Onslaught Read online

  The senator came in for a whiskey-smelling bear hug. She smiled and pecked his cheek, glad she didn’t have to put up with his sexist crap anymore. It was all a game to him. Push her out on the board, and see if she survived. Yeah. It was a game.

  Like the one they were playing with China.

  4

  SAVO’S Combat Information Center was an ice cave lit by screens of data. It smelled like a freshly unpacked television. Four aisles of consoles funneled data to four large-screen, full-color flat-panel displays. With a three-section wartime steaming watch, about half the consoles were manned.

  Panting from the scramble down the ladder, Dan slid into the worn leather chair at the command desk. An icy breeze popped gooseflesh on his nape. He shrugged into the foul-weather jacket draped on the chair, squinting up. One screen was a blue blank, except for a blinking tab reading GCCS feed failure. The joint picture, air, sea, and land. Its absence left him blind outside the range of his own task group’s sensors. The middle display was the air picture, from Savo’s own radars, plus shared data from Mitscher via a link.

  Two contacts caught his attention. A pulsing yellow trefoil, MIL-STD-2525 Common Military symbology for Unknown Air, glowed to the northwest. Closer, a blue semicircle blinked on and off. The callouts tagged it as a Japanese Air Self-Defense Force antisubmarine patrol plane. Good; they’d have help closing the strait.

  The eastern coast of Taiwan walled off the left of the screen. Nearly a straight line, without major ports, bays, or inlets. Behind it glowed an emeraldine sparkle, radar returns from rugged mountains.

  The next screen was blank again, and that farthest to the right displayed video from a camera looking aft. The same lens that had nearly caught their rapist, the first time he’d pulled a female crew member into a secluded corner, threatened her with a knife, and masturbated on her. Now it showed only the white, smoothed wake across bright, heaving blue, and a curtain of low clouds.

  The yellow trefoil blinked and changed to a red symbol: hostile. Dan checked the text readouts above the large-screen displays. Flickering green or orange, they presented the statuses of the various computers, combat systems, a weapons inventory, and radio call signs. He knew most of the numbers by heart.

  This was his battle station, not the bridge. Ticos had a little armor, mainly around CIC and the computer room, but antiship warheads were designed to penetrate. By the time any enemy got in sight, he’d most likely already be dead, along with his crew. Blasted apart, burned alive, or sliced into ribbons by flying metal.

  The sweet musk of sandalwood as the dark-haired woman at his side leaned in. Lieutenant Amarpeet Singhe, Savo’s strike officer. A classic Indian beauty, with huge, dark eyes. But also a Wharton grad, and probably the smartest person aboard. Unfortunately, that had led her into more than one clash with the Chief’s Mess. “See it, Skipper? Up to the northwest. Inbound a couple of minutes ago. Then it doglegged right.”

  He averted his eyes from the V in her partially unzipped coveralls. “I see it, Amy. And, look, next time, don’t make it ‘CO, report to CIC.’ Just the situation, and let me decide whether I need to come down or not.”

  “Sorry, Captain. I just thought—”

  “I know. Never mind. Range?”

  “Two hundred miles. No IFF squawk.”

  “South of the Senkakus.”

  “Yes sir. Where the landing force was reported this morning.”

  “Anything from EW?” The electronic-warfare console, where a technician stared at a screen like a rabbit on ketamine. Eavesdropping on every radio and radar emission within hundreds of miles.

  Singhe said, “One Type 245 Kobalt I-band surveillance radar. Correlates with H-6 Badger. Maritime recon, but may have a cruise-missile-launch capability.”

  The Chinese had picked up a lot of Soviet tactics and equipment for long-range maritime strike. Including antiship missiles. Dan said, “It’s covering the landings. Watching out for someone like us. But he’s in the Japanese air-defense zone. Let’s see how Tokyo reacts before we go to GQ on him. Watch for their fighters, out of Naha.”

  A raised voice from the Aegis console. “If we can see him, he already knows we’re here.”

