Guarding Savage

by Edlund, Dave;

  “I told you,” Rei said, trying to hold his balance without placing weight on the foot Robert had shot. “You’re too late.”

  Chapter 26

  South China Sea, West of Luzon

  August 26

  More than A THOUSAND miles north of the drama unfolding on the Royal Seeker, the American carrier strike group, led by the USS Gerald Ford, the newest and most modern of the U.S. Naval aircraft carriers, was steaming south toward the Spratly Islands. Under the command of Rear Admiral William LaGrassa, the strike group, which included an attack submarine, two Aegis-class destroyers and two Ticonderoga-class cruisers, was to demonstrate U.S. resolve by sailing into the South China Sea and within eighteen nautical miles of many of the lumps of earth comprising the Spratly Island chain. But, in particular, the task group was to approach the islands built out by China as military outposts, all the while remaining in international waters, yet transiting close to the disputed territory. It was a dangerous ploy, one that could easily precipitate a military response. The analysts at the Pentagon placed the odds at 50:50 that China would respond with anti-ship or anti-aircraft missiles.

  To say it would be a provocative move was a huge understatement, and Admiral LaGrassa was expecting a confrontation. He had been drilling his crew almost non-stop since forming up in Yokosuka, Japan. That was two days ago.

  To ensure security, he’d ordered a combat air patrol (CAP) throughout daylight hours, allowing the flight crew to fall back to alert-five status at night. With two F-18F Super Hornets, pilots in the cockpits, fully armed and ready to be airborne in less than five minutes, the admiral believed they were well protected.

  Captain Jackson “Jack” Healy should have been asleep in his cabin, but he also felt the strain of the non-stop training, and like the admiral, Healy was convinced they would be challenged by China. The question was, how close would the strike group get before being confronted by Chinese airpower. The United States wasn’t the only country with reconnaissance satellites.

  Presently, Captain Healy was on the bridge of the Ford. He was reading the recent status update when his concentration was interrupted by the Operations Officer. “Shiloh is reporting inbound bogey. High rate of speed.”

  “Launch the alert five Hornets,” Healy ordered. “Sound general quarters. Battle stations! Alert all escort ships. I want multiple firing solutions on that bogey!”

  The ship’s klaxon sounded. Immediately, men and women poured from their berths or dropped what they were doing and rushed to their battle stations, closing watertight doors after the last seaman passed. Over the PA system came the order: “General Quarters. General Quarters. All hands, man your battle stations. Set condition zebra.”

  “What’s the target?” Healy said. “Where are they?”

  The Operations Officer was grim. “Too fast and too high to be aircraft. The Shiloh is tracking a ballistic trajectory. Confirmed by Antietam.”

  “Are there any other contacts?”

  “Negative. CIC says the scope is clear—no surface or air contacts other than our escorts.”

  “Order the Shiloh to engage with SM3s.”

  Equipped with powerful radar and SM3 anti-ballistic missile defensive weapons, any of the escort ships had the capability to engage the incoming bogey. But Captain Healy knew that the crew of the Shiloh had the most experience, having engaged the missile that sunk the Japanese warship Izumo. He silently prayed for a better outcome this time.

  Looking into the darkness beyond the bridge windows, the Captain watched as both Hornets took to the air. I hope they have a deck to come back to.

  “Captain. Shiloh confirms firing solution.” The Operations Officer paused while listening to a second message. “SM3 launched, tracking true. No other bogies. This appears to be a single missile.” Another pause. “Second SM3 fired. Both tracking. Time to first impact… thirty-five seconds.”

  High in the night sky Healy watched as first one bright white flare, and then a second, raced toward the heavens and the unseen threat.

  s

  Onboard the guided-missile cruiser USS Shiloh, First Officer Lawrence was in command, although he was certain Captain Wallace would soon relieve him. Wallace had retired to his quarters earlier in the evening, but once the call to general quarters and battle stations was made, the captain would waste no time to assume command of his ship.

