Island Warriors c-18 Read online

  They all knew what the score was. If the balloon went up and the world went to shit, their ship’s life expectancy dropped dramatically. The last thing Russia or China wanted was an extremely sensitive radar detection ship keeping an eye on the goings on, and Waterson figured they’d be in the initial targeting package any staff put together.

  It was something that they’d all been briefed on when they’d come on board. Just a fact of life, that your survivability might go to shit in the blink of an eye. It wasn’t something they talked about — part of life in a blue suit, Waterson figured — and the crew onboard Observation Island sure wasn’t the only one in that boat.

  But before, it hadn’t seemed quite so damned personal.

  “Tracking,” Waterson announced. “I got a target line — medium confidence — looks like it will hit open water twenty miles north of Taiwan.”

  Twenty miles. Within the margin of error for earlier ballistic missiles, but everything Waterson had seen on the latest technology being tested by China indicated that they’d gotten their targeting accuracy down to a matter of meters. Although the U.S. was still far ahead of them, measuring their missiles’ accuracy in inches, Waterson figured that it didn’t matter that much in the short range. You were just as dead if a Chinese missile hit ten meters away or two inches away. It was on the longer flights that it came into play, when a missile traversing thousands of miles to reach the continental U.S. might develop much larger variances and end up hitting, say, Burke, Virginia, instead of the Capitol building in D.C.

  Twenty miles. That ought to be enough. Not saying I’d like it much if I were fishing the waters north of Taiwan, but enough so that it ought to miss land.

  Unless there’s a screwup, right? And isn’t that why you do live fire tests, to find out if the wonderful targeting accuracy that every one of your computer models swears exists is actually ground in truth?

  The data and symbology on his screen blinked once, then disappeared into a flurry of harmless pixels. “Self-destruct?” Vail asked hopefully. “Or we lose data link?”

  “Yeah,” Waterson answered. “Data link is okay, but I got snow — they must have self-destructed.”

  Silence fell in the compartment as they all kept close watch on their respective screens, praying that it was over but afraid just yet to hope that it was.

  “Nothing else,” Waterson announced finally as the static cleared from his screen. “Clear scope.”

  And thank God for that. It means this probably is a test, probably there won’t be a missile launched at us, and I may just live long enough to see those grandkids start first grade.

  It was at moments like this that life back in Montana looked very, very appealing.

  The Taiwanese frigate The Marshall P’eng

  Off the western coast of Taiwan

  Tuesday, September 3

  0300 local (GMT +8)

  The blood of ancient warriors ran in Taiwanese Navy Captain Chang Tso-Lin’s veins. Both family oral traditions and written records traced his lineage back to ancient days. He himself was named for a warlord from the last century. He carried on that tradition with a quiet pride.

  He was well regarded by both his superiors and his subordinates. His crew worshipped him, regarding him as a patriarch of their shipboard family. Many of them had ancestors who had served with Chang Tso-Lin’s ancestors, and they were proud of that connection. He was regarded within the Navy as a rising young tiger, selected early for command, and known as an astute tactician. He was a humble man in bearing but he insisted on perfection in his crew and demanded even more of himself. He was a naval officer any nation would be proud to claim.

  That he was assigned to command Marshall P’eng was no accident of timing. The Taiwanese had seen this day coming for decades, and were well aware that their fragile freedom rested on the shaky goodwill of their American friends. They were exceptionally conscientious in selecting captains for ships that would work with the Americans directly, but there had been no question about Chang Tso-Lin. He was, simply, the finest the nation had to offer.

  Chang had completed his early education in Taiwan, but once his potential became apparent, he’d been sent to the United States for graduate school. His command of English was fluent and colloquial, on par with a professional linguist. He understood not only the language but the American culture as well, and, in his heart of hearts, had even briefly considered the possibility of emigrating. But his sense of family honor and duty to his country was far too strong to permit it to be any more than a brief fantasy. He put it aside almost immediately, turned his attention back to his work and did as his nation had asked him.

