by Larry Bond
Sea Hawk Flight
Paracel Islands
South China Sea
December 6, 2017
Commander Wang Gao’s eyes shifted focus according to a well-practiced drill. Check altitude, heading, and speed. Conduct a quick visual search ahead and above, just in case any enemy aircraft were in the area. Then glance left and right to check on the rest of the formation. Repeat. Lieutenant Kuan Yu in the backseat alternated between his own visual searching and looking at the radar-warning receiver. With their aircraft’s radar in standby, there was nothing else for him to watch.
Wang’s squadron of JH-7A fighter-bombers had taken off from the Sanya air base on Hainan Island, dove down to the deck, and proceeded under strict electronic silence toward their target. Somewhere near Yongxing Dao, or Woody Island as it was known to most of the world, was a Vietnamese convoy bringing supplies and air defense batteries to reinforce the island—an island that was, until a week ago, Chinese territory.
The squadron leader frowned under his mask. He needed to pay attention to what he was doing and not let his nationalistic pride get all wound up. Traveling at just under the speed of sound a mere twenty-five meters above the ocean demanded his complete attention. If he made a mistake, he wouldn’t even have time to blink before his aircraft plowed into the water.
Fortunately, it was a very short flight. Their air base was less than two hundred nautical miles from Yongxing Dao. It was the main reason why the South Sea Fleet commander had chosen Wang’s squadron for the attack. That, and the fact that American submarines were running rampant throughout the South China Sea, sinking everything they ran across. The daring attack at Yalong Bay had been a very rude awakening.
“IP in two five miles, sir,” announced Kuan.
“Understood.” In three minutes they would come up to their search altitude and see what the Vietnamese had brought to the party. The prestrike intelligence report estimated between eight and twelve ships, including escorts. The type and number of ships determined how many YJ-83K missiles they’d need to launch to achieve the desired degree of damage, and this in turn determined how many aircraft would be required to carry out the attack.
Wang had his men work through the antiship strike-planning software, and they came up with eight aircraft carrying four missiles each. He added two additional strikers just to make sure there were enough missiles to give them a good chance of sinking everything that floats near the island—especially if there were more ships present than they thought. The other two aircraft in the squadron would carry electronic countermeasure pods, just in case the Vietnamese had some SAMs already in place, or should there be any American ships in the convoy.
“Mark IP,” said Kuan.
Wang toggled his mike, “Sea Hawk Leader to Sea Hawk Flight, climb to designated altitude and energize radars. Eagles One and Two, take point and report all electronic contacts.” As his pilots acknowledged their orders, the two ECM aircraft accelerated and began climbing rapidly. As soon as they had cleared the rest of the formation, Wang pulled back on his stick and started his ascent. He felt himself begin to relax a little as he watched the altimeter spiral upward, away from the cruel and unforgiving sea.
As the squadron passed two thousand meters, the lead ECM aircraft reported in. “Eagle One to Sea Hawk Leader, hold three air search radars in the direction of Yongxing Dao; two Positiv-M and one P-15M. The signal strength on the P-15M is strong. It’s very likely it’s detected us.”
Wang nodded approvingly. The intelligence estimate had been spot-on. Two Vietnamese Gepard frigates were part of the escort screen, and there was at least one Pechora-2M surface-to-air missile battery on the island. But there was no mention of any Americans in the formation. “Sea Hawk Leader to Eagle One, understood. Are any Americans nearby?”
“Eagle One to Sea Hawk Leader, I hold one SPS-49 and one SPY-1, radar bearing two two eight. Range approximately one five zero nautical miles.”
Wang smiled. A U.S. Aegis cruiser was to the south-southwest but too far away to respond to his squadron’s sudden appearance; the Vietnamese were on their own. Still, the Pechora-2M would be a problem. The SAM was a heavily modified SA-3 and had the ability to intercept cruise missiles. It would have to be suppressed.
“Sea Hawk Leader to Eagles One and Two, begin jamming the Vietnamese air-search radars. Sea Hawk Flight, scan for targets; prepare to launch missiles.”
