“Bomber?” Yi shouted. “Did he say ‘bomber’? Combat, any contact on that aircraft?”
“No, sir,” the first officer replied. “Lookouts report occasional contact with dark contrails low on the horizon, possibly from a formation of small aircraft or a few large aircraft, but we have no visual or electronic contact.”
“Check your systems, make sure everything’s working properly. Find whatever’s out there now ” Yi swore loudly, then fell silent once again.
It had to be an American stealth bomber, he thought. The American stealth bombers almost destroyed the Mao, then known as the Khomeini, in the Gulf of Oman just a few weeks earlier. It stood to reason that the Americans would track the carrier with the same stealth bomber so it could strike. If so, there was nothing he could do. His radars couldn’t detect it—the intermittent contacts were probably when the bomber was releasing attack missiles.
“Bridge, Combat!” the intercom buzzed to life, “the Kang locking fire control radars on unidentified aircraft!” Yi swung around to starboard and raised his binoculars to his eyes—just as the frigate opened fire with its 100-millimeter dual-purpose guns.
“Sequence the fighter launch and get Interceptor One off the deck before the P-500 or M-ll missile launches,” Yi shouted. “Find that American bomber! ”
ABOARD THE EB-52 MEGAFORTRESS
“Drum Tilt fire-control radar up from the northwest destroyer,” the EB- 52 Megafortress’s DSO, Emil Vikram, called out on interphone. “Drum Tilt radar ... radar locked on, looks like he’s tracking one of our Wolverines ... or he could be tracking us l ”
“He can match bearings back to us—we’ve got to turn!” McLanahan shouted on interphone.
At that same instant, they heard on the secure radio channel, “Headbanger, Headbanger, this is Kin Men, northwest Communist destroyer just opened fire!”
“Emitter, what do you got?” Elliott shouted.
“Just the Drum Tilt fire control,” Vikram responded. “Constantly changing bearings—I don’t think they have a lock-on, or they’re locking on false targets and have to manually break lock to try to reacquire a real target.”
“Good enough, DSO,” Elliott said. “Don’t fire up our jammers unless we become an item of interest. Patrick! ”
“We don’t have authorization to launch Striker missiles,” McLanahan said immediately, anticipating Brad Elliott’s order. “Besides, we’re not an item of interest. My nose is cold.”
“What else do you need, Muck—you want to see how fast that frigate can go down with a Granit missile in its gut? We’ve got to launch an attack before the Chinese carrier or that destroyer can take a shot. ”
“Brad, I’ve got the missiles ready to fly—as soon as we get the order,” McLanahan insisted. “We’re not going to attack unless we’re given permission or we come under attack ourselves, and then it’ll just be to defend ourselves. Nose is cold”
The redeploying Chinese patrol boats looked like little ants crawling forward around their queen, McLanahan thought as he watched his God’s-eye tactical display being beamed to him by the NIRTSat reconnaissance satellites. “I’m showing eight small, fast patrol boats moving north, overtaking the lead destroyer,” he reported. “Looks like they’re getting into missile-firing position. I’ve got six . . . no, eight more going after the southeast Taiwanese vessel.”
“Checks,” Vikram said, watching the new threats as well. “India- band targeting radars up. The northern group is in maximum missilefiring range now; they’ll be in optimal missile-firing range in about ten minutes. The southeast group is closing fast and will be in optimal firing range in two minutes.”
Elliott was already on the satellite transceiver: “Hey, Buster, do you see what the hell’s happening? Give us permission to launch before it’s too late! How do you copy?”
COMMAND CENTER, U.S. PACIFIC COMMAND HEADQUARTERS, HONOLULU, HAWAII
THAT SAME TIME
“Hey, Buster, how do you copy?” Elliott repeated. “That Taiwanese frigate and its buddy are going to be blasted to hell any minute now. Give us permission to take them out! ”
“Why in hell doesn’t Elliott shut up?” Admiral William Allen, the dual-hatted commander in chief of U.S. Pacific Command and the U.S. Navy’s Pacific Fleet, asked of no one in particular. He, along with General Terrill Samson and a group of aides and technicians, were studying a large three-by-four-foot computer monitor that showed the tactical situation near the Taiwanese island of Quemoy, downloaded by Sky Masters, Inc.’s, NIRTSat “Martindale” synthetic aperture radar-imaging satellites. Allen called out, “Range from the closest Chinese patrol boat to the northern Taiwanese frigate.”
