Red Phoenix Burning

Chapter 18 — Confrontation

With Operation Gangrim winding down, Rhee Han-gil had expected the summons to General Sohn’s headquarters. He would report not only on his own recent mission, but the Ghost Brigade’s operations as a whole. As his helicopter approached from the air, he could see the whole complex, sprawled more than half a kilometer on each side, with untidy clusters of tents, vans, and vehicle parks. He also noted antiaircraft emplacements that were thankfully idle. Lanes for vehicles wound through the base, raising dust that hung in the hot air until it found someone to cling to. Its size was appropriate, since it was the forward headquarters for the entire ROK Third Army.

Rhee was met by an anxious aide as soon as his helicopter landed, who led him through the camp to the commander’s area. They were meeting in the open, in a tent with three sides rolled up, the fourth shading them from the afternoon sun. A cluster of officers worked at laptops to one side. It was a familiar scene, until he noticed that at least a third of the soldiers in the tent were wearing DPRK uniforms. The sight bumped up hard against a lifetime of upbringing, as well as his entire army career. Intellectually, he wasn’t opposed to the idea, but it did take some getting used to.

A senior officer in a North Korean uniform stepped outside. Rhee immediately recognized General Tae. The aide saluted the general, and then left. Rhee also saluted the former DPRK general, who returned it and offered his hand.

“Thank you for not killing those men outside Anju.”

“You were the one who convinced them to join us, General,” Rhee replied.

Tae nodded, then said, “I’m really speaking of Captain Tak. You didn’t shoot him, even though he refused to come with you. We might have to fight him some day soon.”

Rhee disagreed, as politely as he could with a general. “You can’t change a dead man’s mind, sir. I can’t really think of ‘North’ and ‘South’ Korea any more.” Rhee paused, meaning to say more, but realized that Tae probably thought about the issue differently. He started to apologize, but Tae stopped him.

“I could not imagine that I would be here, in this place,” Tae explained, “but in truth, I could not imagine any kind of future living under the Kims. To stay sane in the DPRK, one had to live day to day.”

The aide reappeared. “General Tae, Colonel Rhee, General Sohn has arrived.”

Officially, Rhee was reporting to his immediate superior, General Kwon, but General Sohn, commanding the ROK Third Army, and Tae, representing the former Northern forces, sat in, listening and asking questions.

After describing his own mission, Rhee briefed them about the Ghost Brigade’s operations in the last phase of Operation Gangrim. He used a map that showed the Korean Peninsula north of Pyongyang, marked with lines showing both the Chinese advance, the suspected positions of the Kim faction holdouts, and the “United Han” forces. He stumbled a little over the phrase, and apologized.

“It’s not official yet,” Sohn cautioned the group. “The National Assembly is still arguing over whether it should be ‘United Han’ or ‘Great Han’ Republic. At least they’re leaving the flag alone.”

“‘Han’ is a good name,” Tae added. “There’s history behind it. I believe most Northerners will be able to identify with it, in time.”

For Rhee’s Ghosts, Gangrim had been a tremendous tactical success, but also a strategic failure. Although they’d struck dozens of targets, and captured or destroyed the vast majority of the North’s chemical weapons, none of the missions had yielded a single nuclear warhead. Nobody was naïve enough to believe that the Kims’ claims of possessing nuclear weapons had been all bluster. The DPRK had actually detonated several devices. They were there, somewhere.

“They may have been in the area the Chinese have occupied,” suggested Kwon hopefully.

Tae shook his head. “Unlikely. Most of the General Staff was unaware of their true location, including myself, but the Kims were always worried about the threat of a Chinese invasion.” Gesturing toward the map, he explained, “This is exactly what Kim Jung-un was afraid of. I always believed they were kept somewhere close to the capital. And it doesn’t really matter where they were. They certainly could be moved, and almost certainly have been, into the holdouts’ strongest, most secure location.”

“They’re in there. They have to be,” Sohn declared, pointing to the marked area on the map.

It was a sweeping assumption, but probably correct, Rhee believed. The Chinese army had advanced as far south as the Chongchon River, which ran roughly east-west across the peninsula. The Han forces, and a few US Eighth Army units, were still some forty kilometers to the south, organizing near Sukchon and Sunchon.

