Guarding Savage

by Edlund, Dave;

  Wei’s husband dropped the cleaver and placed both hands across the deep gash. Looking down at the blood seeping between his fingers, he never saw the katana fall across his neck, cleanly severing his head.

  Pei-Ming’s body fell to the floor in a grisly heap. No longer fearing for her safety, Wei rushed forward, tears already running down her face. She threw herself across her husband’s body, convulsing as she wept uncontrollably.

  With his soldiers watching, the captain raised his katana again and brought it down with strength and precision, leaving Wei’s head resting near her husband’s.

  Having just witnessed the murder of her parents, Guan-Yin started to run for the kitchen. She made two steps before one of the Japanese soldiers grabbed her arm and threw her to the floor. He then viciously kicked her in the face and head until she stopped moving. Blood trickled from her nose, leaving a stain where her face was pressed against the cold concrete floor.

  Stepping around the prostrate girl as he returned to the table, the captain surveyed the pitiful creatures cowering before him. One of the old men was backing into a corner, shielding the boy, who was crying.

  Neither of the two men still seated at the table would look up at the Japanese officer. The captain reached out and casually grabbed a cloth napkin from underneath the dog’s leg. He wiped the blood off his katana and then stuffed the bloodied rag in the breast pocket of one of the old men.

  As he led his soldiers away, the officer spoke briefly to his men. “Maybe tomorrow we come back and recruit these volunteers for bayonet practice,” he said, once again earning jovial laughter from his subordinates.

  Chapter 1

  East China Sea

  August 20

  XO Lawrence followed the MH-60R Seahawk as it passed the bridge on a direct heading toward its mother ship, the white airframe sporting a red circle on the side. The helicopter was hunting an American submarine, part of his task force. Training, as realistic as practical, was one of the tactical goals of this three-day joint exercise. And then there was also the political objective.

  “Do you think they’ll catch the Tucson sir?” Lawrence asked.

  “They’re good, but not that good,” replied Captain Wallace. “I know the Tucson’s skipper. He runs a tight ship. Never lost yet, even against our own offensive forces.”

  Lawrence lowered the high-powered binoculars and swiveled his head to the port side of the bridge, marveling at the gray silhouette several-thousand-yards distant. “She sure does look like a carrier, sir. Reminds me of a World War II era flat top. Significantly smaller than our Nimitz class.”

  “It’s all in the classification. She was designed to carry fourteen helicopters, primarily for antisubmarine warfare. But as you know, she can also land and launch Ospreys.”

  Lawrence was nodding. “Not to mention Harriers and the new F35. I suspect our Japanese friends are sending a message to China.”

  Wallace nodded agreement. “No doubt. The name they selected for the flagship isn’t a coincidence.”

  “Izumo?” Lawrence said. The XO was young for a naval officer of his rank, a full fifteen years the junior of his captain. Raised in upstate New York, he had excelled in the ROTC program at Cornell University, graduating top of his class. With sharp intellect and an easy personality, Lawrence advanced quickly to his current position on the USS Shiloh, a guided missile cruiser.

  Standing to the side of his XO, Captain Wallace was also admiring the Izumo, a helicopter destroyer and recent addition to the Japanese Maritime Self Defense Force. Wallace lowered his binoculars and glanced at his XO, a slight smirk on his otherwise hard face. He enjoyed coming out on top in what most would consider inconsequential trivia.

  “You are familiar with the principal ships of the Imperial Japanese Navy?”

  Lawrence hesitated.

  Captain Wallace decided to let him off easy. Returning to his binoculars, he added, “The flagship of the Imperial Navy’s Third Fleet was also named Izumo. The Third Fleet helped fuel Japan’s expansion into China in the 1930s. They didn’t teach you that at Cornell?” The smirk had grown to a grin as he watched a pair of helicopters take off from the expansive open deck of the Izumo while the one that had just flown past his bridge was hovering, preparing to land.