  In the Combat Information Center, the Gerald Ford carrier strike group was shown on the vertical projection map as five blue arrows spaced well apart. Each of the escort ships represented a corner of a square surrounding the carrier, the largest of the blue arrows. XO Lawrence preferred the projection, since from the bridge none of the other strike group ships were visible, each beyond the horizon.

  On the screen, two green lines inched toward a red marker designated alpha. The speed and altitude of the threat was also displayed next to the red symbol. The incoming bogey had not become visible to the ship’s radar system until it had gained considerable altitude. Now, the goal was to knock out the rocket engine before the warhead separated and began its terminal descent.

  “What do we have, XO?” Captain Wallace asked. Lawrence was so focused on the display that he’d not realized his captain had entered the CIC.

  “Incoming ballistic missile. So far, the trajectory and radar cross-section are mirror images of the one we encountered during the training exercise with the Japanese Maritime Self Defense Force. We fired two SM3s. Tracking true.”

  “Did Admiral LaGrassa order battle stations?”

  “Captain Healy on the Ford is in command for the time being.” Lawrence knew that the Rear Admiral would soon take command of the strike group. The timing of the attack was such that the most experienced officers were asleep.

  “Time to impact?”

  “Thirty-five seconds for the first SM3. The second missile is five seconds behind the first.”

  “Can we intercept in the boost phase?” Wallace knew that was their best chance of scoring a hit. Before, when they thought it a drill, they’d delayed firing their SM3 intercept missiles until it was too late. The defensive weapon system was designed to drive a non-explosive kinetic-energy warhead into a ballistic-missile rocket motor. If they missed the boost phase, they’d be forced to attempt to connect with the small, hyper-velocity warhead. As they’d already learned, the probability of success was very low.

  Lawrence tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. “It’ll be close, but we had a fast response time following acquisition.”

  “Origin?”

  “We’re still checking the radar data from the Antietam, Barry, and Stethem. All escorts tracked the bogey, and given our separation, we will have good triangulation to work back from. However, and preliminarily, the trajectory points to launch coordinates in the South China Sea.”

  “Same as the previous encounter?”

  “No, sir. In the same neighborhood, but not the same coordinates.”

  Wallace glanced at the digital time on the vertical projection. The green lines had closed considerably on the red marker. Ten seconds to go.

  He stared at the advancing green traces as the time counted down, second by second. The lead intercepting SM3 was closing on the bogey at Mach 15. The data readout next to the red marker indicated it was approaching an altitude of 300 kilometers, and the rate of gain in altitude was slowing, consistent with the missile approaching apogee, the highest point in the ballistic trajectory.

  Everyone in the CIC, including Captain Wallace, was transfixed by the display. The green marker and red marker were quickly approaching, as if unseen hands were drawing the colored lines, intending to make them intersect.

  Two seconds…

  One second…

  The lines connected and the green marker vanished. A cheer rose from the assembled crew, and Wallace exhaled. He’d been holding his breath for the final three seconds.

  XO Lawrence was exuberant. “Looks like we nailed it in the boost phase!”

  “Good job people
,” Wallace said. He scanned the faces and saw expressions of relief more than joy.

  “New bogey, designate bravo,” a voice called from somewhere in the CIC. Lawrence swept his eyes until he spied a crewman leaning over a radar scope. The vertical display was updated with a new red triangle marker. The second green line was closing on it.

  “What happened?” Lawrence asked.

  “We got a good hit on the rocket booster. Must’ve separated from the warhead moments before impact.”

  The velocity number next to the red marker was rapidly getting larger. “It’s accelerating, sir,” said the radar technician. “Passing apogee. Now at Mach 10… Mach 12. One second to impact.”

  Again, all eyes were on the display. But this time the green line representing the second SM3 first merged with the red marker, and then continued on. “No contact. Second SM3 missed the bogey.”

  Wallace barked his order. “Instruct all escorts to fire SM3s in five second intervals! Empty their magazines if they have to! We’ve got to take out that warhead before it hits the Ford!”

  s

  “Negative contact, sir. The Shiloh missed. The bogey is still inbound,” the Operations Officer announced. “All escorts are launching SM3s.”

