Violent Peace: The War With China: Aftermath of Armageddon

by David Poyer

  She cocked her head suddenly. Uh-huh. But was there, maybe, a smarter way to position her forces? One that, maybe, the AI hadn’t considered?

  To the oncoming admiral, after all, her own formation must look like a random scatter. It conveyed no intent to hold. More like a hopeless gaggle, uncoordinated and maybe even uncommanded.

  It might well be the optimal setup for distributed, networked operations. But it was hardly the stuff to strike fear into an enemy.

  On the other hand … if more forces were on the way to her, she had to make sure the loop was closed. That any new ships or subs on the way knew exactly where to station themselves, and that Blue air, if it was called in for a strike, couldn’t confuse her ships with Aznavuryan’s.

  She called up a tactical publication. Then another, toggling through the pages rapidly.

  Finally she logged to high-side nanochat. Her own call sign was Tangler; Fleet was Replay.

  TANGLER: Tangler actual here. Request Replay actual.

  REPLAY: Actual not available. Got a question?

  TANGLER: Requested air support and liaison with possible former enemy force support. Need update and anticipated time on station please.

  REPLAY: Issues being worked as per previous comms. Diplomatic efforts also under way. No update available.

  She hesitated, fingers over the keyboard. Hmm. How to phrase this … Finally she typed,

  TANGLER: UNODIR intend commence tactical repositioning.

  She waited, bent over, surreptitiously scratching at her madly itching shins, under the coverall cuffs and above the socks. Pardees shot her a quizzical glance and she snatched the hand up quickly.

  REPLAY: Roger, out.

  “Ohh—kay,” she whispered.

  The anonymous staff officer who’d just answered in the admiral’s name hadn’t had a problem with a repositioning of her forces. Or more likely, didn’t understand that the formation had been dictated by Sea Eagle. Carefully calculated by the AI to interlock sensor networks, weapons capabilities, fields of fire, and the other variables that would determine victory or defeat once battle was joined.

  Once battle was joined.

  But since she led the inferior force … wouldn’t it be better not to fight at all?

  Regardless, her own lily-white butt was now covered, at least as far as her orders were concerned. She leaned back in the form-fitting chair, digging her fists into her kidneys to ease her back. Now to concoct something more intimidating.

  She told Pardees, “Noah, how about asking the XO if he can spare me an hour or two.”

  * * *

  SOME five hours later she sat in the same chair, in the same compartment, buzzed from far too much coffee and a hastily bolted turkey-and-cheese sandwich in place of whatever meal this was supposed to be. A fresh patch of itching had broken out right in the middle of her back, exactly where she couldn’t reach it. And there was no way she was going to ask a junior officer or enlisted to scratch her back … There was no dawn or dusk, no noon or midnight, in the digital no-time of Combat. Only the uneasy anthracite seas in the images from the deck cameras told her it was night now.

  The fleet dispositions on the central display were quite different now. On both sides. Evolving, in ways that would no doubt be studied in the future. At the War College, if her idea worked. At her court-martial, if it didn’t. She and Mills and Pardees had worked this out together, gamed it a bit, with the limited resources available onboard.

  But she was in tactical command. If it all went south, this would be on her.

  Aznavuryan’s force had been joined by four additional destroyers and possibly two more submarines out of Vladivostok. This brought his fleet total to more than double that of her own. But like an atom absorbing extra electrons, he’d simply reduced the size of his concentric sectors, densifying his screen.

  If “densifying” was a word … Anyhow, back in the VR helmet, she hovered above her own dispositions. The coast of Korea lay to the left, as it narrowed toward the strait, with Pusan the closest city. She’d managed to contact an ROKN ship moored there, which was beaming its fire control radar out to sea, presenting a threat that should keep the approaching Russians well offshore. Japan lay to her right hand, and she’d requested a shore battery of antiship missiles to carry out a drill that night, adding to the threatening emissions and, again, tending to nudge any approaching force to the midline of the strait.

