Sky Masters

3

“Good morning, sir,” Navy Captain Rebecca Rodgers, senior staff officer, Pacific, of J-2, the Joint Chiefs of Staff Intelligence Directorate, began. “Captain Rodgers with this morning’s intelligence report. The briefing is classified top secret, sensitive sources and methods involved, not releasable to foreign nationals; the room is secure.” She paused to double-check that the thick mahogany double doors to the Pentagon’s Joint Chiefs of Staff Conference Center, referred to as the “Tank” or the “Gold Room,” were closed and locked and that the red “Top Secret” lights were on. Rebecca “Becky” Rodgers could feel the tension of the men and women in the Tank that morning, and her news was not going to help to cheer them up one bit.

Captain Rodgers was at the briefer’s podium at the base of the Tank’s large, triangle-shaped conference table where everyone could see her and the screen clearly. It was a most imposing and decidedly uncomfortable spot — seven of the most senior, most powerful military men on the planet watching her, waiting for her, no doubt evaluating her performance every moment. The first few sessions in this room had been devastating for her. But that was a half-dozen crises ago, and it seemed like old hat now. She didn’t need the old trick of trying to imagine the Joint Chiefs naked to get through her nervousness — the fact that she knew something that these powerful men and women did not know was comfort enough.

Present for the briefing was JCS Chairman General Wilbur Curtis; the Vice Chairman, Marine Corps General Mario Lanuza; the Chief of Naval Operations Admiral Randolph Cunningham; Commandant of the Marine Corps General Robert Peterson; Air Force Chief of Staff General William Falmouth; and Army Chief of Staff General John Bonneville, plus their aides and representatives from the other J-staff directorates. Curtis insisted on attendance by all Joint Staff members and directorates for these daily briefings — it was probably the only opportunity for the staff to get together as a team during their busy week.

The Chairman sat at the blunted apex of the triangle, with seats available beside him at the head of the table for the Secretary of Defense and the President of the United States if they chose to attend, although in his two years of office, the President had never set foot in this place. The four-star Joint Staff members and their aides and staffers sat on the Chairman’s left, the J-staff directorate representatives on the right, and guests and briefers at the base of the triangle near the back. Each seat had a small communications console and computer/TV monitor embedded in the table, which was fed from the giant Global Military Communications, Command, Control, and Intelligence Network operations center on another level of the Pentagon. The back wall of the Tank was a large rear-projection screen. Arranged above it was a series of red LED digital clocks with various times, and several members of the staff, by force of habit after long years aloft or at sea, gave themselves a time hack from those ultra-precise clocks every morning.

“The number-one topic I have for you today is the Philippines and South China Sea incidents,” Rodgers said after concluding her routine force status briefings. “In response to the attack on an oil-exploration barge a few months ago in the neutral zone in the Spratly Island chain, both the Philippines and China have stepped up naval activity in the area.

“Specifically, the Chinese have not added any new forces except for a few smaller shallow patrol boats. They have a very strong contingent there, including the destroyer Hong Lung, which carries the Hong Qian-91 surface-to-air missile system, the Fei Lung-7 and Fei Lung-9 antiship missile systems, and a good complement of dual-purpose guns. Additionally, they have two frigates, four patrol boats, some minesweepers, and other support vessels. They usually detach into three smaller patrol groups, with a missile craft leading two groups and Hong Lung and its escorts comprising the third. Vessels from the South Sea fleet, headquartered at Jhanjiang, rotate with the ships about once per month; however, Hong Lung rotates very seldom. Their base on Spratly Island is very small, but they can land medium-size cargo aircraft there to resupply their vessels.

“The Filipinos have substantially increased their presence in the Spratly Islands following the attack on the oil barge. They have sent two of their three frigates into the disputed area and are now patrolling their section vigorously with both sea and air assets.

“But despite the naval buildup, the Philippine naval fleet is practically nonexistent,” Rodgers concluded. “All of their major combatants are old, slow, and unreliable. The crews are generally not well trained and rarely operate more than a day’s cruise away from their home ports.”

“So without the United States forces to back them up, they’re sitting ducks for the Chinese,” Admiral Cunningham said.

“Sir, the Chinese fleet is not that much more advanced than the Philippine fleet, at least the vessels that operate near the Spratly Islands,” Rodgers said. “Most are small, lightly armed patrol boats. The exception, of course, is the flagship, Hong Lung. It is without question the most capable warship in the entire South China Sea, comparable in performance to U.S. Kidd-class destroyers but faster and lighter. The frigates are heavily armed as well; most have HQ-61 SAM missiles, which would be very effective against the Filipino helicopters and may even be capable against the Sea Ray antiship missile. All are comparable in performance to U.S. Oliver Hazard Perry-class frigates, except without helicopter decks or the sophisticated electronics.

“The main Chinese offensive thrust would obviously be their overwhelming ground forces — they could land several hundred thousand troops in the Philippines in very short order,” Rodgers concluded. “Although we generally classify the Chinese Navy as smaller and less capable than ours, their naval forces are very capable of supporting and protecting their ground troops. An amphibious assault on the Philippines by the Chinese would be concluded very quickly, and it would push the necessary threshold of an American counterstrike to very high levels — very much along the lines of our DESERT SHIELD deployment, although without the advantage of forward basing.”

“So if the Chinese want to take the Spratly Islands, there’s not much we could do about it,” General Falmouth summarized.

“Sir, at the current force levels in the area, if the Chinese wanted to take the Philippines, there would be little we could do about it…”

There was a very animated murmur of voices at that comment. Curtis was the first to raise his voice above the others: “Wait one, Captain. Is this a J-2 assessment or an opinion?”

“It is not a directorate finding, sir, but it is nevertheless a statement of fact,” Rodgers replied. “If they so decided, it would take the People’s Liberation Army Navy less than a week…

“Ridiculous…”

“They wouldn’t dare…”

“Absurd…”

“According to the directorate’s preliminary report, sir,” Rodgers explained, getting their attention, “if the Chinese captured five strategic military bases — the naval facilities at Subic Bay and Zamboanga, the Air Force bases at Cavite and Cebu, and the Army base at Cagayan de Oro — and if they defeated Second Vice President Samar’s militia at Davao, they could secure the entire country.” She paused, then looked directly at them. “Gentlemen, the New Philippine Army is nothing more than a well-equipped police force, not a defense force. They have relied on the United States for its national defense — and obviously would have to again, if the need arose. General Samar’s Commonwealth Defense Force is a well-trained and well-organized guerrillafighting force, but they cannot stand up against a massive invasion. The Chinese have a thirty-to-one advantage in all areas.”

