by David Poyer
11
13º, 12' 46" N, 133º 46' 43" E; the Sea of Japan
“HAMPTON Roads is on the screen, Captain.”
“Very well.” High on Savo’s bridge, Cheryl turned from contemplating the slow heaving of the Pacific at dawn.
Podded electric motors were driving them through an oil slick. It undulated languidly in the glinting sun, weaving tapestries of rainbow over the new cruiser’s hull.
She frowned, stretching, easing her spine with fists pressed to her lower back. Could be a slow leakage from a wreck. Or from a subsurface well, abandoned with the outbreak of war. Or a sunken submarine, trapped and blasted apart in the deadly undersea minuet of sub against sub that had marked the conflict’s opening months.
She stretched again, hearing disks pop, hoping Savo Island wouldn’t add to that toll. She reached for a phone, then paused. New ship, new comms. Crossing instead to her seat, she swung up into the CO’s chair, and pivoted a terminal into her lap. High-side chat, relayed via nanosatellite, was more secure than voice, and wouldn’t betray their position.
Which lessened the chances of any missiles headed their way, as they approached the combat zone for the always tricky turnover of responsibilities. She spoke into the mike, watching the text scroll. The ship’s AI was parsing each sentence. Testing whether her orders conformed to doctrine. If AALIS judged a communication out of bounds, or violated security, it would highlight it and sound a warning. If she sent it anyway, a copy went automatically to Higher.
Matador: to Monitor
Hold your bearing 285 60 miles
“Matador” had been the old Savo’s call sign, reassigned at Cheryl’s request to the new cruiser. “Monitor” was USS Hampton Roads, a Tico-class that had stood missile watches in Westpac since the start of the war. Cheryl could have used her task group call sign, “Tangler,” since she commanded the convoy, but judged it simpler to converse using the ship designator.
Monitor: to Matador
Have you as well, reciprocal. Plus four other contacts
Matador: to Monitor
Other contacts frigate, tanker, supply, tug. Request actual for turnover
Monitor: to Matador
Stand by
Of course the ops specialists and combat systems controllers in CIC had been in touch. The two ships’ Aegis systems had been linked for hours as Savo crossed the last degrees of longitude to their rendezvous. But there were the traditional courtesies to be exchanged, and maybe some local knowledge.
Monitor: to Matador
Actual on line. Hey Cheryl
Matador: to Monitor
Hi, Omar
Monitor: to Matador
Wish we could do this over a beer
Matador: to Monitor
Concur. Maybe someday. We are on scene RTR. Anything needs to be passed CO to CO?
The lines of glowing type unspooled rapidly from there, as if the other skipper was cutting and pasting from a prepared turnover statement. Before moving north to her current station, Hampton Roads had covered the Marine-Army landing on Taiwan, shielding it from ballistic missile attack. Moving north to the Sea of Japan, she’d guarded Tokyo and begun assembling intel for the upcoming strike. A list of shore missile batteries, radar sites, command nodes, and pre-identified mobile launcher locations had come in via a separate message, as well as being downloaded to Savo’s combat system over the nanonet.
A phone talker called, “Captain, CIC: USV holds intermittent contact bearing zero eight five, sixty thousand yards from own ship. Preliminary classification, marine life.”
“Keep an eye on it,” she muttered, typing.
Matador: to Monitor
Thanks. Any surface/subsurface threat activity in surveillance area?
Monitor: to Matador
Sporadic out of Busan
Matador: to Monitor
Anything from Russkis?
Monitor: to Matador
Heavy air activity attributed to announced exercise “Muscovy.” Helicopter activity at Klerk training range in Primorye. Recon flights over SOJ at least once a day out of Kamchatka. Usually SU-24s
She scratched at an itchy patch under her collarbone, frowning.
Monitor: to Matador
Also of note. Via uncovered comm channel with the Russians. A General Yevgeney Sharkov keeps protesting what they call “intrusive radar probes.” I told him we were operating in normal ABM scanning mode. But you know the problem
She did indeed. Any ICBM launched from either north China or North Korea would overfly Russian territory during its boost phase, before arching out to sea on its looping trajectory toward North America. Adding a diplomatic problem to the already daunting technological issues. She hesitated, wiggling her fingers over the keys.
