by Jeff Edwards
The OOD nodded. “Sir, periscope depth, aye!” He turned toward the Diving Officer. “Make your depth one hundred twenty feet.”
The Diving Officer acknowledged the command and immediately relayed his own order to the Planesman. “Five degree up bubble. Make your new depth one-two-zero feet.”
The Planesman pulled back slowly on the control yoke, keeping his eyes glued to the plane angle indicator. “Sir, my bubble is up five degrees, coming to one-two-zero feet.”
The submarine began its slow and cautious ascent.
The OOD keyed the mike on his headset. “Sonar—Conn, coming shallow in preparation for going to periscope depth. Report all contacts.”
Captain Patke observed the smooth operation of his control room crew at work. This was a good team—confident, but not cocky. If any of them were nervous about penetrating the defensive screen of a foreign carrier strike group, it didn’t show.
Patke was actually a tad nervous, himself. This was not a simulation. If something went wrong here, things could turn ugly.
He wasn’t particularly concerned about the destroyers and frigates. He took pride in the superb acoustic silencing technology of his boat. The California was quiet enough to get fairly close to most surface ship sonars without being detected.
The Chief of the Boat, who held the traditional bubblehead’s opinion that all surface ships are targets, liked to claim that the California could sneak in close enough to piss on the hull numbers of any surface vessel in the world. Patke wasn’t ready to go quite that far, but the COB’s boast wasn’t completely off base.
But the PLA Navy’s antisubmarine warfare helicopters were no joke, and somewhere out there, a Type-93 attack sub was operating in support of the carrier group. Patke’s sonar team had maintained an intermittent track on the Chinese submarine for the last two days. At the moment, it was stationed on the far side of the carrier’s defensive envelope. If the California were detected, the Type-93 would come after her, and the sub would be a hell of a lot harder to shake off than the surface escorts.
The California reached periscope depth about fifteen minutes later, after a brief pause at 120 feet to check for shapes and shadows: the silhouettes caused by ships floating on the surface.
The sensor head of the California’s photonic mast rose slowly through the surface of the water. The narrow dome-shaped housing contained a color video camera, a high-resolution black and white camera, and a thermal imaging camera for infrared target detection and evaluation. All three cameras scanned continually as the sensor head rotated through a full 360 degree sweep.
The digital video feed from each camera was relayed down to the control room of the California in real-time, via high bandwidth fiber optic cables at the core of the photonic mast.
Seated at his command console, Patke jogged the pistol-grip joystick until the cameras spun around to cover the aircraft carrier. He thumbed a button to trigger the video recorders, and zoomed in for a tighter view.
The big Chinese warship had a strange history, and not much was known about her current configuration or capabilities. Built by the Soviet Union during the last years of the Cold War, she had been intended as the newest vessel of the Admiral Kuznetsov class. But the ship had been unfinished when the Soviet Bloc collapsed, and she had eventually been sold at auction to a Hong Kong-based travel agency, who supposedly intended to convert the ship into a floating hotel and gambling parlor.
The floating casino plan had never materialized, and the unfinished ex-Soviet carrier had somehow ended up in the hands of the People’s Liberation Army Navy. The PLA Navy had re-christened the ship Liaoning, in honor of Liaoning Province in northeast China.
Captain Patke nodded to himself as he watched the crisp digital video feed on his command console. This was the closest look that anyone had managed of the Liaoning since the ship had gone into operation. The intel weenies were going to have a field day when they got their paws on these video recordings. They would scrutinize every frame of video, from every available angle—examining antenna placements, weapons fixtures, and even the routing of topside cables and pipes—searching for any and all clues to the ship’s capabilities or limitations.
The operational parameters of the original Russian design were well known. But the Chinese had made extensive modifications, and no one—with the possible exception of the PLA Navy—had a firm understanding of how those changes would impact the combat potential of the ship.
