by Andrew Watts
It took about five minutes for her to be on the phone with the duty officer in the Red Cell’s operations center. “I need to speak with Jinshan. Can you connect me?” she asked.
“Please wait.”
Another five minutes until she heard the old man’s voice. “Lena, is this you?”
“I’m afraid I have bad news, Mr. Jinshan.”
“Lena, what is it?”
“Sir, it appears that the equipment we have been using to track our military assets without alerting Chinese leadership may have been compromised. The hardware known as the crypto key has been taken from the mobile communications center in Manta.”
“Taken by whom?” Jinshan said.
“We believe that they were Americans. A special forces unit.”
“Are you sure that they were Americans?”
She thought of telling him how she knew. That she’d had Chase Manning in her sights. Then she changed her mind. She would never admit that to anyone.
“I’m sure, Mr. Jinshan. I saw several of their faces, and their equipment. And they were picked up by US Navy helicopters. Their first attempt to escape was several hours ago, on another set of helicopters. We were able to shoot those two down.”
The other side was silent. Then Jinshan said, “So it has begun. I had hoped for a more deliberate start.”
“I apologize, sir. But it appears that we must now take action.”
“Please wait one moment, Lena. I must confer with Admiral Song.”
It was a full ten minutes before Jinshan got back on the line. “Admiral Song and I will take care of this from here. You were right to inform me of this, and right to take extreme measures to prevent the crypto key from falling into the hands of the Americans. We are not ready for that level of information disclosure yet.”
“Sir, is there anything else I can do to help?”
“Not now, Lena. Admiral Song is sending a message to his naval units in the Eastern Pacific as we speak. We have an idea of where the crypto key has likely gone. And we will take steps to ensure that it does not go any further.”
20
“Captain in combat,” yelled one of the petty officers on watch in the Farragut’s combat information center.
The destroyer had just finished conducting its underway replenishment with the supply ship. The “breakaway” song was playing on the 1MC. One of the modern traditions on board many Navy warships was to play a popular song over the ship’s speakers as a way to celebrate the successful completions of the replenishment at sea. Today’s song was from the Doors.
“Turn that damn song off,” said the captain.
“Aye aye, sir.”
“OPS. Where the hell is OPS?”
“Here, sir.” The ship’s operations officer stood behind one of the sonar stations.
“What’s the status of the helicopters?”
OPS walked over to one of the computers and changed the display in the center of the CIC. “Sir, they checked off with us about one hour ago. They were out of communications range…here.” He moved the cursor from the symbol that represented their ship over to an X with the tag “HELICOPTER OFF STATION.”
“And how far from the coast were they?”
“About fifty miles, sir. Air Boss told me that she expected to be back up with us”—he looked at his watch—“any minute now.”
The ship’s communications officer burst into the room, holding up a clipboard. “Sir! HF radio transmission…” He was out of breath, like he had been running.
“Not now, COMMO.” The kid was still trying to make it up to him that none of their satellite communications ever worked. Ever since the captain had chewed him out in front of the wardroom at dinner that night, he had worked around the clock to try and improve their HF systems, as well as retrain his men. This was probably some incremental fix he had just made, the captain thought.
“Sir, please forgive me, but this is critically important.”
The captain turned. He hated the way this kid talked. Like he’d gone to some snooty Ivy League school. “What is it, COMMO?” he asked, annoyance in his voice.
“Sir, the helicopter, sir. They’re on their way here. Some of their passengers have been trying to reach us with their HF radios since they’re so far away.”
The captain rolled his eyes. “Well, what did they say? Come on, I don’t have all day.”
“Sir, they’ve been attacked. They say that Chinese military forces shot at them. They have wounded inbound.”
There were almost fifteen people in the CIC, working at various stations. There was a good deal of chatter on a normal day, but as busy as today was, it was loud.
Until the COMMO made his statement. At that, heads turned, and everyone stared at him.
The captain’s face contorted. “What? I thought that they were just supposed to pick up some SEALs or something. What are you talking about? They flew to South America, for Christ’s sake. What the hell are you talking about with Chinese?”
The young communications officer shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. The transmission was garbled. They had to use a radio from one of their passengers. It was the aircrewman who sent the message.”
The captain looked at his XO, confused. “What the hell is going on, XO?”
The XO said, “Sir, I’ll have medical personnel standing by for when they get here. Do you think it would be wise for us to increase our weapons posture?”
The captain shrugged. “I mean…I don’t understand what the situation is…I’m not sure that’s needed.”
The XO said, “Sir, I recommend that we increase our weapons posture, until we know more. Perhaps we should go to general quarters, sir?” The XO looked alarmed. He scanned the room, thinking about what they needed to do.
The sonar operator had his earphones on and was staring at his screen, away from the group. He hadn’t heard the commotion. He held up his hand and said, “TAO, sonar.”
OPS was the standing tactical action officer and had taken off his headset when the captain had arrived in Combat. He didn’t hear the petty officer calling for him.
The captain waved his hand at the group, as if he was annoyed about the unwelcome news. “Fine, XO, if you want to increase our weapons posture, fine. But don’t go to GQ. That’s too much. I’ll be up on the bridge.”