  The night sky around the Ford was illuminated with pulses of intense white light. Brilliant flares raced with incredible speed from the horizon to a point, a mathematical solution, miles above, near the upper boundary of the atmosphere.

  “Bogey has accelerated to Mach 13. Still accelerating… Mach 14. It appears to be aiming for us.”

  “Time to impact?” Healy asked.

  “Twenty-five seconds. Now traveling at Mach 16!”

  “How long until our defensive missiles intercept?” Healy said.

  “First volley missed. Second volley… twelve seconds to intercept.”

  “Right full rudder. All ahead flank! New bearing two-nine-five degrees.”

  The huge flat top heeled to port as she angled sharply onto her new course. Without an active guidance system, Healy reasoned the bogey would miss the aircraft carrier by nearly a third of a mile. The bridge officers steadied themselves as the deck tilted.

  “Talk to me,” Healy said.

  The Operations Officer had his eyes glued to a graphical display showing the rapidly-evolving tactical situation. It was continuously updated through a data link with the USS Shiloh. “Four SM3s are locked and tracking true. Five seconds to intercept.”

  Healy mentally counted down the seconds, the tactical display showing a cluster of four symbols representing the defensive missiles close to merging with the symbol for Bogey Two.

  And then, as before, the symbols crossed and continued onward.

  “Another miss, sir. Next volley will intercept in seven seconds.”

  “Has the bogey altered its trajectory?”

  “Affirmative, sir. It is still targeting us. Must have an active guidance system. If the SM3s don’t take it out, impact will be in nine seconds.”

  “Release the Sea Sparrow and RAM batteries. Fire at will.” With greater range, the Sea Sparrows fired first from just below the deck on the starboard side. A second later, a volley of rolling airframe missiles fired.

  “Negative intercepts! Bogey is still incoming!”

  “Helm!” Healy ordered. “Left full rudder. Come hard to port. New course one-eight-zero degrees!”

  The Operations Officer raised his head. The red marker on the display had nearly merged with the blue symbol representing his ship. “Brace for impact!”

  Chapter 27

  South China Sea

  August 26

  As the illumination quickly faded, Peter rushed to the window, craning his head as he followed the missile into the heavens until it became a tiny dot of light. He crossed to Captain Rei, grabbing him by the collar. “How do we stop it?”

  “You can’t.”

  “There has to be a way!”

  “Once the missile is fired, it is out of my control. America will lose another warship, and another and another, until your government capitulates.”

  “Robert,” Peter said. “Do you see any equipment here that looks like it might be used to launch a missile?”

  From where he was standing near the center of the bridge, Robert could see all of the instrument consoles. “No, nothing. This is all standard equipment for navigation, steering, and communication.”

  “Then there has to be another room, a control center. And Captain Rei is going to take us there.” Peter shoved the man forward. He stumbled until he regained his balance, hobbling forward with Peter’s Glock inches from his back.

  The procession headed down an internal stairway, Diesel healing close by Peter’s side. After passing two decks, they followed a corridor on the third. Captain Rei removed a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. It swung open to reveal a compartment crammed with sophisticated-looking instruments and consoles. Four men were seated at their stations, engrossed in the post-launch activities and not paying attention to the party that had just entered. The space was illuminated in a red glow from overhead lights. A large electronic display showed a white triangle moving across a regional map extending from Malaysia north to the Korean peninsula. “You’re tracking the missile?” Peter said.

  At the sound of the foreign voice, one man turned and stood. “Captain?” It was First Officer Chang. A sidearm was holstered on his hip.

  Peter swung his gun. “Don’t even think about it.”

  Chang raised his hands, noticing the two additional armed intruders, including one blocking the doorway and holding a submachine gun.

  “How do we stop it? There must be a self-destruct,” Peter demanded.

  Chang stared back in silence, looking to his captain for direction. “No, there is no way to destroy the missile,” Rei said. “I already told you.”