So Patke was nearly as busy as the video recorders, soaking up and evaluating every detail he could lay eyes on. They were facing the port side of the aircraft carrier, from about twenty degrees aft of the port beam. From this angle, Patke noted the squashed pepperbox silhouette of an FL-3000N missile launcher, and the vaguely robotic form of a Type 730 Close-In Weapon System. Judging from the placement of both systems, it was a fairly safe bet that each of them had a mirror-image counterpart on the opposite side of the ship.
Patke tilted the joystick forward, zooming in tighter, and beginning a slow pan down the length of the Chinese warship. “Alright, you sneaky bastards,” he said. “Let’s see what kind of surprises you’ve got up your sleeve.”
CHAPTER 17
--------------------------------------------------
From:
Sent: Tuesday, November 25, 4:31 PM
To:
Subject: Missing You
My Dearest Beth,
Just another happy day aboard the mighty USS Midway. At least I think this is the Midway. I’ve taken so many wrong turns that I might be on a different ship by now. Six weeks, and I still can’t find my way around this beast. I have to scatter a trail of breadcrumbs every time I leave my stateroom, or I’ll never make it back to my bunk.
Aside from the ever-present danger of getting lost on the way to the briefing room, things are going pretty well. The guys in my squadron are great. I catch the usual ration of bullshit for being a nugget, but I won’t always be the new kid on the block. What happens down here doesn’t matter all that much anyway. What really counts is what happens in the sky, and nobody can lay a hand on me up there.
Remember Chucky Barnes who reported to the squadron at the same time I did? He’s earned himself a new callsign, and he’s not real happy about it. He used to be Barnstormer, which isn’t too bad, if you ask me. But a couple of days ago, he lost his cookies all over the 0-5 level catwalk. Now everybody in the squadron is calling him ‘Upchuck,’ and it looks like it’s going to stick. (No pun intended.)
My lead, the infamous Poker, has been threatening to change my callsign to ‘Monkey Man,’ which is apparently the most creative thing that his limited imagination can do with the name Monkman. He’s been around so long that his first wingman was Wilbur Wright, so you can’t really expect much. But for now, I’m still Rob the ‘Monk’ Monkman, and I like that just fine. That’s me, baby – the Shaolin monk of the skies, kicking butt with my badass aerial Kung Fu.
Okay, enough of that hero-of-the-skies crap. So far, my aerial Kung Fu has been limited to simulators and unarmed practice engagements against other U.S. Navy flyboys. I look pretty damned good in training, but I’ve never flown against an actual threat. If I ever go up against the real deal, I’ll be happy if they don’t change my callsign to ‘Monkey Butt,’ or something equally flattering.
Speaking of the real deal, we’ll be entering our Op Area just in time for Thanksgiving. We’re only supposed to be doing the observe-protect-stabilize thing, but I’m still kind of nervous. The Chinese and Indian navies have traded shots several times now, and both sides are pretty jumpy. I just hope they remember that we’re not the enemy. I’d hate to get my butt shot off while I’m trying to get my turkey dinner on.
Just kidding, baby. I’m sure everything is going to be fine. We’ve got a full carrier strike group, with all the bells and whistles. We’re not here to fight, and nobody is going to be stupid enough to start any trouble with us.
I sur
e would love to be home tomorrow, helping you get the turkey ready for the oven. We really are going to have to try that one of these days. We can’t keep doing Thanksgiving at your Mom’s house forever. Or maybe we can… Her sweet potato pie is still the best I’ve ever tasted, and that bean casserole thing she does is amazing.
Speaking of amazing, I happen to think that your Mother’s only daughter is pretty fantastic, now that I mention it. That would be you, Miss Muffin. I wonder if your Mom knows that you do most of your cooking in only panties and my old Chargers jersey. Maybe I should save that piece of information for blackmail at some future date. Hmmm…
Okay, I shouldn’t have gone there. Now all I can think about is your cute little butt prancing around the kitchen in panties. Maybe I better go take a cold shower.
