Read Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 03 Online
Authors: Sky Masters (v1.1)
“We cannot be razed like this,
Captain,” Yin said calmly. “I will not suffer defeat at the hands of these
people.” He inserted the key into a lock on a flat panel on the instrument
console in front of his seat, waited as the door popped open. Inside the
compartment was a red-colored telephone handset with communications cords and
several unmarked buttons. Yin pressed the yellow button. A buzzer sounded
around the entire ship. With Lubu looking on in absolute horror, men throughout
the ship scrambled to prepare for an order that had never before been executed.
. . .
Admiral Yin picked up the
red-handled phone within the unlocked compartment before him on the instrument
console. “This is Admiral Yin,” he said. “Command is Battle Cry. Battle Cry.
Over.”
“Initial code verified,” a voice on
the other end of the line asked. “Targets, sir?”
“Target the southern corvette, turn,
and target the eastern frigate,” he said in a low voice. “Execute in three
minutes, system automatic. Authentication is Red Moon. Repeat, Red Moon. Over.”
“Understood, sir. Authentication
verified. Full connectivity check . . . received. Execution in three minutes .
. . mark. System automatic engaged. Countdown hold in two minutes. Combat out.”
Yin replaced the red phone in its cradle.
A crewman dashed up to the two
senior officers, carrying heavy gloves, a heavy black smock that resembled a
thick poncho, and a heavy helmet with large gold protective eye goggles and a
plastic face shield with respirator. Lubu accepted his but did not don it.
“Admiral, I ask you to reconsider. We should receive authority from
headquarters before attempting this . . .”
Yin allowed the crewman to help him
on with the lead- impregnated smock, placed the helmet on his head, connected
the interphone cords and breathing apparatus, and rolled down his sleeves.
Inside the helmet, he could hear the reports coming in to Lubu as each desk and
each station reported its Red Moon status.
“Admiral, you must stop this . . .”
Lubu persisted.
“Two minutes to Red Moon execution,”
the loudspeaker blared. “Two minutes to Red Moon execution ... mark. All decks
report ready.”
“My fleet is surrounded, we are
under attack, we are in danger of losing the
Spratly
Islands
and indeed most of the
South China Sea
to the Filipinos,” Yin said through the
respirator. His flashblindness goggles and oxygen mask made him look sinister,
even deranged, like a sea monster from a horror movie. “I have the power to
stop them. My only other choice is to surrender to them, and that I will never
do.”
“But this will create a disaster of
international proportions,” Lubu argued. “We are too close to the Philippine
shoreline. The water is too shallow—we will do irreparable harm to the coral
reefs and the sea bottom in these shallow waters. You must cancel the order.”
“Put on your protective gear and
prepare for Red Moon execution, Captain,” Yin said through the mask and
respirator. “That is an
order.
”
“You cannot do this. We will be in a
state of war, with the Filipinos, the Americans, the entire
world.
”
“Range to the south target?” Yin
radioed to Combat. “Thirty kilometers and closing,” came the reply.
“Helicopters at seven kilometers, ETA three minutes . . . sensor warning
missiles on intercept course, ETA forty seconds, AA batteries and close-in
systems manned and ready ...”
“Admiral,
please
...” Captain Lubu shouted, his hands on the armrest of Yin’s
chair. “At least... at least broadcast a warning message, sir.” Yin shook his
head, a slow, ghastly gesture that made it look like the Death’s Head itself
refusing the pleas of the ones condemned to die.
“You old
fool,
you can’t do this!” Lubu shouted. He turned to the officer of
the deck, who was fully outfitted in his nuclear-chemical-biological-warfare
gear. “Cancel Red Moon execution on my order, Commander. Broadcast on emergency
frequency that this fleet is disengaging and departing Filipino waters
immediately.”
“Sir, I must have the cancellation
code,” the officer of the deck shouted through his mask. The officer of the
deck was trained to respond to orders from the ship’s captain, not the Admiral
on board; therefore there was no question that he would obey lawful orders from
Lubu. But procedures still had to be followed, especially in combat conditions
and with the flotilla commander on deck in active command.
Lubu looked at the dark visage of
Yin behind his mask. The Fleet Admiral made no movement, spoke nothing. Lubu
said angrily, “On my authority, Commander. The codes are in a safe in my cabin.
You know I have them. Until I retrieve the codes, I order you to cancel the
execution order immediately.”
The officer of the deck turned to
look at both Yin and Lubu. Most of the rest of the bridge crew was watching the
exchange as well. Then the officer of the deck said, “I’m sorry, sir, but the
Admiral is still on the bridge and he has command. I cannot supersede his
orders.”
“Sixty seconds to Red Moon
execution. All decks report ready . . . fifty seconds . . .”
“Cancel the order, Admiral,” Lubu
warned him.
“Don your protective gear and stand
by, Captain,” Yin said evenly.
Lubu’s eyes telegraphed his next
move—he lunged forward for the silver key in the lock of the Fei Lung-9
command-control panel. Removing the key would disable the direct line to
Combat, which would prevent the final execution order from being given from the
bridge. The launch officer would hold the final launch countdown at twenty
seconds if the final order was not given either by the direct phone or in
person.
Just as Lubu touched the key, a shot
rang out. Lubu was thrown away from Yin’s chair and onto the floor, a dark red
stain spreading across his belly.
“You are a coward and a dishonorable
man, Lubu Vin Li,” Yin said half-aloud, placing the smoking 7.62-millimeter Type
54 automatic pistol on the instrument console in front of him. “You cannot
change my destiny. You have disgraced yourself trying.” Yin then picked up the
red phone, lifted his mask and helmet, and spoke: “Combat, this is Admiral
Yin.”