“CO, CIC: Contact at zero eight four identified as whales.”
“Very well,” she muttered. If only there were some way she could tell the poor creatures to clear out, that very soon this whole sea could be a radioactive soup. She clicked her screen to tactical, and checked the formation.
Savo and her shotgun escorts, USS Sioux City and ROKS Jeonnam, the other warships, and the tanker, tug, and containership they escorted were paced and flanked by aerial drones. Autonomous Hunters loaded with sensors guarded their flanks against submarines.
Although, since the great battles in the central Pacific, few enemy submarines were still at large. Blockaded and penned in, her navy battered to pieces, China was smoldering. Dangerous, but no longer pushing outward, as Admiral Lianfeng had once planned for his Second Phase Offensive.
Now it was time to start kicking in the doors.
The biggest ship she was escorting was an expeditionary transport. It toted fuel and hovercraft in the hull of a civilian supertanker, with a flight deck for helicopters, Ospreys, and F-35s. It would serve as a floating base for the smaller units it accompanied, Sealift Command Spearhead-class catamarans. Austere but fast, they were built to support deep strikes by special forces. The hospital ship, converted from a Carnival cruise liner, and the tanker traveled within a protective screen.
Which it now would shed, as she transitioned from convoy commander back to the antiballistic missile role, under the operational control of Seventh Fleet.
“I’ll be in the Citadel,” she said, and headed for the elevator.
* * *
SHE stopped at her inport cabin, dry-bolted an antihistamine, and rubbed cortisone cream into her hands and under the neck of her coveralls. The skin there was erupting, red, bumpy, and peeling. The itch was maddening. If she let herself, she’d scratch down to bloody bone. Even four applications a day barely kept it under control.
When she settled in at the command desk, the left-most display had the geoplot up. She glanced back at the VR helmet racked behind her, but decided to stay with the bulkhead screens for now.
To the west, the eastern coast of the Korean Peninsula was freckled with rugged mountains. To the east lay Honshu, the main island of Japan. To the north, Korea butted up against a tiny slice of Russia, right at the seacoast. And farther north from there stretched the enormous, valley-furrowed wastes of Asiatic Russia, degree on degree of latitude reaching nearly to the Pole. To the south, Taiwan was out of Savo’s organic sensor range, but visible through the data feeds.
She watched for the next two hours, occasionally interjecting a suggestion as Mills, her exec, disentangled the steaming formation. The tug and hospital ship headed south, accompanied by most of the USVs. The transport, tanker, and the Fast Transport EPFs headed for a Japanese port, escorted by Benfold. Savo Island and Sioux City continued for Ballistic Missile Oparea “Aleph,” where they would rendezvous with Hampton Roads and her escort for the turnover.
The comm officer came by with AREPS data. She studied this carefully, asking him the occasional question. AREPS were like weather reports for sensor propagation conditions. They decided the port after panel needed a groom. Meanwhile she kept up with the nanochat, shuttling between rooms but mainly kee
ping tabs on the pri channel, which kept her in the loop with Fleet, local task groups, and the building strike group. Her other prime link was with Colorado Springs, Fort Greeley, and Tokyo via the GMD Combined Missile Defense network.
An hour out from the official relief, she checked her watch.
Time for the conference.
There hadn’t been a physical sit-down for Operation Chromite, since Pearl was still digging out from the damage and Guam was too dangerous to group ships at. Earlier in the war, Allied communications had been compromised by Chinese intrusion and spoofing, aided by a master AI. But of late the word had gone out that the enemy AI had been crippled, though with no further explanation, and that nanochat and nanovideo communications were secure again.
The Skype-like screens in the little video teleconferencing space next to CIC would have to serve. They were bandwidth-limited, with a low refresh rate, but gave at least the illusion of others in the room.
