Guarding Savage

by Edlund, Dave;

  “Once we pass Cuarteron Reef, Fiery Cross Reef will be the next significant land mass to port, is that right?” the captain asked. He routinely memorized the key features along their intended route.

  XO Birch consulted the navigational chart projected on a screen in a console in the center portion of the bridge. It was dotted with dozens of islands, most uninhabited. He moved his finger along their charted course. “Yes, that’s correct.”

  The captain lowered his binoculars. “The Chinese will be especially sensitive to a Navy warship approaching their newly constructed base on Fiery Cross. Plot a course that brings us within twenty nautical miles, but no closer. Then turn to new bearing nine-five degrees. I want to make it clear we are present but are not a threat.”

  “You think they’ll see us on radar?” the XO asked.

  “Maybe. But for sure they’ll pick up our emissions.”

  For the next five hours, the Independence and the Coronado sailed in a close formation. After turning east and speeding away from Fiery Cross Reef, Moresby instructed the XO to conduct a man-overboard drill. It was a thinly-veiled attempt to support the argument that the two Navy ships were conducting a routine training mission.

  As expected, their ship-born sensors indicated they were being painted by radar from the airfield and supporting infrastructure China had constructed on Fiery Cross Reef. Whether or not the technicians operating the land-based radar systems were seeing enough reflected energy to interpret as two warships was anybody’s guess. Moresby suspected that the angular construction and other stealth features of his ship masked their approach to the military installation. One of his mission objectives was to probe the capabilities of the bases on Fiery Cross Reef and Mischief Reef. The radar data was being recorded, along with their navigational history, for later analysis.

  “Standard search frequencies,” Birch reported. “They’re probably trying to figure out why they see our radar emissions, but nothing else.”

  “Let’s keep them guessing. The electronic warfare guys at the Pentagon will spend weeks reviewing the data. For now, just maintain our heading. Once we turn north and make way for Mischief Reef, it might get tense. According to the satellite images, a couple missile batteries have been installed there. Intel says they’re most likely SAMs, but no one is ruling out anti-ship missiles.”

  The afternoon wore on with no remarkable events. The tropical sun baked down on the ship, and Moresby and his officers were glad the bridge and other interior compartments were air-conditioned. He could only imagine how uncomfortable it would have been to serve on a ship a few decades ago, when the only relief from the tropical heat was an open hatch, a cold drink, or ice cream.

  The XO continued to make his rounds, checking in with the crew men and women responsible for the major function of the ship—navigation, engineering, weapons. They had plenty of fuel to circle the Spratly Islands before returning to Singapore, and the engines were running well. The reports were routine.

  Other than short breaks, Captain Moresby stayed on the bridge, mostly glassing the horizon for anything—ship or plane—that might represent a threat.

  “Scope still clear of contacts?” Moresby asked.

  Only five minutes ago the XO had asked navigation that very question. “Yes, sir. Nothing—”

  He was interrupted with an urgent update. “Contact. Unidentified bogy. Bearing three-zero-zero degrees. Altitude 18,000 feet. Distance… approximately forty-three nautical miles and closing.”

  The XO and captain both gathered around the navigation console. The screen showed a green blip representing the aircraft. Well beyond visible range, it looked like it would come close to the Independence, but was not on a direct course to intercept the ship. “Too low to be commercial. Can’t be one of ours,” the XO said. “There’s no IFF transponder code showing.”

  “Don’t always trust that. Sometimes the pilot may turn off the transponder, not wanting his aircraft to be identified as friend or foe. Maybe one of our planes is doing some aerial recon on the Chinese bases. Better get on the radio and find out if we have any aircraft in the area.”

  Birch made a call over the ship intercom to the communications center, while the captain continued to stare at the tactical display. A minute later, he had his answer. “Negative. No U.S. or allied aircraft are conducting operations within a hundred miles of us.”

  The blip changed direction, tracking now on a straight line for the ship. “Looks like they were listening to our radio signal,” Birch said.

