The planes weren’t likely to make bomb runs this time. They would use standoff weapons instead. Franklin gave the order, “Shoot them down,” and heard Chow pass it on.
“Missiles fired and tracking,” a tech said.
“I have an additional target,” Moore said. “It’s inbound from the north ETA two minutes. My guess is a cruise missile.”
Franklin knew the Chinese had a subsonic cruise missile called the CJ-10. It had a range of more than 900 miles, was equipped with a wide variety of guidance systems, and could deliver a 1,000 pound payload. Odds were that it had been launched from the mainland. “Knock it down if you can,” Franklin ordered .
“Three kills,” Chow put in, but that wasn’t enough.
“Missiles incoming,” Moore reported. Then they hit. It was like taking two blows from a gigantic hammer. One of the weapons blew a hole in the port side of the superstructure, a second struck only yards away from the first point of impact, and sprayed the Mission Center with shards of shrapnel. Chow died instantly. Her blood sprayed across Moore who was dumped out of his chair. By some miracle Franklin was still on her feet. She helped the tech up off the deck. His hand was slick with blood. A petty officer was screaming for his mother, and another sailor kept calling for a corpsman over and over again.
“Systems down,” duty Chief Atkins said thickly … “Rerouting … Rebooting … We’re back up.”
Franklin’s head was spinning. There was so much to think about, and so little time in which to do so. The good news was that the Heath was resilient, and her self-healing systems could reroute critical functions, but the destroyer was taking casualties. Lots of them. And the crew was small. Critics said, too small. How long before Franklin ran out of bodies?
Chief Atkins stepped in to replace Chow. He was standing in a pool of the dead officer’s blood. “We nailed the missile, ma’am … There are two planes on the screen. They’re well out of range and circling.”
They’re waiting , Franklin thought. For what? The answer came quickly. “One-one high-speed surface targets,” Moore announced. “Inbound from the north.”
RIB boats, Franklin decided. Based at Mischief Reef? Yes. To keep nosey neighbors away. Fortunately we have an app for that. “Standby on the MK-46 gun system,” Franklin ordered. “Engage the intruders the moment they come into range.”
“Aye, aye,” Chief Atkins replied. The 30mm chainguns could fire 200 rounds per-minute, and were fed by 400 round magazines via dual feeds. Their effective range was 2,200 yards .
Sims had been wounded. A bloody bandage was wrapped around her head. “The GW is on the horn ma’am. We have permission to engage. Fighters are inbound.”
Franklin couldn’t help but laugh. It had a shrill sound. “Tell them to fuck themselves.”
Franklin allowed herself a moment to think. She had disobeyed a direct order. Her career was over. The only thing that mattered was saving her crew and ship.
“Targets are in range,” Atkins intoned. “Firing.” The chainguns produced a sustained bang-bang-bang sound as the automatic tracking system sought the RIB boats out and destroyed them.
Franklin eyed her watch. Less than twenty minutes had elapsed since Wilson had been brought aboard. It didn’t seem possible. “I have radio contact with a flight of four Super Hornets,” Sims announced.
“The J-8s are running for home,” Moore added.
“That’s it,” Franklin said. “I think we’re in the clear. Lambert? Do you read me?”
“Five by five.”
“I need damage assessments, pronto.”
“Aye, aye.”
Franklin took a moment to look around. The Mission Center looked like a slaughter house. Foster was curled up on the deck, clutching his gut, and whimpering. Franklin wanted to cry. And later, once Franklin was by herself, she would.
Meanwhile a rivulet of blood ran out of the black-rimmed hole in the destroyer’s side and trailed back along her port flank. The South China Sea was waiting to receive it.
Aboard the Chinese submarine, Great Wall-009, the South China Se a
The Yuan class sub was 254 feet long, about 27 feet wide, and cruising 200 feet under the surface of the South China Sea. The dimly lit control room was located directly below the conning tower. Indicator lights glowed red, green, and amber. The air was heavy with a miasma of diesel fuel, cooking odors, perspiration, and the fishy smell of Amine—a chemical used to remove carbon monoxide from the air. That was the atmosphere that Lieutenant Commander Chang Jing and his crew had to breathe as they waited to die.
