by David Poyer
Singhe got to the handset before he did. He resisted the impulse to step in. Stay above the fray, he reminded himself. Think ahead. “Barbarian, over,” she said.
“Many bogeys headed in. Putting ’em on the net now.”
“This is Barbarian, roger—”
“Tuck his helo back under his envelope,” Dan said. “Before they pick him up—”
Wenck was typing madly at his console. The downlinked radar picture came up on the leftmost screen.
And there they were. Hard to count, but at least a dozen. Speed, six hundred knots, and hugging the wavetops. He fought astonishment. Where the fuck had they come from? Bearings and ranges would be from the helo … convert for the ship, then for the task group—
“Roger,” Singhe said into the handset. “Drop your bird below the radar horizon and backpedal him under your defensive envelope. —Flash, flash, flash! All units Horde, all units Horde. Incoming air strike, threat axis two-five-five from Fullbore. Barbarian, out.”
“Bearing and range from us, two-five-five, eighty-two miles,” Dudley put in. Dan nodded thanks, setting it up in his head as he clicked to the air control net. The missiles had come in from a different bearing. Obviously, to disguise the location of the enemy air strike. He clicked Transmit on the red phone and advised Cheryl of the incoming planes. “I know you’re our ABM shield. But you need to go to antiair mode now, and pull in to cover us.”
The intel officer called, “McClung’s ESM reports incoming strike correlates with Shenyang J-15. Fighters. Short-range. Most likely, from Liaoning and Shandong.” He turned a monitor so Dan could see. “Ski-ramp carriers.”
Dan knew them. Liaoning: bought from Ukraine, rebuilt and put into service as the first Chinese carrier; Shandong, built from scratch as the second. But no one had warned him a carrier battle group might be out here. The enemy had achieved total surprise.
From Savo Island: “We’re headed your way, but we’re already out of the ABM business, Admiral. My shot lockers are empty of Block 4s.”
Crap. The next salvo of ballistic missiles, now that the Army battery was down too, would find them all defenseless.
But they weren’t defenseless against aircraft, and the F-35s Hornet had launched were on their way too. The enemy fleet commander, whoever he was, had scored surprise. But he’d left too many minutes between his cruise strike and the arrival of his aerial punch. Just long enough for his targets to recover, take a breath, and reorient to the new threat.
Fortunately, this was one the Navy was ready for. The J-15s were coming in low, but the radars on McClung and Kristensen, out to the west, were holding a solid lock-on, with plenty of antiair missiles in their capacious magazines. Launch reports crackled over the air command net. Blue carets, U.S. weapons, began marching toward the incoming red contacts.
Dan was glad he wasn’t in one of those cockpits. The only worry he had now was blue on blue. A call to Hornet’s air boss relieved him on that score. The Lightnings were assigned and deconflicted. They would take the oncomers between the outer ranges of the Standards and that of the shorter-range point defense systems.
If the enemy got in that far … already red symbols were winking out and splash reports were coming over the air.
He tried to detach, stay on the big picture … he grabbed the red phone again. “Turtleship, Barbarian actual. Over.”
Jung answered as if waiting for the call. “Turtleship actual, over. Hello, Dan. I see you have located their carriers.”
“Hello, Min. I guess you could say that. We’re heavily engaged south of you.”
“I have the battle picture on my screens. Want me to join up?”
“Negative, we have this under control. Look, you’re already half a degree west of us. Go to flank speed with your fastest units. Leave the slow movers behind. Vector north twenty miles, then west again. With the short legs on J-15s, these guys didn’t launch from far away. And if they want any of their pilots back on deck, the carrier’s going to have to linger there. I want you to hook out and try to get behind them. Or at least, take them on the flank. I’m going to try to get localization on their main body, get you targeted on the carriers.”
“This is Turtleship. Copy all. I’ll spin up my Hyunmoos.”
Those were a long-range cruise, not too different from the old surface-attack Tomahawk. If the J-15s were short ranged, so unfortunately were his Lightnings. But if he could get Jung within two hundred miles of the enemy group, maybe he could clobber them. Get a little revenge for the columns of black smoke rising over Guam.
“Uh-oh,” Wenck said, hands clamped over earphones.
“What, Donnie?”
