Tipping Point: The War With China - the First Salvo (Dan Lenson Novels) (24 page)

The flare declined slowly, and the pilothouse grew dark again. He lowered the night glasses, frowning. “Did you see that, Cheryl?”

“No, what?”

“Rounds complete,”
said the 21MC
. “One round expended.
Bore clear. No casualties.
Refire?”

“Negative, cease fire,” Dan said. He fingered the binoculars. Had it really been someone being held at gunpoint? Or had he taken the outline of some piece of equipment for a human figure? If there were armed men over there, this wasn’t a situation he wanted to send his boarding team into without some more advantages: such as daylight, his helo in the air, and reinforcements on tap.

All of which meant delay. He didn’t like it, but sometimes you had to do what was prudent. He coughed. “All right … open the range, about a thousand yards. Take position off his port quarter.”

“We’re backing off, sir?” Staurulakis sounded disbelieving.

“Until dawn. Tell Ops we need a message to Fleet, to see if there’s an M/V
Patchooli
in the Pakistani registry. Maybe they sold it, or transferred flag … but I’m not sending guys over at night, into a possibly hostile environment, without backup.”

He sneezed. Someone murmured, back in the darkness of the bridge, and men stirred. The OOD gave the helm orders in a subdued voice. “Secure from general quarters, sir?” someone asked. And slumping back into his seat, bone tired, but resigned to staying there all night, he muttered, “Yeah, go ahead. Secure.”

11

The East Coast of Africa

HE
snorted himself awake several times during the night. Each time, he muzzily thought of going below, but stayed in the chair instead. Each time he woke he peered out, checking the freighter’s stern light. It rode always in the same place, a yellow star low off their bow, glittering and reeling beneath clouds that were closing down again.

The last time he woke the sky was gray. A little after 0500, and Hermelinda Garfinkle-Henriques, wilted in the half-light, was at his elbow, the radio messenger beside her. They murmured good mornings. Dan grunted and coughed, hitched himself up, glanced out—the freighter was still there. He sighed, and reached for the clipboard.

It was from Fifth Fleet, info everybody on earth. Karachi had returned no response to the inquiry about registry. In the absence of confirmation, Dan was directed to carry out a noncooperative boarding, having regard to the warning provisions of References A through F and his ROE. He was also reminded to carry out a risk analysis of the boarding process.

“One more thing, Captain,” the supply officer said. “We have a closing contact from the east. You might want to check it out in CIC.”

“It’s on GCCS?”

She said stubbornly, “You might want to check it out for yourself, sir.”

*   *   *

THERE
was hot coffee in Sonar. He got a cup and a sticky bun en route to the command desk. CIC felt deserted with only a steaming watch. Empty consoles, and half the lights on, while a compartment cleaner jockeyed a broom across the deckplates and progressive jazz warbled from the EW console. He blinked up at the displays. Highlighted the contact, and studied the callout. Its extended track met
Savo
’s later that day. He powered up his work station and scrolled through the intel.

PLANS
Wuhan
was a Type 052B Guangzhou-class guided missile destroyer, attached to the South Seas Fleet. Brand-new, displacing almost seven thousand tons, it was the first multirole, antiair-capable destroyer the Chinese had built. It reminded him of a Sovremennyy, and had a lot of the same Russian sensors, along with Grizzly surface-to-air missiles and YJ-83 long-range antiship cruise missiles. She had one 100mm automatic gun and a CIWS. Also a hangar, though his sources didn’t say if a helo was routinely embarked. His only clear advantage was Aegis.
Wuhan
’s E-band radar had neither the reach nor the multiple-tracking capabilities of the SPY-1.

Still, in a medium-range engagement, it would be even-steven, YH-28s against Harpoons. Whoever fired first would have the advantage. He cut and pasted, added his own thoughts, and forwarded the collage to his TAOs, the EW chief, the exec, Chief Wenck, and Dr. Noblos. He queried GCCS for other Chinese units and got PLANS
Haikou,
another destroyer, farther west, near the Gulf.

Cheryl came in and he told her what they had. Sniffling, she blew her nose into a tissue. Black smudges circled her eyes. “Are we still boarding?”

“As directed. Nobody seems to want to own up to these guys.”

“Black flagged?”

