached the survivor, Jones began to worry that the guy wasn’t alive. The helmet visor was reflective, and Jones couldn’t see his face. But then the man gave a slight movement with one of his hands.

  A wave washed over them, causing momentary disorientation. When Jones regained his position aside the survivor, he saw Fetternut signaling him from the cabin of the helicopter and pointing at his watch. Hurry up.

  Fighting the spray from the helicopter and the rolls of the waves, Jones used a sidestroke to pull the downed pilot towards the helicopter’s hovering position. Fetternut was already sending the large metal rescue basket down the rescue hoist. Jones quickly but carefully placed the survivor in it and gave a thumbs-up. He stabilized the basket as Fetternut reeled it up. A moment later, the rescue hoist came down again, sans basket. The powerful rotor wash kicked up sea spray all around them, like a hurricane, the waves sending him up and down towards the aircraft. Finally, Jones hooked himself to the hoist and was reeled up.

  The second he was in the bird, he saw Fetternut yelling something into his helmet microphone and felt the aircraft nose forward.

  The man in the space suit was sitting upright, helmet off now. Fetternut was tending to him. The pilot was older. Probably at least fifty, by the look of him, Jones thought. What the hell was that old guy doing out here?

  Victoria had just washed up and put on a clean flight suit when the phone in her stateroom rang.

  “Airboss.”

  “Ma’am, the captain requests your presence in Medical.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Victoria walked through officer’s country and through the wardroom. Dinner was being served. The sounds of plates being scraped bare and loud conversation. An old action movie playing on the TV in the corner of the room.

  “Boss, you gonna join us?”

  “I have to see the captain.”

  “Jones said he wants a medal. He hasn’t stopped talking about his rescue. Thinks he saved an astronaut and won the war.”

  Despite the seriousness of the situation, Victoria couldn’t help smiling. “Astronaut, huh? Well, tell him to put that in the write-up.”

  One of the cooks asked, “Airboss, you want us to save you a plate?”

  “That would be great, CS2.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Anything is fine. I could eat a horse.”

  One of her pilots whispered, “Good, that’s what they made.”

  She left and walked down the p-way and then down the ladder, heading towards the ship’s medical compartment. There was a master-at-arms standing outside the door, an M-9 holstered on his hip.

  “Ma’am.”

  “Guard duty, huh?”

  “XO’s orders, ma’am.”

  She spotted the captain through the open doorway. “Please come in, Victoria.”

  She entered and saw the captain and XO standing next to the man they’d rescued, who sat on the blue examination table. He had a bruised left eye and a bandage on his neck. A thick gray mustache and an exhausted look on his face. Someone had given him a set of Navy coveralls to wear, with the crows of an O-6 collar device pinned on.

  “This is Colonel Wojcik. He’s just flown in,” the captain said as if it was nothing remarkable.

  Victoria held out her hand. “How are you feeling, sir?”

  “You’ll excuse me if I don’t get up. I’m still a bit sore.” They shook hands. “I understand that you were the one who rescued me?”

  “One of my rescue swimmers did, sir. I was flying the aircraft, though.”

  “Well, my most sincere gratitude to you and your men. Please know that if we’re ever in the same bar, none of you will ever pay for another drink as far as I’m concerned.”

  “You might think differently about that if you knew my aircrewmen, sir.”

  The colonel laughed, then winced, holding his ribs.

  “Sir, may I ask what happened? Were you shot down?”

  “Actually, as far as I can remember, it was just an accident. Mechanical failure of the engine cooling system. We would have to retrieve the computers to know for sure. The aircraft is a prototype…was a prototype, I should say. They threw this mission together knowing that something like this might happen.”

  “It was a reconnaissance mission, sir?”

  “It was.”

  Commander Boyle said, “Victoria, I’m afraid the colonel has some urgent news. I wanted you and the XO both to hear it. I’ll brief the other department heads myself.”

  Victoria looked back and forth between them.

  The colonel said, “Before my aircraft went down, I saw that the ISR pod was capturing data on the Chinese fleet movements. I only saw a few of the images up close, and it was hard to tell what I was looking at.”

  Commander Boyle said, “The data from the ISR pods was uploaded to a storage drive in the colonel’s helmet. We have it in a safe.”

  “You won’t be able to access the information on the ship,” the colonel said. “But if we can get to Guam, they might have the equipment there. If not, they’ll be able to get us back to the States.”