Having delivered his brief, Rhee expected to be dismissed, and began to gather his notes and tablet, but General Kwon said, “Please remain, Colonel. This discussion will affect you and your men, and we would welcome your ideas.”

Sohn’s intelligence officer, a colonel as well, briefed them all on what was known about “the Stronghold.” Scouts were well north of the Han army, watching and searching for the Chinese as well as the Northern holdouts. The scouts’ progress, or sometimes lack of it, had allowed them to draw a border around the Kim faction’s probable refuge.

From the city of Anju east to Lake Yonpung, south to Sunchon, then west to Sukchon and back north to Anju, an irregular rectangle enclosed a sparsely settled region filled with rugged, heavily wooded mountains, and threaded with river valleys. Numerous intel reports had all came to the same conclusion. The Kim faction had retreated into the highly defendable area, which not only held several army bases, but also a missile base and an airfield. It was also very likely that there were other installations built secretly into the rocky landscape.

“The Kim faction pulled a lot of their best antiaircraft units into the area, so we have very little information from aerial reconnaissance, either by manned aircraft or UAVs. So many UAVs have been shot down that we can’t afford to lose the rest. We are using what’s left to track the Chinese forces, although it’s your prerogative, General, if you want to change their tasking.”

Sohn shook his head. “No. We need to know about Chinese movements as well. I don’t like fighting two different enemies at the same time.”

“But our enemies can also fight each other,” the intelligence officer responded happily. “The northern edge of the Stronghold is on the south side of the Chongchon River. It’s likely that the Chinese will be able to attack soon. They’re bringing up bridging equipment, as well as more artillery, so they can force a crossing.”

Tae had to say it. “They may very well be ready to attack before we will.”

“The area is all mountains, filled with troops that have had weeks to dig in,” Sohn replied. “I won’t send in a force that can’t win.”

“Then let the Chinese attack, and inflict some casualties,” Kwon suggested.

Sohn shook his head. “I think we must move quickly. If the holdouts have nuclear weapons, then the risk increases the longer we wait. The Chinese attack across the river may pressure the holdouts to launch.” He gestured toward Rhee. “You remember what the colonel reported about the holdouts’ sentiments—’they won’t go down quietly.’”

Tae was also against waiting. “And if the Chinese do get across the river into the mountains, it could be very hard to push them back out, if it came to that.”

Sohn agreed. “Once they’ve paid in blood for that land, they’ll want to keep it, or charge us a high price to give it back.”

“When the Chinese invaded Vietnam in 1979, then retreated to their own border, all they left behind was scorched earth,” Tae said darkly. “If they couldn’t steal it, they blew it up or burned it. My country has suffered enough without them adding more ruin and destruction.”

“It’s now our country, General Tae, whatever the politicians decide to call it,” injected Rhee firmly. “We will defend it together.”

General Sohn, after nodding to General Kwon, said, “And that’s why you’re here, Colonel. Our orders to General Kwon are twofold: slow down the Chinese advance, and at the same time find a way to break through the holdouts’ defenses. We have to destroy their nuclear weapons and any delivery systems before it’s too late.”

Kwon pointed to Rhee. “Of the two, you can guess which one has the highest priority. I want you to work with me here, designing missions for all the brigades, not just your Ghosts. You’ve done well in this fight, Colonel, and we need you to come through for us again.”

Rhee carefully aimed his response at all the generals. Smiling, he answered, “I’ll do my best.”

No pressure.

“Captain, Yantai‘s getting set for another pass.” The OOD’s report sounded almost routine.

“Understood.” Commander Ralph Mitchell fought the urge to walk out on the bridge wing and look aft. The Independence class had been built with sloped, smooth sides to reduce their radar signature. They’d done away with the bridge wings, along with a lot of other things.

The old-style helmsman at the wheel and the sailor standing by the engine order telegraph had been eliminated. The bridge watch even got to sit down, which would have been heresy in his father’s navy. The officer of the deck and junior officer of the deck had their own display screens, and sat on either side of a bank of controls for the ship’s operation. To look aft, Mitchell could use the flat-screen display next to the chair, complete with joysticks and zoom controls.

The bridge on the Independence class was larger than those on most ships, and it seemed even more spacious with only two people at the control console, instead of the five or six or more on earlier ships. The normal watch section of two men — a commissioned officer of the deck, and a senior enlisted junior officer of the deck — could run the ship under most conditions. In a pinch, one man could do it. The “CO’s chair” was to the right of the control console, and came equipped with its own workstation. However, Mitchell often preferred the extra chair immediately behind the two watchstanders. Any similarity to science-fiction starships probably came from similar design goals. Probably.

