Ashes of Victory

— 26 —

Launched a year before from Vandenberg Air Force Base, California, the low-Earth orbit servicing unit created by Space Systems/Loral in Palo Alto, California, made its final approach to the malfunctioning STSS-2 satellite from the US Missile Defense Agency (MDA).

Designed and deployed for the sole purpose of repairing and refueling satellites in low earth orbit, Restore-L fired its helium verniers, slowing as it neared the military surveillance asset.

On the third floor of a nondescript building at the Johnson Space Center in Houston, Texas, twenty-nine-year-old Billy Culver, an engineer from Loral, sat behind his cluttered control console while his two uniformed clients from the Department of Defense looked over his shoulder.

Sipping his third Red Bull since the start of his midnight shift three hours before, Billy barely touched his right thumb and index finger against the joystick control next to his keyboard. Moving it with the same finesse with which he’d mastered Ninja Gaiden II and Flywrench, two of the most difficult video games ever designed, he maneuvered the service satellite right up to the underside of the SSTS-2. Tapping his keyboard, he focused two of its lenses on the graphite fiber exterior.

“Whoa,” he said when he saw the round charcoal area roughly six inches in diameter getting progressively darker toward a quarter-size hole in the center. “Nasty burn.”

“So, it’s confirmed, then,” one of the DoD men said as Billy snapped photos.

“No shit, amigo,” Billy offered.

“Good,” the other DoD man said.

“Anything else, dudes? Gotta get to a job from GE next.”

“Actually, two things,” the first uniform said. “What you saw is a matter of national security and—”

“Yeah, yeah, blah, blah, blah,” Billy interrupted. “I get it. I have clearance, remember?”

As the DoD men exchanged another glance, Billy added, “And the second thing?”

“The photos. Could you send them to the email—”

“Already done, dudes.”

Within the hour, the images made it to the Pentagon, then the White house, confirming the suspicion that the SSTS-2 had been hit by a ground-based laser two days earlier, as it had cruised over the Chinese missile site at Guangdong.

Sitting on a sleeping berth in a cabin belowdecks, Yuri Sergeyev awaited his fate.

The submarine commander knew he was in an impossible situation, and the more he considered it, the more he questioned the order to surface. At least dying at sea in the execution of his mission would have given his family a chance to live and prosper in Chile.

But now…

As he contemplated his limited choices, a man in civilian clothes entered the stateroom. He looked Asian but his deep-bronze-colored skin suggested perhaps Indonesian or Filipino ancestry.

“Captain Sergeyev.”

Sergeyev nodded, then asked, “And you are?”

The man didn’t show any annoyance at the question. “You may call me Bill, though I won’t pretend that’s my real name.”

Sergeyev nodded. “Of course not. My crew is being looked after, Bill?”

The dark Asian man again didn’t show any reaction. Instead, he reached into a pocket of the cargo pants he wore and produced Sergeyev’s phone.

“Captain, in all seriousness, the fate of your crew depends on this conversation. If it goes well, they will be treated well. If it does not…”

Sergeyev nodded again. He understood the threat. “In that case, please treat them very well.”

The man looked questioningly at the captain. “And why would I do that?”

Rubbing his bearded chin, Sergeyev tried to think this through one more time, because once he crossed that line there would be no going back.

“Because, Bill, I can give you what your government wants.”

The man tilted his head. “And… what would that be?”

Sergeyev nodded toward the small, encrypted satellite phone and said, “The identity of my employer… and his location.”

Standing next to his XO, Cmdr. Frank Kelly frowned as he looked around his control room. Now that the crew of the Type 212A had been transferred to USS Zumwalt, COMSUBPAC had assigned the Mighty Mo to Rear Admiral Jack Swift, commander of the Carl Vinson Carrier Strike Group, while operating in the strait.

Kelly’s new orders: intercept and track a Chinese Type 096 ballistic-missile boat that had entered the north end of the strait twenty-four hours earlier as part of the escort for the aircraft carrier Liaoning.

Lying in wait, engines off, Missouri had fallen in its trail as the Chinese submarine had cruised by at a depth of two hundred feet, its crew apparently unaware that a US hunter-killer submarine had turned into its baffle.

While Liaoning remained in the northern part of the strait, a good distance from the Vinson carrier group, the Type 096 had headed south.

For the past seven hours, Kelly had tracked it down the strait fifty miles off the coast of China, past the islands of Dongshan Dao and Nan’ao Da before reaching the Penghu Archipelago. The Type 096 had then continued south into the South China Sea, presumably headed to Yulin Naval Base, home of the ballistic submarines of the PLA Navy.

“Need a word in private, Bobby,” Kelly told Giannotti. “Let’s go to my cabin.”

“Yes, sir.”

When they entered the commander’s small stateroom adjacent to Giannotti’s and across from the junior officers’ quarters, Kelly shut the door and then opened his safe. “Have a seat. You want to be sitting down when you read this.”

Kelly reached inside and produced a classified document that had arrived along with their new orders but labeled COMMANDING OFFICER — EYES ONLY.

“This has been authenticated, direct from the White House by way of Admiral Blevins to Commander, US Pacific Command to Commander, US Pacific Fleet. From there it was relayed to Admiral Swift, who passed it to me.”