  “Uh, no sir, not that I recall.” Lawrence cast a sideways glance at his captain, trying to determine if this was important or just banter. He had been serving under Captain Wallace for only five months, and he still felt uncomfortable in the man’s presence. Was it the age difference, or gap in experience—maybe something else?

  Lawrence said, “The tension between Japan and China seems to consistently ratchet up, not down. I guess choosing that name is like rubbing salt in an open wound.”

  “The meaning has not been lost on the leaders in Beijing, I assure you. Just be aware, Mr. Lawrence, that there is much at play in this exercise, and perhaps the most dangerous maneuvers are transpiring in political circles, not out here on the East China Sea.”

  They were well into day two of the joint exercise, conducting maneuvers and anti-submarine warfare training in a large area of ocean between Okinawa and the disputed Senkaku Island chain. In addition to the USS Shiloh, the fast-attack submarine USS Tucson, and two guided missile destroyers, the USS Lassen and the USS McCampbell, the joint task force was also joined by the Izumo, Atago, and Kirishima. So far, the weather had been excellent, with a thin overcast and mild seas. The forecast was for more of the same tomorrow.

  Without warning, the klaxon blared, quickly followed by a message over the ship intercom. “CO, XO, report to CIC. Incoming threat detected.” The voice was disarmingly calm, consistent with routine drills carried out hundreds of times before.

  Lawrence shifted his optics, scanning the sky, not knowing what he was looking for, or where. Captain Wallace pivoted smartly and in two long strides he was at an instrumented console. His hand slapped down on a flat, round knob, activating the com.

  “Wallace. What do you have?”

  The Tactical Actions Officer, Lieutenant Commander Copeland, answered immediately, “Probable incoming ballistic missile, approaching apex now.”

  “Target?”

  “Premature to say. Once it passes through the apex we’ll have a good lock on trajectory.”

  “Sound general quarters, battle stations, and inform the other ships in the task force. I want a primary and backup firing solution, Mr. Copeland, by the time I get to CIC.”

  Without wasting another second, Captain Wallace and Executive Officer Lawrence swiftly left the bridge and descended several ladders before entering the dark, high-tech cavern of the Combat Information Center. Located deep within the hull of the USS Shiloh, this was the nerve center controlling the advanced weapon systems of the Aegis-class cruiser.

  Lieutenant Commander Copeland was peering intently at a large, clear, vertical projection screen displaying a regional map with a grid overlay indicating longitude and latitude. The task force was positioned in the center of the map, indicated by a blue triangle, and a red trace was steadily advancing toward the blue symbol. The map was visible from either side and located in the center of the CIC, surrounded by banks of sophisticated electronic equipment for operating the highly complex and powerful Aegis radar and control of weapons systems.

  The CIC was air conditioned to a cool sixty-eight degrees, a necessity to avoid overheating the multitude of computers and electronics. Long gone were the days of large-bore naval guns slugging it out with surface ships miles away. The state of naval warfare had evolved to long-range aircraft and radar-guided missile systems.

  Wallace stopped just behind Copeland, while the XO detoured to a radar console and conferred in a low voice with the seaman manning the station.

  Sensing the captain was behind him, Copeland explained, “The launch was from this area,” he pointed to the lower left of the map, “near the Spratly Islands.”

  “Too far from our position to be a theater weapon… short-range ballistic
missile?”

  “Affirmative, sir.”

  “Submarine launch?”

  “I assume so, unless there is a land-based launch facility there that we don’t know about. Unlikely though, as any such facility would have been picked up by satellite imagery during construction.”

  By now the XO had joined Wallace and Copeland. “Captain, the schedule does not show a drone missile attack.”

  Wallace removed his cap and brushed a hand through his silver-white hair, still focused on the screen. “Wouldn’t be the first time they threw an unscheduled action at us.” Silently he ran through several training scenarios in his head. “Okay, power up the see-wiz and Sea Sparrow defenses, but keep them locked down. I don’t want to shoot up one of the helos by mistake. And bring the SM3 battery on line.