Mitchell’s orders were clear. He was to trail the Chinese formation and monitor their operations. The Chinese clearly didn’t want him around, but just as clearly weren’t ready to fire on him, at least not yet.

“Yantai‘s speed is still increasing.” When you only had two people on the bridge driving the ship, division of labor was important. Mitchell had set up his teams so that the JOOD would concentrate on conning the ship, while the OOD kept his attention on the tactical situation. Monitoring the ship’s internal systems and sensors fell to the four watchstanders in Integrated Command Center 1, or ICC1, just behind the conning station.

Although an enlisted man, the JOOD was a first-class petty officer and technical specialist in one of the ship’s main systems — the gas turbines and waterjets, the weapons and sensors, and so on. He’d then received cross-training in the others. Besides, Mitchell could rely on Petty Officer Booth’s judgment. One of the good things about serving on Gabby was her small crew. You got to know everyone. He trusted Booth to mind the store, which allowed the OOD, Lieutenant Sontez, and Captain Mitchell to focus on the Chinese.

The formation they were trailing had left the navy base at Qingdao three days earlier. Chinese fleet activity had steadily increased since the crisis started on the fifteenth of August, but the sailing of this group had both Seoul and Washington deeply concerned.

It was centered on three amphibious ships, which between them could carry a regiment of troops, with armor and helicopter support. Three first-line guided missile destroyers and five frigates escorted them, while Chinese fighters from nearby bases along the coast flew top cover.

At first, some in Washington had thought the group might be heading for the Spratlys, raising the possibility of a naval confrontation in the South China Sea, but there were two fleets based well to the south that were more than capable of performing that mission, and still might. All doubts were removed when the Chinese task force hadn’t turned south, but loitered along the border of the Yellow Sea and Korea Bay.

They were likely a contingency force. If the ground troops hit a roadblock, the amphibious force would land their troops to break it up.

As the Chinese incursion into Korea had developed, this task force had steamed about almost at random, keeping clear of the surface traffic that filled the Yellow Sea, but making no attempt to conceal its presence. Every radar on the Chinese ships was energized, broadcasting electromagnetic radiation as it searched for contacts. Helicopters buzzed around the formation, inspecting nearby surface ships and searching for submarines.

Mitchell and Gabby had received orders to proceed westward within hours of a US Navy P-8 getting near enough to identify not only the warships, but the amphibs in the center of the formation. It was a twelve-hour run from the port of Busan, on the southeast coast of Korea, around the peninsula and north into the Yellow Sea, pushing her to nearly forty knots. She could go still faster, but would not have had any fuel when she arrived.

As fast as forty knots was, the Chinese formation could have crossed the water between the two coasts and landed its troops long before Gabby got there. Evidently, they didn’t want to, because they were still steaming in racetracks when Gabby showed up that morning.

Mitchell’s orders were simply to watch and report the movements of the Chinese formation. Loitering anywhere between forty to sixty miles off the coast, the Chinese could turn east, go to flank speed, and begin landing their troops in a few hours, anywhere from Nampo all the way up to the Chinese border. Although the eastern half of Korea was mountainous, the western coastal plain made it possible to put their troops ashore anywhere, especially in this age of helicopters and air-cushion landing craft. Mitchell was specifically charged to report immediately if the formation turned toward the Korean coast and increased speed to more than fifteen knots.

Gabby had been hurriedly fitted with an electronic intelligence collection van before she left port, and specialists were monitoring Chinese radar signals and their communications traffic down in ICC2. All comms were encoded, of course, but even the number of radio messages sent and the circuits used could be useful. In truth, they were studying how well the Chinese navy did its job. Mitchell and his crew recorded every aspect of the PLAN’s operations they could see, from launching and recovering helos to how well the Chinese ships kept position in their formation.

In the old days of the Cold War, the Soviets used to shadow American naval formations the same way. The “tattletales” were either trawlers converted to carry electronic eavesdropping equipment, or small, expendable warships. Russian doctrine was to follow the all-important NATO carrier groups, constantly reporting on their position and activities. If the transmissions ever stopped, it might be the first warning the Soviets had of a Western attack. Similarly, the first sign of a Soviet strike might be a shadowing destroyer suddenly opening fire with every weapon it had, hoping to cripple the carrier in a surprise attack.

