Red Tide

by William C. Dietz

  Hong used a can of white spray paint to outline the rectangle of metal he wanted. Members of his team went to work with cutting torches minutes later.

  Meanwhile Lieutenant Jev Jing was waist deep in the lagoon. He was supervising the team of sailors tasked with building a platform for the welders to stand on when the metal “patch” arrived on site.

  A jagged hole marked the spot where the Allied torpedo had hit. And, because of two open hatches, the seawater had gushed through the opening, filling three compartments.

  The internal hatches separating the compartments should have been closed while the crew was at battle stations. And later, once the cruiser arrived in Yulin, some careless bastard was going to pay.

  But that was in the future. In the meantime, a temporary repair was required to prevent more water from leaking out of the flooded compartments and into conduits that led to other parts of the ship.

  That’s where the patch came in. But in order to install it, Hong’s crew had to stand on something. And rather than wade around in the lagoon themselves, Jing’s superiors assigned him the task. Jing lacked any relevant experience, and was planning to build a structure made of wood, when a petty officer pointed out that wood floats. And the metal staging used to repair airplanes would constitute a better solution. Jing was thrilled to receive some useful advice and was quick to make the switch.

  But to execute the plan it was necessary to take the staging apart, carry it out into the lagoon by hand, and reassemble it with rusty nuts and bolts. Fortunately, the local jet mechanics had a plentiful supply of American WD40 which, when applied to recalcitrant parts, made a huge difference.

  So, by the time Hong and twenty sweating sailors lugged the curved piece of metal out to the Sea Dragon, the platform was in place. Hong took a look at it, turned to Jing, and said: “Good job.” It was one of the happiest moments in the young man’s life.

  ***

  Captain Ko was standing in the Sea Dragon’s CIC when the hull shifted under his feet. Metal groaned. That was to be expected.

  The hole was located on the port side of the hull. To access the gash, the crew would have to roll the ship to starboard.

  What would have been an impossible job on a more traditional ship, was made easy by the fact that Hong’s people could pump water from the port to starboard ballast tanks, thereby shifting enough weight to expose the jagged opening. The Sea Dragon’s decks were slanted as a result which made it difficult to move around inside the hull.

  Ko was scanning the latest Intel report. There were no threats inbound from the north, and wouldn’t be, until the battle of Taiwan came to its bloody conclusion.

  Then, if the Allies won, they would send units south. But, if China’s fleet was victorious, they would chase the Yemen ren (barbarians) all the way to Japan.

  Meanwhile, according to satellite and drone surveillance, nine radar blips were headed for Mischief Reef from the south. Fortunately, based on video from the drone, the blips were patrol boats rather than major warships. It appeared that six were armed with missiles and three weren’t. That’s like sending ants to kill an elephant, Ko mused.

  Ego, Ko thought. The greatest enemy of all.

  ***

  Aboard the USS Arcus, northbound in the South China Sea

  Sunlight glittered on the surface of the sea as the PHM Arcus led Squadron 7 north. The boat was foilborne and “flying” along at nearly 52 knots. Ryson consulted his watch. The moment was upon them.

  Between them the Pegasus 2 patrol boats could launch forty-eight Harpoon missiles. Ryson knew, or thought he knew, that Chinese anti-air weapons would intercept many of them. Others would be drawn off target by mortar launched decoys. But that was the nature of things. All he could do was try. And, by launching all the Harpoons at one time, the total number of incoming weapons might be enough to overwhelm the Sea Dragon’s defenses.

  There was another reason as well. A calculation so cold that Ryson was hesitant to admit it to himself. And that was the need to use the Harpoons while he could. Because the destruction of a single PHM would result in the loss of eight offensive weapons. And, according to the techs in the CIC, jet fighters were in bound from the north. That meant there was a good chance that one or more of his vessels would be sunk within the hour.

  Ryson thumbed a mike. “This is Six. All PHMs will prepare to fire all missiles on the count of 3. One, 2, 3, fire!” Ryson felt a series of jolts as Moy’s crew fired every Harpoon the Arcus had. The other hydrofoils did likewise. Death flew through the air.

  ***

  Aboard the Chinese semisubmersible cruiser Sea Dragon, in the Mischief Reef lagoon

  Ko could see the incoming blips. All he could do was grit his teeth, because the ships which launched the missiles were still too far away to strike back at.

