Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 06 (28 page)

 
          
“What
else do you need, Muck—you want to see how fast that frigate can go down with a
Granit missile in its gut? We’ve got to launch an attack
before
the Chinese carrier or that destroyer can take a shot. ”

 
          
“Brad,
I’ve got the missiles ready to fly—as soon as we get the order,” McLanahan
insisted. “We’re not going to attack unless we’re given permission or we come
under attack ourselves, and then it’ll just be to defend ourselves. Nose is
cold”

 
          
The
redeploying Chinese patrol boats looked like little ants crawling forward
around their queen, McLanahan thought as he watched his God’s-eye tactical
display being beamed to him by the NIRTSat reconnaissance satellites. “I’m
showing eight small, fast patrol boats moving north, overtaking the lead
destroyer,” he reported. “Looks like they’re getting into missile-firing
position. I’ve got six . . . no, eight more going after the southeast Taiwanese
vessel.”

 
          
“Checks,”
Vikram said, watching the new threats as well. “
India-
band targeting radars up. The northern
group is in maximum missilefiring range now; they’ll be in optimal
missile-firing range in about ten minutes. The southeast group is closing fast
and will be in optimal firing range in two minutes.”

 
          
Elliott
was already on the satellite transceiver: “Hey, Buster, do you see what the
hell’s happening? Give us permission to launch before it’s too late! How do you
copy?”

COMMAND
CENTER
,
U.S.
PACIFIC COMMAND HEADQUARTERS,
HONOLULU
,
HAWAII

THAT SAME TIME

 
          
“Hey,
Buster, how do you copy?” Elliott repeated. “That Taiwanese frigate and its
buddy are going to be blasted to hell any minute now. Give us permission to
take them out! ”

           
“Why in hell doesn’t Elliott shut
up?” Admiral William Allen, the dual-hatted commander in chief of U.S. Pacific
Command and the U.S. Navy’s Pacific Fleet, asked of no one in particular. He,
along with General Terrill Samson and a group of aides and technicians, were
studying a large three-by-four-foot computer monitor that showed the tactical
situation near the Taiwanese island of Quemoy, downloaded by Sky Masters, Inc.’s,
NIRTSat “Martindale” synthetic aperture radar-imaging satellites. Allen called
out, “Range from the closest Chinese patrol boat to the northern Taiwanese
frigate.”

 
          
Before
one of the Navy technicians could answer, Masters’s voice- recognition computer
replied in a curiously seductive female voice, TWENTY-TWO KILOMETERS AND
CLOSING AT FIVE HUNDRED METERS PER MINUTE.

 
          
“Goddamn
gadgets,” Allen muttered, afraid to raise his voice lest the computer make a
snide comment in return. “Shut that computer voice thing off. Combat, sing out
with all further reports.”

 
          
“Aye,
sir.”

 
          
“Range
from PLAN patrol boats to southeast frigate.”

 
          
“Eight
miles and steady.”

 
          
“Well,
serves him right for not bugging out sooner,” Allen muttered. “Elliott doesn’t
know squat about PLAN missile attack tactics. He’d better shut up and stay off
the radio or I’ll recall his ass. Any word from
Washington
?”

 
          
“No,
sir,” the tactical action officer (TAO), the senior officer in charge of the
combat response teams in the command center, responded. “Repeating your
priority request.”

 
          
“Where
did those Taiwanese ships come from, anyway?” Allen asked rhetorically
again—the Navy veteran was fond of thinking out loud, which he thought
encouraged the officers around him to speak up. “My mission was not to baby-sit
a Taiwanese warship while it launches a suicide attack on a Chinese carrier
battle group. And I did
not
order
Elliott to launch anything! I’m going to see to it that he’s thrown in jail for
what he’s done!”

 
          
“He
was responding to an attack by the PLAN destroyers,” Samson offered.

 
          
“That
Taiwan
precipitated!” Allen interjected. “My
orders were to monitor the situation and
prepare
for the
eventuality
of hostile
contact, not dog-pile on when some asshole wants to play hero to Mother Taiwan.

           
We
are not at war with the People’s Republic of China, General Samson. But the
Taiwanese frigate fired first, and Elliott launched right afterwards without
getting permission. This is exactly what George Balboa warned me about: Elliott
popping off and pulling the trigger before receiving proper authorization.” He
slumped in his command chair and carefully studied the tactical display. “What
in hell is the PLAN going to do now? Chase that frigate all the way to
Formosa
?”

 
          
Samson
couldn’t argue with CINCPAC—but now wasn’t the time to just sit and fume over
Elliott. “Sir, it looks like the northern Taiwanese frigate is bugging out,”
Samson observed. “He can probably outrun the big ships and hold his distance
against the smaller patrol boats, and the ‘Screamer’ decoy cruise missiles will
be orbiting for another few minutes unless the PLAN manages a lucky shot and
shoots them down.”

 
          
“So
what?”

 
          
“The
Megafortress crew needs to know if they have authority to counterattack if the
PLAN starts to launch more missiles against the frigate,” Samson said. “They
can help defend the frigate.”

 
          
“More
decoys?”

 
          
“Yes,
the Megafortress is carrying four more Screamer cruise missiles—”

 
          
“Who
in hell came up with these comic-book names?” Allen interrupted. “Megafortress?
Screamers? Sounds like Elliott’s warped mind at work.”