“Could be. Pulled out of a scrapyard someplace.” He keyboarded around. Cameras fore and aft on the missile decks could be pivoted via joystick from the TAO’s station, but they weren’t stabilized, which made them not too useful at sea. He could look through the port or starboard CIWS cameras, but the mount had to point at what it was looking at, which could be misconstrued as a hostile act. He settled on the starboard 25mm gun camera. It was stabilized and he could move it independently of the gun.

Patchooli
rode steadily in the gunsight, the crosshairs riding just above her fantail. He zoomed in, looking for a flag, but again saw none. The ship name was so spotty and half-obliterated he could make out only the double O, but there seemed to be another beneath it, maybe outlined with a welding stick. At magnification the image dissolved into the blurry, heaving speckles of digitization. “Let’s make it after breakfast. Say, 08. Plenty of light by then. Tell Strafer we’ll need Red Hawk in the air. And we’ll go back to GQ.”

*   *   *

HE
was on the boat deck, talking to Mytsalo before lowering the RHIB. The teams didn’t load there; there weren’t enough safety lines for everyone, and they’d make it too heavy for the davit. They’d drop the boat in the water, and then the coxswain would drive it to the stern. The boarding team would climb down via a Jacob’s ladder. His Hydra beeped and he keyed. “CO.”

“Sir, XO here. VHF transmission from
Wuhan.
In the clear.”

“Read it to me.”

“‘Request delay boarding until PLANS
Wuhan
is on station to assist.’”

He let up on the Transmit key. Politely phrased, but what lay behind it? He held up a restraining hand to Mytsalo, who seemed too eager to get into the boat. “Did we acknowledge receipt, Cheryl?”

“Uh, yessir, we did.”

“Anything more from upstairs? Fifth Fleet?”

She said there wasn’t. Dan cleared his throat and spat over the side. “Well, we have our orders.”

“Shall I answer?”

“I don’t honestly know … not sure what a message like that actually means.” He furrowed his brow. “Um, how far away is she? The Chinese destroyer?”

“Wait one … about an hour’s steaming time.”

He eyed the men loading into the inflatable. His current team wasn’t as highly trained as they’d been aboard
Horn,
mostly because marine interdiction wasn’t
Savo
’s primary mission. They were in black gear: helmets, flash hoods, coveralls, tactical vests, life jackets, steel-toed boots. They carried flashlights and radios as well as weapons. Aft, on the flight deck, Red Hawk’s turbines were whining into life, a higher note above the deep
whoosh
of the ship’s own intakes and exhaust. “Thank
Wuhan
for his interest. Tell him we’re proceeding with the boarding and ask him to stand clear. And let Fifth Fleet know about the exchange. Over.”

She acknowledged and signed off. Mytsalo’s fresh young face glowed with windburn. “Max, no unnecessary risks,” Dan told him. “Stay alert for weapons. Stay in touch on your radio. Do a thorough search, but don’t split up into more than two teams, and don’t let anyone wander off alone.” The ensign nodded eagerly. The boatswain on the davit eyed them, and Dan nodded. “Get ’er in the water!” he yelled, as behind him the rotors accelerated and the noise abruptly became deafening. The SH-60 lofted off and her long dragonfly shape passed black above him, climbing for the clouds, then tilting and drifting toward the battered ship a quarter mile distant. Having a helo pointing a machine gun at your bridge usually returned sanity even to uncooperative captains. Not only that, if there was hostile activity along the decks, they could warn the boarding party.

Which, a few minutes later, pushed off. The engines roared as the inflatable peeled away, throwing up a rooster tail as it bounded across the seas. Mytsalo rode with knees bent, clutching the center console, helmet bobbing as they hit each wave. Dan watched with both envy and relief, remembering his own days as a boat officer. Mytsalo had a Beretta, while Peeples, Benyamin, and VanDuren cradled shotguns and carbines. But their main means of intimidation, obviously, were the big guns of the warship behind them. He’d sent Kaghazchi along to translate if necessary, though whoever the sea lawyer had been spoke good English. Peeples was there to tend the engine and keep things running while the rest were aboard. The backup team would follow, standing off in the second RHIB unless needed.

He sucked smoky air. Had he been pushed into something he’d regret? A casus belli, like the Agadir incident? Why were the Chinese getting involved? At last he headed for his own station, up on the bridge.