  Just behind her lay the slug shape of Tsushima Island itself, dividing the passage into western and eastern lanes. But as Aznavuryan closed from the north, whichever channel he decided to take, he was limited to a forty-mile-wide approach lane. Which the threats from both sides would tend to make him stick to.

  Her own disposition was different as well.

  Instead of a loosely knitted, nearly random scatter, her units were on their way to new stations. Once in position, they’d be lined up along the approaches the oncoming fleet would have to negotiate to pass.

  She’d left the forty nautical miles in the center wide open. An invitation. Or, maybe more accurately, a set of open jaws.

  To either side, she’d arranged her teeth. Frigates, destroyers, and Savo Island. They formed a gauntlet, with recon drones, attack UAVs, and manned fighters flying CAPs above them. She’d pulled her submarines, too, in toward her surface units. The Russians probably had less insight into their locations, lacking the inputs from the Allied land-based sonar networks that Cheryl could access. But just to be sure, she’d pulled them out of the center of the channel as well.

  There would be no such thing as surprise this time. Sonar aside, the Russians had just as good targeting information, from their radars and satellites and long-range drones, as she did. The battlespace was known. The chess pieces were out in the open.

  Chief Terranova stood beside her, arms crossed, her too-young-looking face engraved with the first frown lines Cheryl had ever seen on her as she scrutinized the lineup. “You’re givin’ away a lot of tactical advantage, here,” she observed. “Skipper.”

  “Only if it comes to a battle, Chief.” She didn’t have to explain herself, but doing so was part of training the next generation. “The AI positioned us optimally for a meeting engagement. I’ve repositioned us for a different reason. A more … psychological impact. How about you? Look at our dispositions, pretend you’re the enemy commander. What do you see?”

  “Well, I gotta say, it looks to me like a fuckin’ trap,” the Terror said. She rubbed her arms, still looking doubtful. “Ma’am.”

  “And you don’t stick your nose in a trap. Do you?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am,” she said. “I guess if they order the guy to, he will.”

  She nodded grimly. Yeah. If Aznavuryan had orders to bull through regardless of casualties, he could stand off and plaster her with missiles, then roll up their lines from the north, on both sides of the lanes. The Tsushima Strait would smoke once again with the wrecks of burning ships. But not Russian ones, this time. American.

  She stared at the displays, wishing she could hand this job to someone else. But there didn’t seem to be anyone else around. And she still wasn’t hearing anything constructive from Higher.

  She shivered and rubbed her crossed arms, the same way Terranova had.

  Waiting. Always the toughest part of war.

  What a fool she’d been, to think for even a moment that it was over.

  * * *

  SOMEONE was shaking her. She popped upright in the command chair, gasping, nearly choking.

  “Captain? Fleet’s on the horn for you.” Matt Mills, looking pale, holding out the red phone. His grimace and upward-cast eyes conveyed the message: And they don’t sound happy.

  “This is Tangler actual,” Cheryl said, trying to push herself upright in the chair. Why was her hand so greasy? Oh yeah. The fucking ointment.

  “This is Replay actual. What in the hell is going on up there, Captain?”

  No one could sound quite as irate as a pissed-off admiral. �
�Uh, sir, current status. Russian Northern Fleet is proceeding toward Tsushima Strait. Speed two zero knots. Formation course—”

  “I know that. I have that on the screen! But your formation doesn’t match the order from PACOM.”

  “Sir, I have tactical command. And I requested permission to reorient. At approximately … five hours ago, on nanochat. Your staff watch officer—”

  “My SWO is not me. Those stations were generated to maximize your combat power. You don’t have tactical command in order to make off-the-cuff decisions! Not with my task group. Why are you weakening it?”

  “Sir, based on my reading of the—”

  “I hope you haven’t really fucked up, Captain. I sincerely hope you haven’t really fucked everyone out there.”

  She swallowed. “Sir, we can return to the generated formation. Are those your formal orders?”

