Red Tide, стр. 83
Ryson was wearing a headset in order to communicate with crew members who couldn’t hear the ship’s speakers. “Stinger crews will stand by to repel aircraft. Three from the west. Fire Control will prepare to fire chaff. Over.”
A Mark 36 Chaff and Decoy Launching System had been fitted to the Camo Queen to replace the Chinese version. Ryson turned to the helmsman. “Commence evasive maneuvers.”
“Evasive maneuvers. Aye, aye, sir.”
“Five surface targets,” Willke said. “In from the west. Fire Control is ready. Tracking.”
“Wait for it,” Ryson replied. “We need clean hits. One missile per target. If the targets sink, then good. But our main goal is to stop or delay them.”
“Incoming missiles,” Willke reported.
“Fire chaff,” Ryson ordered.
The Mark 36 system consisted of two arrays of six mortars each. One array to port, and one to starboard. Three tubes in each cluster were set at a different angles to ensure an effective spread. Each mortar produced a soft thud followed by a puff of gray smoke as an infrared decoy shot up to explode and scatter chaff.
“Targets optimal,” Willke said.
“Fire missiles,” Ryson ordered.
The Type 22 lurched as the Sky Dragon missiles left their tubes, and raced into the night. Would they hit their targets? And if so, how many? Ryson waited to learn his fate.
***
Aboard the United States submarine SSTN North Dakota in the South China Sea
The coordinates for the original rendezvous with the Type 22 missile boat were hundreds of miles to the south. But the North Dakota had been sent north to refuel one of the navy’s new, less expensive diesel submarines. And that put the sub in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or the right place, depending on one’s perspective.
Commander Les Bonner experienced a sinking feeling as he received new orders from INDOPACCOM. The Chinese missile boat and its Allied crew were in trouble. He was to make all possible speed to their location, surface, and pick them up.
A suicide mission if there ever was one. First, because the missile boat was going to lead Chinese vessels to his sub. And second, because the “Gas Can,” as his sailors called it, would be vulnerable while on the surface. Very vulnerable.
It was funny in a way. Bonner had been judged smart enough to be accepted at Annapolis, smart enough to graduate at the middle of his class, and smart enough to be selected for the elite Naval Nuclear Power School in Charleston.
But not smart enough to command a ballistic missile sub or an attack boat. But a sea going gas station? Yes. The brass thought he could handle that.
And after years of internal struggle Bonner had come to accept his lot. And to look forward to retirement. Who knew? Maybe they’d buck him up to 06 just before he went ashore for the last time.
Now, having been found wanting, he was about to be thrust into what was shaping up to be a sea going Alamo. And would almost certainly leave his wife crying over an empty grave. A lump formed in Bonner’s throat. “Roger that, sir … Out.”
Bonner was in the sub’s high tech control room. That’s where the North Dakota’s pilot and copilot were located, along with his XO, Lieutenant Commander Nicole Hardy, and Chief of the boat, Miles Ford.
Non verbals were important. Bonner knew that. That’s why Bonner had a smile on his face when he turned to face them. “We have new orders … We’re going to head west, rendezvous with the missile boat, and take the crew aboard.”
Hardy frowned. “They’re in trouble, aren’t they?”
“You could say that,” Bonner allowed.
“And the Chinese navy is after them? Including attack subs?”
“We don’t have Intel on any attack subs, but yeah,” Bonner admitted.
“So, we’re going to surface in the middle of a shit show,” Chief Ford added.
“Pretty much,” Bonner agreed. “But here’s the good news. Two of our attack boats are on their way to provide support.”
“And the ETA for the first one is?” Hardy inquired.
“Three hours give or take.”
“And the ETA for the rendezvous is?”
“An hour or so.”
The control room was silent as everyone took the information in. “So, I have time for a nap,” Ford said. All of them laughed.
Bonner felt grateful as he issued orders. Ford was the boat’s beating heart. And if he was confident, the crew would be as well. He felt the deck tilt as the North Dakota turned onto a new course. The Gas Can was going to war.
***
Aboard the Camo Queen, east of Macau, China
One of the incoming missiles detected a target, went for it, and exploded hundreds of feet above the missile boat. A second weapon came closer but met the same fate.
Smoking confetti twirled out of the sky as the Camo Queen continued to race east in a desperate attempt to reach the North Dakota before the Chinese caught up with her.
“One target is dead in the water,” Willkie observed, as the 22’s missiles fell. “The other targets are still in the hunt.”
An hour, Ryson thought. We have to survive for an hour. And four ships are chasing us.
“We have a new target to the east,” Willkie added. “And it’s coming our way.”
“Get operations on the horn,” Ryson ordered. “Maybe they can tell us what it is. This is unlikely, but request air support. Maybe we’ll luck out.”
They didn’t luck out. The blip, according to orbital Intel, was a Chinese destroyer. And the Camo Queen was too far away from the nearest carrier group to receive air support.
“Two of the four western targets are pulling ahead of the others,” Willkie reported. “That suggests that they are smaller and faster.”
Ryson was reminded of the C 14 missile boat that Atworthy’s Armindale had done battle with. The catamarans