Eagle Station

by Dale Brown

  His jaw tightened. This sudden northward turn plainly signaled the U.S. Navy’s intention to violate China’s territorial waters. These so-called freedom of navigation operations were a constant irritant—proof that the arrogant Americans did not see the People’s Republic as an equal. In the past, the PLA Navy’s own warships would have harassed them, crossing their bows at high speed and maneuvering close alongside to force the intruders to alter course . . . or risk collision. But for some unfathomable reason, his superiors in the South Sea Fleet had recently recalled the pair of Type 052 Luyang II–class guided missile destroyers that normally patrolled these islands. By now those ships were rocking uselessly at anchor at Zhanjiang Naval Base, more than five hundred and fifty kilometers to the north. And before the Luyangs could return, the Americans would be long gone.

  Yang tapped a control on his console, zooming in on the aft section of the leading enemy destroyer. A large, unmarked shipping container was tied down on her helicopter pad. Thick bundles of what looked like power and fiber-optic cables ran across the deck between the container and the ship’s hangar. That was strange. This improvised installation made flight operations by McCampbell’s embarked SH-60 Sea Hawk helicopters impossible. He turned to his chief of staff. “Your evaluation?”

  The other man leaned in closer. “I suspect that container is crammed full of intelligence-gathering equipment, Comrade Captain. New devices to spy on us. And the Americans have adopted a crude but effective means of concealing this equipment from our view.”

  Yang nodded. That was his own guess as well. Besides humiliating China by steaming unmolested through its territory, the enemy also intended to collect vital information on Yŏngxīng Dăo’s defenses. He frowned. They were probably hoping to taunt him into turning on his surface-to-surface missile tracking and fire control radars or sortieing the Shenyang J-15 fighter-bombers concealed in hardened shelters adjacent to the island’s 2,700-meter-long runway.

  If so, that was a game he would not play. At least not without direct orders from those higher up in his chain of command. “Has there been any response from Vice Admiral Zheng?”

  “Not yet, sir,” his chief of staff said. He shrugged. “Our data is being relayed in real time to Zhanjiang, though, so the fleet commander must be aware of this situation.”

  Aware and quite probably sitting on his immaculately manicured hands, too afraid to make any decision that Beijing might disavow later, Yang thought bitterly. Like too many in the PLA Navy’s upper reaches, Vice Admiral Zheng was more a political animal than a naval strategist or tactician. Having foolishly stripped away the patrolling Chinese warships that were his subordinate’s best hope of dealing with this latest American provocation, Zheng probably saw no benefit in involving himself directly now.

  To Yang’s surprise, the command post’s secure phone buzzed sharply.

  His chief of staff picked it up. “Yŏngxīng Dăo Command Post, Commander Liu speaking.” He stiffened to attention. “Yes, Admiral! At once.” Eyes wide, he turned to Yang and held out the receiver. “It’s Beijing. Admiral Cao himself is on the line.”

  Yang whistled softly. Admiral Cao Jiang was the commander of the whole PLA Navy. What the devil was going on here? Why was naval headquarters in the capital bypassing not only the South Sea Fleet, but also the whole Southern Theater Command? He grabbed the phone. “Captain Commandant Yang Zhi here.”

  “Listen carefully, Captain,” Cao said in short, clipped tones. “The orders I am about to give you come from the highest possible authority, from the president himself. You will immediately contact the senior officer aboard those U.S. Navy ships. Once in communication, you will—”

  Yang listened to his instructions in mounting astonishment and exultation. Far from catching his country’s leaders off guard, it was clear that this high-handed American incursion into Chinese territory had instead set in motion a carefully prepared and long-planned response.

  Aboard USS McCampbell

  Minutes Later

  “Attention, McCampbell, this is Captain Commandant Yang Zhi of the People’s Liberation Army Navy. Your ships have illegally entered territorial waters of the People’s Republic of China. Accordingly, you are ordered to withdraw immediately, at your best possible speed. Acknowledge the receipt of my transmission and your intention to comply without delay. Over.”