  “Not according to the SOA I’m seeing. CNPTF is going to be in weapons range in about two hours.” The distant voice shaded from anger toward sadness. “Now I have to decide if we initiate hostilities. Because I don’t see any other way you can prevail. Do you understand now? You’re forcing me to start another war. When we just got finished with the last one.”

  She swallowed again. “Sir, I don’t think … I don’t think we should give up on this just yet. I’m just not sure combat efficiency is the only thing we should—”

  The voice on the other end turned steely. “You’ve committed us, Staurulakis. Now we’re going to have to live with what happens. The reason we didn’t send you more forces is so we don’t lose more than we can afford. And from what I’ve seen, that was the right decision. Your career just ended, Captain. You can count on that. Fleet, out.”

  She resocketed the phone, trying to catch her breath. Her career? She was an O-6. She’d never expected to go even this high. Getting through the war had been her only real goal. Getting through it, and being with Eddie again.

  Which was never going to happen now. He lay somewhere under the East China Sea, tangled in the wreckage of his fighter, his bones probably picked clean …

  “Skippa?” Terranova’s Jersey-accented whisper. “Y’okay?”

  She shook herself back to CIC. Where watchstanders at consoles were stealing glances at her. Evaluating her reaction … She straightened in her chair. “Nothing major,” she said coolly. “Let’s finish this … Get Arkansas, Idaho, and John Warner to ping active.” The three submarines now lay to the north of the oncoming Russians; behind them. Utah was still playing backstop south of the strait. “I want both our Orcas going active too.”

  “To ping?” Mills said, looking doubtful. “That gives away their position. You really want to do that, Captain?”

  She nodded firmly. To ratchet up the pressure. “Yes. Do it now, XO.”

  After a slight hesitation, as if to allow her a chance to rethink, he began keyboarding.

  She stared at the displays, fighting fear. Then remembered. In the Sea of Okhotsk, she’d actually talked to the Russian commander. Colonel-General Sharkov then. Sharkov had warned her not to intercept the Chinese missiles over Russian soil. But she had. Without really any blowback.

  Unless this oncoming fleet was part of the retribution for that move …

  She stared up at the screen, gnawing her lip.

  Fucking … waiting.

  * * *

  TWO hours later she slumped in the chair. Not asleep; she was too agonized, too jittery, too fucking tense even to close her eyes. Not for the first time, she wondered how her previous CO had managed to keep his cool. Lenson had taken them into some tight corners. Places it didn’t look like the old Savo would ever get out of. But he’d never looked like he felt a moment’s fear or an instant’s uncertainty.

  Or perhaps he had, and just not shown it? She smiled wryly, wondering where he was now. Last she’d heard, he’d been pulled back Stateside for some kind of trial. Then she dismissed worrying about him. He could take care of himself.

  The five-thousand-some men and women in her task group … she had to worry about them now.

  She twisted violently, trying to scratch her back against the chair, but the soft padding was no help. The fucking rash itched like some malevolent Martian virus, eating her from the skin in.

  Mills glanced at her. “We doing okay, Skipper?” he muttered.

  “It’s just this … fucking … itch.”

  “Yeah, I can see it bothers you.” He hesitated, making sure no one had eyes on them. Then reached over.

  She relaxed back into the scoring of his fingernails. It was close to orgasmic as relief flooded over her. But as soon as he took his hand away it started again. “Fuck,” she muttered.

  Her nanochat pinged. “Incoming from Fleet,” AALIS said in her earbuds.

  REPLAY: Replay to Tangler actual.

  TANGLER: Tangler actual here.

  REPLAY: Orders follow. Withdraw all units surface and subsurface plus reconnaissance assets to southward via Tsushima Strait. Proceed to Shanghai Harbor for humanitarian relief duty, passing to south of Jeju Island. Prepare helicopter assets for transfer ashore. Prepare to tie into shore systems for electrical power generation. Detach USS Montesano to escort relief shipping from Nagasaki. Furnish course points ASAP. Confirm.

  She stared, disbelieving, at the words. Higher was backing down. “Oh, this is not good,” she muttered.

