by Dale Brown
“We’ll be at max aircraft search range in forty minutes,” Fells replied. The Global Hawk accomplished surface search operations very well but had limited air search capabilities. The Global Hawk’s infrared and electro-optical sensors could detect slow-moving or hovering helicopters, but they were only hit-or-miss with faster-moving airborne targets—they needed the Mohawk’s radar to map out the air situation in the crash area. “Optimum air search range will be in about ninety minutes.”
“Damn,” Sheridan muttered. “That Chinese carrier could have fighters covering those helicopters.”
“Eagle Eye has radar contact!” one of the sensor technicians shouted. “Large surface radar return, not moving, just north of the suspected crash area.”
“Maybe the Chinese will keep on searching in the wrong spot,” Sheridan said. “Mark the return and continue to the original search area. I don’t want the Chinese to think we found anything. We got a visual image of that contact?”
“Stand by, sir,” the tech said. A few moments later, one of the side monitors in the tactical action room changed. It showed a large piece of what was definitely an airliner-sized fuselage. Several other objects could be seen floating in the ocean near the wreck.
“Jesus,” Sheridan breathed. “Those look like bodies.”
“Eagle Eye will lose contact in sixty seconds, sir,” the technician said.
“When can we launch the Jayhawk, Ed?” Sheridan asked.
“We’re at extreme range of the -60, sir, even with the external fuel tanks,” Fells replied. The HH-60 Jayhawk was the Coast Guard’s version of the Army Blackhawk helicopter, optimized for long-range search and rescue at sea. “They would have zero time on station when they reached the crash site.”
Sheridan thought for a moment, then asked, “That’s with standard fuel reserves, correct?”
Fells looked at his commanding officer. He knew perfectly well what the rules said—what was the skipper thinking? “Sir?”
“It’ll take ten minutes to launch the Jayhawk—that’s ten minutes on station,” Sheridan said. “We can push the normal fuel reserve times a bit because it’s an emergency and the weather is decent.”
“Sir, the weather isn’t a factor when making a decision about launching a helo for a search-and-rescue or recovery,” Fells said. “Fuel is life. A million things can go wrong—that’s why reserves were built into the program.”
“You don’t need to lecture me on procedures, Ed,” Sheridan said irritably. “I’m more concerned about bringing Americans home than rules and regulations.” He paused and went on, “Launch the Jayhawk. I want at least one American or a piece of that aircraft recovered.” He picked up a phone that was tied directly to the bridge. “Officer of the Deck, this is the captain. Max forward speed for helo operations, then push it up to flank speed after the helo is away.”
“Max forward for helo ops, then flank after the helo is away, aye, sir.”
It was a tense several minutes as the U.S. Coast Guard Jayhawk helicopter was preflighted and launched, with two pilots, a rescue hoist operator, and a rescue swimmer aboard. Sheridan watched the launch, then headed forward and strode onto the Mohawk’s bridge a few minutes later. “Officer of the Deck, I’ve got the con,” he announced.
“Aye, sir, Captain has the con,” the officer of the deck repeated. “We are at flank speed, heading two-zero-zero, ops normal.”
“Very good,” Sheridan responded. “Radio Pacific Fleet and Coast Guard Pacific Area that we are proceeding at flank speed to suspected Poseidon crash site. Chinese helicopters are in the vicinity.” He picked up the shipwide intercom. “All hands, this is the captain. We are heading toward the estimated crash site of the Navy patrol plane. We have already sent the Eagle Eye and Jayhawk out ahead. The Chinese already have helicopters searching the crash site. They’ve been asked to leave the area but have not responded.
“We still don’t know why that patrol plane went down, but we should assume the worst and that China had something to do with it,” Sheridan went on. “There are Chinese air and surface forces in the area, and we can anticipate that they will be shadowing us. Hopefully, that’s all they do. We also know that they have submarines, maritime bombers, and perhaps long-range antiship cruise and ballistic missiles. We know China considers control of the South China Sea as in its vital national interests, and they have been increasingly aggressive against all foreign military activities there. If the loss of that patrol plane was because China is beginning to actively defend the South China Sea, then we could be cruising into trouble. But an American plane and its crew are down, and our job is to search for any survivors until some heavier hardware shows up. Stay on your toes. I’ll keep you advised of the situation. Captain out.”