Like his peers Chang was something of an expert on American warships and their capabilities. That included Zumwalt class destroyers like the Heath . So Chang knew that the ship that he’d been ordered to sink was equipped with the latest detection gear and vertically launched anti-submarine rockets.
According to Chinese intelligence agencies as well as Wikipedia.com , the ASROC anti-sub missiles carried by the Heath were designed to deliver Mark-54 torpedoes to a pre-calculated point, where they would home in on the 009 and destroy her. That’s when Chang would die.
As for the thirty-seven men under Chang’s command, the only thing they knew was that the 009 had been sent to find and shadow an American ship. The kind of mission they’d carried out on previous occasions. Why trouble them with the truth? Nine was a lucky number, but their submarine was in the wrong place, at the wrong time.
It’s the sort of mission that a nuclear attack boat should carry out, Chang thought. But they’re out in deeper water playing with themselves. Ta ma de tamen (fuck them).
The bitterness stemmed from the fact that Chang had applied to the school for nuclear submarine commanders and been denied. Twice . That didn’t bode well for his career. But , Chang told himself, test scores aren’t everything. I will prove myself by dying well .
Chang’s ruminations were interrupted by Sonar Operator Ku. “I have a contact, sir.”
Ku was employing passive, rather than active sonar, to avoid detection. Chang felt his heart beat start to increase. “What have you got?”
“Two screws, sir … Turning at high rpms. The acoustic signature is similar to that of a Los Angeles class submarine, but it isn’t a sub, so there’s a high likelihood that we have our target.”
Stealth , Chang thought. Zumwalt class destroyers are supposed to be stealthy, just like submarines. “Well done, Ku. Take her up to periscope depth Lieutenant Shan. I want to confirm the ship’s identity.”
Rather than blow the sub’s tanks, Shan chose to “drive” the boat to the surface using a combination of control planes and propulsion. Once the 009 arrived at the correct depth, the diving officer began to raise the periscope even as he used the sub’s low pressure blower to eject water from the ballast tanks.
Then Shan stood to one side so that his commanding officer could look through the scope. What Chan saw was too good to be true! There was no mistaking the Heath’s katana-like bow and streamlined appearance. Two overlapping black-edged holes could be seen on the ship’s port side. Gray smoke streamed back along the destroyer’s flanks. The damage was consistent with the urgent message Chang had received twenty minutes earlier.
Judging from the size of the destroyer’s bow wave, and what Ku had told him, the warship was operating at flank speed. In the distance Chang could see the glint of sunlight reflecting off metal as a fighter circled the enemy ship. The Americans had control of the air then … So, why hadn’t the Heath attacked and killed him?
“Ku,” Chang said, without turning away from the periscope. “Are they pinging us?”
“No, sir. ”
Thanks to our air-independent propulsion system the Americans can’t hear us, Chang concluded. Or, all of their sonar operators are dead, and some of their systems are offline. Maybe I’m going to survive after all . “This is not a drill,” Chang announced. “Prepare to fire torpedoes one through six. Set to acoustic homing. Confirm.”
“One through six, acoustic,” the we
apons officer replied. “Confirmed. All weapons ready to fire.”
“Fire one, fire two, fire three, fire four, fire five, and fire six,” Chang ordered.
“Torpedoes away,” the weapons officer replied stoically. What was the man thinking? That Chang was insane? It didn’t matter. An order was an order.
Under normal circumstances Chang would have given orders to dive deep to escape a counterattack by the target’s escorts or allied aircraft. But the Heath didn’t have any surface escorts to rely on. And, while the planes circling above the destroyer could be carrying standoff anti-sub weapons, they were unaware of the 009’s presence.
Chang pulled a quick 360 but didn’t see any threats. “All torpedoes running straight and true,” the weapons officer reported. All Chang could do was watch and wait. Five long seconds passed. Finally, after what seemed like an hour, the first torpedo hit the destroyer just aft of her bow. The second, third, fourth and fifth weapons were equally spaced along the length of the ship’s hull. The sixth missed by a few yards.