  The Marshall P’eng steamed in calm waters today, her boilers providing power to turn the shafts. The ship was an old U.S. Knox-class frigate, considered too weary and battered for further service in the American Navy.

  A wasteful attitude, as far as Captain Chang was concerned. The ship was structurally sound, and with careful maintenance and dedication, had been restored to a virtually pristine condition. Her engine room was spotless, her radars tightly tuned and deadly. She was in a higher state of readiness and efficiency then she ever had been in the American Navy.

  He had to admit, though, that his nation’s policy of not transferring people as often as the Americans did had something to do with it, as well. Men were stationed on Marshall P’eng for years, and knew her quirks and peculiarities. They had more ownership in her than their American counterparts had had, and it was a matter of personal pride to every man that she both looked and performed her best.

  Currently, the only American presence in the area was an Aegis-class cruiser, the USS Lake Champlain. She’d been on station for two months, popping in and out of port on liberty visits as often as her schedule permitted, and Chang had come to know her captain well. Captain James Norfolk was a typical American, brash and blunt, overflowing with vital energy and good cheer. His ship itself was a marvel to Chang, containing advanced electronics and weaponry that his country would not see for decades. It seemed to entrust such technological capabilities to what — by Taiwanese standards — amounted to a pickup crew. The cruiser captain himself would be in command for only eighteen months. Chang’s tour, by contrast, was a minimum of five years.

  Nevertheless, Chang and Norfolk quickly came to understand each other as only professional sailors could do. Chang privately considered some of the captain’s tactical plans to be foolhardy, but he recognized that the superior weaponry and fire control systems could quickly compensate for any overconfidence on the part of the cruiser’s crew.

  The cruiser was ten miles to the north, conducting a slow, methodical search of her assigned operating area. The ship’s last liberty had been cut short when the Taiwanese government began to notice escalating tensions. Norfolk was not so sure he agreed, but he was an accommodating fellow. He rousted his crew and put to sea with almost everyone onboard. The helicopters were still ferrying back and forth almost daily to reprovision them and bring along stragglers.

  Chang walked to the bridge wing and stared off to the east. Somewhere over the horizon lay China. Not that being over the horizon mattered anymore. In terms of weapons and fire-control solutions, they were virtually next door.

  This latest missile test would bring them even closer. It would be fired from a Chinese destroyer. The intelligence reports Chang had seen were worrisome. She supposedly carried sea-skimmer missiles that might be virtually impossible to detect before it was too late. Additionally, the cruiser in company with her carried long-range land attack missiles.

  The Chinese claimed it was a test. Chang considered the exercise as preparations for war.

  Without the Americans here, he had little hope of intercepting the missile with his own missiles. Even with her best efforts, the systems she was designed to fight against were decades old, and no amount of care and maintenance could make up for the technological gap between the two ships. And no one could doubt that the American sailors, for all their f
requent transfers, were superbly trained.

  No, the critical differences lay far deeper than that. First, Chang and his crew knew these waters, knew the tricks and traps of both the electromagnetic spectrum and the seething currents under their hull. Second, the Marshall P’eng was defending her homeland. The chain of command was shorter, Chang’s orders more direct, and his motivation strong. Countering this missile attack, if indeed one took place, was what he had been born, bred, and trained for. He would prevail. That was not in doubt.

  USS Lake Champlain

  Twenty miles north of The Marshall P’eng

  0300 local (GMT +8)

  James Norfolk, the Lake Champlain’s commanding officer, had just finished soaping up for a shower after his late night workout when the general quarters gong filled the ship. He swore, jammed his thumb down on the water flow button on the showerhead, and blasted the hot water on his face just long enough to get the soap away from his eyes. That done, he grabbed his towel and took one quick swipe over his body before pulling on his pants and slipping on his shoes. With his shirt and his socks in his hand, he ran for his station in combat.