*   *   *

NOTHING
about the boarding went according to plan. As the RHIB neared its stern, the freighter sheered away again, as it had the night before. The helo, hovering over its foredeck, reported men on the port side aft, but saw no weapons among them. Dan sent another sharp warning over the VHF. Then, losing patience, he fired a live five-inch high-cap round into the water a quarter mile ahead of the fleeing ship.

The crack and boom of high explosive, the burst of black smoke and white spray, seemed to have an effect at last. The old freighter slowed, slewed sideways, and lost way, starting to roll. The RHIB circled, then nestled in like a hungry piglet. A rope ladder dropped down to it as the bridge receiver crackled,
“U.S. Navy warship
Savo Island,
this is Motor Vessel
Patchooli.
Once again, I submit you are in violation of international law. I am heaving to under protest. I am requesting assistance. Legal action will follow.”

“Be my fucking guest,” Dan muttered to Cheryl Staurulakis. She was staring out at the other ship, arms folded. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “What?” he asked her.

“We’ve got another player on the board.” She pointed off to port.

Through his binoculars the sky glowed off paint so much lighter, paler, than the haze gray the U.S. Navy favored that it looked almost white. The destroyer was still far off but had a bone in her teeth and, to judge by her aspect, would soon be on them. The wide-set bridge extended across the whole beam. Above it a pyramidal mack climbed like a ziggurat. A massive radar antenna rotated slowly at its apex. The smooth flattened way the superstructure met the hull told him it was designed with elements of the stealth the newest U.S. ships were bringing into the fleet.

Beside him the exec, the OOD, and the quartermaster all had their binoculars up too. “Get the photographer up here,” Cheryl told Nuckols. “This is the first time they’ve deployed this class.”

Dan passed down that he wanted electromagnetic intelligence, too, though no doubt the EWs and cryppies had already been on that for hours. Then he clicked his Hydra to the boat freq and went out on the wing for a clear line of sight. The helo was circling, trailing exhaust haze against the pearlescent cloud cover. The RHIB rode off the freighter’s port side. “Matador One, this is Matador. Progress report?”

Mytsalo’s slightly amped voice.
“We’re aboard. They seem to be cooperating. Over.”

“Any sign of weapons?”

“No sir, not yet. But we’ve only checked the papers, haven’t really started the search yet.”

“What’s the cargo? According to the bill of lading?”

“Uh, let’s see … dried fruit … bolted cotton fabric, cotton yarn, tanned leather, and rice. And something called ‘miscellaneous manufactures.’”
A pause, then,
“We’ve got a really pissed captain here too. This turkey’s hopping mad. Over.”

“Who’s the woman? The one who speaks English?”

“Uh, I guess that would be the supercargo? Or she might be married to the captain—I’m not clear yet exactly. She’s arguing with Kaghazchi in I guess Urdu.”

Dan told him to start the inspection as soon as possible. “Remember to look for the signs of hidden spaces. Fresh paint. Recently moved equipment. Watch the crew, and give them a chance to talk to you alone if you can.”

Mytsalo said
“Wilco”
proudly, as if for the first time. For an ensign, being a boat officer was your first taste of what command might be like. The high—and the anxiety, too.

“Breakfast, Skip?”

Longley, with a covered tray. He peeled back the napkin like a prestidigitator. Ham slices, hash browns, toast, sunny-side eggs. And coffee, of course. “Put it on the chair,” Dan told him. “I’ll have it out here.”

“Bridge, sigs.”
The old signalman rate was gone, but a quartermaster still manned the signal bridge. Pardees hit the key. “Go ahead.”

“Signal in the air from destroyer type to starboard.”

“Go ahead.”

“Flag signal … X-Ray. Kilo. Numeral, two.”

The OOD peered out onto the wing. Dan looked back at him, a piece of jam-smeared toast suspended in the air. “Maritime code?” Pardees murmured, looking embarrassed.

The quartermaster leaned down from above, looking disturbed. “Flag hoist breaks via maritime code to read, ‘Cease your present activities. Communicate with me by loud hailer.’”

Dan frowned, both at the peremptory tone, which was never used between ships of different navies, and at the means of delivery. NATO ships maintained a flag bag, but they were seldom used, except for displaying call signs, and decorating during festivities or ceremonies. He didn’t understand.