General Wilbur Curtis surveyed his Chiefs of Staff with a look of concern — the information Captain Rodgers had just conveyed had silenced them all. He had heard a lot of bad news during the past six years that he’d chaired the Joint Chiefs. He had learned to quickly decipher between isolated incidents and incidents that had a broader, far more serious impact if left untended. He knew the implications of what Rodgers was saying could be far more serious than any of them had previously thought.

“I think we all wanted to believe this was just another skirmish. But with the United States out of the Philippines, there is a large power vacuum in the area. We knew there’d be that danger. Still, I don’t think anyone believed the Chinese would consider moving so soon — if they really are.” Curtis turned to Captain Rodgers again and asked, “Are the Chinese likely to attempt an invasion?”

“Sir, if the Joint Chiefs would like a detailed briefing, I should get Central Intelligence involved,” Rodgers said. “I had been concentrating on the military aspects and hadn’t prepared a full briefing on the political situation. But J-2 does feel that the Philippines are ripe for the picking.” Curtis waited for additional thoughts from the Joint Chiefs; when there appeared to be no concrete suggestions, he said, “I’d like to review the current OPLANS for dealing with a possible Chinese action in the Philippines, then. I need to know what plans we have built already, and if they need to be updated. Captain Rodgers, I’d like Central Intelligence to get involved, and I’d like Current Operations to draft a response plan that I can present to the Secretary of Defense for his review. Include a Philippines update in the daily briefings, including satellite passes and a rundown on naval activity in the Spratlys and in the Chinese South China Sea fleet. Let’s get on top of this thing and have a plan of action before it threatens to blow up in our faces.”

The phone line crackled. “Brad! How the hell are you?”

Lieutenant General Brad Elliott leaned back in his chair and smiled broadly as he recognized the caller. “I was expecting you to send young Andy Wyatt out here to harass me again, sir, but I’m glad to hear from you.”

“Can the ‘sir’ stuff with me, you old warhorse,” Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Wilbur Curtis said over the snaps and crackles in the scrambled phone fine. “You know better. Besides, it’s been a long time since we’ve spoken. When are we going to get together?”

“I have a feeling it’ll be soon, my friend. I’ve been getting calls from half the J-staff, a bunch of calls from Space Command — you had to be the next caller. Let me guess — you want some air time on some satellites of mine.”

“Now how the hell did you know that?”

“Every time I build a new toy, you want it, that’s how I know it.”

“That’s why you’re out there, you stupid bastard. You’re supposed to be developing toys for us to play with, not polishing your three stars. Stop whining.”

“I’m not, believe me.” Elliott chuckled. “I assume you want to use the new Masters NIRTSats, the ones that can downlink radar, infrared, and visual imagery all in one pass in real-time both to the ground stations and aircraft. Right?”

“You’re not telepathic are you?” Curtis joked. “They tell me you can receive satellite images on your B-2 bomber as well as your B-52 Megafortress?”

“We flight-test PACER SKY at the Strategic Warfare Center in a couple weeks,” Elliott said, “but ground tests have gone really well. Let me guess some more: you want pictures of a certain area, but don’t want to use DSP or LACROSSE satellites because you don’t want certain superpower countries to know you’re interested. Am I close?”

“Frightfully close,” Curtis said. “We’re watching a Chinese naval buildup in the South China Sea. We think they might be getting ready to plug away at either the Spratlys or the Philippines. If we send a DSP or KH-series bird over the area, we risk discovery.”

“The Philippines? You mean the Chinese might try an invasion?”

“Well, let’s hope not,” Curtis said. “The President is a big fan of President Mikaso’s. We’ve been expecting something like this for years, ever since we realized there was a good possibility we were going to get kicked out of the Philippines — now it might actually happen. We’ve got our pants pretty much down around the ankles as far as Southeast Asia goes right now. What with the buildup in the Persian Gulf and the closing of a bunch of bases overseas, we’ve got zilch out there…

“Well, if you need the pictures, you got ’em,” Elliott said, running his hand across the top of his hair. “We can transmit the digitized data to J-2, or Jon Masters can set up one of his terminals right on your desk there — providing you don’t keep stretching your secretary out over it all the time.”

“My secretary is a fifty-year-old Marine Corps gunnery sergeant that could grind us both down into little nubs, you old lech.” Curtis laughed. “No, transmit it to J-2 and J-3 out here at the Pentagon soonest. They’ll give you a call and tell you exactly what they want…”

“I know what you want, sir,” Elliott said.

“Hey, don’t be so sure, big shot,” Curtis said. “Man, some guys — they get on the fast track, tool around the White House for a few months, and it goes right to their heads. And stop calling me sir. You’d have four stars, too, if you’d climb up out of that black hole you’ve built for yourself out there and join the real world again.”

“What? Leave Dreamland and miss the opportunity for some first-class, four-star abuse? No way.” Elliott gave his old friend a loud laugh and hung up.

“Room, ten-HUT!”

Two hundred men and women in olive drab flight suits moved smartly to their feet as Air Force Brigadier General Calvin Jarrel and his staff entered the auditorium briefing room. The scene could have been right out of Patton except for the ten-foot-square electronic liquid-crystal screen onstage with the Strategic Air Command emblem in full color, showing an armored fist clutching an olive branch and three lightning bolts. Otherwise it looked like the setting for countless other combat-mission briefings from years past — except these men and women, all SAC warriors, weren’t going to war… at least not yet.