  Commander Amanda Dvorsky listened coolly to the strident voice coming over the bridge loudspeakers. The Chinese officer’s English was excellent. Too bad his language skills weren’t matched by a grasp of diplomacy or tact. She keyed her mike. “Captain Commandant Yang, this is USS McCampbell. Your transmission has been received. However, we will not, repeat not, comply with your demands. Under international law, your country has no valid claim to these waters. Nor do you have any right to interfere with our freedom of navigation on the high seas. We are proceeding on course as planned. McCampbell, out.”

  Dvorsky ignored the nods and pleased looks from the rest of her bridge crew. Yang’s demand and her refusal were only the opening moves in this confrontation—like the ritual advance of pawns in a chess game . . . or the first tentative attack and parry in a fencing match. Now they would see what else, if anything, the Chinese had up their sleeves.

  The radio crackled again. “Yang to McCampbell. This is your final warning. Your ships are now inside a special defense test zone. You are in imminent danger. Unless you obey my previous directive without further delay, the People’s Liberation Army Navy cannot guarantee the safety of your vessels. Yang, out.”

  “Well . . . that’s interesting,” Dvorsky muttered, more to herself than to any of her officers or crew. It looked as if all those highly classified briefings she’d received before McCampbell departed her home port in Japan were about to come into play. She swung back toward the boatswain’s mate at the 1MC system. “Patch me through to our passengers on the helicopter pad. I think they’re about to earn their keep.”

  Scion Special Action Unit

  That Same Time

  Blue-tinged overhead lights glowed softly inside the converted shipping container tied down on the destroyer’s aft section. Like the subdued lighting used in warship combat information centers, this made it easier for its occupants to read the array of computer-driven multifunction displays and other electronic hardware crammed into virtually every square foot of space.

  “Your analysis matches ours, Captain,” Brad McLanahan said into his headset mike. “We’ll stand by.”

  The tall, broad-shouldered young man tapped an icon on one of his large displays, temporarily muting his connection to McCampbell’s bridge. He swiveled slightly in his seat so that he could see his two companions. “Standing by is one thing,” he said with a quick, edgy grin. “But I sure wish I didn’t feel so much like a sitting duck in this crate.”

  “Too bloody right,” Peter Charles “Constable” Vasey murmured from his station. Like the others, the Englishman was an experienced aviator, ex–Fleet Air Arm in his case. Working for Scion, a private military and defense intelligence company, had accustomed them all to flying high-tech aircraft and single-stage-to-orbit spaceplanes that could get into, and just as important, out of trouble at supersonic and hypersonic speeds. Compared to that, heading into possible action aboard even this sleek, thirty-knot-plus destroyer felt like they were strapped into a lumbering bus.

  Perched between the two bigger men, dark-haired Nadia Rozek only shrugged. In one action after another against the Russians with Scion’s Iron Wolf Squadron, the former Polish Special Forces officer had proved herself tough-minded, focused, and fearless. “This is why they pay us so well, correct?”

  Brad raised an eyebrow. “We’re getting paid?”

  “Well, I am, at least,” she said, thumping him gently in the ribs. The diamond engagement ring on her left hand glittered briefly in the dim blue light. “Did you forget to sign your contract again?”

  Vasey laughed. “Come now, you two. You can’t fight in here. This is a war room, rem
ember? Save that for later, when you’re married and it’s all aboveboard and legal.”

  Abruptly, the sophisticated electronic detection system mounted in their container broke in. “Warning, warning. Multiple I-band and S-band surface and air search and tracking radars detected. Bearing zero-zero-two and one-seven-five degrees. Sources evaluated as land-based Type 366 naval-grade radars, JY-9 mobile radars, and unknown-type associated with Bombay Reef Ocean-E anchored surveillance platform. Signal strength indicates positive identification and probable target lock-on.”

  “Well, that ups the ante,” Brad said quietly. He swung back to his displays and unmuted his connection to McCampbell’s bridge. “Special Action Unit, here, Captain. Our Chinese friends are lighting up everything they’ve got.”

