Eagle Station

One

Sunlight glittered on the azure waters ahead of USS McCampbell’s wide, flaring bow. Except for a patch of low-lying clouds on the distant northern horizon, the sky was clear in all directions. About two thousand yards to the southwest, a flash of white and gray showed where a small, twin-boomed, propeller-driven UAV, a drone, slowly orbited at low altitude — silently tracking the American destroyer as it drew closer to the heart of the Chinese-occupied island group.

“We’re coming up to Point Bravo, Captain,” the quartermaster of the watch announced. The young Navy petty officer kept his eyes resolutely fixed on the glowing integrated navigation display at his station. With the ship’s captain on the bridge acting as officer of the deck, this was no time to slack off. “Steady on course three-four-five. Speed twelve knots.”

“Very well,” Commander Amanda Dvorsky said calmly, keeping a tight rein on her own expression. Point Bravo was a purely notional spot in the sea. But it marked a moment of decision for the two ships under her command today — her own McCampbell and another Arleigh Burke—class destroyer, USS Mustin, trailing along a thousand yards behind. Turning back to the west or southwest would keep them out of waters illegally claimed by the People’s Republic of China, the PRC. Turning north would take a well-deserved poke at Beijing’s puffed-up territorial pretensions. Doing so, however, was sure to set off a diplomatic firestorm… or worse, if the communist nation’s notoriously touchy military overreacted.

Inwardly, she shrugged. Her orders to conduct a FONOP, a Freedom of Navigation Operation, were clear. She turned to her conning officer, Lieutenant Philip Scanlan. “All right. Let’s go trail our coat, Phil. Bring her to course zero-zero-zero.”

He swallowed once and nodded. “Aye, Captain.” He raised his voice slightly. “Helm, come right, steer course zero-zero-zero.” Aboard a U.S. Navy ship, only steering orders issued by its conning officer could be obeyed.

The helmsman, a wiry sailor barely old enough to be out of high school, reacted instantly, spinning McCampbell’s small steering wheel with practiced ease. “Come right to course zero-zero-zero, aye, sir,” he repeated loudly. “My rudder is left three degrees, coming to course zero-zero-zero.”

Dvorsky felt the deck under her feet heel only slightly as her destroyer swung north. The wide-beamed Arleigh Burkes were incredibly stable ships, especially when moving so slowly. One corner of her mouth twitched upward in a fleeting smile. McCampbell ordinarily cruised at twenty knots. Steaming straight through the middle of the Chinese-claimed Paracel Islands at just twelve knots was the naval equivalent of moseying onto a rival street gang’s turf with your hands buried deep in your pockets and a smart-ass grin on your face.

Part of her enjoyed imagining the heartburn and indignation this exercise was going to cause her Chinese counterparts and their superiors. But what she didn’t like was going into this situation without better intelligence. Reports claimed that the PRC had significantly beefed up its military forces in this region recently, especially on Woody Island, or Yŏngxīng Dăo as the Chinese called it, the largest of the Paracels. Unfortunately, those same reports contained almost no detail on the new Chinese sensors, combat aircraft, and missiles her ships might face. Equally unfortunately, those fragmentary estimates were the best the U.S. intelligence community could currently provide.

Up to a few months ago, information gathered by America’s network of radar, spectral imaging, and signals intelligence (SIGINT) reconnaissance satellites could have painted a clear picture of the PRC’s current force structure in the Paracel Islands. Now those satellites were gone — systematically destroyed by an armed space station, Mars One, that the Russians had rapidly and secretly deployed into orbit. Although a daring and desperate spaceborne commando attack had succeeded in capturing Mars One, it had come far too late to save any of the U.S., allied, and commercial surveillance satellites in low Earth orbit.

Dvorsky knew replacements were being lofted into space, but that was a slow and extremely expensive process. Spy satellites were essentially handcrafted, painstakingly assembled by specialists with intricate precision. So it would be years before America and her allies regained full global situational awareness. Until then, they were forced to rely almost entirely on whatever imagery could be collected by astronaut crews aboard the captured Russian space platform, now designated Eagle Station. The trouble was Eagle’s orbital track allowed only occasional observation of limited swaths of the world as it swung overhead… and its movements were predictable. Hostile powers like Russia and China could easily conceal or camouflage anything they wanted to keep secret before the space station came into view.

Which left old-fashioned reconnaissance by aircraft and ships as the fastest and most efficient means of intelligence-gathering left to the United States. Hence her orders to carry out a “freedom of navigation” operation right past this heavily fortified Chinese island base. Of course, pushing in up-close-and-personal like this could be dangerous, especially against adversaries with itchy trigger fingers. Back during the Cold War, before the advent of satellites, nearly forty U.S. aircraft on intelligence-gathering missions were shot down by Russian and Chinese fighters and antiaircraft weapons. And no one in the U.S. Navy could forget the fate of the USS Liberty, accidentally bombed and strafed by Israeli jets during 1967’s Six-Day War, or the USS Pueblo, attacked and captured by North Korea in 1968.