  Dan craned around to meet Donnie Wenck’s slightly insane-looking bright blue stare. His blond cowlick was sticking up, and as usual his hair pushed the boundaries of the regs. Dan had worked with him on classified missions to Korea, the Philippines, and the Gulf. His spacy demeanor disguised a mastery of arcane software fixes. Dan had just promoted him to chief petty officer, to the displeasure of some. Wenck added, “All the power we’re cranking out, five megawatts, we’re like a fucking searchlight in a closet.”

  “Knowing it and doing something about it are two different things. If you detect a missile seeker, though, Amy, assign a Standard and take the archer down. Copy, TAO?”

  The corners of Singhe’s lips curled upward. “Roger that, Captain.”

  “Is that encoder gear on the Mark 86 getting fixed?” The fire-control system that controlled the forward and aft five-inchers. Guns were no longer a cruiser’s primary armament, but they’d be useful if he had to take on patrol craft or missile boats. Or the landing craft that were, apparently, beaching troops to the northwest.

  One of the ETs took that one. “Yessir, we have it in the micro-min repair shop. We’re short on parts, though.”

  The downside of just-in-time inventories. The radars, in particular, were burning through spares. Power supply cards, analog-to-digital coverters, switch tubes, crossfield amplifiers. They’d been radiating at a high-duty cycle and peak power more or less 24/7 since the Indian Ocean … “Did you read Premier Zhang’s ultimatum, Amy?”

  Singhe pursed her lips. “I did, sir. One: no American ally will be attacked unless it attacks China, or refuses to provide rights of passage. Two: forces capable of delivering nuclear weapons will be dealt with ‘by any means necessary.’ Three: any act of aggression against Chinese soil will be answered by a similar level of destruction visited on the American homeland.”

  “He ‘won’t attack,’ but they’re landing on the Senkakus right now.”

  She shrugged, so gracefully he could imagine those smooth brown shoulders naked. “It doesn’t matter what he says. We’re at war.”

  “I agree. Do we have Stuttgart and Curtis Wilbur yet?”

  “They’re in radar silence. We won’t pick them up until they push over our horizon.”

  Dan twisted back toward Wenck. “Donnie, how’s the Terror doing?”

  Wenck dropped his gaze. But murmured, “She’s holding up, Skipper. But I’m gonna take her next watch.”

  * * *

  DAN kept the command seat warm for the next hour, watching the screen gradually populate with additional aircraft and small surface units as Savo’s radars could peer farther over the curve of the planet, toward the mainland. Most clustered around the largest island in the Senkaku group, but there was a lot of air activity over the mainland. Anything the SPY-1 could paint at that range had to be at least medium-bomber size, and at a high altitude. So the coastal defenses were at a high state of alert. The EWs were reporting radar and comm activity from those bearings, too.

  In contrast, little showed above Taiwan. They were husbanding their effort, no doubt. Like the lull before the Battle of Britain. No point burning fuel and maintenance hours, when their interceptors and fighters—mainly F-5s, F-16s, and Mirages—might soon be the only shield between them and invasion.

  And so far, there was no sign of a Japanese response to the violation of their territory. He’d expected fighters, at least, but nothing showed on the screen.

  Singhe had her head down in a reference on the ship’s LAN. He watched her for a while, telling himself he was timing her glances at the screen, but in reality just admiring the curve of her neck, the way she brushed shining black hair back from her cheek.

  Finally four surface contacts popped up to the north. Singhe spoke into her throat mike. The symbols contracted, t
hen winked blue. Friendly surface. Callouts identified USS Curtis Wilbur, escorting Stuttgart. JDS Kurama. JDS Chokai.

  “What’s Kurama?” Dan asked her.

  The keyboard rattled. “Wait one … Shirane class. Seventy-five hundred tons. They call it a ‘helicopter destroyer.’ ASROC up forward. Sea Sparrow for point defense. Hangar for two, maybe three helos. Optimized as an antisubmarine platform.”

  “Just what we need. How about Chokai?”

  “Kongo-class guided-missile destroyer. Ninety-five hundred tons. Aegis-equipped. Basically, us, except for our antiballistic capability.”

  Dan nodded, impressed. Excellent fits for the mission. With three Aegis combatants, he could maintain an air picture from central Taiwan all the way to the Japanese mainland, and hold the line against anything short of an overwhelming air assault. With Kurama’s helos, plus his own, he could close the strait to submerged passage. A couple of frigates would have been nice, with low-frequency sonar “tails,” but maybe he could do this with the forces he had. Hold the pass until the cavalry arrived.

