by Jeff Edwards
Captain Bowie’s voice cut through the blood-colored gloom. “CIC Officer, get me a damage report, now! I need to know where that missile hit us, and how hard!”
Bowie didn’t wait for the young lieutenant to acknowledge, but rolled straight into his next set of orders. “TAO, I want an immediate inventory of sensors and weapons. I need to know what we can see, and what we have left to fight with. And as soon as you can get a line on them, we need to know how many of those Bogies are still alive, and where the hell they are!”
The Tactical Action Officer’s response was almost instantaneous. “Captain, SPY radar is up on alternate power, but Aegis is off line while the computers reboot. Mount 51 is reporting manned and ready, and it looks like aft CIWS is down. Forward CIWS is operational. Recommend we turn toward the last known position of the Bogies and let the forward CIWS provide some missile cover until we get our eyes back.”
Bowie paused for only a split second. “Do it!”
His command was followed almost immediately by a report from the CIC Officer, Lieutenant Westfall. “Captain, I’ve got comms with CCS. Estimated point of impact was starboard amidships, close to the waterline. Both starboard engines are out, and the engineers are reporting Class Bravo fires in Main Engine Room #1. We’re taking on water in several compartments, and #2 Switchboard has been shorted out by flooding water.” The young officer paused. “Casualty reports coming in now… CCS is estimating forty-one dead, and about twice that many wounded, sir. The Chief Engineer is dead. The executive officer is unconscious with a head wound and possible skull fracture.”
Bowie listened to the growing litany of destruction, and nodded. “Understood.”
A voice rumbled through an overhead speaker box. “TAO—Bridge. Forward Lookout reports visual contact on three inbound aircraft off the port bow, bearing three-five-seven, position angle twenty-one. Rate of closure is high.”
Bowie looked toward Commander Silva.
The commander stood with her hands thrust deep into the pockets of her dark blue coveralls, her posture erect and alert, her eyes darting quickly from watch station to watch station. She made brief eye contact with Bowie, and then her gaze moved past him. She was taking everything in, like some sort of recording machine—sucking up information—offering nothing in return.
“The Bogies are coming in low and fast,” Bowie said. “They’re setting us up for another missile strike.”
Commander Silva acknowledged with a single nod, but she said nothing in response.
Bowie turned away. “TAO, what’s the status of Aegis?”
“Computers coming on line now, Captain,” the Tactical Action Officer said. “It’ll take SPY a few seconds to sync up and lock onto the targets.”
“We don’t have a few seconds,” Bowie said. “Tell Mount 51 to engage the Bogies using the video feed from the mast-mounted sight. And have the Small Craft Action Team engage all inbounds with the forward fifty-cals, and both of the chain-guns.”
Bowie listened as the TAO relayed his orders to the gunnery stations. It was a desperation ploy. The big 5-inch deck gun mounted on the ship’s forecastle could probably take out an inbound jet with input from the main radar. Trying to engage three hostile aircraft using only the feed from a black and white video camera? That was a hell of a lot harder. Given the damage the ship had already taken, it wouldn’t be much short of impossible.
The .50-caliber machine guns didn’t have a prayer, and neither did the 25mm chain-guns. It was probably a waste of ammunition to even try, but—damn it—they couldn’t just sit back and do nothing.
USS Towers was a state-of-the art naval destroyer. She was a cutting-edge warship, from the bottom of her computer-engineered keel, to the peak of her steeply-raked mast. She’d been designed and built for stealth, speed, and firepower. In her short few years of service, she’d already seen more real-world combat than any other two ships on the current United States Navy Registry.
Bowie smiled a grim little smile. If the Towers had to go down, she was damned well going to go down fighting.
He turned away from the static-filled tactical displays, peering around through the red-hued shadows until he spotted the hulking form of an enormous second class petty officer.