  There was another problem too. Or could be. And that was the way the ship was listing to port. Would that have a negative effect on the Sea Dragon’s anti-air missiles? Causing them to miss their targets?

  Not according to the man in charge of the ship’s missiles. “Ships roll,” Lieutenant Commander Yoo pointed out. “And our missiles were designed to compensate for that.”

  Once the incoming Harpoons were sufficiently close, the anti-air weapons raced off to intercept them. That wasn’t all. The Mischief Reef base had SAM launchers of its own. And those missiles joined the fray.

  One by one the Harpoons were intercepted and destroyed. But the sheer number of them was more than the Mischief Reef’s combined defenses could handle. And three of the forty-eight weapons made it through.

  One scored a direct hit on the airstrip’s radome, destroying the antenna inside, and blinded the base. Another struck a SAM site where it caused a series of explosions. The third nailed the Sea Dragon.

  Conning Tower 2 was badly mangled. In fact, the access hatch was open to the sky, and couldn’t be closed. But, because the opening was well above the waterline, it wouldn’t matter unless it rained. And at that point a mop and a bucket would be enough to handle the problem. Conning Tower 1 was untouched.

  That was bad. But Chief Engineer Hong’s patch was in place and the tide was rising. My turn is coming, Ko thought. And the Yemen ren will be sorry.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Aboard the USS Arcus, northbound in the South China Sea

  Each PHM, and each Armindale, had two Stinger teams—which meant the squadron could fire eighteen missiles at once. Then, as the anti-air teams hurried to reload, the fire would become more sporadic. So Ryson wanted to make the most of the initial broadside.

  “This is Six,” Ryson said. “Odds are that the enemy planes will attack one at a time. Let’s give their flight leader a warm welcome. Lock onto the bastard, and ignore the rest of the bastards for the moment. And when I say, ‘Fire,’ let him have it. Maybe we can kill their leader. Over.”

  The Chinese attacked exactly the way Ryson anticipated they would—in a line, like beads on a string. He made the call as missiles flared from the lead plane’s wings. “Fire!”

  Stingers spiraled up into the sky, all searching for heat. The first Chengdu J-20 fighter fired chaff and three Stingers fell for it. Each exploded in turn.

  But as those missiles were transformed into gray puffs of smoke, the rest of the Stingers zeroed in. And the combined explosions turned the J-20 into confetti. Now the assistant flight leader was in charge. And, Ryson assumed, was scared shitless.

  All the boats were firing chaff. White wakes twisted, turned and crossed each other as the boats took evasive action. “Call your targets,” Ryson ordered. “Coordinate your fire. Over.”

  That was when two Chinese missiles hit the Contrail, exploded, and caused the boat to slew around. Lieutenant Dan Torres and his bridge crew were killed instantly. Then the 30mm ammo bin blew, destroying what remained of the hydrofoil.

  There was a steady stream of chatter from the Stinger teams. “Targeting the plane to the south. Firing.”

  “Bandit in from the nort
h. Tracking, tracking, tracking … Firing!”

  A fireball marked the spot where the Chengdu had been. Two down, Ryson thought, two to go.

  “Target to the west,” a sailor said. “Let’s gangbang him. Prepare to fire.”

  That was followed by a chorus of “Rogers.” Then came the order to fire, not from an officer, but the E4 who had taken charge. Explosions bracketed the plane. A wing sheared off. And, like a seed pod falling from a maple tree, the remains of the enemy plane twirled into the ocean. “Nice job,” Ryson said. “Keep it up. Over.”

  One plane remained. And the boats were running out of Stingers. But that, as it turned out, didn’t matter. The remaining pilot loosed all his remaining missiles and rockets on Kalbarri, failed to score a hit, and performed a gun run on an empty patch of water. Then he turned, and flew north.

  Ryson could imagine what the pilot would tell the people at his base. “They had missiles, lots of them, and the other guys went down! I destroyed one of their ships though … But, after I ran out of ordinance, I was forced to return.”

  The fact that the survivor’s racks were empty would serve to support the lies. A medal would follow. But Ryson didn’t care. He was all for it. The way was open now … And the Sea Dragon was waiting.