“ESM’s picking up datalinks for C-803s.”
This was bad news. The 803 was an antiship missile that cruised in, then accelerated to supersonic for its final dash. Combined with a wave-skimming profile, that left most close-in defense systems out in left field. “Can you fox them?”
“Savo’s trying to. But they’re coming in fast … stand by … there’s a launch report.”
The large-screen display showed the missiles coming off five fighters left after running the gauntlet of Standards and Lightnings. Each turned away after its drop. They were still outside the range of the closer-in systems. But as everyone in the space stared, gazes magnetized by the screen, the incoming symbols suddenly leaped ahead with each sweep of the digital refresh.
Three were headed directly for Hornet.
The seconds blurred as the ship heeled, and the 1MC said something that was blotted out halfway through by a howl from forward. In the flight-deck cameras brilliant flashes signaled the rolling-airframe missiles departing their tubed mounts forward of the bridge. Short-ranged but fast off the dime, they were the last line of defense before the Phalanx. The 1MC spoke again in sepulchral tones. “Missiles incoming, port side. Port side personnnel, take cover.”
A perfectly straight pillar of solid violet-white flame, perhaps three feet wide, suddenly transected Flag Plot, extending from the port bulkhead across to the starboard one.
The air turned instantly into fire. The noise was a vise squeezing his head. Sparks filled the compartment as the casual flick of a panther’s paw flung Dan from the chair and whiplashed him into the bulkhead, nearly impaling him on the corner of a vertical plot.
Dazed, deafened, he found himself on hands and knees, crawling blindly amid whirling smoke. His throat closed against a cloud of stinging, choking white that tasted of summer fireworks and burnt plastic.
For a moment he crouched, confused. Was that the E Ring ahead? The glow of fire, the drip of melting wiring? His head rang like a shell casing kicked out of a hot breech. This was the Pentagon, wasn’t it? He was crawling over bodies. Some moved, others didn’t. One lay face upward. Dudley …
He wasn’t in the Pentagon, and this wasn’t 2001. He was aboard USS Hornet, and his chief of staff lay convulsing, eyes wide but blank, the back of his skull torn away. His arm and shoulder gushed pumping blood, his coveralls were blazing, and his right arm twitched as if trying to grip something unseen. Dan crawled toward him. He had to help. Stanch the blood. But before he could reach him the pulsing spurt from his second in command’s torn shoulder weakened, then ceased.
Sound returned, accompanied by a hammering headache and the keen of sirens. He couldn’t tell if it was tinnitus or the ship’s alarms. Shouts and screaming came from the far, smoke-invisible side of the compartment. Everybody on his side seemed to be dead. He still hadn’t taken in a breath, nor did he plan to, in this superheated air and white acrid smoke. He couldn’t recall exactly who he was, but he remembered being in places like this before. If you didn’t keep your head, you were toast. If you concentrated you might survive, and maybe even help someone else get out.
A dark-mustached face bent over him, and yanked his head back to cut his throat. Dan fought him off, panicking, before he understood. Lieutenant Commander Jamail was snapping the elastic hem of an emergency escape breathing device ar
ound his neck. Dan blinked through fogged plastic as gas hissed, and inhaled a tentative breath. “Thanks,” he gasped, but Jamail had already moved on to someone else.
Clear air. He sucked it deep, panting. Then levered himself up, and squinted around.
Flag Plot was a smoking wreck. The only illumination was a smear of daylight penetrating via holes in the port bulkhead. Sailors played the cottony cone-plumes of extinguishers on smoking, burning repeaters and consoles that lay tumbled, torn apart, sparking with shorted wires, pierced by that violet-hot lance. One of the large-screen displays had been plastered into the overhead. Most gruesome, the fiery jet had passed directly above three watchstanders at their stations. Their lower torsos remained seated, cauterized bloodlessly black at pectoral level. Above that, everything else had been vaporized.
He flinched as the ship shivered beneath him. Facts slowly reassembled in a clanging skull. Air attack. J-15s. Their warheads packed a hundred pounds of semi-armor-piercing explosive. Not enough to sink you, but enough to penetrate most ships’ sides and trash several compartments in the line of their impact. Which this one apparently had, coming through the port side around frame 49, then detonating in the stateroom areas outboard of CIC and Flag Plot and the Intel spaces. Blasting fire and fragments from some kind of shaped charge into and through the control spaces.