I love you, Beth. I miss you more with each second that passes.
Yours always,
Rob
LT(jg) Robert J. Monkman
VFA-228 Marauders
USS Midway (CVN-82)
--------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER 18
MINISTRY OF NATIONAL DEFENSE COMPOUND
AUGUST 1ST BUILDING
BEIJING, CHINA
TUESDAY; 25 NOVEMBER
9:48 PM
TIME ZONE +8 ‘HOTEL’
General Chen Caihou was the first to break the silence. “Comrades, the situation with India is getting out of control. We must act now, before it is too late.” His words were firm, but the tone of his voice was carefully neutral, pitched to avoid any trace of criticism or accusation. He allowed his gaze to take in each of the other eight men seated at the circular table.
Including himself, all nine statutory members of the Central Military Commission were present. When Chen’s eyes came to Lu Shi, they paused for an instant before moving on to the next man.
The table was circular, to symbolize the equality of the commission’s members. There was no bourgeois seat of honor here. Just dedicated communists, meeting on equal footing to debate and decide matters of military strategy.
At least that was the theory. In reality, the greatest concentration of authority in the room lay with Lu Shi. His power as Chairman of the Central Military Commission was technically nominal, but the man was also the First Vice Premier of the People’s Republic of China.
Although Xiao still carried the formal title of Premier, the old leader had long since delegated all serious decisional authority to Lu Shi.
This made Lu a dangerous man to cross. It also put General Chen Caihou and his fellow members of the Central Military Commission in a very delicate position. If the present skirmishes with India continued to escalate, the People’s Republic could find itself in a full scale war with a major military adversary. General Chen had little doubt that China would emerge victorious from such a war, but the cost would likely be staggering, in both financial terms, and in terms of human life. The conflict needed to end before things deteriorated that far.
General Chen’s eyes circled the table again, his words still lingering unanswered in the air. He had discussed this issue with several other members of the commission in advance, and he had received agreement and promises of endorsement. Chen would flatly (but respectfully) raise the topic, and his covert allies would add their voices in support.
But he had spoken up, and the room was silent.
Lu Shi’s eyes also made the circle of the assembled faces. “Someone is letting you down, Comrade General,” he said softly. He let his gaze continue to wander until it came to center on General Chen.
“Who is it?” Lu asked. He raised one eyebrow slightly. “Which of our comrades are supposed to be flocking to your banner right now?”
General Chen sat for several seconds, before he turned to meet the Vice Premier’s scrutiny. “Comrade Lu, we share your grief over the loss of Lu Jianguo. He was a fine young man, and a true communist. His death was a great tragedy. But is that sufficient provocation for war?”
“This is not about my son,” Lu Shi said. His voice was low and hard. “This is about security and national sovereignty. Those who harbor the enemies of China are themselves the enemies of China.”
General Guo Jinping, Chief of General Staff of the People’s Liberation Army, cleared his throat. “With all due respect, Comrade Lu… Is it wise to invite a major military confrontation in order to punish a handful of sewer rats who destroyed a train?”
Lu smiled sadly. “Xīng xīng zhī huǒ kě yǐ liáo yuán.” It was an ancient Chinese proverb which could be translated literally as ‘A single spark can burn the entire prairie.’ Contextually, it was a reminder that leaders must never underestimate the potential destructive power that an apparently minor problem can cause.
“The Qinghai railway is one of the greatest engineering accomplishments in history,” Lu said. “In places, the track elevation reaches more than 5,000 meters. Many aircraft don’t fly that high. When we brought in the Swiss to develop construction methods for laying rail across the permafrost, the Swiss engineers said it was impossible. The Western press called the entire project a five billion dollar boondoggle. They said it couldn’t be done. But we did it. Then, they predicted that the track would fail within a year. But the Qinghai railway carries 3,000 of our people to the Tibet Autonomous Region every single day.”