Mitchell’s only orders were to follow and report, but one of the five Type 054A frigates was doing its best to chase him off. The frigate kept trying to “shoulder” Gabby aside. By rights, this should have been easy. Although only a little longer than Gabby, the Chinese ship had twice the mass.

Naval ships tried very hard to stay clear of each other. Even a minor ding in the hull could mean weeks or months of repairs in port, not to mention the paperwork. To shoulder another vessel, one ship would pull alongside, matching course and speed, and then slowly inch closer and closer to the other. Eventually, the ship being shouldered would have to change course or collide. It was “chicken of the sea,” although nobody ever called it that.

And there was a trick: by keeping your bow ahead of the vessel you were trying to drive off, if the two ships actually collided, the fact that the other guy’s bow struck your ship meant it was his fault — much more paperwork for him, and a propaganda victory for you. Ships attempting to shoulder another vessel always had a camera recording the action.

Mitchell didn’t cooperate, though. The formation, with nowhere particular to go, was loafing along at fifteen knots, with the US ship matching course and speed. The Chinese frigate could do twenty-seven, according to the intelligence pubs. But each time Yantai had come alongside, Mitchell had let the frigate get even with his bow and then steadily bent on more speed.

The first time, Yantai had given up after they’d reached twenty-five knots, falling back to her trailing position twenty-one hundred yards astern. After a short interval, Yantai had tried again, this time matching speed with Gabby until they reached twenty-eight and a half knots.

This was when Mitchell had really missed the bridge wing, because he would have walked out, the wind rushing over him, and studied the foreign warship, only a few dozen yards away.

The Type 054A was the newest class of frigate in the PLA Navy. The Chinese admirals must have liked them, because there were over twenty in the fleet and they were building more. Like most modern warships, she had clean lines and sloped sides, although not quite as radically as Gabby. The Type 054A was well armed for her size, with an automatic 76mm gun forward, two rotary 30mm guns aft, and two flavors of missiles — medium-range SAMs and YJ-83 antiship missiles that could reach out almost a hundred miles. Painted a pale gray, she was emblematic of the “new” Chinese navy that had appeared with the new century.

But Mitchell knew Gabby made her look like an antique. Instead of a single conventional monohull, she was a trimaran, with a center hull and two outriggers, with four waterjet propulsion units in the main hull. Ton for ton, trimarans had less of their hull in the water, which meant less drag. Her wave-piecing bow jutted out well in front of the deckhouse, which gave not only the illusion, but the reality of speed.

In fact, everything had been sacrificed to that one goal. Gabby‘s bow gun was only a 57mm, and her only other weapons were a point defense SAM, short-range Hellfire missiles, and four .50-caliber machine guns. She didn’t even carry ASW torpedoes, common on most warships. Too much weight. Besides, she didn’t have a sonar, so she wouldn’t know when to shoot one.

Racing side by side at twenty-eight — plus knots, the two ships were moving almost twice as fast as the formation, but Mitchell wouldn’t let the Chinese skipper get his bow ahead of the US ship. When he was sure that Yantai couldn’t increase her speed any more, he ordered the OOD to increase their speed to thirty-two knots, and they’d smoothly glided away from the Chinese warship.

Gabby circled back, taking station again, this time off the Chinese formation’s port beam. Mitchell had watched the frigate take up its trailing position behind them again, and imagined the conversation between her captain and the Chinese formation commander. He tried to put himself in the Chinese captain’s and the Chinese admiral’s shoes. This might look like a confrontation between ships and weapons, but it was really a contest of minds.

It must have been a short discussion, because Sontez’s report came only minutes later. “She’s launching her helicopter.”

Mitchell could see it rising from behind the frigate’s superstructure. Most warships had helicopter pads and hangars built into their stern, and used them for scouting or sub-hunting missions. Some could even carry light antiship missiles. The Type 054s carried Russian-built Kamov machines, quite handy but reminding Mitchell of an oversized light gray bug.

A helicopter might be slow compared to a jet fighter, or even most commercial aircraft, but this one was fast enough to zoom ahead of Gabby and then circle her several times.

“Probably taking pictures,” Sontez commented.