“Missile hit aft,” the 1MC announced. “Vicinity frame 250. Repair three, provide.” So, other hits as well.
Hands helped him up. Gault, blood streaming down his cheek. And behind the marine, Rit Carpenter. The old submariner looked calm behind the plastic of his own EEBD. His lips writhed, but Dan couldn’t make out what he’d said through the gongs. He shook his head, pointed to his ears. Gault steadied him on his feet and patted him down for other wounds. Gave a tentative thumbs-up and led him toward the exit.
The conference table in the Joint Intelligence Center was a battle-dressing station now. Wounded lay sprawled about. Corpsmen were administering injections and bandaging wounds. Gault and Carpenter led him to the table and pulled the EEBD off. Dan rubbed something wet off his face. His fingers felt wooden, but there was no blood on them, just snot and tears. The medic gave him a quick once-over and aimed a penlight into his eyes. “Sir. Sir? Can you hear me?”
“Barely.”
“How many fingers?”
“Four.”
“What’s your name?”
“Lenson. Dan Lenson.”
“Admiral, you look shaken up. I’d like to administer a mild sedative, then get you to lie down.”
“I can’t. I have to go to the bridge.”
Gault and Carpenter had to argue on his behalf, but finally the corpsman relented. Gault supported him on one side, the old sonarman on the other. Dan staggered down a passageway foggy with smoke, stumbling over laid-out fire hoses, to the ladderway. He had to step over the exhaust ducting from desmoking blowers, but clambered steadily upward, helped along by Gault’s hands boosting his ass. From time to time the deck canted again, but he didn’t hear any more hits being announced.
When he reached the bridge it went silent. He glanced around, wondering if his hearing had gone out again. Then noted Graciadei in her CO’s chair. On the red phone. He lurched over to hear her saying, “That’s negative. He’s critically wounded and definitely out of action. Making me next in line. Over.”
“Captain,” Dan said. Almost enjoying how her eyes widened as they slid over to meet his. “May I have that?”
When she wordlessly passed the handset, he pressed the button and waited for the sync. Then said, as calmly as he could, “This is Admiral Lenson. Over.”
“Dan. Jim Yangerhans. You okay?”
Dan told PaCom, “Shaken up. Inhaled a little smoke. We took an 803 in Flag Plot.”
“Graciadei said you were wounded.”
“First reports are always exaggerated, Admiral.” Dan shot a glance at Hornet’s skipper. Her cheeks were flushed; she avoided his gaze. “No doubt that’s what the captain heard.”
“Well, good. If you’re sure. I know you’ve got to be busy, but is there a damage report yet?”
Something was being pressed into his hand. A clipboard, presented by Fred Enzweiler, his so-far-unimpressive operations officer. Dan cleared his throat. “Uh, damage report. Hornet, three medium-weight missile hits, seventeen dead, forty-seven wounded or incapacitated, mainly smoke and burns. One F-35 lost through engine flameout during launch. Pilot recovered. McClung hit by debris, three wounded. Green Bay, one heavy missile hit forward of the bridge, on fire, ten dead, many wounded, fires not yet under control. Earhart, two medium missile hits, on fire, two dead, six wounded, fires aft, being contained. One Ulsan-class frigate, Kyeongbuk, sunk by two heavy missile hits, crew being recovered, no KIA numbers yet. Looks like heavy damage to the base, airfield, and shipyard, but we haven’t been able to raise anyone there. Heavy expenditure of defensive ordnance. Several units report Winchester on defensive loadout.” “Winchester” was the proword for all ordnance expended. “Uh … over.”
A moment of silence. Then, “Copy all. Keep reporting to that level of detail. And try to find out if the tender’s been damaged; SubPac can’t raise them. What about the enemy? Did you lay a glove on him?”
Dan explained how they’d splashed most of the attacking fighters, and that Jung was executing a runaround to localize and attack the carriers.
The four-star seemed doubtful, but approved it. Yangerhans added, “I have four B-2s from Hickam airborne en route your estimated posit for the Liaoning-Shandong strike group. We knew they’d left port, but they surprised us this far east. If they break radar silence when Jung’s cruises hit, we’ll take them off the board with JDAMs. Can you continue mission?”