“Bridge, Tactical, the Eagle Eye has reached the original search area,” Lieutenant Commander Fells reported a few minutes later. “Numerous radar contacts reported.”
“Pick out the largest ones and have it orbit over it,” Sheridan said. “I want lots of pictures. What’s the sea state?”
“Two to four feet, sir.”
That was good news—if they put a swimmer in the water, the sea shouldn’t be a major factor. “How long until the Jayhawk is on station on that first Eagle Eye contact?”
“Fifty-five minutes, sir. Time on station will be less than twenty minutes.”
“How long can the Eagle Eye stay on station?”
“Another two hours, sir.”
“And how long before we’re within air search radar contact?”
“About an hour, sir.”
Nothing left to do but sweat it out, Sheridan thought. Hopefully, if the Chinese had helicopters and fighters airborne, they’d shadow the Eagle Eye in the original search area and ignore the Jayhawk farther north. They’d find out soon enough.
Several minutes later: “Bridge, Tactical, Global Hawk has a visual on two unidentified helicopters in the original search area. They appear to be hovering.”
“Damn,” Sheridan muttered. He had nothing to work with to scare the Chinese away from the search box, nothing to threaten or intimidate anyone . . . except the full force and power of the United States of America, even if it was only broadcast on a radio frequency by a lowly Coast Guard cutter. “Have Comm send on all civil, commercial, and military frequencies: advise all parties that the U.S. Coast Guard is conducting search-and-rescue operations and to stay well clear of the search box. Transmit coordinates of the box. Advise that it is illegal to interfere with an active search-and-rescue operation on the high seas. Send in English and Chinese, and make it damned loud and strict. Then advise Pacific Fleet and Coast Guard Pacific Area that suspected Chinese helicopters are hovering in the search area and may be recovering artifacts from the crash. Tactical, are you sending images to Fleet and Area?”
“Affirmative, sir.” A few minutes later: “Sir, we have video from the Eagle Eye of Chinese helicopters hoisting objects out of the water.”
“You’re positive they’re Chinese helicopters?”
“Positive, sir. Kamov-28 Helix helicopters, red, white, and blue People’s Liberation Army Navy banner on the aft fuselage,” Fells said. “Good clear images from Eagle Eye. Positive ID.”
The Ka-28s were Russian-made helicopters, transferred when China purchased Russian destroyers, but the People’s Liberation Army Navy banner on the side was unmistakable. “Very well,” Sheridan said. “Send images to Fleet and Area and request instructions.” He hated that phrase “request instructions”—he very much preferred to come up with a plan of action himself and ask for permission to carry it out—but he had no viable options whatsoever until he was closer to the search box. Even then, he had very few options against an armed Chinese warship. “Where’s that Chinese carrier?”
“Approaching the southern search box now, sir,” Fells responded. “Well within fixed- and rotary-wing range.”
“Where’s our closest aircraft carrier?”
“The George Washington is a couple d
ays away, sir,” Fells said. “Well out of fixed-wing range for at least eighteen hours.”
“I’ve got no air cover anywhere in this entire freakin’ area for eighteen hours?” Sheridan exploded. “We’ve got the most powerful military force in the entire freakin’ world, and a lone Coast Guard cutter is completely alone and helpless in the South China Sea against a Chinese aircraft carrier? The United States of America is actually outnumbered in the South China Sea?” Sheridan ran a hand across his face, trying unsuccessfully to wipe away the frustration—and yes, the fear—he was feeling right now. “Comm, this is the captain, I want you to send a message directly to the Pentagon: tell them to get me some long-range persistent air support out here, and do it now, or you might as well pull me the hell out of here, because I can’t do shit with the assets I have. Send it now, and send it verbatim.”
“Say again that last, sir?”