It was easy to mistake General Cal Jarrel for just another one of the four hundred or so crew dogs at the Air Force Strategic Warfare Center, and that was just fine with him. Jarrel was an unimposing five foot eleven, one-hundred-sixty-pound man, with boyish brown hair and brown eyes hidden behind standard-issue aluminum-framed aviator’s spectacles. Many of those close to the General thought that he was uncomfortable with the trappings of a general officer, and everyone on the base agreed that at the very least he was the most visible one-star anyone had ever known. On the flight line or on the indoor track in the base gym, he could be seen jogging early each morning with a crowd of several dozen staffers and visitors, which was how he kept his slight frame lean and trim despite an ever-increasing amount of time flying a desk instead of a B-52 Stratofortress, B-1B Excalibur, or F-111G Super ’Vark bomber. He was married to an environmental-law attorney from Georgia and was the harried father of two teenage boys.

Like many of the men and women in the Strategic Air Command of the mid-1990s, Jarrel appeared studious, introspective, unobtrusive, and soft-spoken — unlike their hotshot fighter-pilot colleagues, it was as if they understood that the awesome responsibility of carrying two-thirds of the nation’s nuclear deterrent force was something that was not to be advertised or bragged about.

Certainly, the critics thought, SAC’s twenty thousand aircrew members had little to boast about and nothing to look forward to for the next century — the fifty B-2s and one hundred rail-garrisoned Peacekeeper ICBMs planned to be operational by then might very well be the only nucleararmed weapons in SAC’s inventory. Virtually all of the B-52s, B-1B bombers, cruise missiles, and reconnaissance aircraft were rumored to be headed for conventionally armed tactical-support roles, in the inactive reserves — or, worse, in the boneyard.

It was a winding-down period for SAC, which created questions about readiness, training, and motivation. That’s where Jarrel’s Strategic Warfare Center School, and the Air Battle Force, came in.

“Seats,” General Cal Jarrel said in a loud voice as he made his way to the stage. The aircrew members in the room took their seats and restlessly murmured comments among themselves as Jarrel stepped up to the podium. He was there to give the welcoming speech to a new crop of aircrew members that were to begin an intensive three-week course on strategic air combat — SAC’s “graduate school” on how to fly and fight. As was the case for the past year since becoming director of the Strategic Warfare Center, he had to convince each and every one of these men and women of the importance of what they were about to learn — and, in a very real sense, to convince the rest of the country and perhaps himself as well.

Lieutenant Colonel McLanahan listened to General Jarrel’s comments, sitting on the edge of his auditorium seat. All around him were stealth bomber crews, who, like him, were there to attend the Strategic Warfare Center school.

When General Jarrel acknowledged the B-2 crews in his opening remarks, a ripple of applause — and a few Bronx cheers — passed over the crowd for the B-2 crews.

This is where I belong, McLanahan thought: in a flight suit, getting briefed with these other crew dogs. He had, he realized, been isolated at Dreamland far too long. Sure, he was one of the most dedicated and successful aircrew members and weapon-systems project managers in the entire military. But where had that gotten him? Flying a battle-scarred B-52 fully renovated with modern hardware deep into Soviet airspace to knock out Russia’s state-of-the-art armaments? It should have been the most rewarding mission in his career. Instead it had landed him at HAWC, where he’d been ever since. But flying was in his blood. McLanahan knew the score — because of the highly classified nature of his work he’d probably never get beyond 0–6 (Colonel), or if he was lucky, 0–7 (Brigadier-General). But at least they were letting him fly a dream plane. The only problem was he couldn’t tell anyone about it. His cover story was that he was “observing” the school for the Pentagon. Still… he was here. And the real excitement was coming…

General Jarrel was well into his talk.

“SAC is being tasked with much more than delivering nuclear weapons — we are being tasked with providing many different elements of support for a wide variety of conflict scenarios,” Jarrel went on, speaking without a script and from his heart as well as from the numerous times he’d given this speech.

“The way we do it is through the Air Battle Force,” Jarrel continued. “From this moment on, you are not members of any bomb squadron, or fighter squadron, or airlift group — you are members of the First Air Battle Wing. You will learn to fly and fight as a team. Each of you will have knowledge of not only his or her own capabilities, but those of your colleagues. The Air Battle Force marks the beginning of the first truly integrated strike force — several different weapon systems, several different tactical missions, training, deploying, and fighting together as one.

“Because the Air Battle Force concept is new and not yet fully operational, we have to disband each task force class and return you to your home units. When you leave this Center, you will still belong to the Air Battle Force, and you are expected to continue your studies and perfect your combat skills from within your own units. If a crisis should develop, you can be brought back here to be placed back within the Air Battle Force system, ready to form the Second or Third Air Battle Wings. Eventually, Air Battle Wings will be formed on a full-time basis for extended tours.”

Jarrel talked for several more minutes, giving the history of the Strategic Warfare Center’s mission, which since 1989 had conducted strategic combat training exercises through sorties that were spread over three thousand miles of low- and high-altitude military training routes over nine Midwestern states.

When he had finished, he said, “All right, ladies and gentlemen, get out there and show us how a strategic battle can be fought by America’s best and brightest!”

The auditorium erupted in cheers, and somewhere in the middle of the crowd, Patrick McLanahan was cheering the loudest.

Late one night a couple of days after General Jarrel’s Strategic Warfare Training Program was under way, Brigadier General John Ormack, who had come with Cobb, McLanahan, the EB-52 and B-2 bombers, and the rest of the support crew from HAWC, found Patrick McLanahan sitting in the cockpit of his Black Knight. External power and air had been hooked up, and McLanahan was reclining in the mission commander’s seat with a computer-generated chart of the Strategic Training Range Complex on the three-by-two-foot Super Multi Function Display before him. Patrick had a headset on and was issuing commands to the B-2’s sophisticated voice-recognition computer; he was so engrossed in his work — or so deep in daydream, Ormack couldn’t quite tell which — that the HAWC vice commander was able to spend a few moments watching his junior chief officer from just behind the pilot’s seat.

The guy had always been like this, Ormack remembered — a little spacy, quiet, introverted, always preferring to work alone even though it was a genuine pleasure being around him and he seemed to enjoy working with others. He had the ability to tune out all sound and activity around him and to focus all his attention and brainpower on the matter at hand, whether that was a mission-planning chart, a bomb run at Mach one and a hundred feet off the ground, or a Voltron cartoon on television. But ever since arriving here at Ellsworth, McLanahan had become even more hardworking, even more focused, even more tuned out — to everything else but the task at hand, which was completing the curriculum at the Strategic Warfare Center and the Air Battle Force with the highest possible grade. Even though McLanahan himself was not being “graded” because the HAWC crews were not official participants, he was slamming away at the session as if he were a young captain getting ready to meet a promotion board. It was hard to tell if Patrick was working this hard because he enjoyed it or because he was trying to prove to himself and others that he could still do the job…

But that was Patrick McLanahan.