  ***

  Aboard the Chinese semisubmersible cruiser Sea Dragon, in the Mischief Reef lagoon

  Captain Ko was in Operations 1. The Sea Dragon was afloat, but just barely, as the tide continued to rise. Ko was determined to destroy the Allied boats before they could inflict further damage on his ship. They were well within range by that time. And the remaining ship-to-ship missiles were ready. “Prepare to fire,” Ko ordered. “Fire!”

  Every ship-to-ship missile the cruiser had shot into the air. All forty-eight of them. They arced to the south, spent a minute in flight, and fell like thunderbolts.

  ***

  A Chinese missile went straight for a decoy fired by the Cumulus, hit it only ten feet above the launcher, and exploded. The blast bored a hole down to the engine room where it destroyed the boat’s gas turbine engine. At that point the Cumulus might be able to proceed hullborne, but appeared to dead in the water.

  First, the Contrail, and now this. Ryson felt a gigantic hole open up in the pit of his stomach. Vos. What about Vos? Grief threatened to overwhelm him. Not now, Ryson thought, not now. Focus.

  Then, as quickly as it began, the barrage was over. And when a minute passed without another barrage, Ryson concluded that the Sea Dragon’s launchers were empty.

  Suddenly, and unbidden, the song Highway to Hell by AC/DC began to blast over the squadron’s radios. Moy looked at Ryson as if to say, “Kill it?”

  Ryson shook his head. He could see the low-lying smudge ahead. “We’re going in!” Ryson shouted over the music. “Into the lagoon! Engage with guns!”

  That was when a shell from the Sea Dragon’s railgun hit the HMAS Kalbarri, and broke the Australian boat in half. Ryson swore, as the Arcus led the Fractus, the Stratus, and the Nimbus in through one of two passageways which provided access to the lagoon.

  All of the PHMs were foilborne and began to fire the moment the Sea Dragon came into view. The HMAS Rockhampton, meanwhile, was still to the south and trying to catch up.

  Ryson watched in horror as the Sea Dragon’s bow turned toward what he thought of as Passageway Number 1, while the cruiser’s railgun began to track the Fractus.

  A single shot was all it took to kill the PHM. The rock and roll music stopped.

  Slowly, but surely, the Sea Dragon was gaining speed. And Ryson’s orders were to keep her bottled up. That was the moment when an artillery shell hit the Arcus in the stern. Artillery, Ryson thought. The possibility never occurred to me. I’m a fucking idiot.

  “The steering’s gone!” the helmsman shouted, as the PHM roared toward a sandy beach. “We’re going in!”

  The words were followed by a jolt as the foils hit the bottom, held for a moment, and collapsed. Water flew up all around as the hydrofoil came down twenty feet short of the beach. Ryson was thrown forwards, hit his head, and fell to the deck.

  His head hurt, and Ryson felt dizzy, as he stumbled out of the wheelhouse. The Nimbus was still in it, and turning a wide circle, as commanding officer Marie Moreno went at the Chinese cruiser with her gun blazing. Ryson saw hits all over the deck and around the remaining conning tower. But the shells had little effect.

  Ryson felt his heart sink as shore batteries fired, waterspouts rose all around the hydrofoil, and a shell fell on the boat. The resulting explosion sent a blast wave surging across the lagoon. Ryson felt the warm air collide with his face. It’s over, he thought bitterly. Dozens of lives lost for nothing.

  Then the HMAS Rockhampton roared into the Lagoon with a bone in her teeth. Ryson wanted to order skipper Lieutenant Mike Christian to break it off, to save his crew, when he saw the boat’s starboard torpedo launcher. “Oh, my God,” Ryson shouted. “Mike’s going to do it! He’s going to take a shot at the bitch!”

  As Ryson watched, a Mark 48 torpedo shot out of the launcher and splashed into the water. A trail could be seen as the long, sleek weapon sought its target.

  Ryson couldn’t see the Rockhampton’s port side from where he was, but assumed that the other torpedo was racing toward the Sea Dragon as well, and traveling at 52 knots.

  Taken together the weapons were packing 2,000 pounds worth of explosive. And the range was so short that it would be almost impossible to miss. And Mike didn’t.