  Speakers lining the passageway continued the gonging for five seconds, then a voice broke in. “General quarters, general quarters. All hands man your battle stations. Reason for general quarters: ballistic missile launch from Gungzho base.”

  Shit! Those little bastards! Norfolk vaulted up the ladders leading to the bridge, in close formation with the other sailors hauling ass all over the ship. Those heading forward or up used the starboard passageways, those heading aft or down used the port, but there was still enough movement, particularly with a large portion of the crew rousted from their racks, for asses and elbows to go flying. Many of them were far less dressed than Norfolk was, but all carried their clothes in their hands. When there was time, they’d get dressed, and not a person on the mixed gender crew gave a shit who had what on, not with general quarter going down.

  Norfolk burst into combat and ran over to the TAO, Lieutenant Calvin Ackwurst. “What you got?”

  “Ballistic missile launch from the shore site. Coming in over national assets, confirmed by Cheyenne. It’s for real, sir.” Ackwurst pointed up at the symbols on the monitor mounted just above eye level. “Trajectory still unknown.”

  At least to us. Somebody somewhere knows where it’s going and they ain’t saying. Norfolk had spent enough time in joint command centers around this part of the world to know just how fast the detection and analysis process could work. And even now, when he was still shoving his soapy arms into his shirt, there was some poor bastard somewhere waking the President up to tell him what was going on.

  “We’re still inside our box, speed twelve, course one one zero,” Ackwurst said, and then continued with an abbreviated brief on the equipment status of the ship. Even as he spoke he was moving toward the hatch leading off the bridge, because Ackwurst’s own GQ station was in engineering.

  The boatswain’s mate of the watch shoved Norfolk’s GQ gear into his hands, and Norfolk automatically donned the steel helmet, the flash gear, and slung the bio-chem gear along his side. Seconds later, he said, “I relieve you,” and after a brief announcement to the watch crew, Ackwurst scurried off the bridge. The whole process had taken less than a minute.

  Norfolk took a deep breath and surveyed the crew in combat. Everyone was in place, alert but not panicked. That was the reason for the frequent drills, to turn it into a reflex, to reduce the confusion factor.

  “Captain?” a voice came over his headset.

  “XO, it’s going to pass to the north of us, but not by much. Let’s come right, put us bow on to it. I don’t think we’re a player in this, but let’s not take any chances.”

  “Aye-aye.” Norfolk felt the ship turn as the XO gave the orders, knowing that it wasn’t really necessary. Turning toward the trajectory would present a smaller profile to the missile, should it turn out to be something other than what they thought. But with modern targeting systems, it wouldn’t make a whole lot of difference. The ship’s self-defense systems were equally effective at any target angle.

  But even though it wasn’t tactically necessary, it gave the crew something to do, a maneuver to focus their attention on and a chance to make sure everything was working as advertised. Action calmed nerves, and the sense that they were turning to face it was beneficial as well.

  “CPA, thirty miles,” Ackwurst said almost immediately. “Confirmation over intell circuits, Captain. I don’t want to stand down, though, until we figure out what’s going on.”

  “Open ocean impact, sir?” Norfolk said, mentally working out the picture in his head.

  “Affirmative. Unless something goes wrong.”

  And something always goes wrong, Norfolk thought. It’s just a matter of how and when. “Does P’eng know?” he asked.

  “I’m just letting them know now,” the TAO replied, his voice grim. “And Captain Chang ain’t liking it one little bit.”

  Can’t say that I blame him. It’s like living in San Diego and having a missile heading for Oceanside. That close.

  The Marshall P’eng

  0305 local (GMT +8)

  Captain Chang beat the Lake Champlain by almost a full minute in setting general quarter, but by the time he’d settled into his station, the verdict was already in. The missile would miss Taiwan, and, except for the remote possibility of impacting a fishing or commercial vessel, posed no threat to his country.

