One bomb got through to strike the River God, exploding one of her 324mm torpedoes and damaging the 130mm gun turret. No other hits were scored. Over 130 SAM’s had been expended, but Admiral Wei was pleased to learn damaged had been so light. The difference today was that the ships had not engaged Tomahawks before the strike, and so their SAM counts still left them in the fight.
It was clear that Roosevelt could execute a perfect strike, without losing a single plane, but could barely put a scratch on the enemy as well. As the disappointing results were returned, Captain Simpson decided he had to double down for round three, and use more F-35’s in the strike role.
“Mister Ripley, what’s left in the carrier magazine?”
XO Ripley would get than answer soon. Roosevelt still had 60 Slammers, plenty of anti-radiation missiles, 48 JSOW Broach, 36 more LRASM and 160 GBU-53. Those were the standoff weapons still in inventory, along with plenty of short range dumb bombs. The Captain reasoned that he had enough left for one big punch, and he had to make it hurt. Otherwise, he wasn’t going to back the Chinese Fleet down, and 1st USMC would be stuck at Diego Garcia.
“Check with the two Gators. They should have GBU-53 available too. Then get a message to this Admiral Wells,” said Simpson. “See what they might be able to contribute something on top of escort duty. And be polite, Ripley.”
“Yes sir.”
“Very well, we operate to keep the range outside 300 miles as per standing orders. If they want to follow us, they’re welcome. All that will do is pull them farther from any land based air support they have, not that it matters. They can’t see us, and they can’t shoot us down.”
That was an enviable position to be in. Simpson realized his limitations, but he also knew he was calling the tune out here, not the other side. He could stay at arm’s length, throw punches, and the Chinese couldn’t lay a finger on him. That’s what a big deck carrier does for you, and without a DF-21D in sight.
Admiral Sun Wei was no fool. He could see how the battle was developing, and clearly sized up his shortcomings in this situation. He had about 50 more YJ-100’s that could strike the American now. The rest of his power resided with the YJ-18’s on all the destroyers, but they needed to be within 290 miles of the target.
We have been steaming southeast at 25 knots to try and close the range, but we have not gained an inch, he thought. For a big ship, the American carrier is very fast. They will be able to keep us over 300 miles away as long as they wish. No wonder the Siberians developed a missile that could range out 700 miles, undoubtedly with the help of the Soviets.
If I persist, they can just lead me out into the Indian Ocean, but that course offers us no advantage. No, I must stay as close to our land based air cover as possible, so I will order a 180 degree about face. We go north west, back into the heart of the Arabian Sea. Then, if they wish to do battle, they must come to me.
Their Carrier Strike Group is a powerful foe. I had my way with the Royal Navy, because they had no credible strike option with their carriers. Here the Americans have real standoff strike power, and combined with their long range Tomahawks, they represent a strong and persistent threat. But they cannot continue to mount airstrikes like this indefinitely. There is a limit to what that carrier can hold in its magazines. Perhaps they withdraw southeast now for that reason. There could be unseen replenishment ships there, waiting to lift in fresh ordnance by helicopter. Then they start all over again, and they will slowly wear us down.
So what is to be done? I must think in the long run. What is it they want? They want to control the sea lane between Diego Garcia and ports in Oman, and I have interposed my fleet between their force and those ports. So how can I hurt them now? They are still hundreds of miles from Oman. I have a 300 plus mile lead on them if I make for the Omani coast. There are only two ports they could feasibly use to offload heavy warfighting equipment, Salaha in the west and As Sultan Harbor at Muscat in the east on the Gulf of Oman. So now I know what I must do—deny the use of those ports to the enemy.
Thus far I have sought to do battle with them, as I did with the British, but the Americans are an altogether different foe. So now I must change my strategy. Instead of killing their ships, I will simply kill their ports—just as they pounded all the airfields they thought we would be relying on. Yes, what a simple solution! Destroy the port facilities, and then where will their Marines and Army land?
Unfortunately, I cannot do this at range, for our missiles were not built for land attack, and I have too few fighters that could carry bombs and get through their air defenses. But I have a navy…. Every ship I command has deck guns…. Yes, I will simply go and sit off those ports, and then utterly destroy them!
The Admiral smiled as he gave his next order. “Issue a fleet wide communique. All task forces will come about to 350 degrees northwest, and all ahead full. We are going to Salaha.”
“Well now,” said Captain Simpson. “They’re withdrawing?”
“Yes sir,” said Executive Officer Bert Ripley. “Looks like they don’t like the Big Stick we’re carrying.”
Simpson’s eyes narrowed. “This guy in command over there is quite the cagey fellow. What do you think they’re up to, Mister Ripley?”
“Could be logistics,” said Ripley, thinking of the obvious. “We pulled a lot of SAM’s with that last strike.”
“Yes, but from just one of their task forces. That’s one big Dragon out there. They have five more Surface Action Groups we have yet to engage.”
“But they need fuel, sir.”
“True, but their better destroyers have legs, and I don’t think that’s the issue with them just yet.”
“Then they’re wanting air cover,” said Ripley. “They’re nearly 600 miles from the coast of Yemen and about 800 miles from Aden. If they want to make port somewhere, in Pakistan, it’s a thousand mile run.”
“They must have oilers out there behind them,” said Simpson. “I don’t know, but this move smells of something. Let’s get turned about and follow them. We can hold the range outside 300 nautical miles easily enough. Notify the British, will you?”
“Yes sir, keep your friends close.”
“Right, said Simpson. “And keep your enemies closer. We’ve got this beast by the tail, and now’s not the time to let go.”
“There’s one other thing, sir.”
“What is it, Mister Ripley?”
“This latest satellite report. It seems there’s new activity out on Socotra Island.”
“New activity?”
“Air units, sir. This latest recon pass showed a rotodome AEW plane there, and several fighters—J-20’s.”
“Interesting,” said Simpson, looking at the photograph. “Let’s put that little airfield out of business. Send that to the strike planners and have them work something up for the Tomahawks.”
At 13:45 Local, just a few minutes after the Chinese has posted their afternoon ASW patrol, the wounded River God ran into trouble—HMS Anson. The British sub had been between the Colombo group, and the main body of the fleet to the west, quietly looking for prey. The sonar team saw that one sheep in the flock was falling a little behind, for Heshen had been the only ship hit in the US airstrike that morning. Anson had crept to within 12 nautical miles, where her Captain, Francis Drake, decided to make a mad dash and fire. He accelerated to 24 knots, closed the range quickly to about 8 miles, then cut the engines to a creep.