Tomahawk (63 page)

Sometimes he didn't want to live.

Outside the window, the day dimmed, turning toward dusk, and the blue deepened until it was violet and then black. Still he sat motionless, staring at the table.

Till he made his choice, and picked up the phone.

 

 

 

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FOR A SNEAK

PREVIEW OF DAVID POYER'S

EXCITING NEW NOVEL,

CHINA SEA—

NOW AVAILABLE IN HARDCOVER

FROM ST. MARTIN'S PRESS!

Prologue 1

20° 05' N, 118° 36' E: West of
the Luzon Strait

The full moon soared over a hazy sea. Beneath it, like a fallen galaxy, rode a scattering of lights so vast no eye could encompass them all.

But a goldenglowing tactical display did. The maritime patrol plane had been aloft for eight hours. Now it churned through the summer night, back to its base in Japan. The petty officer at the console only occasionally glanced at the picture that reached out three hundred miles. Yellow on black sketched the downward-pointing dagger of Taiwan. To the east, a speckle of islands, then the blunt rump of Luzon. To the west, the coast of China. And scattered across the center of the screen, the ships and aircraft that had maneuvered here over the last week.

That exercise had just ended, terminated early in order to respond to aggression and violence in the Persian Gulf. He was starting to shut down his equipment when he noticed a spike on one of the screens.

It showed the output of a sonobuoy he'd dropped an hour earlier. A dangling microphone, deep in the sea. He debated not reporting it but finally depressed the switch on his headset mike as he pulled a keyboard toward him. “Charlie Charlie, Delta Lima. We have a surface contact out here. Two four-bladed props, steam propulsion tonals. I call it as a large combatant, nationality unknown.”

Forty-five miles astern, on the carrier, a petty officer clicked a transmit button. “Roger, Delta Lima. Have you
been advised, we're hauling ass to rescue Kuwait. You're gonna have to keep tabs on the China Sea by your own-selves now.”

The aircraft, droning through the dark: “Roger, understand that, but I don't think this is an exercise contact.”

On the carrier, the petty officer hesitated. Then he heard the chief's voice, behind him. “You gonna pass that on up or am I?”

Two minutes later the phone buzzed in the battle group commander's cabin. The admiral blinked himself awake with difficulty. Sleep had been all too short for the last few days. You were supposed to need less as.you got older, but he wasn't sure he bought that theory. When you missed it, you didn't feel as sharp as you had at thirty, eager to jump into the cockpit after a long night partying. “Yeah,” he grunted.

The flag watch officer gave him the essentials. An unidentified surface combatant had been detected west of the force. Did he want them to identify it, considering the exercise had ended? “Sure, why not?” the admiral said. “Detach a screen unit; let him check it out. No, make it two; include the Japanese if they haven't detached yet.” “Do we need to adjust formation course and speed, sir?” “I don't think so. What's the Luda group doing?” Three Chinese warships and a submarine out of the big South Sea Fleet base at Zhanjaing had shadowed the battle group since the exercise began. The staff watch officer reported they were clear to the northwest. The admiral told him to maintain formation course for the Strait of Malacca. He hung up, rolled over, and went back to sleep almost instantly.

USS
John Young
and JMSDF
Takatsuki
reached the ship's estimated location at 0050. So far this was standard procedure. Any surface, subsurface, or air contact in the battle group's vicinity was tracked and identified. If the craft belonged to another navy, it would often try to maneuver into an attack position. Each side would hold contact as long as
possible, gathering data and training sensor operators. It was a pick-up game at sea, officially denied by all parties, but nonetheless engaged in.

The battle group commander was jerked awake again at 0115. “What is it?” he snapped.

“It's the unidentified contact they reported on the last watch, sir. Message from the surface action unit commander. It's evading.”

“Evading?” The admiral came fully awake. “Any identification yet? Anything on ESM?”

ESM was electronic surveillance measures, classifying ships and other threats from the signatures of their radio and radar. “No, sir. He turned west and went to high speed as soon as he realized they were attempting to intercept.
John Young
tried flashing light, but he didn't respond.”

“Call
John Young.
Talk to the commander personally. Tell him to maintain the pursuit. Try to identify. But stay outside four thousand yards. Don't crowd him.”

The watch officer rogered and hung up. The admiral turned over but couldn't sleep.

At 0120 he let himself into the Command Decision Center. CDC was built of small interconnected rooms lit by dim blue overhead lights. Narrow walkways labyrinthed gray consoles. He pulled himself into a chair, staring at the large-screen display as the tactical action officer began briefing him on increased air activity in the Gouangzhou Military Region.

At 0136 the Tactical Officer's Plot, which tracked the surface picture out to thirty-five miles, called down to advise that the Luda group had altered course toward the task force. The admiral rogered, watching plane after plane rise into the air over southeastern China. A few minutes later he ordered all units to Condition Three.

At 0155 the mass of aircraft stacked over the Chinese
β
coast began moving out to sea. As they moved out of the land clutter, they organized into two groups.

The admiral ordered Condition One, full manning and readiness for immediate action, throughout the force. He passed Air Warning Yellow, sent a Red Rocket message
to Commander in Chief Pacific, info Pacific Air Forces, Thirteenth Air Force Clark Field, and the Joint Chiefs, and scrambled his fighter wings The carrier began launching the standby combat air patrol to deal with the second strike group, now turning southward after the first. She launched a radar surveillance bird and electronic jamming aircraft. The antisubmarine warfare commander pulled his screen in tight around the carrier.