“I repeat, tell the Pentagon I need some heavy long-range air support out here, or I recommend we withdraw from the South China Sea,” Sheridan said. “I’m not risking the lives of three hundred sailors on my vessel because we don’t want to piss off the locals. Send it in the clear and verbatim. I’m going to lose tactical control of this area because I don’t have long-range control, and that is completely unacceptable. Give me long-range air and sea lane control, or pull me out, because I can’t do squat right now. And keep on warning aircraft to stay out of the area.”
It seemed like an eternity, but soon: “Bridge, Tactical, air search contact on the Jayhawk entering the northern search area.”
“Any other aircraft in the area, Tactical?”
“Negative, Bridge.”
So far so good. Sheridan picked up a telephone receiver and hit a channel button. “Mohawk Zero One, this is Mohawk One. How copy?”
“Loud and clear, sir,” the pilot of the Jayhawk, Lieutenant Ed Coffey, reported.
“Any surface contacts, Ed?”
“Affirmative, sir,” Coffey replied. “Off our nose, about ten miles, very large surface radar return. Probably too big for us to pick up.”
“Survivors or victims are our first priority, Ed, but when you start getting close to bingo fuel, pick up whatever you think you can snag.”
“Roger, Mohawk One.”
“No traffic in your vicinity,” Sheridan said, “but you can expect some company when they start seeing you circle and hover. We’ll keep an eye out for you.”
“Roger.”
FIVE
SOUTH SEA FLEET HEADQUARTERS COMMAND POST, ZHANJIANG, CHINA
THAT SAME TIME
“Sir, our search helicopter is reporting a medium-sized helicopter approaching the crash site near our helicopters,” the controller reported aloud. “The pilot reports that it appears unmanned.”
“Acknowledged,” Vice Admiral Zhen Peng said curtly, stubbing out his cigarette. He was at the commander’s seat in his battle staff room at fleet headquarters on Hainan Island in eastern China, watching an electronic chart of the South China Sea. Thin, with a long angular face, longish jet-black hair, small dark eyes, and jutting cheekbones, Zhen at age sixty appeared to be no older than forty. He had risen quickly through the ranks after graduating from the naval academy in Beijing thirty-five years earlier, serving aboard mostly heavier warships before being given his stars and assigned to the South Sea fleet.
An unmanned helicopter, aboard a simple patrol craft? That was most interesting, Zhen thought. While he struggled every day to find and train helicopter pilots to fly off the aircraft carrier’s big deck—let alone do the much more difficult task of landing on a destroyer’s or frigate’s deck—the Americans were flying unmanned patrol helicopters. China needed to start doing that sort of thing right away. It was yet another reminder of the awesome military might of the United States, particularly its navy. Imagine what sort of weaponry a big-deck ship had if a lowly patrol boat embarked an unmanned patrol aircraft! Even though China was pouring trillions of yuan every year into new weapons systems, it would probably take an entire generation or two to build a force that could match the United States of America.
Which was another reminder of why China could not and should not try to do so, Zhen thought. China needed to think smarter and not just toss money at a losing proposition like trying to match America ship for ship, like the Soviet Union tried to do during the Cold War. It ended up bankrupting the country and left America as the world’s only superpower. China could follow the same path if it was not smarter.
There were other ways of moving the unmovable . . . always other ways.
“Where is the Zhenyuan?” Zhen asked.
“Forty kilometers south of the search helicopters, sir,” the controller responded.
“Tell Captain Zhang of the Zhenyuan to see to it that the American helicopter does not collide with our helicopters,” Zhen said.
“Captain Zhang reports that the American aircraft is very small, and it does not have a transponder that we can interrogate, sir,” the controller said after he made the radio call and received a reply. “He says the radar return is small and intermittent and that separation may not be possible.”
“Tell him I do not want excuses,” Zhen snapped. After a moment, he said, “The American helicopter is posing a serious hazard to our search helicopters. It is unmanned, does not have a transponder, it is beyond radar coverage of its mothership, and cannot look for nearby aircraft. This is clearly unsafe and is not permitted under maritime law.” He picked up a telephone, selected a channel, and waited for the secure satellite link to activate. “Captain Zhang.”