Meanwhile, Yantai had pulled alongside, matching the formation speed of fifteen knots, but didn’t seem interested in racing. Her skipper actually kept his bow back a little. He knew that bringing it even with Gabby would trigger another contest that he could not win.

“Watch him, OOD,” Mitchell cautioned.

The headset beeped. “Captain, the formation just turned east, new heading two seven five degrees true.”

“Yantai is closing!” Sontez was almost screaming.

Mitchell was ready. “All ahead flank! Hard left rudder! All hands brace for collision!” Booth hit the collision alarm and the warning sound filled his ears. The Chinese ship was probably close enough to hear it as well.

Where another ship might have heeled over in the turn, Gabby just pivoted in the water and leapt forward, away from the frigate’s knife-sharp bow. Her trimaran hull gave her stability, but also worked against her. Because of Gabby‘s radically sloping sides, her hull projected farther out underwater than it did at the waterline. In other words, the frigate was a lot closer than it might look.

They all felt the shock through the ship’s structure; people not strapped into their seats were thrown to the deck. Rattled around in his chair, Mitchell watched on the starboard quarter camera as the flat of Yantai‘s bow slammed into the LCS’s stern, the frigate heeling over against Gabby‘s sloping hull.

The Chinese vessel righted herself immediately, but although the two ships were clear at the waterline, a grinding, scraping vibration lasted for several moments before the frigate fell astern. Mitchell could see a long gash in his ship’s thin aluminum hull along the water’s edge.

The intercom relayed, “Bridge, Engineering. We’ve got flooding in at least two of the after ballast tanks on the starboard side hull. One of the fuel tanks may have been ruptured as well. The flooding seems to be contained, but I’ve sent a damage control team to verify our condition. The propulsion plant is still capable of answering all bells.”

“Very well. Have the XO inspect the damage.” Mitchell acknowledged the report with relief. The damage seemed to be contained. It could have been much worse. Fortunately, the starboard outrigger took the brunt of the blow. There wasn’t a lot of equipment in there to get hurt. The diesels and gas turbines were buried deep in the center hull, and there were no screws or rudders to foul, so as long as that damaged section of hull held together, they were in good shape. He checked the pit log. Their speed was still building, now close to forty knots.

“Any problems, JOOD?”

Petty Officer Booth replied, “She’s having a little trouble staying on course, Captain. And she’s a bit sluggish in answering the helm.”

Understandable, Mitchell thought, considering the starboard outrigger had just been pierced and partially flooded. The extra weight would also slow them down.

He ordered, “Bring us to two seven five degrees,” then pressed the intercom. “ICC1, Bridge. Make sure all this is getting sent to Seventh Fleet. What’s the Chinese ETA to Korean territorial waters?”

“At twenty-two knots they’ll reach the twelve-mile line in two and a half hours. If they stay on this course they’ll be off the mouth of the Taeryong River delta. Looks like the Chinese marines are going to try landing on the southern bank. It’s on your display, Skipper.”

Mitchell checked the screen to his right. From the south bank of the Taeryong River delta it was only twenty-five kilometers to the spot where Chinese bridging had been seen on satellite imagery — on the other side of the Chongchon River.

He carefully marked a spot on the chart just outside the mouth of the delta and asked, “What’s our best course and ETA to this location?”

After a moment’s pause, a line connected the symbol showing their current position to the new destination. “Course zero four eight, two and a half hours at flank, sir.”

“Petty Officer Booth, new course zero four eight, all ahead flank.”

Mitchell used the time to personally inspect the damage to the starboard outrigger. He met his executive officer at the access hatch. The XO quickly ran down the list. The two aft ballast tanks were breached and completely flooded. Number three fuel tank was leaking, and he had already ordered the engineering officer of the watch to transfer what fuel was left to another tank. Mitchell then followed his XO to the impact site. There he saw the thin aluminum plating high above the waterline had been deformed inward, but had held. The more severe damage was below.

Sure that his ship was seaworthy, Mitchell then took the time to make a report by voice to Seventh Fleet. After that, he made the rounds — a casual inspection, but an inspection nonetheless. The only place he didn’t visit was the signals intercept van and ICC2. His security clearance wasn’t high enough. The cryptological tech in charge did report they had been rattled, but not harmed by the jolt, and he’d be very grateful if that didn’t happen anymore.

