The buzzer went off again. “Second launch,” Terranova announced. Then a third racketed into the cold air. And a fourth.
The Chinese might be fresh out of medium-range ballistics, but their allies weren’t. They’d trundled them down to the end of the peninsula, to help Zhang secure the sea lanes. And further threaten Japan, no doubt… Dan wrenched his attention back to the command net. The false strike group commander was still trying to steer them westward. No one was buying it, though, and most of the stations had signed off that chat room.
Staurulakis murmured, “Meteors Alfa through Delta acquired. Assigning Alfa and Delta to Hampton Roads. We’ll take Bravo and Charlie.”
“Manage it, Cheryl. I’m going to try to…”
But he couldn’t think of anything more to do.
He’d turned the formation around. Without authorization, but he’d generated the best defensive screen he could manage, given the numbers and the threat. Everything else was delegated.
“Meteor Alfa, point of aim generated.”
“Roll FIS to green?” Mills asked Staurulakis. The Firing Integrity switch wasn’t really a safety, but it ended up being used that way.
“FIS to green.” She unlooped the chain from around her neck and inserted the key. With the other hand, she depressed the 21MC lever. “Bridge, CO. Pass ‘Circle William’ throughout the ship. Launch-warning bell forward and aft.” She flicked up the red cover over the Fire Auth switch. ALIS had been computing intercept parabolas since initial detection. She clicked the switch over. Now the system would react as programmed, triggering at the moment kill probability peaked.
Four missiles shimmered on the screen, aimed right at the task group. A down-the-throat shot. Dan opened his mouth, then closed it again. Terranova and Soongapurn were already calling out the litany of engagement.
The deckplates rattled as, one after another, six SM-Xs exited their cells in blasts of flame. On the screen half a dozen blue carets hurtled outward. Picking up the initial guide beam, as far as he could tell. With three interceptors assigned to each descending warhead between the two cruisers, they should stand a decent chance. Of course, the price differential was about six to one, advantage Pyongyang… but that wasn’t his worry. He leaned back, kneading his neck as he watched the air strikes continue to close on him.
Then he noticed something.
The strike out of Kadena wasn’t heading for him.
Or rather, it had been, but had just altered course. On the display, its extended track was clicking around counterclockwise.
“Strike Alfa altered course to the east,” the TAO said, leaning across.
“I’m catching that, Matt.” Dan squinted up, getting a bad feeling. “Yep. They’re headed for the carriers now.”
“Concur. Crossing engagement? Whittle their numbers down, at least.”
“How far to their ordnance release point?”
Staurulakis answered. “Ten miles if they’re launching on us. Forty-some if they’re targeting Reagan. I passed a heads-up.”
“Got an acknowledgment?”
She nodded, pressing headphones to her temples. “Gaggle Bravo’s altering too,” Mills said. “Also toward the carrier.”
More unwelcome news… when he ratcheted his rulers the ranges looked bad. On their new headings, both strike groups would shortly be opening his task force. His antiair Standards were fast, but not all that much faster than a modern fighter on balls-to-the-wall afterburner. An overtaking engagement both shortened their effective range and dropped the probability of kill.
The carriers had already fought off two attacks. They were still trying to recover aircraft; couldn’t launch new fighters, or at any rate, not many. The COs of their destroyers had to be watching their weapons inventory displays with the same sinking feeling he had himself.
On the other hand, TF 76 was churning back toward them.
On this hand, on the other… Maybe the real question was, how did the strike leaders, riding with the lead elements of those hurtling J-8s, J-9s, and Sukhois, know where the carriers were? Since their mayfly-delicate drones had been swept from the sky?
He had his hand over the socketed handset when the red light lit. The speaker above his head beeped and synced. “Barbarian, this is Encapsulate.”
He pressed the phone into the crook of his shoulder, pressing the Sync button with his cheekbone as he worked the keyboard with both hands. “Barbarian. Over.”
“Dan, this is Encapsulate actual. Have to ask something hard of you. Gangbusters. I say again, Gangbusters. Over.”
He couldn’t help gulping, but kept his tone flat. “This is Barbarian. Copy, Gangbusters. Standing by.”
Cheryl was staring at him, aghast. The others were too. “No,” someone muttered. “Not us.” But Donnie Wenck was grinning like a madman. Interlacing his fingers, twisting them this way and that, like a concert pianist warming up. Then placing them delicately on the radar control keyboard.
“Going dark of the moon in thirty seconds. Good luck, and thanks.”
“Barbarian, roger, out,” Dan said. Wishing, as soon as he clicked off, he’d said something more memorable for his last recorded words. Something they could chisel into his tablet in Memorial Hall. How noble and sweet it was to die for… no, that wouldn’t fly. This wouldn’t be noble, or sweet.
Just fucking necessary.
“Dan?” Cheryl, looking concerned. Or scared. “What did he say? Was it, emulate?”
He muttered past the handset, “Yeah. Stand by to squawk flattop.”
She blinked at him. Then clicked to the EW circuit, and spoke into it in a low, stern voice, as if giving an order that might be disobeyed.
Dan gripped the edge of the command desk. Trying to deny, fight off, the image that kept shooting through his mind.
A lavender beam of fire. From one side of the compartment to the other.
Shearing off heads, necks, upper arms. Leaving charred trunks and flying flame.
The EW operator called, “Truman and Reagan off the air. No radar. No comms.”
Staurulakis rubbed her mouth. For the first time, she looked as if she’d forgotten about her husband’s death. “Okay, we’re — squawking flattop. Emulating the carrier.”
He nodded.
Radars. Other emitters. Even fake comms with the carrier air patrol, prerecorded and broadcast on the proper frequencies.
In the darkness that covered the deep, by the invisible emanations by which war guided itself in the twenty-first century, Savo Island looked just like the carrier now.
Five minutes later, both groups of enemy aircraft changed course again.
Back toward Task Force 76.
20
Scratching the cracks between her fingers, Cheryl Staurulakis peered up at the display. Calculating their chances.
Yet her gaze kept being drawn back to the weapons inventory screen. Only three ABM rounds left. Enough for a reengagement, if these failed, but no more.
She leaned back, scratching harder. Until she felt the warm ooze of blood.
She stared down at it. Had Eddie had time to bleed? Wounded in the cockpit of his bright new fighter? Or had he died instantly, stunned and shredded? A tissue from the packet she kept in the drawer blotted the flow. But bright red spots bled through.…
Carriers had no business this near the coast. Whoever had ordered them to close the now-alerted defenses was taking a hell of a risk. She’d passed the warning, but Truman and Vinson would still be maneuvering to recover their returning aircraft. They had their own destroyer screen, but she didn’t know how their inventories were holding up. Glancing at the display, she guesstimated the distance to the carriers. Not yet near enough for Savo to cover them.