USS O’Kane (DDG 77)
Captain Bradley Alberts slid down the ladder, hit the deck, and started running toward the combat information center. “Gangway! Make a hole!” he yelled, forcing sailors to plaster their bodies against the bulkhead so he could pass unhampered. The general alarm was still reverberating throughout the ship, and sailors were scurrying to their battle stations. Lunging through the door into CIC, Alberts took his seat in front of the two main flat-screen displays next to the tactical action officer. The picture showed twelve new air contacts.
“TAO report,” he ordered.
“Captain, EW has multiple JL-10A radars in surface-search mode. The bogies are concentrating their search on the ships around Woody Island, but there have been a few scans in our direction. There’s a low probability they picked us up at this range. The contact data on the main display is from Cowpens to our southwest via the CEC data link. SPY-1 and all weapons are in standby.”
“Very well, TAO.” Alberts studied the evolving tactical picture on the two large Aegis displays; his ship was sixty miles off the Chinese aircrafts’ track. Given O’Kane’s reduced radar cross-section, he agreed with his TAO’s call that they probably hadn’t been detected. The cooperative engagement capability, or CEC, data from Cowpens was very good: Both her SPS-49 and the SPY-1 were tracking the incoming flight. Alberts’s ship had an excellent fire-control solution and could shoot on remote data alone.
“CIC, Bridge. Battle stations manned. Material condition Zebra is set throughout the ship,” squawked the intercom.
Alberts nodded to his TAO, who acknowledged the report. His ship was ready to fight. “TAO, engage tracks eight five zero one through eight five one two with SM6 missiles, single shots.” Seconds later, the ship rumbled under the vibration of twelve missiles being launched from both the fore and aft vertical launchers.
Sea Hawk Flight
“Radar contact, eleven medium and large ships, bearing one one seven, range six eight miles,” reported Lieutenant Kuan.
“Understood,” replied Wang. Everything was going according to plan. Each of the strikers had selected their targets, and with the Vietnamese air-search radars jammed, they wouldn’t know what hit them—now to evict those intruders. “Sea Hawk Flight, launch missiles.”
Kuan hit the launch button, and the first YJ-83K dropped from its pylon; seconds later, its turbojet engine kicked in and it streaked away from the aircraft. Wang looked around at the formation and saw that the first wave of missiles was well on its way toward their targets.
USS O’Kane (DDG 77)
“All stations, TAO. Bogies have launched vipers! Repeat, missiles are heading toward the Vietnamese formation.”
Alberts’s blood started flowing a bit faster. There could be as many as forty antiship cruise missiles on those aircraft. And since they weren’t heading toward O’Kane, he’d have precious little time to engage them.
“TAO, time to enable?” he asked.
“Sir, our birds will go active in ten seconds.”
“Very well. Light ’em up, TAO. Engage inbound vipers; fire at will.”
“Aye, aye, sir! Air, TAO. Illuminate with the SPY-1; track bogies and vipers. Break. Weapons Control. Shift Aegis to automatic and engage vipers!”
Sea Hawk Flight
“Sea Hawk Leader, Eagle One. SPY-1 emissions, bearing due south! Very strong signal strength! An Aegis ship is very close!”
Wang heard the fear in the man’s voice. The tone annoyed the squadron leader, but the warning couldn’t be ignored. An American air defense ship had been laying in wait for
them; his squadron was in great danger. But before he could key his mike, the radar warning receiver began chirping madly. “Missile alert!” shouted Kuan.
Two bright flashes suddenly blossomed in front of him, grabbing Wang’s attention. Both ECM aircraft had exploded, flaming debris spinning wildly downward.
“Break formation! Evade!” Wang radioed to his comrades, and then pushed the yoke down sharply. “Lieutenant! Launch countermeasures!”
The tight formation immediately began to scatter, but not before three more of the fighter-bombers were hit. In less than ten seconds, Wang had lost nearly half his squadron. With his aircraft in a steep dive, he yanked hard left; the loud pops and shudders told him Kuan was ejecting chaff at a rapid rate. His efforts were wasted.