Wherever a torpedo struck there was a bright flash, followed by an upwelling of spray, and a puff of smoke. There was no sound. Not for Chang. But the explosions would be quite loud on the Heath , and Chang couldn’t help but smile.
The destroyer’s speed dropped from 20 knots to nothing in less than a minute. The Heath wallowed and began to sink as water surged in through a dozen holes. Chang saw two international orange life rafts appear near the stern.
Then with no additional drama the Heath slipped under the surface and disappeared from sight. Huge bubbles rose to the surface, followed by scattered debris, and a series of radiating waves. The Great Wall-009 was victorious.
A dozen American sailors were rescued by Chinese fishing trawlers, handed over to the navy, and paraded in front of cameras in Beijing. Captain Mary Franklin was not among them. But, by some miracle, Seaman Larry Wilson was.
Chapter Two
Forward Operating Base Hope, Khost Province, Afghanistan
A
Blackhawk helicopter clattered overhead as Air Force Major Dan Falco followed Broadway south to the command bunker. Forward Operating Base (FOB) Hope was a sprawling affair that consisted of perfectly aligned tents, a navy field hospital, a civilian run chow hall, an army motor pool, and the roughly four-hundred men and women who were stationed there. With the exception of the CIA’s spooks all of the personnel were part of the Joint Special Operations Command or a support group.
World War III was about a month old. And, like everyone else, Falco was acquainted with both versions of how the conflict began. According to the account put out by President Hayden, he’d been on the phone with Chinese Premier Lau, cutting a deal to avoid bloodshed, when a renegade naval officer named Franklin attacked a fleet of civilian fishing boats.
But that story was an out-and-out lie according to Admiral Frank Geary who, after flying home from the Pacific, went on CNN to explain what actually happened. And that was a badly bungled attempt by the president to negotiate a deal while the Heath was being fired upon.
Then, in response to the shame he felt, Geary blew his brains out on camera. A tragedy which, according to the president’s loyalists, proved that Geary was batshit crazy .
Falco was doing his best to ignore the politics of it. His job was to control and direct ground-attack aircraft, although very few missions were underway, as Hope’s personnel worked day and night to pack everything up. The need for that was obvious. Pakistan was only thirty miles away and, after the so-called “Heath incident,” the Paks had decided to side with China.
Why? Because the Pakistanis hated the Indians that’s why … After sinking the Heath the Chinese invaded India to gain control of the Buddhist Monastery in Tawang, Arunachal. That’s where the next Dali Lama was expected to incarnate. An event that could trigger an insurrection and threaten China’s grip on Tibet.
All three countries had nuclear weapons. In hopes of scoring a quick victory over India, Pakistan made use of tactical nukes. India responded in kind. And, as eight-hundred tanks clashed near Wazirabad, thousands died.
While the major powers focused their attention elsewhere, the Kurds took the opportunity to create a new state called Kurdistan, which laid claim to large chunks of Turkey, Syria, Iraq, and Iran. The resulting chaos provided remnants of ISIS and Al-Qaeda with an opportunity to slaughter thousands of “disbelievers” in order to create a caliphate. Then, in a break-through piece of diplomacy, the Israelis chose to form an alliance with Saudi Arabia—even as the oil rich country attacked Iran.
Meanwhile, in an effort to restore the Soviet empire to its former glory, the Russians invaded Ukraine. NATO had no choice but to respond, and it wasn’t long before the resulting conflict spilled over into Belarus, Poland, and Romania. That raised the threat of an all-out nuclear war.
So, since Afghanistan shared a border with Pakistan, American troops needed to get out while the getting was good. Afghanistan would have to fend for itself and, if history was any guide, Pakistan and China would be well advised to leave the country alone.
That’s why Falco expected base commander, and army colonel Lloyd Campo, to hand him a “pack everything up” shit detail. As Falco approached the JOC (Joint Operational Center) he saw that a battlefield fashionista was guarding the ramp that slanted down into the underground bunker. Like his peers the operator was armed with an exotic rifle, was decorated with tats, and wore a beard. Salutes get old when people see each other every day, so the men nodded to each other. A corporal left the JOC as Falco entered.
It was like a madhouse down below as soldiers, sailors and airmen sorted documents and packed them into boxes. A senior airman spotted Falco and came over. “The colonel is in the briefing room, sir. Do you need anything?”
