He realized that the Philippine defenses included a phased array radar strong enough to mitigate his attack. As he watched his missiles begin to turn towards unwanted targets, he cursed under his breath.
“Missiles are tracking false targets,” he said. “Report wayward missiles!”
“Wayward missiles are just now separating, sir,” the operations officer said. “I count only three thus far, all from the same group. They’re targeting the Sierra Madre.”
Wong hoped that the remaining twenty-nine missiles would find their intended target while he conceded that the errant three would rid the planet of the landing craft the Philippines had beached on the shoal seventeen years earlier.
“Very well,” he said. “Twenty-nine missiles are sufficient for the task.”
“Sir, four more have gone wayward from a different group. They’re tracking the Alcatraz.”
A tingling reverence gave Wong goose bumps as he realized that the frigate had driven towards the shoal to defend the stronghold at the risk of absorbing missiles. He glanced at the display and noticed similar behavior from the Pilar, but it escaped the seekers of wayward weapons.
“Very well,” he said. “Twenty-five missiles will suffice.”
“Chaff clouds detected!”
“Very well. Chaff poses minimal concern.”
“Point-defense missiles!”
“Damn! How many?”
“Ten already. More are being fired. Probably American Rolling Airframe Missiles.”
“Damn!”
“Vulcan Phalanx close-in weapon system radar detected!”
He had expected the Phalanx radar, since the Philippine forces had used it against his solitary anti-air missile test shot, but the Rolling Airframe Missiles surprised him.
Bent over the display, he watched his salvo reach its terminus as defense missiles, Phalanx bullets, and laser defenses knocked his weapons out of the sky.
Questioning his judgment, he rebuked himself for keeping anti-ship missiles in reserve. As he scanned numbers tagged to each icon, he noticed that twenty-two Rolling Airframe Missiles sought his inbound weapons. Quick math, subtracting the wayward seven Eagle Strikes and assuming perfection from the Philippine point-defense missiles, suggested that his attack would yield nothing.
But Rolling Airframe Missiles could miss their targets, and saturation attacks could allow missiles to slip between Phalanx bullets and laser beams.
Two missiles punctured the Alcatraz, and two more transformed the rusting landing craft into a burning wreck. Then, icons representing his missiles — signs of hope that his strike would bear fruit — merged with the back corner of the stronghold.
“Three missiles have hit the primary target!” his operations officer said.
“Damage assessment?”
“No smoke on infrared. No sign of secondary fires.”
He collected himself.
“Send a helicopter to high altitude for a long-range visual inspection.”
A minute later, a railgun shell appeared on his screen, and he doubted that he had accomplished anything. The next round followed within ten seconds, and then a third ten seconds later.
“They have increased their firing rate from twenty to ten seconds, sir,” the operations officer said.
Wong wrestled to understand the significance of the ten-second separation between shells. He wondered if the Philippine forces had halved the interval in defiance of his attack. But he hoped that he had instead silenced one of the guns and had scared his enemy into firing every round as fast as possible from the remaining muzzle.
The radar return of an approaching merchant ship captured his attention.
“Officer of the Deck,” he said, “bring the translator to the bridge. I want that ship hailed in every possible language and warned to stay twenty miles away.”
The translator arrived and rattled off orders in a multitude of languages over the radio, calling for the vessel at the targeted coordinates. With no response, Wong grabbed his handset.
“Operations officer, ready the ship’s cannon.”
When the encroaching ship reached the limit of his gun, he gave the order.
“Fire! Eye hazard! Look away!”
He looked at the deck as the muzzle flash illuminated the night and bridge windows thumped against their frames.
“This is a warning shot,” Wong said. “Land the round fifty meters in front of the vessel.”
Equipped with guidance fins, each cannon round could adjust its flight path with targeting data from the destroyer. He waited for the round to splash.
“Hail them again!” he said.
The translator obeyed. No response. Wong shot another round.
“Fire! Eye hazard! Look away!”
After the muzzle flash, his stomach twisted with another critical decision.
He wanted to set the approaching vessel ablaze and send it to an aquatic tomb, but his admiralty had issued the order to avoid innocent civilian casualties. Commanding officers needed freedom to apply judgment within gray areas, and the definition of innocence swirled in his head.
“This is another warning shot,” he said. “Land the round twenty meters in front of the vessel.”
The round splashed, and the translator attempted another hailing. Nothing.
As the deck lurched to avoid the new volley of incoming shells, he braced for another sonic boom shaking the bridge windows.
“Fire control radar!” the operations officer said. “Coming from the approaching merchant ship!”
There was no time to jam the next shell, and Wong cringed as fire shot up from the screaming steel of his punctured vertical launch system.
“Fire! Fire at will until that merchant vessel is destroyed!”
“Firing, sir! Attempting jamming of incoming shells!”
Eleven shells turned his vertical launch system into twisted metal before his cannon ignited flickering flames on the horizon. Multicolored hues pulsated into the night, and then the sea swallowed the merchant vessel and its unwelcome fire control system.
“Seal all compartments around the vertical launch cells,” Wong said. “Keep damage control parties away from them. Let them flood. They are lost.”
The Chengdu rode lower in the water, and Wong noticed a slight sluggishness as the executive officer recommenced the railgun evasion legs.
As he caught his breath, he found solace realizing that his enemy had targeted his vertical launch cells. With the merchant vessel within visual range, the Philippine forces had free reign to choose any section of his destroyer, but they had taken out his arsenal of anti-air missiles.
They had spared his propulsion, and they had spared his cannon, allowing him to continue driving within range of his armor-piercing rounds. His enemy knew that, and still they had targeted his anti-air missiles.
Their fear of his anti-air missiles, weapons with tiny warheads and negligible hardening for penetration, suggested an exposure.
He had cracked the armor.
And though the latest shells had broken his magazine, he wasn’t alone. Two frigates in his group carried thirty-two anti-air missiles each.
Regardless how wide a wound he had punched into his prey, he trusted that at least one of the anti-air missiles could find its way inside. A ton of rocket propellant and metal moving at Mach 4 carried destructive force — enough to frighten his adversary.
As he considered how many of the sixty-four missiles to use against the stronghold and how many to preserve for control of the sky, his operations officer’s voice refocused his thoughts on a new obstacle.
“Patriot missile radar, bearing zero-three-five.”
Wong called up a map.
“That’s Nanshang Island,” he said. “Philippine-occupied. Sixty miles north of the Second Thomas Shoal.”