A loud explosion, followed immediately by a body-wrenching jerk, caused Wang’s helmet to slam into the canopy. Dazed by the sudden impact, he tried to focus his eyes. The controls were sluggish, and there were a host of warning lights and alarms. Both engines were gone, and the hydraulic system was failing; his plane was bleeding to death.
As he struggled to keep the aircraft steady, he shouted at Kuan over the intercom. “We’re hit! I’m losing control. Eject! Eject!”
There was no response. “Kuan! I said eject!” Again, he heard nothing. Wang had to look over both shoulders before he could see Kuan’s helmet; the visor was covered with blood. His backseater was either unconscious or dead.
Wrestling with the yoke, Wang groped for the ejection system handle with one hand. Once he found it, he released the yoke, grabbed the handle with both hands, and pulled upward. A fraction of a second later, the canopy was blown off, and Wang was brutally flung into the air. The jerk from the deploying parachute sent a stabbing jolt of pain down his left arm; his head thumped mercilessly.
As Wang drifted slowly toward the sea, he tried to look around and see how many planes had been hit. Spinning about on his chute, he thought he counted seven smoke trails. Including his own aircraft, that meant that two-thirds of his squadron was gone, destroyed by those American bastards. Distress welled over him, as he could see only a few parachutes—were all the others dead? Wang shook his head, the pain rousing him from his anguish. He had to stay focused. The sea was getting bigger and bigger. He had to keep his wits about him and prepare for when he hit the water. Then there was the long swim home.
U.S. Space Force Headquarters
Edwards Air Force Base
Office Annex
December 7, 2017
Ray stumbled into his office and headed straight for the minirefrigerator in the back corner. Grabbing a cold bottle of water, he plopped himself into his chair and guzzled the contents. Half-sitting, half-lounging, Ray looked at his in-box and felt like crying. It had grown by several inches while he had been at training. Training? A better description would be torture.
Immediately after their casualty-drill session in the recently upgraded simulator, Barnes announced a surprise PT test and proceeded to run the whole crew longer and harder than ever before. Only Skeldon truly seemed to enjoy the arduous PT workout, “Oorahing” his way to the finish line. Marines, thought Ray, they’re all raving lunatics! That was the only logical explanation he could come up with.
While they’d all passed the surprise test, some of them had just barely made it, including Ray. Of course, Biff wasn’t satisfied and warned them they’d do it all over again in a couple of days. He’s trying to kill me, Ray said to himself, wincing as he sat up straight. It’s his revenge for all those black programs I made him wade through.
Ray reached for the first report on the top of the stack and opened the folder. He felt disgusting, with a fine layer of encrusted sweat and dust on his skin and clothes. A shower sounded really good right now, but he had to review some of these final subsystem-test reports and get them out of the way before the next batch arrived.
In fact, he had to review and approve all of them before Defender could be rolled out to the launchpad and prepped for launch—and that was to happen within the next couple of days! The thought came as a shock; Defender would start her journey out to Area 1-54 tomorrow. By Saturday, she’d be erected and hooked up to her gantry. The scheduled launch date was just over a week away.
Ray stopped and shook his head in disbelief. The whole idea seemed so surreal to him. His people had been busting their asses, working long shifts to make that demanding date a reality. They’d made a lot of progress, solving one technical problem after another, and in record time, but there had been frustrating setbacks as well.
The navigation system report Ray had in front of him was one of the pieces of good news. The system had been fully checked out and deemed flight ready. The nav team had come up with a way to integrate all four satellite-navigation systems so that Defender would not have to rely on GPS fixes alone. And just in case everything went to hell in a handbasket, two stellar sextants had been installed. Come what may, Defender would know where she was at all times. Then there was the bad news.
Both the sensor fusion and data link teams were struggling with software glitches that were proving to be annoyingly difficult to isolate and correct. The last series of tests of the command-data link between Defender and the BMC had gone badly, with poor connectivity and data-transfer rates. Jenny had been visibly disappointed and frustrated at the results. Ray heard she had even hurled her clipboard across the room when the test was shut down. After the outbrief, she’d left the briefing room silent and angry, descending back into the command bunker. Ray hadn’t seen or heard from her for the last two days.