  Beside her, Mills stiffened. She thought at first he was reacting to the message. Then, cutting her eyes toward him, she caught that he was staring up at the large-screen display.

  On it, a single contact, already far in advance of the oncoming formation, had suddenly detached itself. It hurtled forward, directly at the center of the strait. She lifted her head, frowning, as he toggled to zoom in on the contact.

  “Track 0145 inbound,” Terranova called. “Identify as Ohkotnik.”

  Cheryl forgot about the withdrawal order. Okhotniks were heavy, persistent fixed-wing drones. They were stealth optimized, but Savo’s finely tuned radar had picked them up. The same UAVs had shadowed her in the Sea of Okhotsk. The Russians had used them then mainly for reconnaissance, but they could carry weapons as well.

  At her coordination console, Terranova clicked busily. The rightmost display came up with video from one of the massive reflecting telescopes Savo’s lasers doubled as. Two objects were slung beneath the inbound contact’s wings, but she couldn’t make out what they were.

  “AALIS pattern identifies as Sukhoi S-80 Okhotnik-B, probably carrying dual Zircons,” one of the watchstanders called. “Mach 8 antiship missile. Radar and passive IR guidance. Seaskim capability. Heavy conventional penetrating warhead.”

  The noise level in CIC bumped up. She ignored it, focusing on the blinking yellow tracer which indicated the drone’s line of advance. If it stayed on the same course, Its closest point of approach would be less than five miles east of Savo, and much closer to Dixie Kiefer.

  “That’s an overt threat, per the rules of engagement,” Mills said.

  “I concur,” she said. “Desig track 0145 hostile, stand by to take with laser.” She flicked up the cover over the red switch in front of her.

  Another line scrolled up on her command desk computer.

  REPLAY: Confirm receipt. From highest levels: US is not committed to defending Chinese territorial integrity. Not at cost of new war.

  “From highest levels.” So the order to retreat was from the national command authority, SecDef or the president. Not from PACOM or the Joint Chiefs.

  Not that it made any difference to her. Not now.

  “Locked on,” said Terranova. “Designating to forward laser.”

  Cheryl hesitated for the merest fraction of a second. Not committed. Withdraw.

  Those were her orders.

  But they were under overt attack. If she allowed the drone to close, and if those objects it carried were really hypersonic missiles, there would be too little time to respond.

  And Americans would die. On this ship, or another
one under her command.

  No matter what happened next, she had the right of self-defense.

  She muttered, “Laser released,” and hit the Weapons Release switch.

  The console operator must have been tracking the Okhotnik already, because the video didn’t blink or waver even as the white-hot spot ignited on the incoming drone’s wing root. At the same moment, the overhead lights in Combat dimmed as the laser soaked up power from the generators and capacitor banks.

  The spot dwelled there for nearly a second, juddering only very slightly.

  A dainty, twisting wisp of whitish vapor, or smoke, began to trail the drone.

  She tensed in her chair, gripping the armrests.

  One of the drone’s burdens had dropped free. Intentionally released, or burned off, she couldn’t tell.

  In the video, the elongated object, drop tank, missile, or electronics pod, rode below the parent drone for an instant or two, bobbling slightly in the airflow, before dropping farther. Gaining separation.

  She stared up at the display. Don’t, she thought desperately. Don’t—

  With a sudden flash, a flame appeared at the rear of the object. The missile accelerated out of the frame almost instantly, gaining velocity with the enormous impulse of a huge solid-fuel booster.

  Above it, the drone’s wing buckled and crumpled. The aircraft lurched sideways. The burning spot followed it, remorseless, but flicking off the airframe now to dwell directly on the nose of the second missile. It was still on its pylon under the undamaged wing as the drone began oscillating, losing control, starting a spin.

  “Forward laser overheat warning. Need to unmask rainguns, need to unmask aft,” the weapons controller said urgently over the circuit.

  “Hard left rudder,” Cheryl snapped, understanding instantly. “Steady two niner zero.”