 
          
“—but
they’re also carrying anti-radar cruise missiles,” Samson went on, “that can
shut down a dozen emitters in use on the PLAN warships. They can also use their
antiaircraft missiles to—”

 
          
“That
B-52 is carrying antiaircraft missiles?” Allen exclaimed incredulously.
“Sidewinders?”

 
          
“Scorpions,
sir,” Samson responded. He had briefed all this information to Allen and his
staff as recently as yesterday—and he was just as surprised then as he was
now—but it didn’t hurt to tell it all again. “Advanced Medium-Range Air-to-Air
Missiles, about thirty miles’ range, radar-guided, total of eight. They have to
move in closer to the PLAN fleet, but the AMRAAMs are capable against ballistic
missiles and antiship sea-skimmers too. The anti-radar cruise missiles will
home in on radar transmissions; if the radar shuts down, it’ll orbit over the
area for up to fifteen minutes until the radar comes back on. Also, the
offensive Wolverine missiles can drop cluster munitions on three targets, then
impact a fourth—the Megafortress carries six. If the smaller patrol boats try
to attack the Taiwanese frigate, those’ll be the best weapons to use on them.
The larger warships can be attacked by the Striker missiles— they’re small,
supersonic, and lethal. If we can shut down the PLAN’s radars with the Tacit
Rainbow missiles, the Striker missiles will have an excellent chance of hitting
their targets.” .

 
          
Allen
shook his head in exasperation. “You got more toys than Santa Claus, General,”
he muttered. He studied the Gods-eye display carefully and fell silent.

 
          
“The
helicopter that launched from the Taiwanese frigate has been shot down by
antiaircraft fire,” one of the combat technicians reported. “Three
guided-missile patrol boats closing quickly on the northern Taiwanese frigate.
Should be in missile launch position in three minutes. Five more in pursuit,
but they are not closing and remain at estimated max launch range. The lead
PLAN destroyer has slowed to five knots; the carrier is overtaking.”

 
          
“Looks
like
Taiwan
got one,” Allen said. “My guess is that the carrier will rendezvous
with the destroyer.” He fell silent once again; then: “No, I don’t want that
B-52—Megaplane, Megabomber, whatever you call it—launching any more missiles.
Tell them to—”

 
          
“PLAN
missile boats launching against the southeast Taiwanese vessel,” the combat
technician reported. “Numerous missiles . . . two salvos . . . direct hit. The
southeast Taiwanese vessel is dead in the water . . . direct hit by second
salvo . . . lost contact with southeast Taiwanese vessel.”

 
          
The
ferocity of that attack stunned even Allen, who watched the scene played out on
the God’s-eye view in silence. “Jesus Christ,” Terrill Samson breathed. “That
boat went down in less than a minute ... it must’ve been hit by a dozen
missiles.”

 
          
“Overkill,”
Allen said. “The PLAN wasted a lot of missiles, and those little guided missile
patrol boats don’t have reloads. They’re out of the fight.”

 
          
“Admiral,
for God’s sake, you’ve got to make a decision about the northern Taiwanese
frigate,” Samson said, not quite believing that Allen could be so detached and
unemotional about the loss of the Taiwanese frigate and the apparent deaths of
hundreds of Taiwanese sailors. “Or do you want to see the PLAN chase down and
sink another Taiwanese frigate?”

           
“This is not my damned fight,
General,” Allen shouted. “I was only supposed to observe and report.
Taiwan
threw the first punch, and Elliott only
helped aggravate the situation.”

 
          
“So
you’re going to let the PLAN sink that frigate?” Samson asked incredulously.
“You’re going to sit back and watch and do nothing?”

 
          
“If
it happens, it’ll be his own damned fault,” Allen said. “Anyway, the score’s
even now—one PLAN destroyer for one ROC frigate and helicopter. Good time for
everybody to break it up and go back to their corners.” He was handed a
telephone just then. “Trident. Go.”

 
          
“This
is Wrangler,” Admiral Frederick Cowen, the Chief of Naval Operations, said,
using his call sign. “JCS and NSC got your message; NSC asked me to give you a
buzz. What’s happening?”

 
          
“Shit’s
hitting the fan, sir,” Allen replied. “Two Taiwanese frigates closed on the
PLAN carrier battle group and attacked. One PLAN destroyer damaged. One of the
ROC frigates has been sunk, and the PLAN’s getting ready to deep-six the
other.”

 
          
“Too
bad,” Cowen replied with obvious disinterest in his voice. “Til pass the word
along. Any of our guys in the area?”

 
          
“Just
that Thunder Pig,” Allen replied derisively, smiling when Terrill Samson turned
toward him when he heard Allen’s name for the Megafortress.

 
          
“Just
make sure Headbanger doesn’t pop off any of his flying wet dreams until we get
a look at the situation.”

 
          
“Too
late, sir,” Allen said. “Headbanger’s already launched—without permission. A
couple decoy cruise missiles that suckered a bunch of PLAN anti-ship cruise
missiles pretty good.”

 
          
“Dammit,
Crusher
knew
he’d do that,” Admiral
Cowen swore across the secure satellite hookup. “Crusher” was Admiral George
Balboa’s call sign—and it fit his personality and management style too, both he
and Allen knew. “Recall that contraption. Get it on the ground. Elliott is
history
!”

 
          
“Aye,
sir,” Allen responded. To the TAO, he shouted, “Issue recall instructions to
Headbanger. Disengage and RTB, right now.”