  “So I hear from my CIC team,” Commander Dvorsky replied curtly. “Recommendations?”

  “That we carry on as planned. I’m contacting RANGE BOSS now.”

  “Very well,” the ship’s captain said. “Keep me in the loop.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Brad punched another icon, this one activating a secure satellite video link to a location nearly seventy-five hundred nautical miles and twelve hours’ time difference away. A window opened immediately, showing a man with a square, firm jaw and a heavily lined face. Automatically, he straightened up in his seat. “Sir.”

  “Y’all ready to proceed, Major McLanahan?” the other man asked quietly. “Because from the data we’re getting on this end, I’d say this thing is just about ready to kick off.”

  “Yes, sir,” Brad confirmed. “We’re ready.”

  “Well, all right, then,” John Dalton Farrell, president of the United States, told him. “You have the green light. I figure it’s time to send the powers that be in Beijing the kind of message those sons of bitches will understand.”

  Two

  Command Center, Central Military Commission of the People’s Republic of China, August 1st Building, Beijing

  That Same Time

  A brisk northerly wind had temporarily freed Beijing from its near-perpetual blanket of thick, choking smog, and the August 1st Building’s tall white walls and columns gleamed in the spring sunshine. The whole enormous edifice, with its faintly pagoda-style roofs, loomed over its neighbors in the capital city’s western reaches as a reminder of the state’s power and authority. Named for the Nanchang uprising of August 1, 1927—a bloody clash between Communist and Nationalist forces later celebrated as the founding of the People’s Liberation Army—it was the headquarters of the Chinese Communist Party’s Central Military Commission.

  In a command center buried deep below the surface, the commission’s seven permanent members and an array of other senior PLA officers had gathered to control the events unfolding thousands of kilometers away in the South China Sea. In both law and current practice, the Central Military Commission exercised complete authority over China’s armed forces. Its chairman was always the Party’s general secretary, the man who also served as president of the People’s Republic. And now, more than ever, the ruling communist elite was determined to keep the levers of military power firmly in its own hands.

  Several years before, the machinations of an ambitious chief of the general staff, Colonel General Zu Kai, had threatened the Party’s absolute authority over the nation. Once his coup was quietly quashed, China’s shaken civilian autocrats had tightened their control over the armed forces. Purges disguised as anti-corruption campaigns had systematically eliminated a whole generation of senior officers tainted by what was labeled “inappropriate interest in politics.”

  The younger generals and admirals who survived were only too aware that their careers, and even their very lives, now rested entirely in the hands of China’s new leader—President Li Jun. He was younger, better educated, and far more ruthless than his aging and ill predecessor, Zhou Qiang. Zhou’s hold on the Party had weakened steadily in the wake of the attempted military coup and his abject kowtowing to Russia’s now-dead leader, Gennadiy Gryzlov, during yet another confrontation with the United States. Last year’s orbital battles between Russia’s Mars One space station and America’s revolutionary spaceplanes had struck the final blow. Confronted by the shattering realization that both Russia and America had leapfrogged China in critical areas of military space technology, a cadre of Party leaders organized by Li had shunted Zhou aside—sending him into retirement in permanent, guarded seclusion.

  A skilled political infighter with a thorough grounding in the technologies of the future, Li Jun kept himself fit and trim. He moved with the athletic grace of a man in peak physical condition and perfect health, ostentatiously refraining from the “Western vices” of alcohol and tobacco. Part of this was from personal conviction. More of it was the result of pure, cold-blooded political calculation. Zhou’s growing illness had been the catalyst for his ouster, eventually persuading the Party’s top echelons that the old man was too feeble to threaten them. Li Jun had no intention of sending any similar signals of weakness. In the fiercely competitive and sometimes deadly sphere of China’s internal politics, it was essential that he remain the apex predator.

