Overwhelming Force

by Andrew Watts

  The technical expert said, “If the Chinese team transmits every day around the same time, and we have the rough time and location of their transmission from a few days ago, I can run a cross-check through our database. I’ll look for similar metadata tied to the transmission. We might get lucky.”

  Susan said, “Do it.”

  The tech expert rose from his seat and left the room.

  Susan turned to Chase. “The men and women in these cells aren’t just prisoners you’ve captured. They include anyone that we suspect may have been providing intelligence to the Chinese. Whenever we can, we’re obtaining the exact communications procedures that they use. If the prisoners cooperate, we’re turning them into double agents. They will continue to provide the Chinese with regular updates, but we control the new content of their updates.”

  Chase said, “Didn’t the Brits do that during World War Two?”

  David nodded. “She made me look it up. You’re right. The British Security Service had done something similar with Nazi spies. The idea was to keep the Nazi intelligence analysts’ desks filled with disinformation.”

  Susan smiled. “Exactly.”

  Chase said, “Have many have cooperated?”

  “Enough. But you can bet the Chinese are playing the same game. We’ve already seen signs that many of our China-based assets have been rolled up. Yet I’m afraid several of those same persons are continuing to communicate with us. You can draw your own conclusions.”

  Chase looked at his brother again. David said, “This isn’t the first we’ve heard of this South Sword Team. It’s an elite naval special warfare team from southern China. We think they were involved in several other special operations inside the US over the past few weeks. They’re one of the last units that remain unlocated.”

  “So you want me to help find them?”

  David glanced at Susan.

  Susan said, “Sort of.”

  Chase looked between them, sensing a problem. “What’s the problem?”

  Susan said, “That interview we just listened to? It corroborates other intelligence we’ve recently received. Chase, we think Lena Chou is headed to the US, if she isn’t here already.”

  Chase didn’t say anything for a moment. His eyes darted among the three others in the room: David, Susan, and the other CIA officer.

  “You want me to hunt down Lena Chou? Is that why I’m here?”

  “Who better?”

  Chase looked at his brother, annoyed.

  Susan continued. “You know her, and you won’t underestimate her.”

  “Do you have any leads?”

  “She was spotted getting on a plane from Beijing to Russia twelve hours ago. Our SIGINT tracked that plane to Helsinki. We lost her at that point. But the expectation is that she’s going to be connecting with one of this South Sword Team.” Susan gestured to the monitor that showed where the Chinese prisoner sat. “We think she’s going to meet with an American mole. Chase, tell me, why would Cheng Jinshan risk sending Lena Chou back into the United States to meet with one person?”

  “Because he wants it done right. He trusts her. And rightfully so. She’s very good at what she does.”

  “Exactly.”

  Chase said, “Where do I go from here?”

  “You’ll be back and forth between the JSOC base for now. We’re not ready for you yet. But when we say go, you’ll need to move fast.”

  28

  USS Ford

  50 nautical miles south of Midway

  Admiral Manning evaluated the imagery. Dozens of white wakes in a vast blue ocean. The picture had been taken from an Air Force Global Hawk, the data transfer complete shortly before it had been shot down by Chinese fighters. The two Chinese carriers of the Chinese Northern Fleet were surrounded by over forty escorts and support vessels. Where the Southern Fleet contained a sizable contingent of troop transports, the Northern Fleet did not. More teeth and claws. Less soft underbelly.

  “When was it taken?”

  “We just got it, sir. The IWC told me to show you immediately,” the young intelligence officer answered.

  The call to GQ sounded over the 1MC, and Admiral Manning walked out of the secure compartment and into another.

  “Battle Watch Captain, why are we going to GQ?”

  “Sir, the Ford CO ordered it. One of our F-18s flying surveillance was just lit up by an air defense radar, sir.”

  Admiral Manning looked up at the movie-theater-sized screen at the front of the darkened room. The screen was carved into several sections, each showing important tactical information. Dozens of men and women were typing and talking at the rows of duty stations just in front of the screen. The battle watch captain and his assistants sat on an elevated row of terminals in the rear of the space. The BWC was the admiral’s senior watch stander. This one was a Navy lieutenant commander and wore the double-anchored wings of a naval flight officer.

  “Both the CAG and the commodore are looking for you, sir.”

  Admiral Manning nodded. The sound of afterburner igniting above them filled the room as the admiral walked out. The sound continued for a number of seconds, followed by a WHOOSH, and then another. The admiral walked into the air wing’s secure compartment, where their own duty officers were yelling into phones and headsets, moving pieces on a magnetic whiteboard, and typing on computers.

  “CAG, everyone good?”

  The CAG was looking between one of the computer screens and the flight schedule with one of the lieutenants on his staff. “Everything’s good, sir. We’re launching our strike package now.”

  “Coordination with Air Force assets going smoothly?”

  “Most Air Force assets are on deck. And they’re over a thousand miles away with limited tankers. But we expect their alerts to be airborne within the next few minutes. So far so good, sir.”