“TAO, sonar!” the young enlisted man called out.
The group of senior officers turned. “What, sonar?” OPS asked.
The petty officer’s face was white. “Sir, I’m not sure, but I think…”
OPS said, “What is it?”
“Sir, I think I hear…a torpedo…”
The Chinese submarine had been following the Americans for several weeks. These attack orders had come much earlier than expected, but the captain had been told to be ready. They were constantly given times and locations of potential attacks, but the orders had never been given. Until now.
“Sir! The orders are from the South Fleet Commander. We are to execute our attack immediately of American destroyer 099 and ships in company.”
He grabbed the paper document. “You are sure?” He read it over. It was indeed time.
The Type 093 Shang-class submarine was one of the newest in China’s fleet. It was longer than a football field, displaced seven thousand tons when fully submerged, and carried a crew of one hundred and ten enlisted and twelve officers. This particular variant was the G model, which meant that it had a vertical launching system for its YJ-82 anti-ship missile.
The captain had thought those missiles a nuisance when he had watched them being loaded onto his submarine at their home port of Yulin Naval Base. There were many extra safety and security precautions that he had been responsible for once those missiles were aboard. Now, about to launch four of them, he thanked the heavens that they were aboard.
“Torpedo tubes one and two flooded and doors open, captain.”
The captain had personally checked on the accuracy of the targeting solution. While the Colombian
diesel submarine was no match for them, removing it from the theater first was the best way to ensure his success.
“Explosion in the water, sir. The Colombian submarine has been hit, sir. We can hear it breaking up and sinking.”
The captain nodded. “Good. We must move quickly now.”
There were four surface targets he needed to sink. One of them was a highly formidable American Arleigh Burke–class destroyer.
A single-dimensional battlefield was much easier to fight than a multidimensional one. That was what he had learned in countless exercises off the coast of Hainan Island.
The captain pointed at his weapons control officer. “Fire torpedo from tube one. Standby on two…Fire torpedo from tube two.”
The sound of his men repeating his orders and completing their tasks echoed throughout the small space, followed by a reverberation as the torpedoes launched out of his vessel, and then the high-pitched noise of the running torpedoes, changing frequency as they increased their distance.
He looked at his missile operator. He pointed at him and nodded. “Fire missiles one, two, three, and four.”
Now he would see how good this American destroyer really was.
“TAO, sonar, torpedo in the water bearing two-six-five.”
The captain looked up from the emergency message. “What did you just say?” He looked at the sonar operator like he had two heads. They had just finished a resupply with the USNS Supply. They were closer to the Galapagos Islands than any other land mass. The most dangerous thing out here was the hippies who wanted to protect the whales and sea turtles. What the hell was this man talking about a torpedo for?
“Explosions in the water, sir,” said the sonar operator. A senior enlisted man sat down next to him and put on a headset. “More torpedo noise, sir!”
The XO was not so slow to react. He had been standing behind the captain. Now he said, “OPS, set GQ immediately. And for God’s sakes, make sure all our air defense is up and operational.”
The captain turned and looked at the XO, annoyed that he was speaking out of turn. “Come on, XO, let’s get up to the bridge.”
The alarm sounded throughout the ship. Steel-toed boots ran on deck plates as the men and women of the USS Farragut ran to their battle stations.
As they climbed up the ladder to the bridge, men were yelling and moving quickly throughout the space. The captain walked out to the bridge wing, where the officer of the deck was pointing to something and shouting.
The captain said, “All ahead flank.”
“All ahead flank.”
The captain and the XO joined the OOD on the bridge wing. “What is it?”
“Sir, we just saw what looked like a submarine explosion about six thousand yards out.”
The first indication that missiles were inbound came from the ship’s vertical launch system as it automatically fired three SM-2 surface to air missiles. Guided by the ship’s SPY-1D radar, they attempted to destroy the incoming Chinese YJ-82 anti-ship missiles.
But the YJ-82s had a very low radar cross-section and skimmed the surface of the water at only a few meters of altitude. It took only a few seconds for the YJ-82 to increase its speed to over four hundred knots. Because it was fired from a distance of only two miles, the total time of flight was just over six seconds. Barely enough time for the SM-2s to get off. Only one SM-2 found its target, exploding and sending the Chinese missile into the water.
The last line of air defense for the American destroyer was the Phalanx close-in weapons system (CWIS). The giant Gatling gun sounded like God had just zipped up an enormous zipper. The sound shocked the captain. But the CWIS did what it was intended to do, launching a barrage of armor-piercing tungsten penetrator rounds at the rate of three thousand per minute.
Unfortunately, it only was able to fire for two seconds before impact. That meant that one hundred rounds were fired at the now-nearly-supersonic Chinese anti-ship missile. Only two of the missiles were designated for the Americans. The Farragut’s SM-2 surface-to-air missile took out the first. The CWIS exploded the second. But at that range and speed, the shrapnel from the Chinese missile still traveled with an enormous amount of kinetic energy.
Right into the bridge wing of the USS Farragut.