She beckoned to an enlisted at the ABM consoles. A small, meek-looking young woman who seemed too cherub-faced for the insignia on her collars. “Terror, I mean, Petty Officer Terranova, I’d like you in on this. In the VTC, now.” Then she called the ops office, asking the operations and comm officers to join her as well.
* * *
IN the little VTC space, chairs in front of a large display. Terranova, at the coffeemaker, asked if anyone else wanted a cup. Cheryl shook her head, getting ready to take notes.
But the teleconference opened with a junior briefer instead of the operations deputy. “The admiral’s been delayed. I’ll fill in with a refresher,” she began.
Mills sighed and sat back. He, Terranova, and Branscombe took out their cells—they all had skin-of-the-ship service—and began scrolling through their in-boxes. Cheryl resisted the temptation. If anyone had to pay attention to the big picture, it was the CO.
“After the nuclear attacks on USS Roosevelt strike group,” the on-screen briefer said, “Our antimissile capabilities were relayered. But the strike on Pearl Harbor showed there were still holes holes in our coverage. We scrambled to make it more robust, but our production base is still crippled by cybersabotage, strikes, and antiwa activities. Technological challenges remain as well.”
A chart of the western Pacific came up behind the briefer, like a met chart on the Weather Channel. “Our forward-deployed ABM Afloat ships are the first barrier between the enemy and the homeland. They’re tasked with detection, cueing, and reporting track data to the Combined Missile Defense system. That’s aggregated with information from our allies, the nanosatellite network, and the SBX seaborne early warning radars. Alerts and data go to the Midcourse Defense interceptors in Alaska and California, and to the THAAD and Patriot batteries that protect major West Coast cities.”
Cheryl took out her own cell. This was a PR backgrounder, not a pre-operation brief. Why were they wasting time on this? Oh yeah. The admiral was late.
A video of ships under way replaced the briefer, but she continued. “Currently in theater are Hampton Roads, Monterey, and Monocacy, the last Ticonderoga-class antimissile cruisers. Along with the ABM-capable later-flight Burkes, USS Lyndon Johnson and Michael Monsoor, and the Japanese ABM-capable destroyers of the Kongo class, they’ve been relieving one another on station, turning over at one-month intervals. However, both ships and crews are operating at reduced states of readiness and lower than desirable manning and ordnance levels.”
Beside Cheryl, Matt Mills uncrossed his legs. Cheryl cleared her throat and lifted a hand. “I don’t see Savo Island on your list, Commander.”
The briefer nodded. “You will the moment you take station, Captain Staurulakis. Your increased radar range, and your wide net of deployed and networked sensors, will be very welcome. Along with a fresh crew as we begin the operation.”
“We’re glad to help, but when are we going to get to that?” Crisper than she meant to make it, but she let it hang.
The briefer looked off-camera. “Oh … The J-3 … here he is. Thank you for your attention. And best of luck. Here is Admiral Enders.”
The Seventh Fleet J-3 was bull-chested and gray-mustached, of a vintage with Cheryl’s former commanding officer, Lenson. “COs and other senior officers, welcome,” he said. “You’ve all studied the plan. We suffered a lot of damage here, but enough capacity survived in the Bunker to generate it. It’ll entail risk, and we anticipate losses, but we think it’ll work.
“Make absolutely sure relevant personnel are clear on all three phases: approach, strike, and withdrawal. A frag order will go out in about six hours. Last-minute updates. So I’ll limit myself to general remarks and cautions.
“Chromite will be our major attack on Korea. The second big raid on the Asian mainland, and an all-out attempt to knock one of our most dangerous enemies out of the war. We’ll put the Marines and the special ops teams ashore and support and cover them until they’re ready to retire. It will be kinetic. And bloody. But it has to be done.
“At the very least, even if we miss the prime targets, we’ll reassure the exiled government of the Republic of Korea that the Allies haven’t forgotten them. And the captive population of South Korea that, eventually, we will come to their rescue.
“At best, we knock one of the Opposed Powers out of the enemy coalition. In any case, we should pull mainland Chinese forces to the north, distracting them from an offensive being planned elsewhere.”