Ormack stepped over the center console and into the leftside pilot’s seat. McLanahan noticed him, straightened himself up in his seat, and slid the headsets off. “Hey, sir,” McLanahan greeted him. “What brings you here this evening?”

“Looking for you,” Ormack said. He motioned to the SMFD. “Route study?”

“A little mission planning with the PACER SKY processor,” McLanahan said. “I fed the STRC attack route through the system to see what it might come up with, and it turns out if we attack this target here from the west instead of from the northeast, the MUTES in Powder River MOA site won’t see us for an extra twenty-one seconds. We’ve got to gain sixty seconds after the Baker bomb site to get the extra time to get around to the west, so we’ll lose a few points on timing, but if this works we’ll gain even more points on bomber defense.” He shook his head as he flipped through the computer-generated graphics on the big screen. “The rest of the crews in the Air Battle Force would kill me if they knew I had something like PACER SKY doing my mission planning.”

“That reminds me,” Ormack said. “General Elliott got a tasking for NIRTSat time for a Joint Chiefs surveillance operation. Something to do with what’s going on in the Philippines. You might get tapped to show your stuff for the J-staff.”

“Fine. I’ll water their eyes.”

“The guard said you’ve been up here for three hours working on this,” Ormack said. “You spent three hours just to save twenty seconds on one bomb run?”

“Twenty seconds — and maybe I take down a target without getting ‘shot’ at.” He motioned to the SMFD and issued a command, which caused the scene to go into motion. A B-2 symbol on the bottom of the screen began reading along an undulating ribbon over low hills and dry valleys. Dead ahead was a small pyramid symbol of a target complex — small “signposts” on the ribbon marked off seconds and miles to go to weapon release. Off to the right of the screen, a yellow dome suddenly appeared. “There’s the threat site at one o’clock, but this hillock blocks me out from the west — whoever surveyed the site for positioning this MUTES site obviously didn’t think crews would deviate this far west.”

The computerized mission “preview” continued as the yellow dome began to grow, eventually engulfing the B-2 bomber icon and turning red. McLanahan pointed to a countdown readout. “Bingo — I release weapons ten seconds after I come under lethal range of the MUTES site. If I carry antiradar missiles, I can pick him off right now, or I just turn westbound around the hillock to escape.”

Ormack nodded in fascination at the presentation, but he was more interested in studying McLanahan than watching the computer. “There’s quite a party at the O-Club, Patrick,” he said. “This is your last night of partying before the weekend, and a lot of your old cronies from Ford Air Force Base asked about you. Why don’t you knock off and join us?”

McLanahan shrugged and began reconfiguring the SMFD for another replay. “Crew rest starts in about an hour…”

“One beer won’t hurt. I’ll buy.”

McLanahan hesitated, then glanced at Ormack and shook his head. “I don’t think so, sir…

“Something wrong, Patrick? Something you’re not telling me?”

“No… nothing’s wrong.” Patrick hesitated, then issued voice commands to the computer to shut down the system. “I just… I don’t really feel part of them, you know?”

“No, I don’t.”

“These guys are the real crew dogs, the real aviators,” Patrick said. “They’re young, they’re talented, they’re so cocky they think they can take on the whole world.”

“Just like you were when I first met you,” Ormack said with a laugh. “We used to think you had an attitude, but that was before we knew how good you really were.” He looked at McLanahan with a hint of concern. “You were pretty excited about coming to the Strategic Warfare Center, about getting back to the ‘real world’…”

“But I’m not back,” Patrick said. “I’m farther from them than I ever thought I’d be. I feel like I’ve abandoned them. I feel like I should be out there pulling a crew or running a bomb-nav shop, but instead I’m…” He shrugged again, then concluded, “Like I’m playing around with gadgets that probably won’t have anything to do with the ‘real world’…”

“That’s not what you’re down about,” Ormack said. “I know you better than that. You’re down because you somehow don’t think you deserve what you’ve got. I see you around your buddies out there: they’re old captains or majors, and you’re a lieutenant colonel; they’re still on line crews, flying dawn patrols and red eyes and pulling alert, doing the same thing they did ten years ago, while you’re flying starships that most of those guys will never see in their careers, let alone fly — they’re talking about their last bomb-competition mission or their last Operational Readiness Inspection, while your job is so classified that you can’t talk about it at all. You’re down because you can’t share what you have with them, so you hole yourself up in here thinking that maybe you don’t really have what it takes to be a good crew dog.

“Patrick, you’re where you are because you’re the best. You did more than be chosen for a job: you excelled, you never gave up, you survived, and you saved others. Then when we stuck you in Dreamland to keep you quiet, you didn’t just vegetate until completing your twenty years — you excelled again and made yourself invaluable to the organization.

“You deserve what you have. You earned it. You should go out and enjoy it. And you should also buy your boss a beer before he drags your ass out of this cockpit. Now move it, Colonel.”

The number-two task force of Admiral Yin Po L’un’s Spratly Island flotilla was again cruising within radar range of Phu Qui Island, the large rock and coral formation in the disputed neutral zone between the Philippine-occupied islands to the north and the Chinese-held islands to the south. Unlike the more powerful ten-ship task force that surrounded Admiral Yin’s flagship, this one had only four ships — two Hainan-class patrol boats, a Lienyun-class minesweeper, and a Huangfen-class fast attack missile craft, the Chagda, which acted as the command vessel for this faster, shallow-draft patrol group.

Commander Chow Ti U, skipper of the Chagda, felt uneasy with his latest series of orders. It had been over three months since the attack on the Philippine oil-drilling barge, and the tension in the region had been escalating on a weekly basis. Now it was so thick one could cut it with a knife — and much of the heightened tensions could be directly attributed to the way Admiral Yin had handled the entire affair.