Operations Specialist Second Class Kenfield had grown up on a farm in Gordonsburg, Tennessee. The Sailor’s first name was Bruce, but the crew called him Big Country, partly in reference to his considerable size, and partly because of his molasses-thick southern accent. It was a standing joke among the Towers crew that Big Country didn’t need a tractor or a mule to plow his family’s fields. He just wrapped his oversized hands around the plow, and shoved the blade through the dirt with sheer force of muscle.
Captain Bowie nodded toward the man. “Hey, Big Country… Give us a song.”
The air in CIC was as taut as the skin of a snare drum, but the big Sailor’s grin shone out in the blood-tinged darkness. “Is that an order, sir?”
“You bet your ass it is,” Bowie said.
The Sailor’s grin grew wider. “Aye-aye, Captain!” He cleared his throat theatrically, and let out the only sort of song that anyone had ever heard the big man utter—a rebel yell of positively staggering volume.
Commander Silva, still a newcomer to the ways of this ship, nearly jumped out of her skin when the big Sailor’s unearthly bellow shattered the air. But the CIC crew had the benefit of long experience. They knew exactly what to expect from one of Big Country’s songs. Before the cry could fade into silence, they added their own yells to the mix. Women and men, young and middle-aged, seasoned and inexperienced, their collective yells rising in unison—a defiant refutation of the enemy fighter jets rushing to destroy their ship.
They were a crew. They were one. They would fight together. They would die together. And goddamn it! The Towers was their ship!
Commander Silva’s eyes took in the dimly-seen shapes of the CIC crew. The expression on her face told the tale. She was a seasoned officer, with more than seventeen years in uniform. She’d spent almost her entire adult life at sea, and she’d seen most of what the oceans had to offer. But in all of her years in the Navy, she’d never witnessed anything like this. It was crazy. It was utterly futile. But by God, it was impressive.
Silva opened her mouth, perhaps to add her own yell to the still-raging caterwaul, but she was preempted by an amplified voice from the overhead speakers.
“TAO—Weapons Control. Aegis is up and tracking. We have five Vipers, short range and closing fast! I say again, we have five inbound missiles, estimated time of impact twenty seconds!”
The ongoing yell was stifled instantly as the watchstanders went frantically about their jobs. Twenty seconds was not enough time to do anything useful, but that didn’t stop Bowie’s CIC crew from trying.
The Tactical Action Officer’s voice broke over the net. “All Stations—TAO, we have in-bound Vipers! I say again, we have multiple missiles in-bound! Weapons Control, shift to Aegis ready-auto. Set CIWS to auto-engage. Break. EW, I need your best course for minimized radar cross-section, and stand by to launch chaff!”
Acknowledgements and follow-on orders began coming over the various tactical nets. Half of the consoles in CIC were still offline. The ship was crippled. A third of her crew were dead or dying, and—worst of all—the clock had run out. But they were still fighting. Still throwing punches.
The Weapons Control Officer’s voice came over the net. “All Stations—Weapons Control. Brace for shock! Estimated missile impact in six… five… four…”
Bowie crossed his arms and leaned against the bullnose of a defunct radar console. He whistled softly through his teeth as the amplified countdown continued.
“Three… two… one…” The last word was a near-shout. “Impact!”
The compartment was suddenly flooded with brilliant white illumination as electrical power surged into the lighting circuits.
A different voice came over the speakers. “All Stations, this is the Training Coo
rdinator. FIN-EX this exercise. That is, FIN-EX this exercise. Stop the battle problem; stop the training clock. Restore all power, and return all systems to normal operating condition. This training event is complete at time thirteen twenty-five and nine seconds.”
The CIC crew blinked and shielded their eyes against the sudden illumination. Throughout the compartment, “dead” and “injured” watchstanders climbed to their feet, dusted off their uniforms, and went about the business of restoring their equipment to operational status.
A young OS3 lifted a loop of heavy cord from around her neck and examined the yellow cardboard tag clipped to the end. Large block letters on the tag proclaimed: CIC CASUALTY #6 — ELECTRICAL BURNS / BLUNT FORCE TRAUMA / DEATH.
