Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 03 (19 page)

           
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 bum 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.

Aboard the Spratly Island
flotilla flagship HONG LUNG

           
“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.” Dong- dao 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.