Despite what was originally and officially reported, Yin had departed the area after attacking the oil barges; his contention that the seas were too rough to begin rescue operations did not sit well with anyone. When the weather cleared, it was found that Yin had steamed back to the Chinese side of the neutral zone, well away from Phu Qui Island — again, his contention that he was concerned about retaliatory attacks from Philippine warships did not explain why he did not offer to assist in rescue operations.

Chow would never say so to anyone, but Yin’s actions could be characterized as unprofessional, exhibiting a total disregard for the rules of naval warfare, international law, and common decency between sailors. Chow felt that the Admiral had every right to confront the illegally placed oildrilling rig, and he was well within his responsibilities when he returned fire — even such devastating return fire as he used. But to simply slink away from the area without offering any help or without radioing for help was very suspicious.

Since then, while there’d been no skirmishes, there had been a few close calls. Everyone was on edge, looking, waiting, wondering… Chow and his fellow Chinese crewmen privately felt it was only a matter of time before something else happened, and after witnessing the way Admiral Yin had handled the first skirmish, everyone was skittish about how he would proceed in an escalated conflict.

“Range to Phu Qui Island, navigator,” Chow called out.

His crewmen were obviously keeping very close track themselves, for the answer was almost instantaneous: “Sir… we are presently twenty-five kilometers southwest of Phu Qui Island. We will be in radar range within minutes.”

“Very well,” Chow grunted. Twenty-five kilometers — they were right on the edge of the neutral zone — perhaps inside it by no more than a kilometer. Unlike Admiral Yin, Chow had no intention of tempting fate by openly cruising the neutral zone. Pearson Reef was indisputably the property of the People’s Republic of China, so he would stay close to it. His radar could survey enough of the neutral zone to check for any other intruders.

Still… he was uneasy. Perhaps because Admiral Yin chose not to continue operating his larger, more powerful task force along the border as before — but had instead chosen to operate farther south, well in undisputed Chinese waters. The first explanation was, of course, that Yin had been ordered to keep away from the neutral zone, but as weeks went by, the rumor was that Yin simply did not want to risk the wrath of the Philippine Navy and put his precious flagship Hong Lung in harm’s way. Instead, he had ordered Chow’s smaller, less powerful, less capable task force to patrol the area. Admiral Yin’s task force was seventy-two kilometers to the southwest, fairly close to Nansha Dao Island itself, which meant Yin was in very real danger of running aground in the shallow waters. Commander Chow’s force was better suited for those interreef patrols — but if that was where the Admiral preferred to stay…

“Surface contact, sir,” an officer in the Combat section of the bridge crew blurted out. “Bearing, zero-five-zero degrees, range twenty kilometers. Speed zero.” Chow turned to the plotting board as another crewman penciled in the contact on the clear Plexiglas board.

Phu Qui Island.

“Confirm that contact,” Chow ordered. “Make sure you’re not painting the island itself.” But he knew it was not possible for his radar to paint the shallow, half-submerged outline of a coral “island” at this extreme range. Someone was on or near the disputed island. The Filipino salvage crews, along with the inevitable warships, had long since departed — there had been no large vessels near the island now for several weeks. Since Yin’s attack, ships transiting the neutral zone, including Chow’s small task force, had been careful to report their movements to the governments of each country that had claims on the islands — Chow had a list of every ship that planned on plying these waters in the next several days.

There had been no reports of any vessels that sought to anchor on Phu Qui Island.

“Radar confirms contact as a vessel,” the Combat officer replied a few moments later. “Definite cultural return. Unable to get an ISAR reading on the contact, but it is not terrain or sea shadows.” ISAR, or Inverse Synthetic Aperture Radar, was a new feature of the “Square Tie” surface-search radar that could combine vertical and horizontal radar scans with Doppler-frequency shift information to get a two-dimensional “picture” of a surface return; ISAR could usually identify a vessel at ten to fifteen miles, well beyond visual range.

Commander Chow hesitated — he couldn’t believe the Filipinos would actually attempt to set up their oil-drilling rigs on the island again. It was tantamount to a declaration of war. He was also reluctant to cruise farther into the neutral zone without specific orders from Admiral Yin. Let him take the responsibility for another attack.

“Send a FLASH emergency message to Dragon,” he finally ordered his officer of the deck. He could feel the first prickles of tension-heated sweat forming on the back of his neck, and it wasn’t from the humidity. “Inform him of our radar contact. We will stand by for instructions.” He paused momentarily, then added, “Send the minesweeper Guangzou from present position northwest and secure the north and northeast axis. If we have to move toward Phu Qui, I want the lane clear. I give specific orders for Guangzou to enter the neutral zone on my authority; record the order in the log.” The minesweeper, although based on a Shanghai-class patrol boat, had no offensive armament except small-caliber machine guns and could not be considered a warship; therefore sending a minesweeper alone into the neutral zone could not be considered a hostile act.

The officer of the deck issued the orders; then: “Sir, I suggest we request the helicopter on Hong Lung be sent to investigate the contact ahead of the task force. It would be much less threatening to whoever is on Phu Qui Island.”

“We will be ordered to move closer to Phu Qui Island whether we see what is out there or not,” Chow predicted. “But it’s a good suggestion. Get it in the air.”

They did not have to wait long for the order: “Message from Dragon, sir,” the officer of the deck reported. “ Task force two is hereby ordered to cross into the neutral zone immediately. Investigate contact on Phu Qui Island with all possible speed, identify all intruders, detain all persons. Peacetime rules of engagement in effect — do not fire unless fired upon, but repel assaults with all available resources. Helicopter will be dispatched immediately to assist. Dragon task force en route to your location. ETA two-point-three hours.’ Message ends.”

“Very well,” Chow replied, nodding confidently and pumping his voice up with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. “Sound silent general quarters, repeat, silent general quarters. Relay to all vessels, go to silent general quarters.”

It was a fairly calm night, and the noise of alarm bells and sirens going off might very well be heard twenty kilometers away. This was the first time that Commander Chow had ever faced a real confrontation between two powerful, hostile navies, and so far his thin, forty-six-kilogram body was not taking the excitement too well. His stomach was making fluid, nervous rumblings.