  With that in mind, Li studied the others seated around the long rectangular table. Most of them were relatively new to their posts, handpicked by him for their loyalty, competence, and eagerness to pursue innovative weapons, strategies, and tactics. One by one they met his gaze and nodded. If any of them had doubts about what he planned, those doubts were well hidden.

  Satisfied, Li turned to Admiral Cao. “The Americans have ignored our repeated warnings?”

  “Yes, Comrade President,” the stocky naval officer said. “Their ships are still continuing on course into our territorial waters.”

  Li shook his head in mock dismay. “Most unfortunate.”

  He turned to a middle-aged army officer farther down the table. General Chen Haifeng headed the Strategic Support Force—an organization that combined the PLA’s military space, cyberwar, electronic warfare, and psychological warfare capabilities in one unified command. “Are your satellites in position, General?”

  “They are, Comrade President,” Chen said calmly. He activated a control on the table in front of him. Immediately, high-definition screens around the room lit up, showing the sunlit surface of the South China Sea as seen from orbit. At the touch of another control, the view zoomed in—focusing tightly on the two U.S. Navy destroyers as they steamed northward. “This is a live feed from one of our Jian Bing 9 optical naval reconnaissance satellites. We are also receiving good data from a synthetic aperture radar satellite in the JB-7 constellation. And three of our JB-8 electronic intelligence satellites have successfully triangulated the radio signals and radar emissions emanating from those enemy warships.”

  Li nodded in satisfaction. Between the tracking data streaming down from China’s space-based sensors and that acquired by ground- and sea-based radars in the Paracel Islands, his forces now knew, to within a meter or so, precisely where those American ships were at any given moment. They were like flies trapped in an invisible electromagnetic web. “What is the current position of the armed American space station?”

  “Eagle Station is currently crossing over South America on its way toward Europe,” Chen answered. “For the next fifty minutes, it will be beyond our visual and radar horizon—unable to intervene with its plasma rail gun.”

  “What excellent timing . . . for us,” Li commented dryly.

  There were answering smiles from almost everyone else in the room. Only the high-ranking foreigner the president had specially invited to witness today’s “weapons test” looked unamused. In fact, the man’s broad Slavic face appeared frozen, almost as though it were carved out of ice. Hardly surprising, Li thought.

  Marshal Mikhail Ivanovich Leonov had been the mastermind behind the creation of the Mars One space station, its powerful satellite- and spacecraft-killing Thunder plasma weapon, and the breakthrough small fusion generator that powered both of them. Their capture by the Ame
ricans had been a disaster for Russia—a disaster magnified when a missile fired from Mars One, either accidentally or deliberately, obliterated the center of the Kremlin . . . killing Russia’s charismatic, though increasingly unhinged, leader, Gennadiy Gryzlov. Although Leonov himself had emerged unscathed from the political chaos that followed, the reminder that his prized weapons were in enemy hands could not be pleasant.

  Li dismissed the new Russian defense minister’s irritation from his mind. For too long, Moscow had taken China for granted, despite the fact that its economy was four times larger and its population almost ten times bigger. If nothing else, what was about to take place in the South China Sea should prove that Beijing was still a power to be reckoned with—whether as an ally . . . or an enemy.

  He turned to the chief of the PLA’s Rocket Force. “Are you ready to carry out our planned missile readiness exercise and flight test?”

  Lieutenant General Tao Shidi nodded. For the first time in decades, some of the advanced weapons he had spent his career developing were about to see action in earnest. “Yes, Comrade President,” he confirmed. His raspy voice betrayed the faintest hint of excitement. “My launch crews are prepared. They have received the updated targeting data supplied by General Chen’s satellites.”

  “Very well,” Li said flatly. “You have my authorization to fire.”

  Three

  Scion Special Action Unit, Aboard USS McCampbell

  That Same Time

  Brad McLanahan stiffened as his central display lit up with a series of red-boxed alerts and then a digital map of China and the South China Sea overlaid with projected missile tracks. “Well, shit. We were right,” he muttered. He turned his head toward Nadia and Vasey. “We’ve got a flash launch warning from Space Command at Cheyenne Mountain.”