  “The Chinese fleet looks like it’s out of range of the ships. Is—”

  The CAG looked slightly impatient. “They are. Our attack aircraft and Air Force assets are going to be first. The commodore expects his destroyers to be in range within the next two hours. We’ll coordinate with him and update you, Admiral.”

  If not for the seriousness of the situation, the admiral would have smiled. Decades of training for this moment, and now it was here. He felt like a parent with his adult children. The kids didn’t need him to tell them what to do; he had trained them well.

  “Keep me informed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Admiral Manning went down to the Zulu cell next. The commodore stood menacingly over the same young lieutenant who had convinced him to have the CAG add more surveillance flights.

  “Commodore, everything going well?”

  The commodore ran down a laundry list of status reports, mostly ship degradations, and finally finished with, “But yes, sir. Everything is going well. We’ll work with CAG and Strike Group to coordinate.”

  “Very well.”

  The commodore then stepped over to the side of the room to add a bit more about submarine movements. When they were finished, Admiral Manning headed back to sit with his battle watch captain. Real-time updates on the second battle of Midway began coming in fast and furious.

  On board one of the Chinese carriers, the Chinese fleet commander received word that American fighters were inbound. He gave the order to launch Chinese fighters and was soon notified that his ships had turned on their air defense radars and begun launching their surface-to-air missiles.

  The Chinese fleet commander knew the battle would be fast. With aircraft and missiles all supersonic, the time of flight for each wave was mere minutes. This would be the climax of his life, he realized. Of many lives. Scientists had been working on these technologies, working on improvements to various characteristics like the effectiveness of radar target acquisition and the range of each missile. Testing and training. Entire lives of military service dedicated to the expertise of each specific aspect of war. Yet it would be decided in mere seconds, with any numb
er of variables contributing to the ultimate victory. The wind could be the deciding factor. Or the water temperature. Or how quickly one of the pilots pressed a series of buttons.

  “Surface-to-air missiles are hitting their targets, Admiral. Combat Officer estimates that at least ten enemy aircraft have been shot down.” Ten. Out of how many? They would be in range to let loose their strike packages soon.

  “Send in the fighters.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Above the Chinese carriers, stacks of Chinese fighter aircraft were flying circles at their maximum endurance airspeed, trying to conserve fuel for when they were given the okay to head into battle. The radio call came quick and terse. The squadron commander gave orders to his pilots and they separated into several formations at different altitudes. Jammers were on, radars off on all but a few. Shortly after they pointed their headings east, the aircraft with radars on communicated the targeting information to the others over their network.

  Lieutenant Suggs had once again been given permission to get on the flight schedule. Everyone wanted to fly this mission, and he was no exception. But slipping a bottle of scotch to the scheduler in the air wing had helped his case.

  Suggs shot down two aircraft within the first few minutes of combat. His eyes and mind were hitting sensory overload. The sheer number of hostile air contacts was overwhelming.

  His weapons system officer said, “Hey, Suggs, come right to zero-eight-zero. I think I’ve got one of the carriers.”

  Suggs banked the Superhornet sharply and lined up on his attack profile. Moments later, the aircraft fired an antiship missile, which dropped low over the ocean and sped towards its targets.

  The Chinese admiral tried to keep apprised of the battle’s status, but the volume of information was overwhelming.

  “Sir, our air defense systems are being jammed.”

  “Admiral, very few of the American air-to-surface missiles scored hits. But now the Americans have confirmed targeting coordinates—they know where we are.”

  “Sir, our fighters are engaged in aerial combat operations.”

  The ship-to-ship missile volley would be next. Sure enough, “Enemy missiles inbound…”

  “How many?”

  “Sir, our escort destroyer is reporting the acoustic signature of an American attack submarine. The torpedo doors have been opened, Admiral.”

  A rumbling thunder rocked the room. Alarm bells and whistles sounded, and he could hear screams in the distance.

  The ship-launched missiles were numerous and lethal. Multiple hits on surface ships, including two on the other carrier. Lieutenant Suggs’s antiship missile scored a hit to one of the carriers, and a Los Angeles–class submarine finished it off with a torpedo.

  It was only forty minutes into the battle, but the fuel the fighters had burned in dogfights and expended in evasive maneuvers was requiring many of them to land. The Ford was recovering at the same time as the lone remaining Chinese carrier. But now the Chinese carrier had to attempt to recover aircraft from its sinking sister ship. That was less of a problem, as many of the Chinese fighters had been shot down.

  In the end, it became an operations management problem. Which nation’s fleet could go through a cycle of launch and recovery, of refuel and rearm, faster and without critical errors that would slow down the entire process? This was where the American training and decades of experience came into play, and where the electromagnetic catapult helped. The Chinese were still recovering aircraft when the next American wave hit.

  Twenty more F-18s and F-35s flew in, now with the assistance of US Air Force assets. The Americans jammed Chinese air defense radar, divided up the targets, and fired their weapons. They scored over twenty more hits on ships, and two on the other carrier.

  “Admiral Manning, the E-2 just updated the course and speed of the Chinese fleet. They’re moving west now, sir. And both carriers have been sunk.”

