“Very well,” Wong said. “Ready the main cannon. Head below to the combat control center and prepare for gunnery operations.”
After ten minutes, he looked down to the forecastle as the Chengdu’s main gun turret rotated clockwise. The barrel rose up and then descended, holding its true elevation in perfect counterbalance to the destroyer’s roll. Quick strides brought him to the starboard bridge wing, where he tasted moist salt air.
Earmuffs protected the hearing of the young, husky petty officer standing on the wing. The sailor held binoculars to his face and aimed them between the horizon and the setting sun. Wong raised his voice to get the youngster’s attention.
“Do you see it?”
The sailor turned, nodded, and pointed.
“There, sir. And also the watchtower on Prince Consort Bank.”
Wong lifted binoculars from his chest to his face, and he saw an orange cubic target drawing a wake through the waves. He then shifted his view a mile forward of the orange target and saw the frigate that towed it. Continuing further ahead, he noticed the Vietnamese watchtower cresting the horizon, giving him his first view of a Spratly landmass since joining the task force.
“Very well,” Wong said.
Closing a door behind him as he reentered the air-conditioned coolness, he looked to his officer of the deck, a lieutenant.
“Is the operations officer ready to fire?”
“Yes, sir.”
Wong stopped at a console and cast his gaze to a monitor. He extended his finger and flipped through camera views, shifting between the cannon, the target, and the Vietnamese watchtower. Settling on the target, he lifted a sound-powered phone to his check.
“Operations officer,” he said, “This is the captain.”
“Captain, this is the operations officer.”
“This is for demonstration and target practice. Don’t use guidance on the shells. Let’s test our true marksmanship.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Commence gunnery operations, release one round for spotting.”
A deep thud shook the windows, and a flash of lightning filled Wong’s peripheral vision. He counted silent seconds until water splashed behind the bright cube.
“You’re off target,” he said. “Report your adjustments.”
“Adjusting one and a half degrees left azimuth, half a degree downward elevation, sir.”
“Very well. Release one round for spotting.”
The polycarbonate windows shook, and the next round tore a hole in the cube’s fabric.
“Excellent,” Wong said. “Release ten rounds. Fire at will.”
Wong offered his crew a ceremonial nod of approval for hitting the target eight out of ten times.
“Secure gunnery operations,” he said.
Through the forward window, the pillars of the Vietnamese tower jutted above the horizon. Other ships in the task force had already turned east, and he needed to join them.
“Officer of the deck,” he said. “Set new fleet course of zero-nine-zero. Come left to course zero-nine-zero. Recommence anti-submarine legs in five minutes.”
An hour later, a navigational aid atop the Vietnamese-held Grainger Bank appeared as a white flash in the dusk, warning ships to avoid its underlying shallows. Like all major navigational aids in the Spratly Islands, human beings lived inside it, peering back at him. Even as he drove the Chengdu forward in unlit blackness, Wong recognized his vulnerability to infrared optics.
As the light drew to the destroyer’s starboard and then disappeared into the encroaching darkness, he moved to an electronic charting table and studied the Spratly Island’s southern landmasses. Passing by Prince Consort Bank and Grainger Bank had given Vietnam the warning to stay out of the way, but a continued easterly course would only broadcast the task force’s trajectory to people outside the Chinese sphere of influence.
Assuming the Malaysian submarine to be hiding near its home waters, he decided that his hunt needed to veer southeast, away from the landmasses and towards the open shallow waters west of the Malaysian mainland. He picked up a radio handset and hailed the Jinggang Shan.
“This is the captain of the Chengdu,” he said. “Get me Captain Zhang.”
After token protests from an underling about bothering the task force leader, Wong’s persistence won out.
“This is Captain Zhang.”
“Sir, this is Commander Wong. I recommend setting fleet course at one-three-five.”
“What’s the meaning of this? Why would you challenge my orders?”
“The present course runs us by manned Vietnamese landmasses. They may see us, and they may warn the Malaysians.”
“I am fully aware of that, Wong. Do you think me an idiot?”
Yes, he thought. You earned your rank as a glorified taxi driver for real men who carry rifles.
“I am doing my duty of sharing my anti-submarine fighting expertise.”
“And how many submarines have you successfully hunted?”
Arrogant ass, he thought.
“You know the answer, sir. Only a few lucky men have had the opportunity. But their lessons are part of my training, and I know how to—”
“Fleet course is zero-nine-zero, commander.”
Silence filled the line, and Wong cursed.
He slept fitfully, instincts waking him in the middle of the night as his ship passed the next occupied Vietnamese landmass. To calm himself, he crept to the bridge and glared through binoculars at the white flashing luminescence pulsating from the lighthouse atop Vietnam’s Rifleman Bank.
Trusting his anti-submarine legs and good fortune, he returned to his stateroom and napped for three hours, waking with gratitude that a Malaysian torpedo hadn’t cracked his keel. After showering and choking down breakfast, he reached the bridge in time to see the lighthouse of Amboyna Cay.
With the sun risen, he also saw the first dry land of his Spratly Islands hunt — all four acres of it. As the cay drifted aft and the Chengdu rolled through another anti-submarine leg, the lighthouse of Barque Canada Reef came into view. The fifteen-mile reef held a small Vietnamese military detachment.
I understood a demonstration of firepower to warn the Vietnamese, he thought, but this has decayed into folly. They could almost feed targeting data to the Malaysians.
He grabbed his phone and hailed the floating dock, which passed closer than his ship to the militarized reef.
“Captain Zhang.”
“Sir, this is Commander Wong. We are in a compromised tactical position for hunting a submarine. I recommend setting fleet course at two-two-zero to reposition ourselves to unmonitored waters. If the Vietnamese so much as give a hint of our presence—”
“That’s exactly what I want them to do, commander.”
“I don’t understand, sir.”
“Prepare for naval gunfire support. You and the frigates will give my landing teams naval bombardment support.”
Wong scanned his memory banks for a target and connected Zhang’s intent with the nearest Malaysian landmass — Mariveles Reef, which contained a naval garrison.
“You mean Mariveles Reef?”
“Yes, commander.”
“And you want my gunfire support? You would have me and the other combatants be pinned down under possible return fire from shore cannons, while a Malaysian submarine has free reign to attack us at will?”
“You have a nuclear-powered submarine defending you and at least two anti-submarine helicopters airborne at all times.”