Dan thought fast. “Assuming Earhart can get her fires under control and continue loggie support, affirmative. But we still need flyout by the helo group and soonest possible resupply of defensive ordnance—SM-3, 4A, RAM, Sea Sparrow, and twenty millimeter. Total requirements to follow by message.”
“Let me know. But that wolf pack’s clobbering our resupply. Clear the route and you’ll get everything you need. Otherwise, we’re not going to have an offensive.” A moment of blank hissing ether. Then, “This is PaCom actual. Out.”
* * *
THE battle fever ebbed, leaving vacant stares, smoky passageways, and subdued voices. Dan pulled the main body in tight and set base course north at twenty-five knots. Occupying the port chair on the bridge, he monitored as the damage reports, and the KIA/WIA numbers, kept coming in.
The task force had survived. But they’d been shaken. Deaths and injuries dislocated a crew’s confidence. Especially when they’d never had a chance to punch back. And with most of the self-defense ordnance expended, if they got hit again the chances of avoiding major losses were bleak.
So … should he change his mind? Take counsel of his fears, and turn back?
No. The time for that had passed, when he’d stepped up to the plate with Yangerhans.
Someone had to clear the mid-Pacific. It looked like it was up to him, and to the other task force, out of Pearl. Somehow they had to lure a slippery, silent enemy to battle. Pincer him between them. And crush him.
Just before evening meal, Jamail came up with a report on the wolf pack. Dan perused it, head down, as the sun sank along with his spirits. The enemy order of battle included ten Song-class diesel-electric attack submarines and ten more advanced Yuan-classes with air-independent propulsion. Also, up to five nukes, types not yet known, but presumed to be Hans and Shangs. The Hans were old boats, freight-train noisy at top speed, but still dangerous. The Shangs were rated equivalent to Russian Victors, quiet, fast, and deadly. All were presumed to carry both torpedoes and missiles, but so far only torpedoes had been used on the tankers and freighters they’d been preying on.
The report’s terseness meant no one knew much more. The Chinese had played submarine development close to their vest, and whatever allied submariners were finding out
about their opposite numbers now wasn’t getting passed to the rest of the fleet. How good were his opponents? How aggressive? Unanswerable questions. But in terms of mass alone, it was a huge pack, bigger than anything Nazi Germany had fielded in the Battle of the Atlantic.
Huge, yes. But compared to the millions of square miles it had to hide in, a needle in Kansas. If they had any battle sense, they’d flow around his hunter killers like water around a shark. Hiding like mice until the cat was gone. He rubbed bristly cheeks violently with both hands. How could he even localize, much less engage such a force?
Graciadei came over to stand by his chair. “Admiral.”
“Captain.”
“About that voice message—”
“Don’t worry about it, Sandy. A misunderstanding.” The words had to be said, to keep working together. But now they both knew her ambition loomed naked between them.
“Ah, yessir. Admiral, we have a temporarily locked shaft. We’ll have to slow to twenty knots for a couple of hours.”
“Battle damage?”
“Uh, not exactly. The top snipe was moving fuel from storage to service tanks. One of the guys got stuck on stupid and overfilled a service tank. The fuel ran down the penetrations to the deck below. It’s raining down out of the cableways, onto a power panel.”
“Ouch.”
“Yes, sir. Short squirt, it’s six inches deep down there. We had to gas flood the space. Meanwhile we lost power to the lube oil service pumps. We’re getting the fuel pumped out.”
Jamail fidgeted behind her. Dan crook-fingered him forward. “Something hot, Qazi?”
“Admiral, message from the Aussie boat, Farncomb.”
“Give me some good news.”
“Admiral, I can do that. They put two torpedoes into a Varyag-class ski-jump carrier headed west. Ship has slowed to steerageway. Three destroyers standing by her.”
“Outstanding!” Dan pounded the arm of his chair. The dice of war had finally rolled their way. The submarine standing east to join him had intercepted his withdrawing foe. “That’s one of the bastards who bushwhacked us. Did they by any chance include a posit report? Yes? Great! Forward that to PaCom, right now. He’s got B-2s armed to the teeth out searching for these guys.”