Giannotti frowned. “Boss, very few good things actually float downstream, and I get the feeling this isn’t one of them.”

Kelly sighed, then handed it over. “Read the president’s direct order.”

Still frowning, Giannotti read the directive and looked at Kelly as his scowl broadened to the point that it creased his forehead. “Skipper, am I missing something, an exercise?”

“No, Bobby,” Kelly said. “It’s not a test or an exercise. It’s the real thing.”

“As opposed to what we’ve been doing for the past week?”

“This one’s straight from the top,” Kelly trailed off. “Though it’s unusual, to say the least.”

“Yes, it is,” his executive officer replied, a troubled look on his face. “Definitely getting hot in the strait.”

“Any doubts?” Kelly asked.

“Not if it’s been authenticated by COMPACFLT,” Giannotti replied, referring to the commanders of the US Pacific Fleet.

“The admiral wants it carried out as soon as practical, but left it at my discretion,” Kelly said with determination in his voice. “I’ve sat on it for the past several hours. In my view, this is as good a time as any. Concur?”

“Yes, sir,” Giannotti said.

“And I want you to be the officer of the deck when we execute it.”

Giannotti just stared back.

“You can handle it, Bobby.”

“Thank you, sir. But for the record, I can’t believe we’re doing this.” Waving the piece of paper, he added, “You realize this is the only thing that differentiates us from a terrorist flying a plane with explosives into a carrier.”

“I do,” Kelly said matter-of-factly. “But theirs not to reason why.” Then glancing at his wristwatch, he added, “I’ll brief the crew, and you’ll execute the order in ten minutes. Do you have any questions?”

Slowly he shook his head. “I just hope we’re not kicking off World War Three here.”

“Yeah,” Kelly said in a subdued voice. “If there’s any consolation, unlike the older Type 094 that carries twelve JL-2 SLBMs, the new Type 096 houses twenty-four, each with almost a five-thousand-mile range and up to four independent nuclear warheads in the ten-megaton range. If the bastard gets within a thousand miles from our west coast, it could shower us with little-to-no warning.”

After a heavy sigh, Giannotti added, “I’ll go to the control room now, sir.”

Giannotti rose from his seat with a flurry of questions on his mind that were well beyond his pay grade, but he understood that orders were orders and that the time had come for him to show he had what it took to command one of these boats. He took a deep breath as he approached the watch station for the officer of the deck. He relieved the lieutenant and then made a quick mental assessment of the operational situation.

Shortly thereafter, Cmdr. Kelly made his surprise announcement to the crew. They would be conducting a first for the attack submarine. Missouri had a direct order to kill the pride of the Chinese submarine fleet.

“Range to target?” Giannotti asked.

“Three thousand feet,” Chappelle replied. “Bearing three-six-zero. Speed one-five knots.”

“Ahead slow,” Giannotti ordered, in order to create a little more separation.

“Ahead slow, aye.”

Counting the seconds in his head, he asked again, “Range to target?”

“Three thousand five hundred feet, sir,” Chappelle replied.

After receiving confirmation from the weapon systems officer that Missouri had a firing solution, Giannotti took a deep breath and said, “Fire one.”

“Fire one, aye.”

Counting to five in his head, he said, “Fire two.”

“Fire two, aye.”

The pair of MK 48 ADCAP (advanced capabilities) heavyweight acoustic-homing torpedoes rushed out of their bow tubes, and their sonar and all-digital guidance systems locked on to the stern of the Type 096.

“Twelve seconds to impact. Type 096 starting evasive maneuvers. Both torpedoes have acquired. Type 096 has released countermeasures. Five seconds to impact. Countermeasures ineffective,” Chappelle reported before removing his headphones.

Although there were only two torpedoes, the large SSBN exploded three times — the third being the largest of the blasts, even rattling Missouri more than a half mile away.

Chappelle put his headphones back on, listened for a moment, then said, “Confirming breakup of target, sir.”

“Set depth six-zero feet,” Giannotti ordered.

A couple of minutes later, high-definition video of the field of debris floating south of the Luzon Strait filled two of the flat screens.

“Ahead one-third. Right full rudder,” Giannotti ordered, to maneuver the attack submarine around the perimeter of bits and pieces floating on the surface.

He inhaled deeply, staring at the debris, and for a moment questioned his lifelong dream of commanding an attack submarine.

Feeling the gaze of the men inside that control room waiting for his next order, Giannotti calmly turned to the radio station and said, “Inform Vinson. Mission accomplished.”

“Aye, sir,” replied the senior electronics technician, working his controls to relay the message.

A minute later, as they continued circling the flotsam, the printer next to the senior technician churned to life. Unfortunately, rather than receiving the standard acknowledgement reply from the fleet, and perhaps even an “attaboy,” Missouri simply received new orders directly from Admiral Swift.

After reading the directive twice, Giannotti sighed and said, “Set depth three hundred feet. Bearing two-seven-zero.”

As the crew executed his order to get them back to the Taiwan Strait, he gave the drifting remains of the Chinese sub a final look. He reached inside his shirt and found the cross he wore. Holding it, he said a silent prayer for the souls of those whose lives had just been taken. May the Lord have mercy on them… and on us.

Then he calmly left the control room in the hands of a lieutenant and headed back to Cmdr. Kelly’s cabin.