“Combat. Entering Red Moon countdown
hold.”
“Execution order is Dragon Sword.
Dragon Sword.” And he dropped the phone once more and lowered his respirator
into position. As he closed the elastic seals on his gloves and neck of the
protective smock, he spoke into the helmet’s interphone system: “Seal the
bridge. Order all antennae and receivers into standby and—”
But just then Yin heard the
collision-warning horn sound on the bridge loudspeaker and the loud, angry buzz
of the Phalanx Close-In Weapon System. The radar-guided Gatling gun
automatically tracked inbound targets and opened fire with a murderous hail of
30-millimeter bullets when it computed the object within range—Yin knew it was
a last- resort weapon, and that its chances of stopping an incoming missile
were slim.
Yin heard another warning horn
blare—it was the T minus ten-second Fei Lung-9 launch-warning horn—just as a
huge explosion erupted outside the port observation windows. The incoming
Harpoon missile had been hit by the Phalanx cannon and detonated as it began
its terminal popup maneuver, creating a huge overpressure in Yin’s ears seconds
before the big, thick observation windows bowed inwards, then outwards, and
exploded like a balloon. The overpressure seemed to suck the air out of Yin’s
lungs, and the very air he was breathing seemed as if it were on fire. . . .
Aboard Bear Zero-One
Tamalko saw the patrol boat at about
three miles’ distance, and opened fire just inside one-half mile. The Chinese
warship opened fire immediately with what appeared to be a solid wall of
tracers, and for a moment he thought he would have to break off his run and try
a different attack axis; but just then, a half-second later, the firing
abruptly stopped. Tamalko walked his 20-millimeter shells up to the ship’s
stern, using short bursts from the four-thousand-rounds- per-minute M61A1
cannon, then, banking hard left and controlling his fighter’s swaying action
with rudder pressure, managed to stitch a fine of bullets right down the
centerline. He was rewarded with a few secondary explosions, and it even
appeared that the ship was listing to one side, although he doubted seriously
that single gun pass had anything to do with it.
“Radar contact on another vessel,
now
one o’clock
,
three miles,” Pilas called out. “Locked on, steering is good.”
“Roger,” Tamalko replied.
Just as he rolled out on his new
heading toward the second Chinese vessel, he saw a huge cloud of fire burst
directly abeam the radar cursor in his HUD. The ship was clearly illuminated
for a second or two, and Tamalko could not believe the
size
of the ship—it was as big as an aircraft carrier, he thought,
and as tall as a skyscraper. It was easily the biggest ship he had ever seen so
close to
Palawan
. Only a search radar still emanating from
this one—it seemed unaware of his presence.
Well, perhaps not.
Just as Tamalko considered the lack
of threat signals from the big vessel, he saw a streak of fire arch skyward
from the rear of the Chinese ship. It trailed a line of fiery exhaust that
could be seen for dozens of miles, and it flew fairly slowly, picking up speed
only several seconds after launch.
The big missile continued south and
made no attempt to turn east toward him. That was odd, Tamalko thought.
“Coming within two miles,” Pilas
said. “Two miles . . . now.” Just then, the heads-up display circular firing
cue began its clockwise sweep, like a racing timer—when the sweep circle passed
the
three o’clock
position on the HUD, he could open fire. Tamalko checked his switches visually
instead of by feel, double-checked his gun status—still not jammed after 340
rounds fired off, which was above-average for the M61A1 cannon—and by the time
he faced forward to fine up on target, he was within a mile and a half. Pipper
in the center of the radar diamond, a good ARM 260 indication—and Tamalko let
loose, maintaining short trigger pulls, feeling the reassuring buzz of the gun
when it fired, keeping the pipper lined up on the radar target diamond. There
was no return fire from the big Chinese ship.
The cannon jammed with thirty rounds
remaining, but every one of the others had been placed neatly into the ship’s
midsection. Tamalko clicked the gun to “Safe” and banked up on his left wing,
keeping a low, thin profile to the ship as he passed overhead. He caught
glimpses of flickering fights on deck as he screamed over the ship at Mach one,
but whether they were secondary explosions or reflections of fight, he couldn’t
tell.
Tamalko banked left, heading south,
keeping his engines out of afterburner to avoid attracting any heat-seeking
missiles or optically guided guns. The threat radars from the big destroyer
were gone. Maybe he
did
hit something
vital!
And then it happened.
For a millisecond Tamalko’s eyes
registered the brightest flash of light he’d ever seen. It was just on the
horizon, almost directly off the nose. And just as quickly the light enveloped
and blinded him. His eyes became two red-hot spheres of excruciating pain,
burned, it seemed, by molten lava.
Behind him, Pilas was screaming and
Tamalko realized he, too, was screaming. .
The roar of the F-4E’s big engines
was gone, which meant they had been hit by something big enough to cause a
double flameout—a big missile must have exploded right in front of them,
blinding them and shelling out the engines. The control stick was beginning to
tighten up as hydraulic power bled away—soon it would freeze up completely.
He hauled back on the stick to try
to start a zoom maneuver and trade some of their Mach one speed for altitude—if
they ejected at Mach one, the windblast would tear them apart. He couldn’t tell
if they were gaining altitude ... there wasn’t time to think. “Eject! Eject!”
Tamalko screamed, then crossed his wrists in front of him, grasped the ejection
ring between his legs, and pulled.