  A few cheers in the room at that. Then one of the personnel at a computer terminal shouted to the battle watch captain, “Sir, we have an ESM hit. A Chinese periscope radar. It’s close, sir…”

  29

  USS Farragut

  Some things on a ship at sea seemed to move slow. Like the journey across an ocean. Waking up to the same blue water every day. The endless waves rocking the ship. The mindless routine.

  These long periods could lull you to sleep or complacency, if you weren’t disciplined and strong in spirit.

  Victoria Manning was both.

  She was in the empty hangar that the ship had converted into a gym. Her arm muscles were burning as she finished a set of pull-ups. Sweat covered her body.

  She had faced war on the sea. The loss of shipmates. The guilt that she hadn’t done enough to protect them. The feelings had nearly broken her. She allowed herself to internalize that despair and anguish. She had accepted it and grown stronger.

  The pressure to protect her shipmates still weighed heavy on her heart, but she also allowed herself to believe in a peaceful future. She would see her family again soon. The war would come to a peaceful end, eventually. Life would be beautiful once again.

  In a few days, they would be in Hawaii. She wondered if her father’s aircraft carrier would be in port. He had written her a kind email, saying how much he looked forward to seeing her, and how proud he was of her. He never spoke like that. The war was causing everyone to do and say things that they never would have otherwise.

  She stood at the open hangar door, the sea breeze drying off the sweat from her body.

  Then the 1MC announced, “Flight quarters, flight quarters. Now launch, the alert ASW aircraft.”

  The hangars and flight deck came alive with people running. The gym hangar door shut quickly, and the other hangar door opened. The aircraft was brought out as Victoria got briefed by the TAO on the phone.

  “We just got datalink connected. Still getting updates, but it looks like the Ford Strike Group has been fighting the Chinese near Midway for the past few hours.”

  “Why are we launching? They must have dozens of helicopters.”

  “Strike Group told us to. I think they have a lot of submarines that they’re hunting.”

  Victoria realized that he was probably right. They had been hearing for days how the Chinese Northern Fleet was missing from the waters near Japan and thought to be headed towards Hawaii. If they sent the surface fleet, why wouldn’t they send their submarines to support it? There could well be dozens of them.

  The TAO continued, “We’re about two hundred miles away, but the Ford Strike Group is headed south now, so we’re closing.”

  She looked at the helicopter. They were unfolding the blades, and a torpedo was being rolled out onto the flight deck.

  “We’ll be airborne as soon as possible.”

  Later, she watched as the light on the back of the hangar went green.

  “Beams open. Green Deck. Lift,” came the call from the landing signals officer, who was standing behind a thick glass window in front of her.

  Victoria was squatting forward in her seat. She looked from side to side, checked her instruments, and pulled up on the collective lever. “Coming up.”

  “Roger,” said her copilot. “Clear right.”

  She watched the torque level on her instrument panel grow precipitously high. “Getting a few red cubes.” That was the problem with carrying this much weight.

  “Should we burn fuel first?”

  Victoria’s MH-60R helicopter was filled to the brim with antisubmarine warfare equipment. A dipping sonar, sonobuoys, and torpedoes. Radar, ESM, and FLIR. All the extra weight was pushing her engines to their limits. If she pulled too high on her collective lever, the power required to hover would exceed the power available. Something would have to give, and she knew what it would be. Her rotor would start slowing down as the aircraft’s power supply failed to turn it fast enough. When that happened, they would start sinking back down to the deck. And the harder she pulled up on the collective, deman
ding more power, the more she would exacerbate the situation. This was a problem because her landing spot was moving forward at fifteen knots, and the tail rotor also would slow down, meaning that her helicopter would likely begin spinning.

  But World War III had begun, and she needed every bit of equipment they had on board the helicopter.

  “Okay. Let’s just watch the rpms. Once I get up into the perch, we’ll have more airflow over the rotor disk. That’ll help.”

  With her right hand, she eased the cyclic backward. The ten-ton metal beast inched aft. Her peripheral vision caught whitecaps on the deep blue ocean, and the imposing outline of the USS Michael Monsoor, the Zumwalt-class destroyer that was the flagship of their surface action group.

  The green digital lines that represented her torque began to tick down as the helicopter crept further backward on the flight deck. The wind, which had been blocked by the ship’s superstructure when they were close to the hangar, was now whipping around the ship and flowing directly towards them. The ship was traveling at fifteen knots, and the wind was blowing at ten knots. Since the ship was headed directly into the wind, this effectively gave them twenty-five knots of speed over the rotor disk. For a helicopter, twenty-five knots made all the difference in the world.

  With a flutter of the rotors, Victoria felt the helicopter go through its transitional lift—that critical speed where the aircraft transitioned from a hover to forward flight. She pulled up further on the collective, and the aircraft responded graciously by providing her more power, increasing altitude to a spot fifty feet above the flight deck, and just aft of it.

  “Nose coming right.”

  “Roger.”

  Victoria pushed in her right pedal and the aircraft yawed to the right. Then she centered the pedals when the nose was aimed forty-five degrees off the ship’s course.