  Victoria said, “Of course. When do we launch?”

  “Seventh Fleet is going to send one of their helicopters to pick up the colonel and his helmet,”

  the captain said. “I’ve asked your maintenance officer to bring the bird into the barn to clear the flight deck.”

  “Yes sir.” Victoria frowned. “Then…do you need anything from me?”

  The colonel said, “I think your captain wanted you to hear the description of what I observed when I passed over the Chinese Southern Fleet.”


  20

  Day 12

  Admiral Song stood next to the PLA Marine Corps general. They stood on the admiral’s bridge, enjoying the outdoor time in between briefings. The general was visiting for the afternoon, touring the aircraft carrier Liaoning and dining with the admiral.

  “Your men are well taken care of, General?” asked Admiral Song.

  “They are. Thank you.” Waves crashed along the bow of the large ship positioned off their port beam. The general was examining the ship with interest. “So, this is the mighty Jiaolong-class?”

  “Yes. A marvelous ship. More than a ship. An entire system of weapons.”

  “The ship looks like an oil tanker. Or a merchant. Except for those flight decks and towers, of course.”

  “The Jiaolong-class ships were not made for looks, General. But I assure you, they are quite lethal. I inspected this one myself when she was still under construction. You are correct in your observation, however. The Jiaolong class of ship uses the hull of a cargo tanker. They are much cheaper and more quickly produced than a warship. We can make many of them in the time it would take to complete a Type 055 destroyer hull. Even now, we are converting other tankers into this class of ship. The military modifications are all modular. Some of the modules are installed via premade shipping container. Again, very economical. But the technology is unmatched.”

  “How were you able to keep it a secret with those giant contraptions floating atop them?”

  The admiral smiled. “They were kept in nearby hangars until the war began. They were moved at night, just before the Jiaolongs set sail.”

  “Incredible.”

  The Jiaolong-class ship heaved and rolled in the blue sea. Four elevated flight decks jutted out from amidships: two platforms on either side, one forward and one aft. But no one noticed the flight decks when they looked at these ships.

  It was what was hovering just above the flight decks that was so jaw-dropping.

  The general said, “They don’t look like I thought they would.”

  Admiral Song nodded. “Everyone says that.”

  “Well, I don’t care what they look like as long as they are able to provide safe passage for my marines.”

  “I am confident they shall, General. They have already proven effective against two American submarines.”

  A phone rang on the far side of the admiral’s bridge. One of the staff officers picked it up, speaking rapidly. He looked up. “Admiral, they have detected another American submarine.”

  No sooner had the officer spoken than the sun was blocked out by a giant silent aircraft, slowly lifting from the Jiaolong-class ship and moving forward into the distance.

  Admiral Song turned to face the messenger. “Very well. I will be down soon.” He turned to the general. “Come join me in the combat operations center. You will see just how formidable the Jiaolong weapons system can be.”

  USS Columbia (SSN-771)

  Los Angeles–class submarine

  Philippine Sea

  Commander Wallace, captain of the USS Columbia, walked into the bridge as the initial contact reports were called out.

  “Conn, Sonar, new contact, designate Sierra-Two-Four bearing three-three-five, classification warship.”

  “Sonar, Conn, aye.”

  The conning officer quickly briefed the captain.

  “How many?”

  “At least fifty contacts now, sir.”

  “Warships?”

  “Forty of them are warships, sir, various types.”

  “What are the others?”

  “Classified as Group Three merchants or transports. But they’re all part of the same convoy, sir. Never seen anything this big. This has got to be the Southern Fleet.” He pointed at the display. “I think these contacts here are troop transports or supply ships for the convoy.”

  Commander Wallace looked at the display screen. Tiny electronic symbols were popping up at the far range of their sonar coverage, autopopulated by their submarine’s sonar and computers. The surface tracks formed a column over twenty miles long, moving east.

  “What’s the speed?”

  “Averaging fifteen knots, Captain.”

  “Anything more on Sierra-Two-Four?”

  Sierra-Two-Four was a suspected Chinese submarine. Favorable acoustic conditions had allowed them to detect it from very far away the previous day.

  “Nothing since last night, sir.”

  “Very well.” The submarine captain let out a long breath, eyes moving back and forth over the different screens, taking in all of the information.