  Peter stared at the tracking display, the white triangle advancing across the screen. But what was the target?

  “That’s it,” he said. “You have to enter a launch sequence that includes the presumed target location. But hitting a ship—let alone a moving ship—would require a very sophisticated guidance system. That’s how you are able to track the missile—you’re sending and receiving data. You’re steering it to the target.”

  Both Chang and Rei remained silent. Time was on their side, and in a matter of minutes the warhead would strike.

  “Shut down the guidance system,” Peter ordered Rei.

  “No.”

  Peter positioned the Glock inches from Rei’s face. “Shut it down!”

  “You have already lost. The era of American world dominance is over.”

  “Shut it down or I put a bullet in your head.”

  “Go ahead. It makes no difference. In a few minutes, the warhead will destroy another ship from your Seventh Fleet. I won’t shut down the guidance system.”

  Chang lunged for the gun in Peter’s hand, attempting to lock it in his grip. Diesel, who had been standing in silence to Peter’s side, leapt into action. The canine clamped its jaws around Chang’s forearm. He cried out in pain but still held a firm grip on Peter’s gun hand.

  Diesel’s weight dragged the combatant’s arms down, moving the muzzle away from Rei. The canine increased his bite force as blood flowed over his tongue and lips, at the same time pushing backwards with his hind legs.

  Peter lurched forward but checked his momentum and tugged against Chang’s arms. It was no use, like trying to pull a seventy-pound anchor buried within mud. He swung his left fist, connecting with Chang’s nose.

  The explosion of a gunshot sounded very close, startling Peter. At first, he thought it was he who had discharged his weapon, but then Chang slumped to the deck, a hand over his stomach.

  Robert redirected his gun at Rei. The other controllers remained seated, each not wanting to be the next victim.

  “You can kill all of us,” Rei said, “and it won’t stop the destruction of your ship. My death, and that of my crew, will only serve t
o embolden others to follow.”

  Glancing up to the projection again, Peter saw the map had zoomed in on a portion of ocean just to the west of the Philippine island of Luzon. The white marker indicating the warhead was moving directly to a cluster of five blue triangles. The blue symbols were arranged such that four were at the corners of a square, and the fifth—the largest—was positioned in the middle of the arrangement. They were all pointed south.

  Peter spoke over his shoulder. “Robert, what does that look like to you?” The former Navy man stepped forward, never allowing his pistol to waver from Rei’s chest.

  “That’s a carrier strike group.”

  “Yeah, that was my thought, too. Then this warhead will be aimed for the biggest ship, the carrier.”

  Not willing to waste any more time, Peter said, “Get the C4. We have to blow this room. Hurry!”

  The co-pilot trained his MP5 on their captives while Robert prepared the plastic explosive and detonators. Since it appeared there were four main instrument consoles, plus what had to be an electrical panel supplying power to the equipment, he used his knife to slice the 1.25-pound block into five sections. Quickly, he molded each chunk of explosive around a length of yellow-and-black primacord. As Robert completed the preparation of each charge, he handed them off to Peter, who placed the explosives against each console in a fashion he hoped would do the most damage. The final charge was placed on top of the electrical panel where three large conduits entered the metal box. Robert taped the ends of all five lengths of primacord together with a radio-controlled detonator.

  “Ready,” he said after arming the detonator.

  Peter grabbed Rei roughly. “Tell your men to get out.” Seeing what was planned, the three crewmembers wasted no time in hustling out of the control room.

  “Let’s go,” Peter said, and he shoved Captain Rei out the doorway, followed by Diesel, Eu-meh, the co-pilot, and Robert taking up the rear. They hurried up the ladder, and only seconds after leaving the compartment, Robert depressed a button on the radio link.

  The deep, thunderous boom was felt as much as heard. The superstructure shuddered, and Eu-meh lost her footing momentarily. With his free hand under her arm, Peter helped her to her feet. It was time to get off the Royal Seeker; they had outstayed their welcome.