“Have Guangzou complete a zigzag pattern along the zero-five-degree bearing from us, then begin a search pattern direct to Phu Qui Island. Transition Yaan and Baoji into trail and forward-scan each flank for signs of intruders.” He was glad when his officer of the deck and the rest of the bridge crew went about their duties — he was feeling worse by the minute. He had never experienced seasickness in his sixteen years in the People’s Revolutionary Army Navy, but this time, at the worst possible moment, he just might…

He tried to ignore his stomach and ordered his ships in the best formation in which to approach a hostile island. The minesweeper would execute a zigzag pattern in front of Chagda perhaps a kilometer wide, clearing the path of any hidden mines while maintaining good forward speed toward the target. With his two Hainan-class patrol boats in trail position, one behind the other and spaced about a kilometer apart, whoever was on that island might not detect the two trailing vessels until the shooting started. The two patrol boats, each one configured for both antiaircraft and antisubmarine warfare, would be scanning the skies and seas ahead and to each side of the formation, searching for hostile aircraft, ships or submarines.

“All ships are at general quarters,” the officer of the deck reported with a bow. Chow was just donning his life jacket and baseball cap, in lieu of a combat helmet. “All ship’s weapons manned and report ready.”

“Very well. I want range to Phu Qui Island every kilometer,” Chow ordered. “Have the vessels maintain ten knots until—”

“Sir! Acquisition radar detected, bearing zero-five-zero,” Combat reported.

“Well, what in blazes is it? Analysis! Quickly!”

There was another interminable delay; then: “C-band acquisition, sir… probably Sea Giraffe 50, OPS-37, SPS-10 or -21 surface-search system… slow scan rate… Calling it an SPS-10 now, sir…” Chow scowled at the reports from his Combat section; they were rattling off Swedish and Japanese radar systems when they knew that the only C-band radar in the Spratlys had to be Filipino.

“Nineteen kilometers to Phu Qui Island and closing,” came the range report from the navigation officer. “Speed ten knots.”

“Negros Oriental class,” the officer of the deck announced. “Latest intelligence reports had the Nueva Viscaya putting out to sea. It may have arrived here in the Spratlys.” Chow nodded his agreement. The Nueva Viscaya was one of two active ex-U.S. anti-submarine-warfare vessels operated by the Philippine Navy as coastal patrol boats, another fifty-year-old rust bucket rescued from the scrap heaps. It was small, slow, and lightly armed. They used old American C-band SPS-10 or French Triton II surface search and acquisition radars as well as older-model ULQ-6 jammers. Fortunately, its heaviest weapon was a 76-millimeter cannon, as well as 40- and 20-millimeter antiaircraft and antimissile guns that might be a danger to the Hong Lung's helicopter as far as six kilometers away.

“Relay to Hong Lung that we suspect the Philippine vessel PS80 to be in the vicinity of Phu Qui Island,” Chow ordered. “Inform them we have detected acquisition C-band radar emissions and that—”

“Message from Baoji, sir!” the radio technician yelled. “Radar contact aircraft, bearing one-niner-zero, fifteen kilometers!”

“Air-defense alert to all vessels,” Chow shouted. “Order five-kilometers free-fire to all vessels. Broadcast on emergency frequencies for all aircraft to stay out of visual range of Chinese warships.” He dashed over to the radar display on the center bridge pedestal. The composite radar images showed nothing but Pearson Reef and Cornwallis West Reef, two very large coral formations on the southeastern edge of the Spratly Islands — and it was then obvious what had happened. The single blast of radar energy from whatever vessels were near Phu Qui was enough to divert all attention to the northeast, while aircraft managed to sneak around behind Chow’s task force, hide in the radar clutter created by the coral reefs, and slip in close.

“Radar now showing three aircraft, altitude less than ten meters, speed sixty knots,” Combat reported. “Suspect rotary-wing aircraft. Range now thirteen-point-five kilometers and closing…” The radar display suddenly showed several bright white spikes radiating out from center. The spikes seemed to spin around the scope, dim, disappear, and reappear seconds later with even greater intensity. “Jamming on all systems.”

“All ships, defensive maneuvering,” Commander Chow ordered. “Active ECM and decoys. Signal Dragon in the clear, report possible air attack from the southeast—”

“Missile in the air!” someone screamed. Directly ahead, right on the dark horizon, a bright flash of light could be seen, followed by an arc of light that flared quickly, then disappeared. Another flash of light followed, the trail of the missile straight this time — headed right for Chagda.

“Hard starboard!” Chow shouted. “Flank speed! Chaff rockets! Release batteries on all guns! All guns, antimissile barrage!” The portside 30-millimeter antiaircraft guns, twin-barrel automatic guns housed in two-meter domes, began pounding into the sky, guided by the Round Ball fire-control radar. The furious hammering, so close to the bridge, turned Chow’s guts inside out. At the same time, small rockets fired off the fantail into the night sky — this was the ERC-1 decoy system, which consisted of racks of small cylindrical mortars that fired parachute-equipped shells several hundred meters away and about a hundred meters high. Some of the rockets streamed pieces of tinsel that would act as bright radar-reflectors, while others would spew globes of burning phosphorus that would decoy an infrared-guided missile. His ship also carried floating radar reflectors, buoy polelike devices, like tall punching bags, that were weighted to pop upright when tossed overboard; they were laughably inadequate devices, but someone always found the time to heave a few over the side in the slim hope that a missile might find it more appealing than a two-hundred-ton patrol boat.

Every member of the bridge crew was staring out toward Phu Qui Island when suddenly a terrific burst of light split the air, and for several seconds the low profile of the minesweeper Guangzou was highlighted in a huge ball of fire. Several secondary eruptions quickly followed — the shock wave and sound of the explosion that hit the Chagda several seconds later was like a three-second hurricane and thunderstorm rolled into one. Commander Chow had never seen such a horrifying sight. “Guangzou… the minesweeper’s been hit…”

“Look!” someone shouted. Chow turned in time to see a streak of light pass not more than a hundred meters astern of Chagda, a blur of a missile-looking object, just before another huge explosion rocked the patrol boat. The second missile fired from near Phu Qui had miraculously missed the patrol boat and homed in on the chaff cloud and formerly comical-looking radar reflectors, detonating after hitting the floating decoy. The blast was so tremendous that Chow thought his eardrums had ruptured. Except for a loud ringing in his ears and a few crewmen knocked off their feet by the concussion, the small patrol boat was unharmed.