Ray was signing off on the maneuvering thruster report when a series of sharp raps broke the silence. “Morning, Ray, I’d like to…” The admiral came to a complete stop as soon as he got a good look. “My God, man! You look like shit!”
Ray immediately regretted the rapid head motion as he looked up. He waited while the pain passed, then said, “Thank you, sir. I didn’t think you’d notice.” A slight smile popped on his face.
Schultz placed the stack of papers in his hand on the desk and pulled up a chair. “Looks like Biff is running a tight ship,” he remarked.
“Yes, sir. We’ve nearly tripled the training schedule. Biff still has us reviewing basic procedures, but he’s got us working casualty drills at least twice a day now. He’s trying to cover every possible contingency.”
“As he should.” Schultz smiled. “He’s doing exactly what he’s supposed to be doing. As unpleasant as that may be.”
“We’ve talked off-line, away from the other crew members. He’s worried, Admiral.”
“About anything in particular?”
“No, just everything,” Ray replied while slowly sitting back. “Defender is unproven, the weapons are unproven, the command and control is unproven, and the crew is unproven. We’ve tested each individual subsystem to death, but the integrated whole gets its first real test when we take her up in a little over a week.”
“You getting cold feet, Ray?” asked Schultz. There was a serious tone to his voice.
“No, sir. I’m just trying to be realistic. In theory, this should work. But we both know the path from theory to practice can be a bit bumpy at times. Under normal circumstances, I’d be ecstatic with how far we’ve come. But things aren’t normal, are they? And there’s an awful lot riding on this mission.”
Schultz nodded. He knew where his technical director was coming from. “Ray, there is a risk of failure in every human endeavor. But in war that risk is considerably higher because you aren’t in control of a big chunk of what’s going on. You can plan all you want, strive to minimize the possibility of failure, but in the end you can’t guarantee success. That’s why it’s called a calculated risk.” The admiral rose and started pacing.
“Both you and Biff realize the risks associated with this mission are higher than we’d like, and you’re both doing your damnedest to knock that risk down, but we’re running out of time, and we’ll have to take our chances. If it’s any consolatio
n, I don’t believe in kamikaze missions. I wouldn’t condone a fight with a high chance of failure and crew loss. But, even with the risks, we are still the best bet in town. Our mission has the highest probability of success and the lowest for casualties of all the other options, save giving up.”
“Tell that to Jenny,” responded Ray quietly.
“She’s not happy, I take it.”
“We’ve talked several times—or, rather, she’s talked and I’ve listened. As much as she supports the mission, and as proud as she is that I’m flying, she’s still scared to death, and she’s told me so. She knows she can’t have it both ways, but that’s just how she feels.”
The admiral sighed and shook his head; this was a major disadvantage of having a loved one cleared to know what was going on—they knew the reality behind their fears. “Jenny’s a big girl,” Schultz finally replied. “She’ll find a way to deal with it.”
Ray nodded silently.
“Now you go hit the shower. We’ll talk about the command data-link problem after you’ve washed up,” ordered Schultz.
“Yes, sir. I shall cleanse myself and cease to be an affront to thine eyes,” Ray teased.
“My eyes!?” countered Schultz. “It’s my nose I’m worried about!”
Gongga Shan
Sichuan Province, China
December 8, 2017
Shen grumbled as he read the latest progress reports, a typical mixture of good and bad news. The army had done reasonably well, having reached the outskirts of Hanoi slightly ahead of schedule. But recent messages reported PLA units had started running into stiffer resistance as the terrain became more urban. Intelligence reports also indicated that the Vietnamese were establishing strong lines of defense south of Hanoi near the cities of Vinh and Dong Ha. The first was not as well fortified or manned as the second, indicating it was more of a delaying tactic—a speed bump to slow the advancing Chinese columns. Estimates put the defenses at Dong Ha as being far stronger—and, further, it was being fed daily by fresh shipments of arms and supplies through the port of Da Nang, a port kept open and active courtesy of the American navy.