  But why weren’t the Japanese responding in the Senkakus? The lines must be crackling between Washington and Tokyo. Or were the Japanese just going to roll over? They must know appeasement only encouraged aggressors. And if Zhang got an air base and missile batteries on the Senkakus, he’d have his jaws halfway around Taiwan. The islands were less than a hundred miles from the capital, and perfectly placed to interdict trade. Instead of a blockade strangling the mainland, the PRC could strangle Taiwan.

  He got up and paced around, then was reminded by his stomach it was almost noon. He was desperately tired, but maybe food would help. “I’ll be in the wardroom, then my at-sea cabin. Call me if anything changes.”

  Singhe murmured, “Aye aye,” as if only half listening. He left her staring up at the screen, dark brows knitted.

  * * *

  DR. LEO Schell plunked down next to him at lunch. The major from the Infectious Diseases branch at Fort Detrick had joined them in the Maldives, to find out why so many crew members were falling ill. He was out of his white lab coat and back in Army BDUs now. For the crossdeck to Stuttgart, Dan guessed. “Guess I should say so long now. Skipper.”

  They shook hands. “Thanks for helping out, Doc. I really appreciate it.” Dan said. To the messman, “Toasted cheese? And a cup of the tomato soup. Thanks.”

  “I think you’ll be in good shape now. None of the samples I took shows any Legionella.”

  “Okay, but how do we keep it from coming back?”

  “Hyperchlorinate at least once a week to fifty ppm. I showed your medic, I mean, your corpsman, how to stain and test. If you get a recurrence, steam-clean again. And don’t stress the crew. They need rest. Post-legionellosis syndrome; they’re still under the weather from the outbreak.”

  Dan reflected sourly that battle steaming in a wartime environment was pretty much the definition of stressing the reduced-manning crew Savo had put to sea with. “Well, again, thanks. We’ll be transferring you”—he tilted his wrist to check his watch—“in about two hours. Stuttgart’s on the radar. We’ll crossdeck you by helo at the same time we rearm.”

  “Hey, I was hoping for one of those things you see in the movies, where they haul you across in a chair—”

  “Helicopter,” Dan said firmly. “Things could light up around here very quickly. Sure you don’t want to stick around?”

  “USAMRIID wants everybody back out of the field.”

  “In case something nasty breaks out at home?” Before Schell could answer, the J-phone squealed. Dan reached for the handset under the table. “Captain.”

  Mytsalo’s eager voice. “Sir, officer of the deck. Request permission to strike eight bells on time.”

  For just a moment, Dan felt disoriented. The eternal traditions, combined with the technology of the space age.

  The scrape of a chair, and a rangy, spare civilian in slacks and a golf shirt dropped into a seat opposite him. Dan blinked. “Bill. We don’t often see you in the wardroom.”

  Dr. William Noblos was a physicist, not a medical doctor. From Johns Hopkins, the main contractor for ALIS, Savo’s still-developmental ballistic-missile-defense subsystem. Noblos had been with them since the Med, though when he wasn’t in CIC or in the Aegis spaces, he kept to his stateroom. Dan tried for a friendly tone. “We were discussing Leo’s crossdecking this afternoon. Did you want to leave with him? Stuttgart’ll be headed back to Guam. You’re a civilian, after all. And this is a war zone now.”

  Noblos pursed his lips modestly. “I owe it to the ship to stay. Your team isn’t up to this, you know, Captain.”

  “Thought you said they were improving.”

  “I don’t want to say they’re dunces and you have no chance without my help. So I won’t.” Noblos sniffed, flicked a napkin open, laid it across his lap, and looked expectantly at the mess attendant. “Dressing on the side. Don’t let the bread touch the filling.… They’re still in the dark on the Delta AM on the array face. I explained how to calculate and apply a bias-correction factor. Several times. I guess elementary calculus is beyond them.”

  “Chief Wenck’s no dummy, Bill. I can’t believe he’s not picking up on the tuning issue.”