“I read you, sir,” Zhang, the captain of the aircraft carrier Zhenyuan responded.
“Deploy Wúsheng Léitíng against the unmanned helicopter in the search area,” Zhen ordered.
There was a slight pause on the other end; Zhen couldn’t be sure through the squeaks and pops of the secure satellite link, but it sounded as if Zhang was muttering something. It might be time for that old bastard to be replaced, he thought—how dare he question an order? Finally: “Deploy Wúsheng Léitíng against the umanned aircraft in the search area, yes, sir. Acknowledged.” Zhen hung up.
A few minutes later: “Sir, our search helicopters are withdrawing from the area,” the controller reported.
“Maintain surveillance,” Zhen said. “I want to know what that unmanned helicopter does.”
Yes, Zhen thought, there were many, many ways to move the unmovable.
U.S. COAST GUARD CUTTER MOHAWK
A SHORT TIME LATER
“Bridge, Tactical,” Fells radioed, “Mohawk Zero-One reports he is retrieving what appears to be a victim. He will RTB immediately after hoist is completed.”
“Thank God they found one,” Sheridan muttered to himself. “Very well,” he replied. “Is the airspace still all clear?”
“Affirmative, sir. We can see into the original southern search box, and we have radar contact with the Eagle Eye. It appears the Chinese helicopters have departed the area.”
“Excellent,” Sheridan said. He was glad they departed, but he immediately became suspicious. Why would aircraft from an aircraft carrier pay any attention to orders from a foreigner aboard a ship a fraction of its size, not even a true warship? “Comm, Bridge, any response from our hails?”
“None from the Chinese, sir,” the communications officer replied. “Commercial vessels and a Filipino frigate responded and said they will remain clear but stand by in case they’re needed.”
Finally, Sheridan thought, some cooperation and a friendly warship to help out. He would’ve preferred it to be an American frigate, but any friendly help would be appreciated. “Very good. What’s the frigate’s position?”
“Thirty miles southeast of the southern search box. About two hours’ steaming time.”
“Request that they move closer to the box but remain clear for the time being, and pass along my . . .”
“Bridge, Tactical, lost contact with the Eagle Eye!” Fells interjected, using the di
rect “CALL” function of the intercom to interrupt all other communications.
Sheridan swore aloud. “Shit! What the hell happened, Ed?”
“Don’t know, sir. No malfunction annunciations. The thing just went dark.”
“Crap,” Sheridan muttered. All they had in the southern search box was the Global Hawk now. On the radio, he spoke, “Mohawk Zero-One, how’s it going?”
“Swimmer’s in the water,” Coffey replied. A moment later: “Sir, swimmer says the person in the water is alive! He’s busted up very badly and may not survive the return flight, but right now he’s breathing!”
“Sweet Jesus, that’s incredible!” Sheridan said. “Head back to the barn at best speed as soon as your swimmer’s aboard.”
“About five more minutes, sir.”
“Call sick bay, tell them we have a survivor inbound, ETE about an hour,” Sheridan said to the officer of the deck. “I want this guy alive.” He switched channels on the telephone. “Tactical, Bridge, Ed, any ideas on what the hell happened to the Eagle Eye?”
“None, sir,” Fells replied. “But from the initial reports I read about the P-8 incident, they reported the same thing: sudden loss of contact, no indications of a malfunction. It’s possible that whatever hit the Poseidon hit the Eagle Eye too.”
“Hit it? Like what? A missile, fired from a sub?”
“Possible, but unless the missile was some kind of a magical silver bullet, the aircraft would have reported multiple malfunctions before losing contact—engine fire, electrical, hydraulics, so on,” Fells said. “Whatever hit the P-8 and the Eagle Eye shut them down in the blink of an eye, before any malfunctions could be reported.”
“Mohawk One, Zero-One is RTB,” Coffey radioed.
Thank God, Sheridan breathed. With first the Poseidon gone and now the Eagle Eye gone but hopefully automatically on its way back, the South China Sea suddenly felt like a very dangerous place, and the quicker he got his last air asset back on the deck, the better. “You got the Jayhawk on radar, Ed?”