Well, Dvorsky thought, she sure as hell had no intention of being caught off guard by any level of Chinese reaction to this unannounced intrusion into what they considered their own territory. She turned to the boatswain’s mate standing next to the controls for the ship’s 1MC public address system. “Sound general quarters.”

Shrill warning horns sounded throughout McCampbell. Her crew, briefed thoroughly during the run-up to this operation, rapidly and efficiently donned their protective gear and then headed for their battle stations.

On the bridge, Commander Dvorsky finished putting on her own anti-flash hood and gloves. With a nod of thanks, she took the Kevlar helmet a young sailor offered. “Okay, everyone stay sharp,” she said firmly. “Now let’s go see what our pals from the PRC are up to out here.”

Navy Captain Yang Zhi studied the televised pictures of the two American warships as they turned north toward the island under his command. The images came from a small Yinying or Silver Eagle drone flying less than two kilometers from the lead ship, USS McCampbell. It had been shadowing the enemy vessels for more than an hour, ever since the Americans steamed past a floating surveillance platform anchored at Bombay Reef, on the outer edge of the Paracel Islands Defense Perimeter.

His jaw tightened. This sudden northward turn plainly signaled the U.S. Navy’s intention to violate China’s territorial waters. These so-called freedom of navigation operations were a constant irritant — proof that the arrogant Americans did not see the People’s Republic as an equal. In the past, the PLA Navy’s own warships would have harassed them, crossing their bows at high speed and maneuvering close alongside to force the intruders to alter course… or risk collision. But for some unfathomable reason, his superiors in the South Sea Fleet had recently recalled the pair of Type 052 Luyang II—class guided missile destroyers that normally patrolled these islands. By now those ships were rocking uselessly at anchor at Zhanjiang Naval Base, more than five hundred and fifty kilometers to the north. And before the Luyangs could return, the Americans would be long gone.

Yang tapped a control on his console, zooming in on the aft section of the leading enemy destroyer. A large, unmarked shipping container was tied down on her helicopter pad. Thick bundles of what looked like power and fiber-optic cables ran across the deck between the container and the ship’s hangar. That was strange. This improvised installation made flight operations by McCampbell’s embarked SH-60 Sea Hawk helicopters impossible. He turned to his chief of staff. “Your evaluation?”

The other man leaned in closer. “I suspect that container is crammed full of intelligence-gathering equipment, Comrade Captain. New devices to spy on us. And the Americans have adopted a crude but effective means of concealing this equipment from our view.”

Yang nodded. That was his own guess as well. Besides humiliating China by steaming unmolested through its territory, the enemy also intended to collect vital information on Yŏngxīng Dăo’s defenses. He frowned. They were probably hoping to taunt him into turning on his surface-to-surface missile tracking and fire control radars or sortieing the Shenyang J-15 fighter-bombers concealed in hardened shelters adjacent to the island’s 2,700-meter-long runway.

If so, that was a game he would not play. At least not without direct orders from those higher up in his chain of command. “Has there been any response from Vice Admiral Zheng?”

“Not yet, sir,” his chief of staff said. He shrugged. “Our data is being relayed in real time to Zhanjiang, though, so the fleet commander must be aware of this situation.”

Aware and quite probably sitting on his immaculately manicured hands, too afraid to make any decision that Beijing might disavow later, Yang thought bitterly. Like too many in the PLA Navy’s upper reaches, Vice Admiral Zheng was more a political animal than a naval strategist or tactician. Having foolishly stripped away the patrolling Chinese warships that were his subordinate’s best hope of dealing with this latest American provocation, Zheng probably saw no benefit in involving himself directly now.

To Yang’s surprise, the command post’s secure phone buzzed sharply.

His chief of staff picked it up. “Yŏngxīng Dăo Command Post, Commander Liu speaking.” He stiffened to attention. “Yes, Admiral! At once.” Eyes wide, he turned to Yang and held out the receiver. “It’s Beijing. Admiral Cao himself is on the line.”

Yang whistled softly. Admiral Cao Jiang was the commander of the whole PLA Navy. What the devil was going on here? Why was naval headquarters in the capital bypassing not only the South Sea Fleet, but also the whole Southern Theater Command? He grabbed the phone. “Captain Commandant Yang Zhi here.”

“Listen carefully, Captain,” Cao said in short, clipped tones. “The orders I am about to give you come from the highest possible authority, from the president himself. You will immediately contact the senior officer aboard those U.S. Navy ships. Once in communication, you will—”

Yang listened to his instructions in mounting astonishment and exultation. Far from catching his country’s leaders off guard, it was clear that this high-handed American incursion into Chinese territory had instead set in motion a carefully prepared and long-planned response.

“Attention, McCampbell,this is Captain Commandant Yang Zhi of the People’s Liberation Army Navy. Your ships have illegally entered territorial waters of the People’s Republic of China. Accordingly, you are ordered to withdraw immediately, at your best possible speed. Acknowledge the receipt of my transmission and your intention to comply without delay. Over.”

