Twenty minutes after Hancock was attacked, PLA Rocket Forces launched nine modified DF-21s from trucks on a sparsely inhabited island along China’s seaboard. After two minutes all the missiles were airborne, and within thirty seconds they entered a low overcast and could not be seen from the ground or sea as they began their 1,600 mile journey, also toward the east.
The nine missiles attained a velocity of 4,700 meters per second as they crested above the earth at an altitude that prevented them from attaining orbit. Independent re-entry vehicles complicated the American defenses. At speeds approaching Mach 25, the vehicles, each with an infrared sensor, punched through the Earth’s atmosphere and, after an almost imperceptible “jink,” homed in on their targets at Andersen Air Force Base, Guam.
Four warheads cratered the dual parallel runways, and two more targeted the fuel farm tanks. One vehicle shredded the rotating antenna of the Remote Ground Terminal Radar, and two punched craters in the dual runways at AB Won Pat International Airport at Hagatña.
Like screaming hypersonic javelins, four re-entry vehicles slammed into the parking aprons at Andersen, where nineteen B-52, B-1, and B-2 bombers were parked, along with a dozen Air Mobility cargo and tanker aircraft and two squadrons of F-22 Raptors. The aircraft burst into flames, and debris from one exploded jet tore into adjacent aircraft, creating a chain reaction of destruction. Three re-entry vehicles found targets in Apra Harbor. Although programmed to find large ships with flat decks, with none present, they flexed to a moored prepositioning ship. Their infrared sensors locked their aimpoints on the defenseless and uninhabited ship, and the feared DF-21 ship-killers riddled the steel decks of USNS Sgt. Hollis Francona, setting fires with secondary explosions that burst hull plates below the waterline. In less than five minutes, the thick manila mooring lines began to snap as the ship rolled further and further from the pier. When the last one gave way, the 74,000-ton vessel came to rest on its side, settling deep in the mud as smoke and flame poured from it. The Andersen attacks killed 14 airmen and destroyed over 20 aircraft, including seven Raptors, three B-2s, five B-1s, and three KC-135s. One security guard was killed in the harbor attack. Over fifty people on the island were wounded.
From his command center at Camp Smith, Cactus Clark was shocked. Inside thirty minutes, Hancock was out of action as a combat ship, and the Chinese — through well-placed precision weapons fired at a distance the US did not think the PLA capable of — had neutralized Guam as a staging and logistics base. The loss of combat aircraft was serious, as were the losses of fuel supplies on Guam and priceless space-based ISR assets. But losing Hancock, his mobile striking power with over fifty combat aircraft now trapped aboard her, was catastrophic. Fortunately, USS John Adams was at sea east of Guam and not targeted by the DF-21s. Clark had a ready air wing on a carrier that could not launch it, and a ready carrier without the manning to operate her aircraft, both of them hundreds of miles apart in waters the Chinese held at risk. Furthermore, his ability to talk to them was degraded, and what little capability John Adams had to deliver precise ordnance was suspect. He had to take away China’s satellites and their ability to launch intermediate ballistic missiles—now—and initiated a call with the Secretary to make that happen.
In unambiguous language, the PRC warned Japan to remain neutral to avoid attacks on her territory. That meant American strike aircraft based at Okinawa and Iwakuni remained on the ground. China promised not to move against the Senkaku Islands and not to attack Japanese forces if they stayed in home waters. Tokyo, horrified by the crippling blows inflicted on the only ally that could confront Chinese aggression, paid the ransom and shut down the American flight lines, placing armed guards at the gates.
Thus, the Chinese warned their mortal enemy, Japan, to back off. However, they gave no warning to their ancient enemy to the south.
CHAPTER 28
From his cockpit vantage point 20,000 feet over the South China Sea, Bai Quon noted tall columns of white cumulus along the western horizon. Under them, the tranquil blue sea transitioned to a band of verdant green above the sharp beige line of the beach. Only four minutes to their targets, Bai and the other J-11s he was flying with were armed up to attack the Vietnamese installation at Cam Ranh Bay.
Ahead of Bai, a sweep of four Flankers were committing on a hot vector to the Vietnam People’s Air Force fighter base at Phan Rang. Bai cursed his bad luck. Here I am lugging pig iron to drop on a damned tent while those bastards ahead get to kill Vietnamese dogs who dare to oppose us. Bai’s attack element was to beat up the airfield at Cam Ranh with cluster bombs and rockets on the fuel truck pumps and attack any military aircraft they saw on the ramps. Bai chafed as a wingman to the squadron leader, who was to lead them against the tension-membrane aircraft shelters and any tactical aircraft found on the ramp. Five H-6 bombers would destroy the pier facilities and any vessels moored there, and other J-11s would destroy early warning radars, fuel storage and pumping facilities. All along the Vietnamese coast — from Phan Rang to Kep — PLA aircraft were striking targets in a coordinated and crippling blow to Vietnamese fighter assets. At Phan Rang, the VPAF operated the antique swing-wing Su-22 Fitters. It would be a field day, and Bai was missing it!
Ahead black AAA puffs dotted the sky over the naval base, and a bright light trailing a white plume lifted from someplace inland. His radar warning tone was screeching in his headset as his eyes stayed on the vivid pinpoint as the missile climbed and turned toward his mates heading for Phan Rang. Did that mean another one was locked on him?
With a sharp deflection of the stick, Bai broke hard away from his lead, unseen g forces squeezing him as instantaneous air pressure burst into the g-suit bladders around his legs and torso. Unloading for a moment to zero g, he snapped left and pulled hard to reverse his turn nose down. He craned his neck up and out the top of his canopy, straining to breathe with the heavy force on his chest as he regained sight of his lead. His squadron leader rolled inverted as a missile slammed into his upturned burner cans, turning the back end of his J-11 into a dazzling yellow torch trailing dense black smoke. The jet was out of control, and Bai saw an explosion from the cockpit as his flight leader ejected from his stricken jet. Bai, leaving him behind at 500 knots, watched the ejection seat fall with a stabilizer drogue behind it as the flaming J-11 continued its plunge toward the water miles below.
Six miles from Cam Ranh, Bai saw a ship, a sleek gray warship, heading out of the harbor into open water. Ignoring his flight lead, who had a good chute, Bai decided to go after the ship instead of his assigned airfield target. The radio was clobbered with the cries of the J-11 sweepers going for Phan Rang as they tried to make sense of what their air-to-air radars were telling them. Bai jinked hard to throw off acquisition radar and optical locks as he closed on the corvette that trailed a large, white wake. He kept his knots up by trading altitude for airspeed and worked to a position in front of the vessel. Under constant g, he fought to maintain situational awareness as he flicked his arming and fusing switches up and monitored his radar and IR displays. Though silent to Bai, he could see the port was alive with the blinking lights and drifting gray smoke of AAA guns, and black puffs and glowing tracers bloomed and rose into the sky above it. The corvette was firing its guns forward and amidships, and Bai kept maneuvering in three dimensions to avoid anything the Vietnamese forces aimed at him.