Lu’s eyes zeroed in on General Guo Jinping. “Comrade General, we can replace the train cars and the engines. We lost nearly two-hundred of your soldiers in the attack, but the PLA can recruit that many replacements in a single afternoon. Between the dead and wounded, there were more than 1,000 civilian casualties as well, but the People’s Republic can also cope with those losses. We can deal with the damaged equipment, and the human victims, and the financial cost. But we cannot permit a direct assault on our national prestige… Our national resolve and our political ideologies have been directly challenged. If we allow such a challenge to go unanswered, China becomes weak in the eyes of our enemies, and the eyes of the world.”
Air Force General Xu Zhiyuan, Commander of the PLA Air Force, nodded respectfully. “I believe we will all concede that there are significant political implications,” he said. “But is it wise to allow political issues to devolve into outright warfare?”
Lu turned toward the general. “I’m surprised that you would even ask such a question,” he said. “Have you forgotten the teachings of Chairman Mao? ‘Politics is war without bloodshed, while war is politics with bloodshed.’”
General Xu nodded again. “Chairman Mao also said that, ‘Communism is a hammer which we use to crush the enemy.’ But he was speaking at a time when China was fighting for its very existence. Is that honestly the case now, Comrade Vice Premier? After decades of peaceful relations, have our Indian neighbors suddenly become a threat to our national survival? For that matter, would we be in conflict with them at all if we had not used a hundred cruise missiles to hammer an Indian village into dust?”
Before Lu Shi could respond, General Chen raised a hand. “How we got into this situation is no longer relevant. Regardless of motivation or intention, we did strike their village, and they have retaliated. So far, the skirmishes have been relatively isolated, but that’s rapidly changing. We are caught in a cycle of escalating retaliations. The question is; how do we break the cycle before it gets completely out of control?”
“I agree,” General Guo said. “If we are not careful, this could become to us what Vietnam was to the Americans. Or what Afghanistan was to the Soviet Union. A bloody quagmire, with no prospect of a graceful conclusion.”
“This is already our version of Vietnam!” Lu snapped. “Can none of you see that? Think about it… Vietnam was not a technical failure for the Americans. Nor was it a tactical failure. The American military was well equipped, well trained, well supplied, and well supported. By comparison, their adversaries were a pack of semi-literate monkeys squatting in rice paddies and swinging through the jungles. So, why did the Americans lose?”
&nb
sp; “The communist ideal,” General Guo said tentatively. “The North Vietnamese were sustained by the superior teachings of Marx and Chairman Mao…”
Lu Shi slapped his open palm on the table. “Bái mù!” Literally, this could be translated as ‘white-eyed,’ or ‘blind.’ In this context it meant something like ‘you’re looking the wrong way, you idiot!’
Lu’s voice was still sharp. “The communist ideal had nothing to do with it,” he said. “If it were a matter of ideologies, the Soviets would have used their communist philosophies to triumph over the Afghanis. Instead, the mighty Russian military was vanquished by a few tribes of unwashed goatherds hiding in caves. So I ask you again… Why did the Americans lose in Vietnam? Why were the Soviets defeated in Afghanistan? How were two military superpowers both routed by inferior enemies? When you know the answer to that question, you’ll begin to understand what is at stake in our current conflict.”
The room was silent.
Lu Shi looked from one face to the next. “No one? The military brains of our nation are seated around this table, and not one of you can answer such a simple question?”
Still, no one spoke.
“Very well,” Lu Shi said. “I’ll answer the question for you… The Soviet Union lost in Afghanistan for the same reason that America lost in Vietnam. Because their national will was weak.”
“With all due respect, Comrade Lu, that may be a bit of an oversimplification,” General Chen said.
“It is not an oversimplification,” Lu said. “It is a basic statement of truth, and any serious examination of the facts will prove it.” He jabbed a finger toward General Guo. “Comrade General, how many military deaths did North Vietnam suffer during combat actions against the Americans?”