Commander Amanda Dvorsky listened coolly to the strident voice coming over the bridge loudspeakers. The Chinese officer’s English was excellent. Too bad his language skills weren’t matched by a grasp of diplomacy or tact. She keyed her mike. “Captain Commandant Yang, this is USS McCampbell. Your transmission has been received. However, we will not, repeat not, comply with your demands. Under international law, your country has no valid claim to these waters. Nor do you have any right to interfere with our freedom of navigation on the high seas. We are proceeding on course as planned. McCampbell, out.”

Dvorsky ignored the nods and pleased looks from the rest of her bridge crew. Yang’s demand and her refusal were only the opening moves in this confrontation — like the ritual advance of pawns in a chess game… or the first tentative attack and parry in a fencing match. Now they would see what else, if anything, the Chinese had up their sleeves.

The radio crackled again. “Yang to McCampbell. This is your final warning. Your ships are now inside a special defense test zone. You are in imminent danger. Unless you obey my previous directive without further delay, the People’s Liberation Army Navy cannot guarantee the safety of your vessels. Yang, out.”

“Well… that’s interesting,” Dvorsky muttered, more to herself than to any of her officers or crew. It looked as if all those highly classified briefings she’d received before McCampbell departed her home port in Japan were about to come into play. She swung back toward the boatswain’s mate at the 1MC system. “Patch me through to our passengers on the helicopter pad. I think they’re about to earn their keep.”

Blue-tinged overhead lights glowed softly inside the converted shipping container tied down on the destroyer’s aft section. Like the subdued lighting used in warship combat information centers, this made it easier for its occupants to read the array of computer-driven multifunction displays and other electronic hardware crammed into virtually every square foot of space.

“Your analysis matches ours, Captain,” Brad McLanahan said into his headset mike. “We’ll stand by.”

The tall, broad-shouldered young man tapped an icon on one of his large displays, temporarily muting his connection to McCampbell’s bridge. He swiveled slightly in his seat so that he could see his two companions. “Standing by is one thing,” he said with a quick, edgy grin. “But I sure wish I didn’t feel so much like a sitting duck in this crate.”

“Too bloody right,” Peter Charles “Constable” Vasey murmured from his station. Like the others, the Englishman was an experienced aviator, ex — Fleet Air Arm in his case. Working for Scion, a private military and defense intelligence company, had accustomed them all to flying high-tech aircraft and single-stage-to-orbit spaceplanes that could get into, and just as important, out of trouble at supersonic and hypersonic speeds. Compared to that, heading into possible action aboard even this sleek, thirty-knot-plus destroyer felt like they were strapped into a lumbering bus.

Perched between the two bigger men, dark-haired Nadia Rozek only shrugged. In one action after another against the Russians with Scion’s Iron Wolf Squadron, the former Polish Special Forces officer had proved herself tough-minded, focused, and fearless. “This is why they pay us so well, correct?”

Brad raised an eyebrow. “We’re getting paid?”

“Well, I am, at least,” she said, thumping him gently in the ribs. The diamond engagement ring on her left hand glittered briefly in the dim blue light. “Did you forget to sign your contract again?”

Vasey laughed. “Come now, you two. You can’t fight in here. This is a war room, remember? Save that for later, when you’re married and it’s all aboveboard and legal.”

Abruptly, the sophisticated electronic detection system mounted in their container broke in. “Warning, warning. Multiple I-band and S-band surface and air search and tracking radars detected. Bearing zero-zero-two and one-seven-five degrees. Sources evaluated as land-based Type 366 naval-grade radars, JY-9 mobile radars, and unknown-type associated with Bombay Reef Ocean-E anchored surveillance platform. Signal strength indicates positive identification and probable target lock-on.”

“Well, that ups the ante,” Brad said quietly. He swung back to his displays and unmuted his connection to McCampbell’s bridge. “Special Action Unit, here, Captain. Our Chinese friends are lighting up everything they’ve got.”

“So I hear from my CIC team,” Commander Dvorsky replied curtly. “Recommendations?”

“That we carry on as planned. I’m contacting RANGE BOSS now.”

“Very well,” the ship’s captain said. “Keep me in the loop.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Brad punched another icon, this one activating a secure satellite video link to a location nearly seventy-five hundred nautical miles and twelve hours’ time difference away. A window opened immediately, showing a man with a square, firm jaw and a heavily lined face. Automatically, he straightened up in his seat. “Sir.”

“Y’all ready to proceed, Major McLanahan?” the other man asked quietly. “Because from the data we’re getting on this end, I’d say this thing is just about ready to kick off.”

“Yes, sir,” Brad confirmed. “We’re ready.”

“Well, all right, then,” John Dalton Farrell, president of the United States, told him. “You have the green light. I figure it’s time to send the powers that be in Beijing the kind of message those sons of bitches will understand.”