Smiling, Mitchell replied he’d do what he could, and returned to the bridge by way of the flight deck. At forty-one knots, the wind buffeted and tore at his clothes, but he stayed for a while, taking in the horizon, before going back inside. There was nothing to see, though. The Chinese were still too far astern.

Although they weren’t in sight, Mitchell knew the Chinese could see Gabby, both by radar from their scout helicopters and by her own radar emissions. There was no need to conceal her location. In fact, he was doing everything possible to broadcast his presence and precise location. Often warfare was about stealth and surprise. Today, Mitchell was doing his best to make sure there were no surprises.

The Fire Scout drone helicopter they’d launched earlier had taken over the trailing role. Its radar, data linked to Gabby, showed the Chinese formation still on course, at twenty-two knots. The escorting frigates and destroyers could do over thirty, but the big amphibious ships weren’t built for speed. Twenty-two was the best they could do, so that had to be the formation’s maximum speed.

The drone kept well clear. Its radar had the range to see the formation from thirty miles out, and the radar image was sharp enough to allow Mitchell to identify individual ships by class. He’d placed the drone so far out to make sure the Chinese wouldn’t think it was a threat. It was still close enough for the Chinese to shoot it out of the sky if they’d wanted to. That fact that they hadn’t was hopeful.

There was no “fog of war” in this meeting. Thanks to the Fire Scout drone, Mitchell could figure the exact moment when the Chinese formation would appear on the western horizon, just over twenty miles away.

He’d placed Gabby two miles inside Korean territorial waters, which meant the Chinese had nineteen miles to decide if they were ready to start a fight with the United States. Aircraft from the two sides had sparred over the Korean Peninsula, but that had been more chance meetings than deliberate engagements. This time, if they wanted to land their troops, they’d have to deliberately sink an American warship.

Gabby was at battle stations, which meant a total of eight people on the bridge and in ICC1. Mitchell spent most of the time while they waited in his chair. Pacing the bridge would just make everyone else nervous.

The entire crew understood their purpose, but Mitchell explained over the ship’s announcing system, “If we have to shoot, I’m going to wait until the Chinese formation’s a mile inside Korean waters. I’ll angle the ship to present a narrow aspect while keeping one of the Hellfire modules clear, and I’ll take her to maximum speed. Be prepared for sharp maneuvers. If there’s time, I’ll designate the target, but if they fire first, just concentrate everything on the nearest ship for as long as we can.” He paused for a moment, and added. “Good luck to us all, and God bless the US Navy.”

Lieutenant Sontez, the OOD for general quarters, asked, “Do you think they’ll let us get close enough to shoot?”

Mitchell laughed. “They won’t waste any missiles on us. Those destroyers each have an automatic 130mm gun forward. Effective range is thirteen miles. Since our 57’s and the Hellfires’ ranges are about half that, they have a six-mile margin. But they’ll be shooting at a fast, sharply maneuvering target.”

Petty Officer Booth added, “Skipper, I understand that we’re a speed bump, but I would like to get some hits in before we’re gone.”

Mitchell said, “Right now, the admiral running that formation is rereading his rules of engagement. We know the Chinese are willing to engage Korean units. Without us here, they’d sail right in and land their troops and raise all kinds of hell. But if we say ‘halt,’ then the admiral’s got to decide if sinking us is covered in his orders. It’s even money he’s been on the phone to his fleet commander. I just wish I could have listened in.”

Sontez reported, “Sir, the lead ship is ten miles from the line.”

“And twelve miles from us,” Mitchell responded. “Evidently they’re not ready to shoot us outright. Well, it’s time to see what they have in mind.” He picked up the microphone for the bridge-to-bridge radio. “Chinese formation, this is USS Gabrielle Giffords. State your intentions.”

There was no immediate reply. Mitchell was expecting that. He pressed the intercom. “ICC1, tell me when they are exactly five miles from the CTML.”

He could do the math. The three-minute rule meant that at twenty-two knots, they’d cover twenty-two hundred yards, just over a nautical mile. Subtracting that from ten nautical miles…

It kept his mind occupied, and he was only a minute off when ICC1 announced over the intercom. “Five miles, Skipper.”

He keyed the radio mike again. “Chinese formation, this is USS Gabrielle Giffords. If you enter Korean territorial waters, I will fire on you.” Mitchell repeated it, then changed frequencies, and repeated it again. Not that it wasn’t obvious.