  “Our goal, Mr. Lawrence, is to make sure the computers record the proper response to the threat. I don’t know how close launch control will allow the ballistic missile to come before auto destruct, but certainly not close enough to engage with Sea Sparrows. However, we might get to conduct a live fire with an SM3.”

  The XO understood. The entire training exercise was recorded by the ship’s computer system and would cross-reference with the missile launch and other ship’s logs, as well as ship-to-ship communications. This would then be parsed in minutia and critically reviewed for response time, type of response to match threat level, and so on. The see-wiz—30 mm Phalanx CIWS—was a last measure for extremely close-range ship defense and not a viable defense against a ballistic missile. It was, however, effective against other anti-ship missiles—the same for the Sea Sparrow missiles. In real combat they would be activated and placed on automatic response, but the danger of doing so in this exercise was not justified. So Captain Wallace signaled his awareness of the proper defensive moves without actually endangering the Japanese helicopters still on anti-submarine maneuvers.

  “Do you have a primary firing solution?” Wallace said.

  Copeland nodded. “Yes, sir. We can engage with SM3 missiles in seven seconds at the mid-course flight correction, just after the incoming bogie passes apex.”

  “Lock on, simulated launch.” Wallace remained silent, watching the red trace continue to extend across the screen, advancing toward the symbol representing the task force, mentally counting down the seconds.

  XO Lawrence was doing the same and was the first to break the silence. “Simulated launch recorded, Captain. Recommend we signal the Izumo of impending threat.”

  “See to it, Mr. Lawrence.” Then, turning to Lieutenant Commander Copeland, “Have you coordinated radar search and fire control with the Lassen and McCampbell?”

  “Affirmative, sir.”

  “Very good. Updated point of impact?”

  Copeland turned and leaned in close to the sailor at the targeting radar console. It only took two seconds before he replied to his CO. “Still targeting this task force, sir.” There was a brief pause. “It doesn’t make sense. The mid-course correction should have altered the flight path so the missile drone would overfly our position.”

  Wallace pinched his eyebrows, trying to digest the volume of incoming information. No, it didn’t make sense. The drone should travel well beyond the task force where it could be engaged by anti-missile defenses without endangering the ships and aircraft with debris.

  “Mr. Lawrence, send a message to COMPACFLT. Ask if this is an unscheduled drill. Inform command that bogie has not altered course and remains on target for this task force.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mr. Copeland, distance to bogie?”

  “Uh, just cleared 200 kilometers. Accelerating into reentry.”

  “Very well. Inform Lassen and McCampbell of target solution and advise that we will fire one SM3. Request confirmation of bogie strike. Then make sure the Izumo knows we are preparing for SM3 live fire.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  With every passing second the tension increased. The CO was still concentrating on the map and mentally running through his options. Now that the bogie was closing, the map automatically zoomed in, revealing the task force as a spread of six surface ships. It was still impossible to tell from the display exactly where the missile drone was aimed. Based on current trajectory, it would most likely strike open water somewhere between the group of ships unless it was destroyed.

  What the hell is going on? Captain Wallace had been engaged in many live-fire drills of the SM3 anti-missile defense system, and they never aimed the missile drone even close to another ship or land mass. Furthermore, why hadn’t this been scheduled as part of the exercise?

  With the bogie entering terminal phase, Wallace decided not to wait any longer. Whatever idiot programed the flight path to terminate amongst the task force ships would take the heat for causing him to fire a multi-million dollar missile in an unscheduled drill.

  “Confirm target lock,” Wallace ordered.

  “Target lock confirmed.”

  “Fire missile.”

  “Fire missile,” Copeland relayed the command to the fire control operator.

  The sailor pressed a red-illuminated button and the ship shuddered as the powerful SM3 missile launched, sending a plume of white fire and reddish-gray smoke into the air surrounding the aft deck.

  Immediately, the tactical map showed a green line arcing from one of the blue symbols representing the Shiloh. The line looked like it would intersect with the red line, continuing to extend to the collection of six blue symbols.

  “Time to intercept?” Wallace said.

  “Twenty seconds,” Copeland replied.