Cheryl nodded. Where “elsewhere” was going to be, exactly, she didn’t know, and didn’t want to.
“The major difficulty in striking Korea has always been their ICBM force. It’s not large, but they’ve threatened us with it for years. We backed away from dealing with it, since they threatened launch on warning. But since we’ve got the forces generated and in theater, the administration’s given us the go-ahead to take it out for good.
“We’ll depend on a tactic called AEI, autonomous early intercept, to inhibit their strategic strike capabilities.” A computer animated video replaced the J-3, a contractor logo still visible in the lower corner. “In advance of the strike force, a swarm of Trugon UAVs controlled by uprated Marauder drones and microsatellites will blanket the battlespace with a sensor net. Once they detect launch, either by visual observation of the launch platform or the infrared booster plume, they pass the information up the kill chain. If detection occurs early, a modified Hellfire takes it down in the boost phase. If not, cueing will pass to USS Savo Island, in the Sea of Japan, for a shoot-look-shoot engagement in the pre-apogee arc of trajectory. Past that, it will be up to ground-based interceptors in the United States.”
Petty Officer Terranova leaned over. She murmured, “Ask him about Space-X, Skipper.”
She blinked. “About what? No.”
“Come on, Skipper, ask. There’s somethin’ up the-ah in a low polar orbit, and it’s big. Radar signature like the side ’a a barn. It has an orbital number and it’s in the NORAD catalog, but the-ah’s no other parameters. Nanochat from back east, scuttlebutt about somebody lofting a private interceptor.”
She said unwillingly, “Cheryl Staurulakis, sir, USS Savo Island. Admiral, we’re picking up a large unidentified object in polar orbit. Can you give us anything on that?”
“No,” Enders said. “That’s a firm neither-confirm-nor-deny. Clear enough, Captain?”
“Yessir, we copy,” she said, shooting a furious glance at Terranova. She quirked her eyebrows and slid down in her chair.
Another officer, in a box on her screen, raised a finger. Enders acknowledged him with a nod. “General.”
“Quick question. What’s Moscow’s take on this? Some of the locations we’re tasked to hit are only ten, twenty miles from the border.”
“And the prevailing winds blow north,” Mills muttered, beside her.
Enders glanced off-camera. “Jack, want to take that? Mr. Byrne is one of our civilian advisors.”
The scene panned to a sun-tanned, stunningly handsome civilian in short sleeves. Despite hersel
f Cheryl couldn’t help staring. His features were perfectly regular. But his eyes were hidden behind tinted glasses.
Byrne said, “Moscow’s warned us they won’t look kindly on military actions close to their border. But will they intervene? Tough to judge intent, but the consensus of the community is they won’t, unless we actually infringe on their airspace. The Russians are making major money out of this war. Selling aircraft, radars, ordnance, to replace Chinese losses.
“But Zhang’s growled at them too, in the past couple years. Threatened to take back territory China lost to the tsars. Essentially, blackmailed them into providing weapons on credit. There’s no way he could’ve paid for what he’s been buying. We wrecked China’s economy.”
“Like they wrecked ours,” Terranova observed sotto voce. Mills made an impatient keep it down gesture at her.
Enders put in, “The frag order I mentioned directs all aircraft, drones, and ordnance to hold south of the 42nd Parallel. Well clear of the border.”
Byrne added, “And we’ve advised General Sharkov backchannel that’s what we intend to do. No answer seems to equal no objection. So as long as we can stand clear…”
Cheryl didn’t want to comment again, but had to. “If we have to intercept a launch, it may be over Russian territory. Or their territorial sea, west of the Kamchatka Peninsula. Has that been raised with this Sharkov?”
Byrne looked to the admiral; Enders looked down. Finally the latter muttered, “That’ll be a decision for Higher.”
What the hell? She couldn’t help it; her tone rose. “Sir, we won’t have time to check in. I’ll have maybe fifteen seconds warning. Can you please furnish some guidance?”