The Sailor handed the casualty tag to a man in orange coveralls, one of the members of the Coordinated Ship’s Training Team. “Here,” the OS said. “I don’t need this. I’m not dead anymore.”
The orange-suited observer tucked the tag into the crook of one arm, where he was cradling several similar tags. “Welcome back to the land of the living,” he said. “But if I were you, I’d stay dead until time for chow. Then you wouldn’t get stuck doing afternoon sweepers.”
The Third Class Operations Specialist grinned. “Oh yeah, like that would work. Being dead does not get you out of pushing a broom.” She shrugged. “At least they killed me early. I managed to catch a few Z’s down there on the deck while everybody else was busy trying to save the ship.”
About ten paces away, Captain Bowie met Commander Silva by the Tactical Action Officer’s chair. Bowie raised one eyebrow. “What do you think, Commander?”
Silva nodded. “Impressive, Captain. I’ve never seen anything like it. You’ve got one hell of a crew here.”
Bowie gave her a wistful little smile. “All modesty aside, they are pretty damned impressive. I’m proud to serve with every one of them. Every man and woman on this ship gives a hundred and twenty percent.”
He shook his head. “But they won’t be my crew for much longer, will they? They’ll be yours in just a couple of weeks, Commander.”
His eyes traveled around CIC, moving slowly, trying to soak up every detail as though he might never again see such a magnificent sight. And that would be true all too soon. The change of command was only sixteen days away. And then this would not be his ship anymore.
When the final salutes were exchanged, Captain Samuel Harland Bowie would be on his way to becoming Deputy Commander of Destroyer Squadron Fifteen. At that same instant, Commander Katherine Elizabeth Silva would become Captain Silva, the new commanding officer of USS Towers.
The most dramatic and important part of Bowie’s career would wind to a close. He already knew that nothing would ever fill the hole that was going to leave in his life. And through it all, he’d have to smile and make polite speeches, pretending that he was happy to surrender command of his ship to a near-total stranger.
Damn. Damn.
He exhaled slowly. If wishes were fishes…
He turned back to Commander Silva, the prospective commanding officer of USS Towers. “Let’s head up to the wardroom. We can grab a cup of coffee while we wait for the Training Team to finish prepping their debrief.”
Silva started to follow him toward the exit.
Bowie slowed his pace a fraction to allow her to walk alongside. “Your friends call you Kate?”
Commander Silva smiled. “Only my father can get away with that. Everyone else calls me Kat.”
“With a K?”
“That’s right. With a K.” She smiled again. “It’s a long story.”
Bowie opened the watertight door and motioned for her to step through. When they were on the other side, he dogged the door behind them and they resumed walking.
“How about you?” Silva asked. “Do your friends call you Sam?”
The captain shook his head. “Nope. They call me Jim.”
Silva halted in mid-stride. “They call you Jim Bowie? Really?”
Captain Bowie grinned. “Really.” He started walking toward the wardroom again. “That’s a long story too.”
CHAPTER 2
BARKHOR SQUARE
LHASA, TIBET
WEDNESDAY; 19 NOVEMBER
3:34 PM
TIME ZONE +8 ‘HOTEL’
The helicopter came in low and fast, clearing the ornate golden rooftops of the Jokhang temple by only four or five meters. Flying so close to the 1,300 year old building was a blatant violation of a dozen laws and security ordinances. Any other aircraft that dared such a maneuver would be forced to land, or shot down by ground troops or air forces. Today, the laws and regulations did not apply. Not to this helicopter.
It was an ordinary looking HC-120 Colibri, the plump dragonfly fuselage noticeably European in design, the paint scheme and markings just as clearly Chinese. But the local police and military commanders knew who was riding in the passenger seat, and no one would be foolish enough to interfere.
The pilot had been ordered to land as quickly as possible, by the absolute shortest flight path. He was following those orders to the letter. He steepened the angle of his approach, practically skimming the top of the tall stone stele at the front gate of the temple wall.