Before one of the Navy technicians could answer, Masters’s voice- recognition computer replied in a curiously seductive female voice, TWENTY-TWO KILOMETERS AND CLOSING AT FIVE HUNDRED METERS PER MINUTE.
“Goddamn gadgets,” Allen muttered, afraid to raise his voice lest the computer make a snide comment in return. “Shut that computer voice thing off. Combat, sing out with all further reports.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Range from PLAN patrol boats to southeast frigate.”
“Eight miles and steady.”
“Well, serves him right for not bugging out sooner,” Allen muttered. “Elliott doesn’t know squat about PLAN missile attack tactics. He’d better shut up and stay off the radio or I’ll recall his ass. Any word from Washington?”
“No, sir,” the tactical action officer (TAO), the senior officer in charge of the combat response teams in the command center, responded. “Repeating your priority request.”
“Where did those Taiwanese ships come from, anyway?” Allen asked rhetorically again—the Navy veteran was fond of thinking out loud, which he thought encouraged the officers around him to speak up. “My mission was not to baby-sit a Taiwanese warship while it launches a suicide attack on a Chinese carrier battle group. And I did not order Elliott to launch anything! I’m going to see to it that he’s thrown in jail for what he’s done!”
“He was responding to an attack by the PLAN destroyers,” Samson offered.
“That Taiwan precipitated!” Allen interjected. “My orders were to monitor the situation and prepare for the eventuality of hostile contact, not dog-pile on when some asshole wants to play hero to Mother Taiwan.
We are not at war with the People’s Republic of China, General Samson. But the Taiwanese frigate fired first, and Elliott launched right afterwards without getting permission. This is exactly what George Balboa warned me about: Elliott popping off and pulling the trigger before receiving proper authorization.” He slumped in his command chair and carefully studied the tactical display. “What in hell is the PLAN going to do now? Chase that frigate all the way to Formosa?”
Samson couldn’t argue with CINCPAC—but now wasn’t the time to just sit and fume over Elliott. “Sir, it looks like the northern Taiwanese frigate is bugging out,” Samson observed. “He can probably outrun the big ships and hold his distance against the smaller patrol boats, and the ‘Screamer’ decoy cruise missiles will be orbiting for another few minutes unless the PLAN manages a lucky shot and shoots them down.”
“So what?”
“The Megafortress crew needs to know if they have authority to counterattack if the PLAN starts to launch more missiles against the frigate,” Samson said. “They can help defend the frigate.”
“More decoys?”
“Yes, the Megafortress is carrying four more Screamer cruise missiles—”
“Who in hell came up with these comic-book names?” Allen interrupted. “Megafortress? Screamers? Sounds like Elliott’s warped mind at work.”
“—but they’re also carrying anti-radar cruise missiles,” Samson went on, “that can shut down a dozen emitters in use on the PLAN warships. They can also use their antiaircraft missiles to—”
“That B-52 is carrying antiaircraft missiles?” Allen exclaimed incredulously. “Sidewinders?”
“Scorpions, sir,” Samson responded. He had briefed all this information to Allen and his staff as recently as yesterday—and he was just as surprised then as he was now—but it didn’t hurt to tell it all again. “Advanced Medium-Range Air-to-Air Missiles, about thirty miles’ range, radar-guided, total of eight. They have to move in closer to the PLAN fleet, but the AMRAAMs are capable against ballistic missiles and antiship sea-skimmers too. The anti-radar cruise missiles will home in on radar transmissions; if the radar shuts down, it’ll orbit over the area for up to fifteen minutes until the radar comes back on. Also, the offensive Wolverine missiles can drop cluster munitions on three targets, then impact a fourth—the Megafortress carries six. If the smaller patrol boats try to attack the Taiwanese frigate, those’ll be the best weapons to use on them. The larger warships can be attacked by the Striker missiles— they’re small, supersonic, and lethal. If we can shut down the PLAN’s radars with the Tacit Rainbow missiles, the Striker missiles will have an excellent chance of hitting their targets.” .