  “Sound general quarters,” Moresby ordered. The klaxon screeched, signaling every sailor to go to their designated battle stations.

  Four more lookouts entered the bridge and searched the sky with binoculars in the direction from which they knew the bogey would approach. “Two of you,” the XO said, pointing to a pair of crewmen. “Out on the deck and search aft. If you spot anything—airplane or ship—report immediately.”

  “Increase to full speed. Stay on course,” Moresby said, and the XO repeated the order.

  A long, tense minute passed before the silence on the bridge was interrupted by Birch. “We’re being painted by search radar from the bogey. No indication they have a lock on us.”

  The captain was still studying the tactical display. The bogey had altered direction a second time and was on a parallel bearing to the ship. One of the spotters called out. “I’ve got ’em sir! Reflection off to port and slightly aft.”

  “Can you get an ID?” the XO asked.

  “No, sir. Too far away, only a reflection of light.”

  Glued to the display, Moresby said, “We ought’a know soon. The bogey is on a new bearing that should take it over our bow.”

  “The crew has probably been ordered to get a positive ID on us.”

  Six pair of binoculars were pointed at the sky where the unidentified plane was speeding toward the naval vessel. Still only a bright spot of reflected sunlight, the spot was growing larger by the second.

  “Looks like four engines,” one of the lookouts reported. Several more seconds passed before he added, “Turboprop.”

  A second and then a third lookout confirmed. Both the captain and XO were also studying the aircraft through the high-magnification optics.

  “Patrol aircraft,” Birch said to no one in particular. He continued speaking without lowering the binoculars. “Y-8X. At least it doesn’t carry weapons.”

  Moresby wasn’t ready to relax yet. “No, but it can track us and report our position.”

  “We’re well outside of the twelve-mile limit for any landmass, clearly in international waters.”

  “You seem to forget, Mr. Birch, that the Chinese view the entire Spratly Island group as their territory. From their perspective, we are well within their territorial claim.”

  The XO lowered his glasses and followed the captain into the Communication Center at the rear of the bridge. A heavy curtain blocked sunlight from entering the compartment, which served as the combat and communications nerve center for the ship. It was bathed in dim red light. Several crewmembers, wearing headphones with lip microphones, were hunched over consoles studying their data feeds.

  “It’s passed us,” Birch said, meaning that the patrol plane was now flying away from the Independence.

  A crewman spoke up. “Picking up radio traffic from the bogey.”

  “No new contacts,” reported another crewmember monitoring the ship’s radar. “Bogey is departing. New course… due north.”

  “All weapons are in standby,” came the report from another console.

  “Keep them locked down,” Birch ordered. “I don’t want an accidental firing because the SeaRAM was switched to auto.”

  A close-in defensive system, the SeaRAM used a search and track radar system to steer missiles onto attacking aircraft and anti-ship missiles. With a range of nine kilometers, and a battery holding eleven rolling airframe missiles, it could track, lock, and fire automatically, using pre-program guidelines to identify and prior
itize threats.

  “New contact!” The radar technician’s voice was elevated in pitch. “Bearing one-three degrees. Moving fast, sir… subsonic… return is too small for an attack aircraft… I think it’s a cruise missile!”

  “Battle stations!” Moresby ordered. “Set condition zebra. Engage SeaRAM. Set on auto.”

  Birch turned to Captain Moresby. “That cruise missile must have been fired from Mischief Reef. I don’t get it. How can they have a lock on us? None of our sensors indicate a lock?”

  “They don’t,” Moresby replied without diverting his eyes from the tactical display. It showed a red line, designated Bogey Two, moving toward their ship and the Coronado. “The patrol plane reported our position and gave the firing coordinates to the missile crew. If the cruise missile gets close enough, it’s internal search radar will get a lock.”

  Then Moresby issued a new order. “Increase to flank speed.” The order was repeated by the XO, and they felt the increase in speed as the ship accelerated. The engines were running at 110% of rated output—acceptable only for short bursts of speed. Which is exactly what was required here. Moresby needed to get far enough away from the cruise missile that its seeker head would not detect them.

