Wilson considered the risk his two pilots would be taking on the battle-damaged catapults. There was little choice. Hancock needed to be at sea, and Wilson needed his aircraft back aboard.
“How are you holding up?” Johnson asked.
“We’re okay, sir, but we can’t do much against much of anything. I’ve got lots of bullets and Sidewinders, but only a handful of Mavericks, some Hellfires for the helos and a few torpedoes for the Romeos. And no anti-radiation missiles. The Japanese have these little Mark-81 bombs they’ll lend us, but they have no guidance kits of any kind. Wish we had some bigger stuff, some SLAMs, more Mavericks. If the Chinese send fighters here, we can go to the merge with them. That’s about it.”
“Yeah,” Johnson agreed. “Look, we’ll run as far south as we can and recover you in the afternoon, but it’s still going to be an open water transit of hundreds of miles. We’ll send you an overhead message and try to get most of your guys aboard.”
“Yes, sir, and the ship will never look so good.”
“I’ll be breathing easier with you aboard, but there’s no break. We’ll be running toward Luzon and expect to be fighting along the way. John Adams, too. We gotta move out.”
“Yes, sir,” Wilson answered, not knowing the Chinese had a plan to prevent him from doing so.
CHAPTER 36
After a day’s transit, Shen was anxious. He was in the launch window for this new and untried weapon. What did the Americans have above him that would pounce — once he unmasked himself with ten missiles bursting from the sea? He wanted to wait till night, but his orders were clear: Launch everything once inside the window. He depended on his Weapons Officers who had to enter code and instructions into each cruise missile. It took hours, and they told him the weapons would still be degraded. Headquarters is sacrificing us, he thought. He and his entire crew had pledged to sacrifice themselves for the People’s Republic — to bring glory to the PLA(N) and to the Party — but now that the reality was here, Shen wished it were not so. He didn’t know if any other PLA(N) boats were this far from home, or even afloat. He had no idea how the fight was going against the Americans. Operating in a vacuum of information, he knew only his task and nothing more, as he mindlessly stared at his chart without seeing it.
“Comrade Captain, we enter the launch window in five minutes,” his First Officer said, snapping him back to reality.
“Very well. We will continue thirty more minutes to increase our chances of hitting them — and of survival. When is sunset?
“Ninety minutes, Comrade Captain.”
“Then they will have an hour of daylight. How long is the missile flight time?”
“Just under 30 minutes,” his First Officer told him, then added, “not counting the terminal area sprint.”
Shen calculated. By the time the Americans could react after missile impact, the sun would be down. Shen knew pilots didn’t like to fly at night: his advantage. He could fight Changzheng 8 just as well day or night.
But he still didn’t know what was above him.
After 30 more minutes had passed, Shen could delay no longer. He sensed all in the control room were waiting for orders.
“Ahead slow. Make your depth 40 meters. Open tube doors for missile launch.”
The Conning Officer complied, planesmen pulled back on the control columns, and Shen felt his boat climb toward the surface. Sonar reported nothing out of the ordinary. Each man in the control room knew they were making history again, and some wore slight smiles on their faces.
It would take over five minutes to launch all of the cruise missiles. Shen could then begin his 1,000 mile journey home — with every Japanese and American ship and plane in the Pacific trying to sink him. Once launch checks were complete, the First Officer spoke.
“We are ready, Comrade Captain.” Shen nodded.
“Very well. Turn us south. When out of the turn, I will give the order. When the last missile is away, take us deep at ahead-standard.”
“Aye, aye, Comrade Captain!”
The 7,000-ton boat, the pride of the PLA(N), turned south, and Shen could delay no more.
“In sequence as loaded. Shoot!”
“Shoot one!” the Weapons Officer commanded. All felt a jolt forward as the first missile was expelled by pressurized air from the tube. Its booster rocket ignited once it burst out of the sea. Inertial guidance gimbals turned it toward Iwo Jima as wings deployed and jet engine power took over for the long flight. A little over 30 seconds later Changzheng 8 shuddered again as another 4,000 pounds was ejected from it. With every jolt and shudder, Shen thought of American and Japanese sensors that had to be nearby. He would launch all his missiles, but how long would he have after they were gone?
One hundred miles southwest of Iwo Jima, Mother and his wingman Major Rick “Milton” Bradley were drilling holes over an empty ocean.
In his cockpit, Mother chafed. There’s no fuckin’ way the Pricks are going to send an air threat this far, but we still have to carry live ‘Winders and BBs in the nose. Mother wished he and Milton could at least mix it up 1v1 to kill some time, but, with CAG Wilson’s directive, he knew better than to push back. CAG is a frickin’ idiot if he thinks we’re going to defend Iwo Jima with sticks and stones. Mother checked his fuel and sat with mask dangling, his elbows on the canopy rails, as his Hornet flew in a lazy, max-endurance circle 15,000 feet above the whitecaps. Milton was doing the same on the inside of his turn. Both were bored as they waited for two Rhinos to relieve them at 1800.
Milton wasn’t too happy to be flying wing on Mother either, embarrassed at the curt and sanctimonious responses from his CO to the E-2 guys who were vectoring them. The E-2 guys were only doing their jobs. Mother was an overbearing dickhead, but he was a Marine and his skipper. Even now in combat the abrasive personality of his CO overshadowed the job they were doing, which was as important as a sentry guarding the main gate at Miramar. “Hanging on the blades” on max-endurance patrol over an empty sea was only a little more glamorous.
Milton’s eye caught something among the whitecaps. He studied it for a moment and saw it was no seabird. It was a white slash moving northeast with purpose. He eased away from Mother as he stayed padlocked on the object. That’s a cruise missile!
“Mother, Milton. I’ve got a fast mover on the deck heading northeast. My nine o’clock low!”
Mother looked left and down. “Don’t see it. You still have it?”
“Affirm, coming to my eleven o’clock now, about a mile ahead.”
“Investigate! You’ve got the lead,” Mother said.
Milton’s eyes didn’t budge from the object as he overbanked and radar-locked it. It was on the deck at a transonic airspeed, and Milton swooped down on it like a hawk on a field mouse.
“Still have it?” Mother asked.
“On my nose for a mile,” Milton answered, holding a 60-degree dive.
“Tally!” Mother cried as he shoved the throttles forward to catch up. He then called the E-2. “Lookout, Panthers, we’ve got a missile inbound to home plate at a high rate of knots. Investigating.”
“Roger, Panther, mark your posit. What type?”