Allen shook his head in exasperation. “You got more toys than Santa Claus, General,” he muttered. He studied the Gods-eye display carefully and fell silent.
“The helicopter that launched from the Taiwanese frigate has been shot down by antiaircraft fire,” one of the combat technicians reported. “Three guided-missile patrol boats closing quickly on the northern Taiwanese frigate. Should be in missile launch position in three minutes. Five more in pursuit, but they are not closing and remain at estimated max launch range. The lead PLAN destroyer has slowed to five knots; the carrier is overtaking.”
“Looks like Taiwan got one,” Allen said. “My guess is that the carrier will rendezvous with the destroyer.” He fell silent once again; then: “No, I don’t want that B-52—Megaplane, Megabomber, whatever you call it—launching any more missiles. Tell them to—”
“PLAN missile boats launching against the southeast Taiwanese vessel,” the combat technician reported. “Numerous missiles . . . two salvos . . . direct hit. The southeast Taiwanese vessel is dead in the water . . . direct hit by second salvo . . . lost contact with southeast Taiwanese vessel.”
The ferocity of that attack stunned even Allen, who watched the scene played out on the God’s-eye view in silence. “Jesus Christ,” Terrill Samson breathed. “That boat went down in less than a minute ... it must’ve been hit by a dozen missiles.”
“Overkill,” Allen said. “The PLAN wasted a lot of missiles, and those little guided missile patrol boats don’t have reloads. They’re out of the fight.”
“Admiral, for God’s sake, you’ve got to make a decision about the northern Taiwanese frigate,” Samson said, not quite believing that Allen could be so detached and unemotional about the loss of the Taiwanese frigate and the apparent deaths of hundreds of Taiwanese sailors. “Or do you want to see the PLAN chase down and sink another Taiwanese frigate?”
“This is not my damned fight, General,” Allen shouted. “I was only supposed to observe and report. Taiwan threw the first punch, and Elliott only helped aggravate the situation.”
“So you’re going to let the PLAN sink that frigate?” Samson asked incredulously. “You’re going to sit back and watch and do nothing?”
“If it happens, it’ll be his own damned fault,” Allen said. “Anyway, the score’s even now—one PLAN destroyer for one ROC frigate and helicopter. Good time for everybody to break it up and go back to their corners.” He was handed a telephone just then. “Trident. Go.”
“This is Wrangler,” Admiral Frederick Cowen, the Chief of Naval Operations, said, using his call sign. “JCS and NSC got your message; NSC asked me to give you a buzz. What’s happening?”
“Shit’s hitting the fan, sir,” Allen replied. “Two Taiwanese frigates closed on the PLAN carrier battle group and attacked. One PLAN destroyer damaged. One of the ROC frigates has been sunk, and the PLAN’s getting ready to deep-six the other.”
“Too bad,” Cowen replied with obvious disinterest in his voice. “Til pass the word along. Any of our guys in the area?”
“Just that Thunder Pig,” Allen replied derisively, smiling when Terrill Samson turned toward him when he heard Allen’s name for the Megafortress.
“Just make sure Headbanger doesn’t pop off any of his flying wet dreams until we get a look at the situation.”
“Too late, sir,” Allen said. “Headbanger’s already launched—without permission. A couple decoy cruise missiles that suckered a bunch of PLAN anti-ship cruise missiles pretty good.”
“Dammit, Crusher knew he’d do that,” Admiral Cowen swore across the secure satellite hookup. “Crusher” was Admiral George Balboa’s call sign—and it fit his personality and management style too, both he and Allen knew. “Recall that contraption. Get it on the ground. Elliott is history !”
“Aye, sir,” Allen responded. To the TAO, he shouted, “Issue recall instructions to Headbanger. Disengage and RTB, right now.”
Samson hit a button on his communications panel. “Excuse me, Wrangler. This is Buster—”
“You give Elliott the order to launch those missiles?” Cowen snapped.
“No, sir,” Samson replied. “Headbanger reacted to protect the Taiwanese frigate when the PLAN launched an anti-ship missile and gun barrage. One Taiwanese warship’s been sunk, and the other is in imminent danger. We need permission to launch anti-radar and anti-missile weapons and, if necessary, attack the PLAN guided-missile boats with attack cruise missiles.”