  The Mark 48s slammed into the Chinese cruisier about half way down its 667-foot length, going off within seconds of each other. Ryson cheered as the blast wave from overlapping explosions sent waves rippling across the lagoon.

  Pillars of fire jetted up through two of the hatches through which missiles were launched; the enemy ship shook as if palsied, and uttered what sounded like a groan. Then the cruiser broke in half.

  The Sea Dragon couldn’t sink. The water wasn’t deep enough for that. So, she came to rest on the bottom, as ant-like crewmen poured up and out of Conning Tower 1.

  Ryson was still celebrating when an artillery round went off one hundred feet away and tiny bits of shrapnel peppered his body. Moy was there to grab and drag him away. “Come with me, sir … Mike will pick us up from the other side of the reef.”

  There were Chinese installations a thousand yards to the left, and an equal distance to the right. Moy was careful to split the distance between them. Small arms fire threw up geysers of sand as Chinese soldiers advanced from both directions.

  But the Rockhampton was bow-on to the beach by then. And the Armindale’s port and starboard fifty-caliber machines guns were more than sufficient to keep the Chinese soldiers at bay.

  Ryson stood by as Moy urged his sailors into the surf and took a count to make sure that all of them were accounted for. Only then did the officers follow. The water was blood warm.

  RIB boats arrived to pluck the Arc’s crew out of the water and carry them to the Rockhampton. Once everyone was aboard, and RIBs were stowed, the Armindale backed away—guns firing.

  Ryson made his way to the bridge. Lieutenant Mike Christian had a huge grin on his face. “You were right, sir … Torpedoes work.”

  Ryson laughed. “And you made the most of them, Mike … I’ve never seen a finer sight. Your entry into the lagoon, and the run that followed, is worthy of a painting.

  “I suspect the Australian government is going to hang medals all over your body. Now, if you could put me with a radio tech, I have some calls to make. I hope the Cumulus is still afloat.”

  ***

  Lieutenant Jev Jing and about thirty members of the Sea Dragon’s bedraggled crew were sitting on the beach waiting for someone to give orders. No one did.

  An Allied patrol boat was speeding south, and getting smaller with each passing moment. How? How was such a thing possible?

  “Look,” a sailor said, “It’s Chief Engineer Hong!” And it was Hong who marched up out of the wate
r with a body cradled in his arms.

  And as Hong came closer Jing saw that the body was that of Captain Ko. The man who loved his ship. And his crew. Would the functionaries in Beijing blame Ko for losing the Sea Dragon? Of course, they would. A suitable proverb came to mind: “He who blames others has a long way to go on his journey. He who blames himself is halfway there. He who blames no one has arrived.”

  ***

  Aboard the Allied transport Agger, in Manado Harbor, Indonesia

  Two weeks had passed since the Allied victory at the Battle of Taiwan. A conflict that raged for three days, and resulted in the sinking of ships on both sides, but most tellingly the loss of the nuclear-powered carrier Zhongguo Liming (Chinese Dawn).

  That, plus the much-publicized destruction of the raider Sea Dragon, lifted spirits all around the world. And did something to offset losses in Europe and the Middle East.

  Ryson’s time had been spent writing letters, dozens of them, to the families of crew members lost. He tried to make each one special, and evocative of the man or woman who had died, but it was difficult. The effort often called for multiple drafts. He was working on one for Sub Lieutenant Lewis when a knock came at the door.

  Ryson said, “Enter!” and turned to see Lieutenant Commander, soon to be Commander, Linda Vos RAN (Royal Australian Navy) enter the room.

  After a short search, the Rockhampton had been able to join company with the tanker which had the Cumulus in tow. Fortunately, Vos had survived uninjured. “Linda! Come in, and congratulations! I hear you’re getting a bump to commander, plus a ship.”

  Vos sat on the neighboring couch. She looked very professional in her summer whites. “Yes, thanks to you.”

  Ryson shook his head. “Not so. I wrote you up, that’s for sure … But you earned it. So, when do you leave? Is there time for a dinner ashore?”

  “There is,” Vos assured him. “And I would enjoy that. I’m taking a bit of leave before I report to my command. I hear you’ve been summoned to Washington D.C.”

  “True,” Ryson replied. “I was. But I asked them to put the medal in the mail. The squadron needs to be rebuilt from the bottom up. And I don’t care for D.C.”