21
Plug saw the smoke first.
“What is that?”
Caveman looked up from the tactical display. “What the…?”
It reminded Plug of a volcano. Or maybe more like the footage of all those oil wells burning in the Iraqi desert. A deep black smoke billowed up into the sky, and trailing off to the east.
“You hear from the ship yet?” Plug asked.
“No. I’ll call again.” Caveman switched to the UHF external frequency that he would be able to reach the ship on.
“Farragut Control, Cutlass 476, how do you read?”
Nothing.
The single column of smoke became two. Then four. Plug made a call to the other helicopter. “Boss, you seeing this?”
“Affirm.” Her voice sounded strained. “We keep heading there for now.”
Plug could see the ships now. A sickening feeling formed in his stomach. The way they sat in the water was all wrong. He counted four ships, each tilted at an odd and deeply disturbing angle.
“Oh my God.”
Plug aimed his nose at the closest warship. The bow protruded up out of the water. Violent whitewater foamed and bubbled around it as the innards of the hull traded air for seawater. A scatter of lifeboats gathered around it. Frantic, shocked crew looked up at the helicopter as it flew overhead, tilting in a turn.
The FUEL LOW light illuminated on the helicopter’s master caution panel. Plug was expecting it. But the feeling of dread only increased.
“Anybody see Farragut yet?”
AW2 Ross, their aircrewman, said, “I don’t see her, sir. I only count four. Maybe she got outta here before…?”
Caveman replied, “Or she sank already. Plug, we might want to think about—”
“The needle just swung.” He nodded towards the TACAN needle on the digital compass readout. It was tuned to their ship. It was now picking up the navigational beacon from Farragut.
“Nine miles. Coming right to three-one-zero. Thank God. I really didn’t want to have to ditch this far out.”
“You see that FUEL LOW light, right?” Caveman asked.
Plug turned and looked at him, lifting up his visor so the junior pilot could see his expression.
“Just checking.”
Plug made the call to the other helo. “Boss, we’re picking up Mom on TACAN. Nine miles on a heading of three-one-zero.”
“Roger, we’ve got her on FLIR,” came Victoria’s response. “She looks like she’s going pretty fast, and has damage near the bridge. We’ll keep trying to reach her. You land first and get off deck. We’ll drop our pax off after you, then I’ll let you land and stuff the bird in the hangar.”
Plug could see the USS Farragut now. “Boss, we’re at five hundred and fifty pounds of fuel. You can’t be much better.”
“Plug, no arguments, please.”
Plug said, “Ma’am, we’re not going to have time to shut down and fold and stuff one of us in the hangar.”
“Yes, you will, Lieutenant. That’s going to be the plan.”
Lieutenant. She had never called him that before. Aviators went by first names and call signs. She wanted to emphasize that she was in charge. Plug realized that she was afraid he might come up with his own plan.
That got him thinking.
Caveman said, “Two miles, conducting landing checks. Jones, everyone okay back there?”
“Aside from the bleeding, fine, sir.”
“Roger.” He flipped a few switches and then said, “Landing checks complete.”
Plug kept the aircraft at one hundred and twenty knots until a half mile. He didn’t look at any of his instruments. He just used feel. The site picture of the ship. The rate of closure of the deck. A grey smoke drifted ove
rhead, and it smelled like burnt rubber and chemicals. His hands were slippery with sweat, but the leather gloves gripped onto the controls well.
“Farragut Control, Cutlass 476, declaring an emergency. We’re low fuel and have not been able to get you on comms. We’ll be landing and dropping off pax. Some need medical attention.”
He was slow now. Just fifty knots indicated. But with the ship going so fast, it felt much slower.
“Over the deck.”
“Roger.” He kept the helicopter drifting forward in a gentle hover. The flight deck rolled underneath, but he didn’t wait. He knew that the other aircraft was burning fuel above them. Every second longer he took meant a little bit less of a chance that they would survive.
The helicopter dropped into the center of the flight deck with a crunching jolt.
“Whew! That was ugly. Jones, Caveman, get everyone in the hangar. I’ve got the controls. Don’t bother waiting for chocks and chains.”
One of the hangar doors opened up, and one of his mechanics waved at them, his mouth open as he saw the aircrewman carrying a wounded soldier toward the hangar.
Moments later, Plug was alone in the aircraft, rolling side to side with the ship, the rotors turning. The fuel gauge was now less than five hundred pounds. He knew that he would only have a moment. He pulled in power and slid the aircraft up and aft. Then he pedal-turned to the left and nosed it forward.
“Boss, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to disobey you here.”
“Stay near the ship, Plug. You’ll land after I drop off my pax.”
“I’ll try, but I’ll probably need you guys to drop a smoke or—”
“Plug, you listen to me. Keep airborne. I will drop off my pax and then let you get fuel.”
“Not enough time, boss. You know it. One of us is going in the drink. Just do me a favor and pull me out after you guys refuel, okay? I promise I’ll get you one of those girly drinks you like next time we’re in Panama.”
There was only silence for a moment. Then she came on with a quick, resigned reply. “Remember your training.”