The stele was a rounded obelisk, nearly as ancient as the Jokhang temple itself. The stone had been erected in 822 AD by King Relpachen, to commemorate the Sino-Tibetan peace treaty, which had guaranteed that China and Tibet would forever respect one another’s borders. Eroded by centuries of wind, rain, and snow, the words carved in the porous gray stone were still legible. China’s public proclamation of Tibet’s national sovereignty remained easily visible, for all the world to read. The irony was apparently lost on the occupying Chinese forces. It was not so easily overlooked by the Tibetan locals.
A landing zone had been cleared in the center of Barkhor Square. The usual throng of visitors, pilgrims, and shopkeepers had been pushed back to the edges of the square. The onlookers were now held at a distance by a perimeter of wooden barricades, patrolled by several hundred hard-eyed Chinese soldiers.
Into this temporary enclave, the helicopter dropped the last few meters to the ground, the pilot battling an unexpected crosswind at the last second, before bringing his machine to a brisk landing on the flagstones.
The helicopter’s turbine had barely begun to slow when a dark green military vehicle pulled alongside and a young Army major leapt out, ducked under the spinning rotors, and trotted to the passenger door of the aircraft.
The vehicle was a Dongfeng EQ2050, a near carbon-copy of the American-built Humvee. Officially, it was an all-Chinese design, produced completely from parts manufactured in China. In reality, about half of the vehicle’s parts were imported from the American company AM General, in South Bend, Indiana—the manufacturer of the original Humvee. This detail was carefully ignored by anyone who did not want to arouse the ire of the Communist Party.
The door of the helicopter swung open, and the major snapped to attention.
The man who stepped out into the downwash of the rotors did not seem to be particularly formidable. He was in his mid sixties, lean, and fit, with crisp black hair and a creaseless face that seemed to subtract several years from his appearance. His dark suit and sharp white shirt were neatly tailored, but not of excessively fine quality. The one stroke of extravagance in his appearance was a red necktie of lush raw silk. He looked like a moderately-successful Chinese businessman in a fairly ordinary business suit.
The mechanical wind from the helicopter rotors whipped at his hair. He paid no attention, crossing the distance to the waiting military vehicle in several quick strides. He did not bow his head as he passed beneath the whirling blades of the helicopter rotors. He walked with his head held erect. Perhaps he carried some internal confidence that no machine of the Chinese military would dare to threaten the head that rode upon his shoulders. Or, perhaps his thoughts were so distant that he was unaware of the danger.
His name was Lu Shi, and he was th
e First Vice Premier of the People’s Republic of China. Technically that made him the second most powerful man in the Chinese government, junior only to the Premier himself, Xiao Qishan. In reality, Lu’s role as Xiao’s subordinate was no more than a polite fiction.
Premier Xiao was not a young man, and his health had been declining steadily since his most recent heart attack. The old dragon had earned his position, and the honors that went along with it. Lu Shi was quite content to let Xiao wear the formal title for whatever weeks or months he had remaining to him, but no one in the senior ranks of the Communist Party had any serious doubts about who was running the country.
Even if there had been such doubts, Lu was Chairman of the Central Military Commission. That made him the effective commander-in-chief of the entire Chinese military. When the appearances were stripped away, Lu Shi was secondary to no one.
A half-pace behind Vice Premier Lu came a pair of solidly-built men in identical dark blue suits. Their faces were humorless, and their eyes scanned the crowd and the assembled military personnel with the same calculated degree of suspicion. Both men were Bao Biao, a Mandarin term most often translated as bodyguard, but more properly rendered as protector, or defender.
Lu Shi disappeared into the open rear door of the vehicle, followed immediately by his two guards, and then the military officer.
The crowd watched from the edges of the perimeter, many of them curious about the identity of the oddly imperious businessman who had dropped out of the sky into their midst. Who was this stranger, and how did he command such sway with the military and the police?
For most of the onlookers, those questions would never be answered. The soldiers shifted several of the wooden barricades, and guarded the procession of the car until it had left the square and disappeared into the streets of Lhasa.