  A second passed, and then another. Eyes focused on the tactical map and the merging lines.

  “Make that ten seconds, sir. Bogie is accelerating.” Copeland paused for a moment, then added, “It’s accelerating like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Must have a re-entry booster. Speed is now… seven kilometers per second… still accelerating… now ten kilometers per second… intercept in three seconds…”

  The CIC was dead silent, there was only the electrical hum as Wallace breathed shallowly, rapidly, eyes locked on the green and red lines.

  The lines intersected!

  But rather than terminating, the green line and the red continued on, past each other.

  “What happened?” Wallace demanded.

  “Checking, sir.” Copeland checked the status at the fire control computer, confirming what the map was already showing. “Clean miss, sir.”

  “Mr. Lawrence. Any word from command?”

  “Just a moment, sir, I have the admiral’s aide on the line.”

  Copeland said, “Sir, Lassen confirms miss, requests permission to fire.”

  “I need an answer Mr. Lawrence! Tell Lassen and McCampbell to hold. What’s the terminal location for the bogie?”

  “Uh… checking now… the Izumo, sir. Bogie is closing at twelve kilometers per second. Still accelerating! Impact in seven seconds!”

  “Get me confirmation on the bogie’s trajectory!” Wallace barked. “Mr. Lawrence, inform the Izumo of incoming threat and recommend immediate activation of close air defenses. And tell them to land those birds or move them out ten kilometers!”

  A second later Copeland replied. “Confirmed by Lassen and McCampbell!”

  Suddenly the CIC transformed into a hive of frenetic activity. Captain Wallace had never participated in a live anti-missile exercise in which a task-force ship was targeted. His training kicked in, even though in the back of his mind he knew the bogie would self-destruct at any moment.

  Multiple voices, each conveying deadly professionalism, overlapped resulting in a cacophony of noise. And yet over this sound Lawrence was clearly heard by everyone. “Command says no missile drone was launched. This is not an exercise!”

  “Three seconds to impact, tracking true.”

  Wallace issued his orders. “Lassen and McCambell cleared to fire… Mr. Copeland, cleared to fire!”

  Even as he was giving his commands, Wal
lace knew it would be insufficient if the bogie did not self-destruct. Still, he watched the green lines trailing from the two destroyers aimed directly at the leading edge of the incoming red line. It was going to be very close.

  s

  The sky was rent with a brilliant white streak of superheated and ionized air from far above. It looked like a ball of lightening thrown down from the heavens, and it moved at such incredible speed that it appeared to be a continuous line. Then it struck the large Japanese ship.

  There was a blinding flash of white light, brighter than the sun. From a distance, all appeared to be normal—but that soon changed.

  Onboard the pride of the Japanese Navy, the situation was anything but normal. The projectile struck amidships. With phenomenal speed, it penetrated through the vessel like a hot poker through Styrofoam. Steel was instantly vaporized as energy transferred from the projectile to everything in its path. Along the way, electrical lines and pipes carrying aviation fuel were severed, sparking an inferno that erupted in a large fireball. The ensuing flames quickly spread to the hangar deck and beyond.

  A minor ammunition store was in the path of destruction; the white hot metal and shock wave generated by the projectile detonated tons of surface-to-air defensive missiles. The combination of explosives detonating and ignition of solid rocket propellant served to extend the radius of destruction and further compromise the ship’s structural integrity.

  The hardened and dense warhead continued through the many decks, wreaking havoc. In less than a hundredth of a second, the kinetic projectile exited through the ship’s keel, leaving a near vertical channel twenty feet in diameter—within this channel there was nothing. Surrounding the channel for another thirty feet in all directions was twisted, fused, and broken metal that once constituted the ship, its structure, and its support systems.

  Automatic fire suppression systems kicked in, but the extensive collateral damage to the ship’s infrastructure disabled the sprinklers and Halon systems where the most intense fires blazed. Seawater pushed upward through this gaping wound into the ship. Watertight bulkhead doors closed automatically throughout the decks, a futile attempt to stem the incoming flood.