  Noblos shrugged. Dan contemplated saying something more, but finally didn’t. The guy knew his stuff, but it was like dealing with an oncologist with a lousy bedside manner. Still, the scientist was probably the key to making Savo’s unpatched, un-updated system work at all. To achieve that, right now, he could put up with an egotistical asshole. Oh, yeah.

  But as soon as this crisis was over, the guy was off his ship. And he’d be writing a scorching letter to Ballistic Missile Defense. Noblos belonged in the lab, not out where he had to interact with human beings.

  * * *

  EVERYONE not on watch mustered at 1300, on the just-cleared mess decks. Dan sat in front, as usual, as Staurulakis and then Mills presented an operational overview. Geo, weather conditions, current intelligence. Emissions-control posture. Unit sectors, Savo’s mission, and their rules of engagement.

  He hitched forward when Mills reached the part he’d asked him to research: the overall balance, allied forces—including Taiwanese—versus those of the mainland.

  “The first requirement for a cross-strait invasion is air superiority. That picture’s adverse. Attack aircraft, fighters, and bombers number roughly six hundred versus three hundred, with follow-on reserves limited by airfield capacity, not airframes. If we add U.S. fighters out of Kadena and Iwakuni, the picture looks more even, six hundred to about four fifty. But the PRC still holds a numerical advantage, though their pilots may not be up to ours.”

  One of the chiefs lifted a hand. “How about the Japs? Are they going to get involved?”

  Mills said, “If the Japanese stepped in, that would even the odds. But based on what we’re seeing, they’ll stand aside from a battle for Taiwan. Or, at least, hesitate before they commit. Like a couple of our other allies.

  “Any other questions?… Okay. The other side also holds a sizable advantage over the Republic of China in submarines, about ten to one, and in surface ships and amphibious units. But they won’t risk a crossing before the air war’s decided.

  “The most striking imbalance is in missiles. DIA estimates over a thousand ballistic missiles, most likely with conventional warheads, are targeted on Taiwan, to suppress defenses, take out radars and command, and crater runways. Plus, between three and five hundred cruise missiles, although many of these may actually be for area denial rather than land attack.”

  He looked at Dan. Who nodded, considered for a moment, then asked, “What’s the bottom line? The outcome? If they really commit to an invasion.”

  “I’ve read the studies. Force balance isn’t the only issue. A lot of other factors are involved—sortie rates, munitions effectiveness, exchange ratios. The metrics are too variable to pick a winner. It’ll be vicious. But if there’s a bottom line it’s probably … yes.”<
br />
  Cheryl Staurulakis said, “Yes, what? Ops?”

  “The Chinese can seize the strait. Gain at least local air control. Enough to get a force across, and land.”

  They fell silent. Not too long after, the exec called attention on deck. Dan rose and left, and the gabble of discussion rose behind him.

  * * *

  HE spent that afternoon on a damage-control self-assessment, getting into his oldest set of coveralls for a couple hours of low-crawling, flashlight in hand, along with each compartment’s damage-control petty officer. They found closures that weren’t watertight, misadjusted ventilation airflow alarms, and some other minor deficiencies and electrical hazards, which they fixed on the spot. The automatic doors worked. The fire-suppression systems in the engine spaces tested out.

  One message came through loud and clear, though he didn’t comment on it: the dust ’n’ rust were building up. Trash in the compartments. Dirty decks. Three-section watches, along with everyone being fagged from the aftereffects of the Savo Crud, probably made that inevitable. But all the inspection tags and maintenance were up to date.

  A quick shower, a change to khakis, and at 1500 he held a ceremony on the bridge, pinning enlisted surface-warfare specialty pins—silver “water wings”—on eight petty officers, and getting pictures to send the families, when they got connectivity back. The rest of the day he put in with the Aegis, ASW, and strike teams, fine-tuning and double-checking the calculations they’d generated, and deconflicting them into an overall barrier plan for the task group.

  His Hydra crackled as he lay melted into the chair in the little barbershop, all the way aft on the 1 level. The first time he’d felt relaxed all day. “Captain,” he grunted into the radio. Hoping he hadn’t been snoring while “Turbomouth,” the ship’s barber, cut his hair.

  “Sir, Dave Branscombe, TAO. We have all units in VHF range. You wanted to be called.”