Red Tide, стр. 84
Then the planes arrived. They circled like vultures over a dying animal. The first one dived. “Fire chaff,” Conte ordered. “Engage with missiles. Fire when ready.”
Stinger Team 1 fired. But their missile went after a flare and exploded.
Team 2 was ready with a follow-up. Their Stinger found its target. There was an explosion as the missile hit an engine, followed by a second explosion, and a third—as the Sukhoi Su-27 disintegrated.
The second and third planes attacked in quick succession. Missiles flashed off wings, sought targets, and blew up as the SRBOC mortars continued to chug.
How many decoys did the Queen have? Ryson couldn’t remember. He hoped it was enough.
Then one of the Chinese jet jockeys made a mistake. Previous runs had been made from the west, toward the missile boat’s stern, but this pilot decided to tackle the Queen head on. And more than that, to come in low under the chaff, skimming the wave tops.
And since missiles weren’t getting through, the pilot decided to use the plane’s secondary weapons. His 30mm GSh-30-1 autocannon was loaded with a hundred and fifty rounds, half of which splashed into the sea before he got close, leaving him with only seventy-five shells to put on the target.
What the pilot hadn’t considered was the fact that the Camo Queen’s bow gun could elevate high enough to engage planes, and that Gunner’s Mate Wes Cory was itching to bag a jet. “Come on motherfucker! Eat lead!”
And the Sukhoi did eat lead. A lot of it, even as rockets flared off the airplane’s wings, seeking the enemy. One went astray while the other struck the bridge. The force of the explosion destroyed the windscreen, killed Conte, and took the helmsman’s head clean off.
Blood flew everywhere, and the deck was slick with it, as Ryson stepped in to take control of the wheel. Wind buffeted his face as the bow cannon roared. The jet seemed to hesitate, and a wing dipped into the water. Ryson turned the boat to port to avoid the wreckage, while Cory screamed. “Yes! Yes! Fuck yes! That’s for my brother, you goddamned mother fucker!”
“Willkie,” Ryson said. “Conte’s down. So’s the quartermaster. Both are dead. What’s our status?”
“We took a hit aft of the radar mast, starboard side,” Willkie replied. “Both members of Stinger Team 2 were wounded. One is still on the job.
“The fast movers are closing from the west. They’re visible from the stern. And the target incoming from the east can be seen on the horizon.”
Ryson looked to his left. And sure enough, a ship was visible in the distance. A destroyer? Yes. Or a frigate. “What about the sub? Any news?”
“None so far.”
This sucks, Ryson thought, as the third plane attacked. I’ll join the army next time.
***
Aboard the United States submarine SSTN North Dakota in the South China Sea
Tim Hassan had been a sonar operator for only three months. But it was an easy call to make. “We have high speed screws in from the east. Plus, active sonar.”
Bonner swore. He had two choices. Surface and die. Or run and hide, leaving the men and women on the missile boat to perish. But that was unacceptable. “Palpate et moriar.” (Touch me and die.) That was the boat’s motto. A leftover from its previous incarnation as a ballistic missile sub. Before it was reduced to a tanker.
But the Dakota had four torpedo tubes. Each loaded with a Mk-48 torpedo. The weapons could be wire guided. Or, thanks to onboard AI, the fish could locate targets on their own. And that was the mode Bonner chose. The orders startled everyone.
“Bring the boat up to photonics depth. Standby to fire torpedoes. Program them to run independently.”
A sailor said, “This shit is getting real.”
“Belay that,” Ford ordered. “And see me when this is over.”
The deck tilted slightly as the North Dakota rose, the photonics package broke the surface, and Bonner hurried to take a look. It was a tin can alright, a Type 052D guided-missile destroyer, according to the data on the screen.
A quick pivot revealed the Type 22 boat as well, black smoke boiling up from midships, dead in the water. Why was she still afloat? The tin can could have destroyed the boat from a long way off. Maybe the enemy warship had orders to capture Allied personnel if they could. What a propaganda coup that would be! “I think they made us,” Hardy said. “They’re in range.”
It was a suggestion disguised as a comment. And Bonner knew the XO was correct. A Mk-48 could travel for more than twenty miles and still strike its target. And the tin can was only ten miles away. He didn’t have time to play cat and mouse. So, the best strategy was to fire everything he had, and hope that at least one of his weapons hit the target. “Stand by to fire tubes 1, 2, 3, and 4,” Bonner said. “Fire!”
Normally Bonner would monitor the torpedoes while taking steps to avoid whatever reprisal the destroyer might be capable of. But he had a different priority, and that was to rescue the people on the missile boat. “We have a job to do. Give me flank speed.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Aboard the Camo Queen, in the South China Sea
The missile boat was out of decoys by the time the third plane swooped in to fire a missile. The weapon struck just aft of the superstructure. Hot gasses and flying shrapnel penetrated the space below. “Doc” Crayton and an operations specialist were killed. “We have three missiles left,” Ryson said. “Kill the C 14 missile boats.”
“Yes, sir,” Willkie replied. “Firing 1, firing 2, and firing 3. Tracking.”
“Prepare to abandon ship,” Ryson announced. “Don PFDs and launch rafts.”
“Hits!” Willkie announced. “One C 14 destroyed, and