  With the closing speed of the approaching Chinese convoy, they would have to be careful not to draw any attention to themselves, lest they become the hunted. If the approaching convoy’s warships were farther away, Commander Wallace might take a risk and increase their speed while conducting a search for the Chinese submarine. In a perfect world, he would eliminate the Chinese submarine threat before making an attack on the enemy convoy. But it was not a perfect world, and his orders would not allow such an attack.

  Wallace walked into the bridge and examined the space. His men looked tired, but intensely focused. But he knew that behind each dedicated face was a range of emotions. Husbands wondering if their wives were okay. Fathers wondering if they would see their children again. Young sailors wondering if they would live through the next twenty-four hours. There were those who wanted to perform bravely and those who just wanted to get home.

  They had been operating at a crushing pace since the war had begun. Their submarine had been sortied out of Pearl Harbor within the first few days and told to seek out and destroy Chinese targets. Spirits had been high at first. The American submarine force was the best in the world. They were going to win the war and be home in a few months. They were going to be heroes.

  Then word came of the American “strategic withdrawal” from Japan, and the new ROE that came with the cease-fire agreement. The crew had been pissed and frustrated at the restrictions, but they were still hopeful that the USS Columbia would be given the chance to make an impact. For some, it was more personal. Commander Wallace knew that many of his men wanted revenge for the thousands of Americans who had been killed in the war’s opening round.

  When the USS Columbia had left port, the new orders had come. Per the cease-fire agreement, there were to be no US military movements beyond the 144th east longitude line. The only American forces west of that line were supposed to be retreating to US territory. But the US submarine force was adept at covert operations in hostile waters. The Columbia’s orders to monitor Chinese surface and subsurface movements took it well past the line. The officers and crew were revved up. Commander Wallace kept looking at their position on the digital chart, mentally willing his submarine to move into position faster. Everyone was eager to make an impact in the war.

  Then came the news of missing submarines.

  The first reports came from the Operations Department. One of the US fast-attack boats that had similar orders and was already in position in the South China Sea. Someone in Radio noticed that this submarine had missed its communications window. Twice. Then three times. Then a second submarine in the same vicinity, just after making contact with the Chinese fleet.

  Somehow, the Chinese were sinking their attack boats with impunity. News spread through the crew like wildfire as confirmation had come forth in the emotionless text of Navy message traffic. COMSUBPAC sent a priority message informing the entire fleet that the Chinese had a new type of very effective antisubmarine warfare technology. Further details were being gathered.

  No shit.

  Yesterday the Columbia had gotten a message from the Office of Naval Intelligence providing a bit more information. Two submarines had sent out emergency burst communications just before entering combat. The communications included reports of unusual acoustic signatures surrounding the Chinese fleet.

  Navy antisubmarine warfare experts at the Undersea Warfare Development Center believed the noises might
have been air-dropped munitions or sonobuoys. Since satcom was down, limited-bandwidth communications were coming from stealth drones the US Air Force was flying over the Pacific—a temporary fix to a big problem. This meant that the Columbia didn’t have the ability to download the actual sound files and include them in the ship’s computer. So Commander Wallace’s sonar experts didn’t even know what they were listening for—just that it didn’t sound like anything else in the US Navy’s recognition training files.

  Yesterday, as the USS Columbia had traveled west in the Philippine Sea, COMSUBPAC had sent them another round of updates to their orders. Not only were they to locate and track the submarine-killing Chinese fleet, now Columbia was to “gather as much visual, electronic, and acoustic information” as they could on the new ASW technology and send back the data using the submarine’s own reconnaissance drone. Special navigational programming instructions had been sent for their drone.

  Very few members of the crew were told of the new mission. Those who were understood the implications; those who weren’t could read the writing on the wall. The cease-fire ROE meant that they couldn’t attack the convoy. The convoy was killing every sub that got near it. And the Columbia was heading straight for them.

  Commander Wallace was met by his XO as he entered the bridge. “Good morning, Captain.”

  “Morning, XO.”

  “We estimate about four hours until we are within scope range of the lead ship in the convoy.”

  The two men stood over her chart. The OOD joined them and said, “Sir, with your approval, this is where we’ll hold station until they hit closest point of approach.”

  The lieutenant pointed to a spot ahead of and slightly offset to where the convoy would be. Commander Wallace examined the chart, nodding. The attack boat would wait silently for the convoy to come into range, collecting data, feeding into the hard drive on the drone, and launch it the moment they were fired upon. If they were lucky enough not to be fired upon, they would wait for the convoy to pass and begin trailing it, launching the drone when they were a safe distance away.