“Sir, the Luda group's still closing the formation.” “I can't act against them at the moment.” “Understand that, sir, but one of them's tracking right down toward us.”

“Can't the screen keep him clear?” “Roger, sir, I'll pass that suggestion along.”

The running lights of the ship ahead were startlingly bright, magnified by the haze above the warm sea. The destroyer skipper listened to his orders, face set, then turned to the officer of the deck. “Okay, you heard the man. Get your rudder over now. Figure a course when you see the relative motion. Get between him and the carrier.”

“Sir, if he doesn't change course we'll hit him—”

“You heard me. Head him off!”

The OOD had never been ordered to put the ship into a position of danger before, and it took a moment to penetrate. The commanding officer was on the verge of relieving him when he said, “Aye, sir. Engines ahead full. Right standard rudder. Steady on one three zero … continue right to one five zero. Steady as she goes. Stand by for collision! Clear the starboard wing!”

The destroyer dug her stern in, heeling as the rudder levered at the sea. Turbines whined, and a white wave grew at her bow as the collision alarm needled into the eardrums of every man aboard.

A radioman coming out for a smoke break gaped up at a superstructure suddenly looming over him from the dark. Cooks clapped lids on boiling grease. Engineers went to their knees, grabbing for stanchions, the route
topside through trunks and escape scuttles suddenly vivid in their minds.

The two ships came together with a crunch and lurch, the shock and energy absorbed by bending steel and crumpling strakes. A lifeline caught and peeled back, then snapped with a deadly
zing
across the deck. From the helo deck a knot of aviation mechanics looked across into another bridge, staring at the faces of the men inside, eerily lighted from below.

In CDC, a television monitor showed a shrinking speck, steam whipping over the deck, the next fighter trundling toward the launch shuttle. At the same moment, a buzzer sounded from the compartment that housed electronic warfare.

“Pass missile warning, red. Air warning, red.”

The admiral stared at the gathering storm north of his force. The inverted triangles a hundred and eighty miles out were hostile aircraft. The inverted semicircles closer in were his air patrol. His sensors reported aircraft after aircraft switching on their missile-control radars.

So this was the kick-off. He just hoped they came through without losing too many guys. Leaning back, he tried to stay calm as the data updates made the hostile symbols jump inward every two seconds.

Then he recalled something. He leaned over and pressed a send key. “This is the admiral. Pass to
John Young
to break off prosecution on the surface unidentified and rejoin as soon as possible.”

Three minutes passed, during which the incoming aircraft bored twenty miles closer.

“Anti-air warfare coordinator reports verbal warning, no response received. Request missiles released, contingent on detecting weapons Separation.”

“Granted at crossover zone.”

“CAP One leader reports missile lock-on, request clearance to engage tracks A0028 through A0035 with Phoenix.”

“Stand by.”

An endless silence as the hostile tracks jumped inward
again. Checking the surface picture, the admiral noted that the two destroyers he'd sent west had dropped their pursuit of the unidentified ship and were headed back toward the battle group.

The tracks leapfrogged again. The tactical action officer was staring at him, waiting for the order to fire. They'd ignored his warning. It was time.

Then the lead bogey sidestepped, clicking a small but noticeable increment to the southwest.

“Sir? Recommend weapons release—”

“Just stand by One. Just stand by,” he breathed.

“CDC, ESM: Fan head illumination ceases.”

“Western strike group breaking off. New vector 290. Looks like they're going home.”

Just short of the weapons release point, the strike broke off and turned back to the west. The Chinese ships clung to the formation for a few more minutes, then peeled off as the carrier and her escort moved on ahead into the open sea, headed west on the long transit to the Gulf.

The admiral tilted his chair back, watching it recede. At 0255 the chief of staff placed a draft message in front of him. He made two changes and initialed it, then leaned back again. “That was exciting.”

“Too damn close for my taste. But what did it mean?”

“They consider this their back yard. Something we did set the dogs off big-time.”

“But what? We were peacefully transiting through international waters. If we let them shut us out of the China Sea—”

“Yeah, I agree. But we've got other fish to fry and there's only so many pans. Saddam's invaded Kuwait. They want us in the Arabian Sea as fast as we can get there.”

“How do we react here?”

“Not our problem. We've passed it up the line. Now if you don't mind, I'm going to get my head down for a few hours.”

Prologue 2

Forbidden City, Beijing

For some obscure reason, the powers that be had decided to hold the reception for the new Danish ambassador in a locale usually reserved for the most portentous of state occasions: the Hall of Supreme Harmony, deep in the imperial compound once known as the Violet City. It was walled by red-lacquered pillars and richly carved screens, decorated with bronze lions with strange uptilted snouts; from its ceiling shone dimly one solid blaze of reddish gold.

Beneath it a captain in trop whites stood in the middle of the vast expanse of floor, looking at the fierce entwining of sharp-clawed dragons high above. Swarthy and barrel-chested, the naval attaché wore dark glasses even though the hall was only poorly lighted. He was admiring a single dragon, which was dipping to suspend an immense golden pearl over the throne, glorious but empty, on a stepped dais near where he stood.