“No, thank you,” Falco replied. “I’m good.”
The briefing room was an island of serenity in a sea of chaos. Campo was there, along with an Afghan national, and they were poring over a map as Falco entered. “There you are,” Campo said. “This is Mr. Jawan Mohammadi. He’ll be your guide. Jawan, this is Major Falco. He’s a JTAC (Joint Terminal Attack Controller) and a dammed good one too … If Hashemi shows up, Major Falco will send him straight to Jahannam (hell).”
Falco felt his pulse quicken. Campo was going to hand him a mission rather than a chore! He stepped forward to shake hands. Mohammadi was clean shaven, and dressed in the usual outfit of vest, long shirt, and baggy trousers. As their hands made contact Falco noticed that the Afghani’s palm was soft, rather than callused, and his English was exceptionally good. An educated man then. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Major,” Mohammadi said. “With your help we will rid ourselves of the goat turd named Noor Mohammad Hashemi.”
Falco looked at Campo. The army officer had a white sidewall haircut, blue eyes, and a lean body. He smiled. “That’s right, Falco … We’re going to give the people of Khost Province a going away present. The Taliban sent Hashemi to the area … And he uses murder, kidnappings, and gang rapes to keep people in line. That alone is enough reason to cancel his ticket. But, according to our Intel people, he’s the bastard who conceived and orchestrated the Valentine’s Day attack.”
Falco had been inside the wire the day that a “farmer” drove his truck into the fence and blew himself up. A squad of hadji had been hiding in a streambed nearby. They rushed through the hole and opened fire. Five soldiers were killed during the ensuing gun battle. “That works for me, sir,” Falco said. “One question though … Could we use a pred?” (Predator drone.)
“Hashemi likes to surround himself with civilians,” Campo replied. “So we haven’t had a good opportunity to use a drone. But a wedding is going to be held in the village of Em Bal two days from now and, assuming that Jawan’s sources are correct, Hashemi will attend. Both he and his bodyguards are legitimate targets. But we’ll need more than a pred to wipe them out. The trick is to grease the bastard without killing any civilians.”
“He murdered my sis
ter,” Mohammadi added tightly. “For going to school.”
“I’m sorry,” Falco said. And he was. And, like Campo, Falco wanted to kill the man behind the attack on FOB Hope. That would be an excellent way to end his tour in Afghanistan.
The next thirty minutes were spent discussing the particulars of the mission. Under normal circumstances Falco would have been part of a two, three, or four man team. But Campo was sending him to Em Bal alone. “This a unique situation,” Campo explained. “The mission will require a person with eyes-on to ID the target, and given how exposed the OP (Observation Post) is, a larger group would be too conspicuous. A quick reaction force will be on standby if the shit hits the fan.”
Falco nodded. “Yes, sir. ”
“One more thing,” Campo added. “I’m delegating On Scene Commander authority to you … You’ll have the best vantage point, and I trust you to make the correct call.”
So Falco and Mohammadi were going in by themselves. And rather than enter the operational area during the day, they were going to infil during the hours of darkness.
After discussing the weather forecast, enemy activity, and close air support Falco returned to his tent. His first task was to select the right com equipment and to check it over. His choices included a tablet computer, plus an AN/PRC-117G radio, with a PRC-152 as backup.
Other than the com gear, Falco didn’t plan to bring much. Just his weapons, ammo, one MRE, a Jetboil stove and a hydration pack.
After prepping for the mission there was only one more thing to do, and that was to take a nap, because Falco was slated to depart at 2000 hours. Sleeping could be difficult with helos roaring overhead, vehicles growling past, and people shouting orders. So earplugs were helpful. But it was Falco’s capacity to sleep anywhere, and at any time, that came through for him.
Falco’s alarm went off at 1830. He rolled out of bed, took a hot shower, and got dressed. The routine never varied. The ritual began with checking to make sure his TAC vest was properly loaded with a Ruger Silent-SR .22 pistol, extra magazines for his carbine, and the all-important first aid kit. Then it was time to load his pockets. Power bars were important … As were packets of instant coffee.
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