He checked the bow gun’s display. It had an EO tracker, and it was centered on the bow of the lead destroyer. Even at several miles, it seemed to dwarf the smaller US ship.

Sontez announced, “Three miles.” After the captain acknowledged his report, the lieutenant stated flatly, “If they shoot, we’re dead. If we shoot, we’re dead.”

“A strong argument in favor of nobody shooting,” Mitchell confirmed. “But we aren’t going to let them push us around.”

“They’re at the twelve-mile limit, Captain.” Sontez’s report had a hint of resignation.

“Understood, OOD,” Mitchell replied. The resignation was echoed in Mitchell’s acknowledgment, but his orders were crystal clear. “All hands, stand by to engage the lead Chinese destroyer, bearing two three zero degrees, two eight hundred yards. Helm, come left to 225 degrees, all ahead…”

“Sir, they’re turning.” Even as Sontez announced the turn, Mitchell could see it on the monitor. The lead destroyer was no longer showing only its bow, but its starboard side. He used his glasses to check the other ships. They were all turning.

“Belay that order, Lieutenant! Come right to two five zero at fifteen knots. We’ll stay on our side of the line and match their speed and course.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Sontez couldn’t keep the relief out of his voice, and there were a few muted cheers from the watchstanders in ICC1 behind them. Captain Mitchell just kept the glasses raised, silently watching the Chinese do exactly what he’d bet on. They could still sink Gabby anytime they wanted, but it looked like they didn’t want to.

“This time it was five missiles, Tony. Five!” General Randall Carter and his deputy were watching the stateside reaction to the latest North Korean missile launch. As focused as the newspeople were on the loss of life, they really hadn’t absorbed all the implications.

“It was probably every Musudan they had,” Tony commented. “It’s a big step forward, considering eight days ago, they fired one missile and missed completely.”

“It seems they finished reading the owner’s manual,” Carter replied darkly.

The flat-screen on the wall of Tony’s office showed the CNN feed. The banner across the bottom read “Breaking News: Lethal chemicals in warhead strike Guam”; the shaky image showed figures in bright yellow protective suits working with chemical detection kits. At MTV-like speed, the picture shifted to a roped-off wooded hillside, then plastic tents set up outside a hospital.

The on-screen anchor reported, “The chemical agent is still being identified, but it is some form of persistent nerve gas, which is making it very hard to decontaminate the victims. There have only been a few cases requiring treatment, though. Most victims die within minutes from asphyxiation.”

“I haven’t heard them say how big the affected area is,” Carter observed.

“Acres right now,” Tony answered. “But it’s spreading downwind. The only break we got was that one missile hit Apra Harbor dead center and landed in the water, and the other one a mile away in a park.”

“And the battery on Guam shot two down,” Carter added. “That gives the bad guys a forty percent success rate, counting the one that broke up in flight.”

“But why the sub base at Guam?” Tony asked, secretly glad they weren’t trying to decontaminate Osan or Kunsan. “As a military target, US Navy subs aren’t their greatest threat.”

“They’re demonstrating range and striking power,” the general answered quickly. “They would have hit Pearl if they could, but two thousand miles is probably the best the Musudan could do.” It was supposedly a modified copy of a Russian SS-N-6 sub-launched ballistic missile, but nobody had hard data on its performance, it had never flown before, until now. It could carry explosive, chemical, or even nuclear warheads.

General Carter explained, “Before I came to watch the TV with you, I spoke to my counterpart in Seoul. The Korean government is going nuts, which means Washington will go nuts. Tokyo and Beijing will climb onto the bandwagon, too. And I think they’re justified. What’s left of the North Korean regime just demonstrated the ability to launch five long-range missiles simultaneously, armed with WMDs. It’s likely they have more missiles, possibly with even longer ranges, assuming the KN-08 is real, and we know the South Koreans haven’t been able to find a single nuke.”

“Do you think the Kim faction will try to bargain now?” Tony asked. “Use the threat of more attacks to make a deal?”

Carter shook his head. “Unlikely. They would have already claimed this attack as a ‘demonstration.’ There’s been nothing. Besides, the South — excuse me, the ‘United Han Republic’—would never accept it.”

“Then what’s the Kim faction’s goal?”

Carter laughed, but he wore a grim smile. “Who do you think is driving that nut wagon?”