“Denied,” Cowen said immediately. “Terminate the mission, recall all aircraft, and get them on the ground immediately.”
“Sir, the captain of the Taiwanese frigate, Captain Sung, reports that the PLAN carrier battle group is carrying nuclear land attack and antiship missiles,” Samson said. “We should stop the task force from—”
“What do you mean, the captain of the Taiwanese frigate reports?” Cowen exploded. “You mean, you’re in contact with the Taiwanese vessels? How—?”
“The skipper of the lead Taiwanese frigate contacted Headbanger,” Samson said. “I don’t know how—there must’ve been a security breakdown.”
“Or else Elliott gave them the UHF synchronizer codes! ” Cowen retorted. “I’ll bet he’s the damned security breakdown! This mission is supposed to be secret, General! That was your damn idea from the beginning—it was supposed to be secret even from the ROC. I want those planes recalled and that bastard Elliott...” he stopped, realizing he was breaking communications security, which made him even madder, “. . . put on house arrest! ”
“Sir, if Headbanger is recalled, that second Taiwanese frigate will be a sitting duck,” Samson argued. “At least authorize Headbanger to release their defensive weapons—the remaining Wolverines and the Tacit Rainbow cruise missiles. These weapons will stay in the area protecting the frigate while they withdraw. ”
“I’m giving you a direct order, Buster—recall Headbanger now!” Cowen shouted. “They are not to release any weapons except to protect themselves while they clear the area and recover. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly clear, sir,” Admiral Allen, who had been listening in, replied. “I’ll see to it myself immediately.” And the line went dead. Allen hung up the phone, then said, “TAO, issue a recall order to the bomber force, and have the order authenticated—by Elliott personally. The mission is terminated, and he’s on report.”
ABOARD THE EB-52 MEGAFORTRESS
THAT SAME TIME
“Terminated?” Elliott retorted. “They can’t do this to us now!” He keyed the mike on the secure satellite link: “Hey, Earthmover, tell the squids to go to hell! We’re going to cover that frigate’s withdrawal! ”
“Negative, Headbanger,” Admiral Allen replied. “This is Trident, and it’s a direct order from Wrangler. Your orders are to terminate and withdraw. You are authorized to expend weapons only to defend yourself as you withdraw and RTB. Time now, zero-three-two-two-four-eight, authentication tango. Do you copy?”
�
��Hey, Billy, authenticate this: fuckyou ” Elliott shot back angrily, and he switched the secure satellite transceiver off his comm panel. “I knew they’d do this,” he said hotly. “First chance they got, they recalled us.” “We’ve done everything we could,” Nancy Cheshire said. “If we try to defend that Taiwanese frigate any more, we risk getting sucked closer and closer in toward that Chinese fleet—and that might not be as bad as the ass-kicking we’d get by CINCPAC or Balboa once we got back home. You got a heading to the refueling anchor point, Patrick?”
“Heading indicator is good back to the air refueling anchor point,” McLanahan said, calling up the coordinates on his computer and entering them into his navigation system.
“Hey, we can’t bug out of here now,” Elliott said angrily, as he connected the autopilot to the navigation computers and monitored the turn to the east. “We haven’t done squat, and we’re about to watch the PLAN sink a Taiwanese frigate and kill hundreds more sailors. Doesn’t that mean anything to you guys?”
“Sir, we were given an order to withdraw,” Cheshire said. “I know you don’t like it, but we’ve got to follow those orders.” She hesitated for a moment, then added, “Don’t we?”
“Patrick, you’re the mission commander—it’s up to you,” Elliott said. “But you know as well as I do that if Allen or Balboa had their fingers on the triggers, they’d shoot.”
“Maybe, maybe not—that’s not our problem,” McLanahan said. “We were ordered to withdraw, so we withdraw. We’ll follow orders.” The interphone got very quiet. He called up a repeater of Emil Vikram’s large threat display, superimposing it over his God’s-eye view so he could map out exactly which ships were transmitting. “Emitter, I see that carrier, the northern destroyer, and those seven northern patrol boats all hitting us with target-tracking radar. We’re under attack.”
“Why, you sly devil,” Cheshire said, turning and grinning at her OSO over her shoulder.
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