The attack continued. Even though Yaan and Baoji were larger and better equipped than Chagda, neither of them carried any decoy rockets, and their electronic countermeasures emitters were small; they relied on their antiaircraft guns, two twin 57-millimeter and two twin 25-millimeter rapid-firing cannons, to defend themselves. Both ships’ guns were lighting up the sky as the helicopters closed in from the southeast.

“Sir! Baoji reports the helicopters are launching missiles!” Commander Chow swung his seat over to search the horizon, but could see nothing through the darkness except for the thin bursts of light from his escort’s antiaircraft guns.

But the fast attack boat Baoji lost its battle seconds later. The Filipino helicopters carried two Sea Ray missiles each, small, short-range laser-guided antiship missiles with one-hundred-and-fifty-pound fragmentation warheads; one helicopter was paired with one patrol boat, and they drop-launched their missiles when within four miles of their targets. The patrol boat Yaan destroyed its helicopter with a burst of 40-millimeter gunfire, which caused the Sea Ray missiles in flight toward her to break lock and fall harmlessly into the ocean. But the helicopter tracking Baoji managed to swerve and dodge around long enough to keep the laser beam on target. Both Sea Ray missiles guided directly on the forecastle of the Baoji, and although the warheads were small and probably would not have done much damage if they had hit the hull or decks, the missiles plowed into the bridge and combat control center, killing the captain, twelve senior crewmen, and decimating its fighting capability.

Chow did not see the explosion aboard Baoji several kilometers astern; he was frantically trying to sort out the jumble of targets that had suddenly seemed to surround his tiny task force. The jamming was so heavy now that Chagda was virtually blind, the surface-search radar a jumble of spikes and false targets, the electronic countermeasures ineffective. “Come to heading three-zero-zero, flank speed,” Chow ordered. “Designate radar return on Phu Qui Island as target one and launch a two-missile C801 salvo.”

He felt Chagda begin its sharp turn left, but the Combat officer shouted the response Chow had been fearing: “Sir, radar target track information unreliable… switching to manual target track… sir, I can’t get a track with all this jamming…”

“Helm, come to heading three-five-zero,” Chow ordered. “Nav, get us headed direct to Phu Qui Island. Fire missiles in inflight acquisition mode as soon as we get headed back toward the island.” The C801 missile normally needed “preflight” radar-derived information — target range and bearing, own-ship speed, heading, and vertical reference, etc. — to point itself toward the target, where its onboard terminal radar would guide the missile to impact. But in heavy ECM environments, the missile could be launched with manually input pre-flight data and with the terminal radar on, where it would fly straight ahead and lock onto the first significant radar return it could find. Chow hoped the Filipino frigates were still hiding near Phu Qui — the C801’s radar was sophisticated enough and powerful enough to burn through heavy ECM, separate out sea clutter, and find its quarry…

Chagda made a slight turn to the right, and seconds later two C801 missiles leaped into the sky from their canisters. The first missile’s fiery exhaust trail continued straight ahead, while the second missile’s exhaust seemed more erratic, weaving into the night sky. Hopefully it had locked onto the damned Filipinos who had the audacity to attack a Chinese task force!

But as Chow and his bridge crew stared out the forward windscreens, they saw a tremendous barrage of gunfire erupt from out near the horizon. It lasted only a few seconds, punctuated by a brilliant flash of light and a cylindrical spinning object that landed in the water and burned for several seconds before winking out. It was one of Chagda" s C801 missiles, hit by a furious barrage of gunfire that definitely wasn’t from anything like a Negros Oriental-class patrol vessel. The other C801 never turned in the direction of the gunfire and had probably self-destructed.

“What was that?” Chow shouted to his Combat bridge crew. “That wasn’t a patrol vessel out there.”

“Unknown, sir,” his officer of the deck replied. “Analyzing radar signals at this time, but nothing definite.”

“Where did those helicopters come from?” Chow shouted, puzzled and more than a bit afraid. “How did they get out here so fast without being detected? We’re over five hundred kilometers from a Philippine base.”

“They either staged their attack helicopters on barges or oil platforms, or—”

“Or there’s a ship out there large enough to land a helicopter on board,” Chow interjected. “The Philippines have only one vessel large enough to land a helicopter and load antiship weapons on board — Rizal-class corvette. But that still doesn’t explain that gunfire we saw on the horizon. What other—”

And it was then that Commander Chow realized what it was — the largest, most powerful vessel in the Philippine inventory, the PF-class destroyer escort frigate. The ex-U.S. Navy Cannon-class frigate, another World War II relic, had no fewer than twenty large-caliber radar-guided guns on board, along with two 76-millimeter guns and a four-shot Mk-141 Harpoon antiship missile launcher. That was no oil-drilling rig on Phu Qui Island — it was a major Philippine combat fleet, with at least three of its largest class of warships lying in wait.

“Signal Dragon that we believe there is at least one PS-class corvette and one, possibly two PF-class frigates in the area of Phu Qui Island,” Chow ordered. “Direct Yaan to assist Baoji, and I want the task force to turn south away from Phu Qui Island. I need Admiral Yin to signal.”

“Missile launch detected!” the Combat officer cried out. “Ku-band radar! Harpoon missile in the air!”

That was the last coherent sentence Commander Chow Ti U was to hear. He ordered electronic countermeasures, expendables, and his guns to open fire on the attacking missiles, but the electronic jamming was too strong; the Chagda did not pick up the missile until the Philippine ships ceased jamming, which was moments before the Harpoon’s active radar seeker would be programmed to activate and search for its target, about twenty seconds from impact. By that time the Harpoon missile had begun a series of random jinks, punctuated by a high, looping terminal “pop-up” maneuver, a feint that was all but impossible for the Chagda's defensive guns to follow.

The missile slammed into the Chinese patrol craft traveling close to the speed of sound, pierced the main superstructure, and drove down several decks before its four-hundred-and-eighty-pound warhead detonated.