  It was a race. A cruise missile traveling at 400 knots versus the Independence and Coronado, steaming forward at fifty knots. Since he couldn’t outrun the missile, Moresby’s best strategy was to travel at a right angle to its flight path. If he could cross enough distance, the missile would never get close enough to acquire a lock. It would simply fly into empty space until it either ran out of fuel or self-destructed.

  “New tone,” the radar technician said. “It has a lock! The missile has acquired us and is changing course.”

  Moresby and Birch watched the red line on the display angle toward the blue arrow symbol representing their ship. They judged the missile would home in on the port side of their vessel—a big, fat target. And with an aluminum superstructure, it would be ravaged by the high-explosive warhead.

  “Closing fast,” the technician said. “Ten miles.”

  From another console, the technician reported, “SeaRAM is active. Search radar has a solid track on the bogey… lock acquired… RAM fired… second RAM fired.” The computer was programmed to launch a pair of missiles at a high-priority threat such as a cruise missile. “Tracking true… splash down. We got ’em!”

  “Radar confirms. Bogey Two is dead.”

  Everyone let out a sigh of relief. They’d escaped certain death thanks to their defensive systems and training. “Good job, everyone,” Moresby said. “But this is not the time to relax. Stay sharp.”

  He no sooner finished speaking when the radar technician said, “Bogey One is turning, changing course to one-eight-zero.”

  “The patrol plane is coming back,” Birch said.

  Moresby nodded. “Probably to make a damage assessment. They only launched one cruise missile because they weren’t certain they’d get a lock.”

  “Recommend we turn south,” Birch said. “Our best defense is to put as much distance as possible between us and the missile battery on Mischief Reef.”

  The captain shook his head. “No. We can’t maintain fifty knots indefinitely, and even if we could, it would take hours to get beyond range of those cruise missiles. No, our best bet is to blind them.”

  “Sir?”

  “Take away their patrol aircraft. If they can’t see us, they’ll have to disengage.”

  The XO considered his captain’s plan, and it made sense. Except the Independence was not equipped with surface-to-air missiles. She was never intended to offensively engage enemy aircraft.

  “Radar,” Moresby said, “what’s the course for Bogey One?”

  “Headed right at us, sir.”

  “Weapons, power down the SeaRAM radar, but otherwise keep the system at the ready in standby. Set the seeker select to infrared.”

  “Yes, sir. Powering down search radar. Switching to heat-seeker mode.”

  “You want to lure that aircraft in close…” Birch said as understanding dawned on him.

  Moresby explained his plan. “When the bogey is close, we’ll switch on the search radar to give us a location to aim at, and the IR guidance in the missile warhead will steer for the kill. Radar, shout out when the bogey is nine miles out. Weapons, be ready to power up the SeaRAM radar.”

  Minutes ticked by, interrupted only by the reports updating the position of the approaching patrol aircraft. “Mr. Birch. Have the Coronado move in close on our starboard side. If another cruise missile comes in, I don’t want there to be any chance it sees multiple targets.”

  “Bogey is now fifteen miles out, direct bearing… fourteen miles… thirteen… twelve…”

  “Weapons, power up the SeaRAM radar! Set to manual control.”

  “Sir?”

  “You heard the captain,” Birch said. “Manual control. Fire when ordered.”

  “Eleven miles… ten… nine miles!”

  “Fire one RAM,” Moresby ordered.

  “IR lock acquired. Firing one missile. Fire!”

  “The bogey’s at extreme range, sir,” Birch said. “We’ll be lucky to get a hit.”

  The rolling frame missile leapt out of the battery and streaked toward the lumbering patrol aircraft.

  “We don’t have to knock them out of the sky, Mr. Birch.”

  Immediately realizing they’d been lured in, the pilot of the Y-8X aircraft banked hard left. At the same moment, the copilot rammed all four engine throttles to the stops and ejected both chaff and flares. The aircraft pivoted hard on its left wing, trading altitude for airspeed.

  “RAM is tracking true.”