  No threat, that was, other than the promise of more to come. How long would they be required to tolerate these increasingly menacing test flights before a mistake was made? The Chinese were either deliberately provoking them and the Americans or they were attempting to lull them both into complacency until the moment that they eventually struck. And strike they would, of that Chang was certain.

  A radioman dashed up and handed him a hastily printed-out message. Chang took it and scanned the contents. He sucked in a sharp breath, then passed the message to his watch officer.

  Taiwan had had enough. His government was officially requesting that the American ship cruising with them employ her weapons to destroy the test missile. It was invading Taiwanese air space and hazarding vessels off Taiwan’s coast.

  Enough is enough. Let’s see if our ally really means what they tell us — that they are committed to a free and democratic Taiwan.

  USS Lake Champlain

  0311 local (GMT +8)

  Norfolk stared at the message on the screen in front of him. Equal measures of deep concern and glee coursed through him. This was the moment every cruiser captain waited for, the time to use all the power of the ship as it was intended to be used. But another part of him dreaded what was to come. Not necessarily for him and his crew — no, they could take care of themselves. The unconscious arrogance that nothing, absolutely nothing in the world could penetrate his ship’s defenses was as much a part of a cruiser’s officers and crew as it was of any naval aviator. Inside this ship, the one they’d trained on so hard, kept up so well, they were all invulnerable.

  But not everyone was so well-situated, foremost among them the Taiwanese frigate to their south. And not only the frigate — Taiwan itself was not heavily defended, not ringed with the Patriot batteries so common in the Middle East and Europe, not surrounded by flights of fighters. And while Lake Champlain could protect herself and her crew, and most probably the frigate as well, there was no way they could cover every approach. Sooner or later, a missile would reach its intended target, and the bloodshed that would follow already haunted him.

  But for now, he had one task — destroy the missile in flight now, and hopefully, by doing so, dissuade China from launching more. He turned to his TAO, who had already assigned anti-air missiles to the target and was waiting for weapons release authority. A quiet, expectant air filled combat.

  “Weapons free,” Norfolk said quietly. “Make every shot count, TAO.”

  Because there’s no telling what this is the st
art of. Maybe it’s just a missile test shot, and this will all blow over. But maybe it isn’t, and if it isn’t, there’s a chance that I’m going to want every single missile I’ve got onboard later on.

  A low rumble swept through the ship. Norfolk watched the monitor mounted in one corner. The picture showed the foredeck, the vertical launch cell hatch popping open, and then the nose of the missile emerging. He had just a split second to marvel at its size before a boiling cloud of steam and smoke swept across the deck and obscured the picture. As visibility crashed down to zero, the ship gave one hard shake, as though it were a dog coming out of the sea, then settled back into the water.

  Norfolk shifted his gaze to the computer monitor. There was nothing more to see on deck — within seconds, the missile would be out of view and the radar return would provide the only information.

  “Two shots fired, no apparent casualties,” the TAO reported. “Standing by for third shot.”

  “Wait on it,” Norfolk said as he studied the geometry. Something clicked inside of him, and he knew without a doubt that the first missile would find its target. He knew, even before the computer-generated solution could flash onto the screen, that the second missile would find no more than carbonized metal and hot gases in the air.

  Forty seconds later, Norfolk’s intuition was confirmed. Raw video on the radar scopes flared into tight balls of static, then faded to reveal empty air. The data link screen to his right flashed up the computer’s assessment: CONFIRMED KILL.

  “Good work,” Norfolk said. “We could have made do with just one, you think?”

  A flurry of cheerful comments, the aftermath of the tension, flooded the compartment. They were proud, more confident than ever, now that they had their first kill under their belts. It had gone flawlessly.

  Perhaps too flawlessly. Because they don’t yet know just how screwed up your tactical picture can get in combat. Let ’em enjoy it now, but don’t let them get overconfident. If this is just the beginning, then they’ll learn soon enough what it’s like. And if it’s not, well, then, this could be the last time that they ever get to do it for real.