A second Harpoon missile followed seconds later, adding to the swift destruction of Chagda by exploding in the engine room, creating a blossom of fire so huge that it created shadows on the water for five miles in all directions.

“Lost contact with Chagda, sir,” the Combat Information Center officer reported to Admiral Yin. “Last report was of a PF-class frigate and a PS-class corvette near Phu Qui Island. No other details.”

“Attack helicopters, jammers, now a possible Philippine strike fleet,” Admiral Yin muttered. He had been in his command chair in the center of the Hong Lung's small Combat Information Center, trying to piece together the situation as bits of radio messages were slowly merged with long-range radar data.

Were the Filipinos out of their minds? Yin wondered. To attack the Chinese naval forces after the events of just a few months ago wasn’t merely outrageous, it was, in Yin’s mind, idiotic. Certainly they didn’t think they had a chance at defeating a force the strength of his…

Or did they?

What did they know that he didn’t? He mulled this over for the briefest minute. He would have to play this very, very carefully.

“Bridge to Admiral Yin,” Captain Lubu’s voice reported over a loudspeaker. “We are overtaking Wenshan.”

The Hong Lung was at flank speed, which was at least six to ten knots faster than any of his flotilla’s other vessels except for two of his small Hegu-class fast attack missile craft, Fuzhou and Chukou. That would mean that Hong Lung would have no antimine or antimissile protection other than its own 37-millimeter guns and its phalanx Gatling-gun system. “Shall we pass to port or join up?”

After giving the facts — and his own fears — careful consideration, Yin radioed back: “Pull ahead of Wenshan, reduce speed to twenty until Xingyi catches up, then resume thirty laiots until within radar range of Chagda's last known position.” Xingyi was his Huangfen-class fast attack missile boat, which also carried the supersonic Fei Lung-7 antiship missile as did Hong Lung. “Have the rest of the task force extend and follow. Have Fuzhou and Chukou continue at flank speed towards Chagda's last-known position.”

Yin wasn’t about to storm into a hostile region alone, with only a few lightly armed twenty-seven-meter boats as protection — he was going to send the two small boats to “beat the bushes” and find the Filipino bastards who were doing the shooting.

“Yes, sir,” Lubu replied crisply. “Expect Xingyi to rendezvous in thirty minutes.”

“Message from patrol craft Yaan,” the CIC officer reported. “Chagda in sight and on fire. Reports from crewmen say they were hit by sea-skimming missiles. Patrol craft Baoji heavily damaged but under way, moving southwest at five knots. No contact with minesweeper Guangzou. Yaan requests permission to assist Chagda.”

“Permission granted,” Admiral Yin replied crisply. “I want a report on the Philippine vessels. Direction, speed — I want it right now.”

“Yes, sir,” the CIC acknowledged.

Other crewmen in the Combat Information Center were turning to look at Yin, to see the anger and frustration spilling out. Many of them had angry questioning looks on their faces when Yin ordered the reduction in speed — shouldn’t they get over there as fast as possible to help their comrades?

“Report from Yaan, sir,” the CIC officer said a few minutes later. “Commander Ko reports three, possibly four vessels moving away from Phu Qui Island, heading east at twenty knots. Surface-search radars only. Acquisition radars not detected. Helicopters appear to be rendezvousing with the vessels.”

Inwardly, Yin breathed a sigh of relief. At least this wasn’t more complicated than he’d first feared.

Apparently the Filipinos had no stomach for a real fight. And obviously they weren’t seeking to consolidate their gains, refortify Phu Qui Island, or take any other islands in the neutral zone. It was a simple retaliatory battle — swift, decisive, and over with. Cut and run. They probably could have stayed and continued to bombard Yaan and Baoji, board Chagda, take prisoners — that was what Yin would have done — or set up an ambush for Hong Lung, using the crippled ships, but they were doing nothing more than escaping. It put the onus right back on the Chinese — escalate the conflict or end it. Yin had no desire to drive his beautiful ship right into an ambush or into a battle-ready Filipino fleet of unknown size, but neither did he want any appearance of backing away from a fight.

And so he became a picture of triumph. He turned to his men, who had turned to look at him with querying expressions. “They’re idiots. You see how they run? They steal out of the night, attack us like frightened children throwing rocks, then run in the face of something far more powerful. I loathe such spinelessness.”

He clicked open the microphone and said in a loud voice, so everyone in CIC could hear him: “Captain Lubu, open a satellite channel to Dongdao Airfield immediately.” Dongdao was the new Chinese Air Force airfield in the Paracel Islands; it was almost seven hundred kilometers north of their present location, but it was the closest Chinese airfield with any sort of strike capability. Although there was an Air Force general on the island in charge of the base, most of the air-strike assets at Dongdao belonged to the Chinese Army Navy, and to Yin. “I want a Shuihong-5 patrol craft fully armed for surface combat to rendezvous on this flagship immediately, and another standing by to relieve the first. The patrol had better be airborne in thirty minutes or else…” That got the CIC operator’s attention — they all concentrated hard on their consoles, praying their Admiral would not turn on them.

Yin considered radioing the South China Sea Fleet Headquarters at Zhanjiang directly, but so far Admiral Yin had not really done anything noteworthy except get one-sixth of his flotilla destroyed or damaged; he needed to show some initiative, some decisive action, before informing his headquarters of the disaster and awaiting instructions. The Shuihong-5 was a large turboprop flying boat used primarily for antisubmarine warfare and maritime patrol, but the ten aircraft assigned full-time to his Nansha Island flotilla were fitted for antiship duties, with French-made Heracles II sea surveillance and targeting radar, two C-101 supersonic antiship missiles hung under the wings, and six French-made Murene NTL-90 dual-purpose lightweight torpedoes, also on wing pylons. The Shuihong-5 was a significant threat to any ship that did not possess antiaircraft missiles, and to Yin’s knowledge no Filipino warship carried antiaircraft missiles except perhaps short-range Stinger shoulder-fired weapons.

It was enough to bomb the hell out of whatever Philippine forces were out there. Then, when his commander, the notoriously mercurial High General Chin Po Zihong, called him on the carpet for the destroyed Chagda, he’d have a large, ample helping of dead Filipinos to serve up. And that would certainly make High General Chin happy.