  “Bogey changed course,” reported the radar technician. “They’re trying to outrun the RAM.”

  “Mr. Birch. New course one-one-zero degrees. Full speed. Let’s get out of here and into Philippine coastal waters.”

  “We missed him, sir,” reported the weapons operator. “Bogey is out of range.”

  “Looks like you scared him off, sir,” the XO said.

  Moresby’s lips were drawn tight. “Let’s hope so. Now they know we have teeth and are willing to bite. Maintain battle stations just in case. We won’t be in Philippine waters for another two hours.”

  Chapter 19

  Sacramento, California

  August 24

  “He checks out,” Mark Williams reported to Lacey, his voice coming over the speakerphone on Commander Nicolaou’s desk. “Former Navy. Retired with an honorable discharge after twelve years of service. No criminal record in the U.S. Still pays taxes and claims residence in Seattle.”

  “Thank you,” Lacey said, relieved there wasn’t any bad news from the background check. She was still conversing with Jim in his office, considering the merits of his theory.

  “These ships are designed to erect long sections of drill pipe, which is why the central tower is so tall. I suppose it could be reconfigured to erect a ballistic missile for launching. And by engaging the dynamic-positioning thrusters, both bow and stern, in theory the ship could be a very stable and stationary launching platform.”

  “Exactly my thought,” Jim added. “The crane could be used to maneuver sections in place. The weight of the missile and fuel is certainly no problem. But it might be conspicuous during daylight. So, I’d guess they would erect the missile under the cover of darkness, and launch at first light.”

  “Why wait until daylight to launch?”

  “That exhaust plume would light up the pre-dawn sky and alert everyone within miles that something unusual was happening.”

  Jim had been refining his theory ever since speaking by phone with Peter. Until now, the only plausible explanation was that the ballistic missiles had to have been fired from a submarine, either Chinese or North Korean. The hunt for the ballistic missile submarine was still in progress, but this new theory opened intriguing possibilities.

  MOTHER was crunching through daily satellite images of the
South China Sea going back to the beginning of August. The plan was to locate the Royal Seeker and then track her position daily up to the present time. It was an intensive task, given the thousands of ships that regularly transited the South China Sea.

  But the potential payoff was significant. If they could establish the Royal Seeker was in the vicinity of the launch radius of the two missile attacks, their theory would suddenly have credibility—a lot of credibility.

  “Those missiles still had to come from either China or North Korea,” Lacey said.

  “Perhaps, but India, Pakistan, and Russia also have medium-range ballistic missiles. A group of rogue officers could have arranged to sell a few to a terrorist group. And, unlike operating and navigating a submarine, sailing an oil exploration ship is something a lot of merchant seamen can do. All it takes is money.”

  “I don’t think so. The motive is not there to drive the U.S. from the Western Pacific.” Jim considered her observation for a long moment, then nodded.

  “That’s why I hired you, Lieutenant.”

  s

  An hour later, Jim had his entire team of analysts assembled around the conference table. Joining the group were five of his best operators—Magnum, Ghost, Bull, Iceberg, and Homer.

  First Sergeant Mark Beaumont, known as Bull for his large physique and brute strength, was the second in command of SGIT. Following in the footsteps of his father and uncle, Bull chose to join the Marine Corps rather than be seduced by the street gangs in his hometown of Oakland, California. He was also the team medic.

  Next to Bull sat Staff Sergeant Ryan Moore, who went by the nom de guerre of Ghost. The former SEAL appeared thin next to Bull’s bulk. Just topping six feet in height and weighing every bit of 200 pounds, Ghost moved with fluid grace, a skill he honed to perfection after years of hunting the remote evergreen forests of northeastern Oregon and Western Idaho.

  Another former SEAL, Magnum—aka Percival Dexter, or Percy as his friends called him—sat across from Bull. Magnum had joined the Navy at age eighteen to see the world, believing it would be far more attractive and inviting than his neighborhood in South Central Los Angeles. Standing at six feet one inch, he was a hand taller than Commander Nicolaou and, like all of the team members, he was very fit and muscular.