“Wenshan is taking water,” the radio operator reported. “They are requesting fire support and assistance. Casualties reported.”
“Range to that fighter?”
“Range to Wenshan, eight kilometers,” the Combat technician reported. “Fighter still headed inbound. Passing eleven hundred kilometers per hour.”
“Sir, radar reports the second frigate has appeared over the horizon to the east,” Captain Lubu reported. “Range thirty-two kilometers, closing slowly.”
The Philippine ships were pressing the attack, Yin thought. So close to utter destruction, and now the mouse is turning to bite the nose of the tiger. “Order Fuzhou to intercept—”
“Sir, radar reports another contact off to the south,” Lubu interrupted. “Range thirty-seven kilometers, approaching at medium speed. They appear to be helicopters, sir. Three helicopters approaching.”
“Missile-launch detection!” Combat reported. “Frigate to the east launching missiles, sir!”
The battle was on in earnest.
The reports were flooding past Admiral Yin almost faster than he could assimilate them. Faces glanced at him, some doubtful, others accusingly, most of them fearful. Voices were bombarding him, rising in intensity and volume — the racket was getting loud, almost deafening…
“Fighter closing to within five kilometers, sir,” another report cut in. “Wenshan listing to starboard. Captain Han reports his stern is resting on the bottom and is unable to move…”
“Vessel to the south identified as PS-class corvette,” Lubu reported. “There was a fifth ship out here, Admiral. The helicopter landing platform… it must have separated from the rest of the Philippine task force and maneuvered to our right flank…”
“Missile-launch detection! Corvette to the south launching missiles…”
“Radar contact, third vessel, identified as LF-class fire-support craft…”
“Shoal water dead ahead, three meters under the keel. Suggest hard starboard twenty degrees…!”
“Execute turn…!”
“Missile-launch detection! Helicopters launching missiles, sir!”
“Chukou reports missile strike on the waterline, sir!” another report came. “No damage report… lost contact with Chukou…”
“Lost data link with Xingyi, sir. No reports yet…”
“LF-class fire-support vessel on suspected torpedo run, sir,” Lubu shouted. “Range down to eighteen kilometers, speed thirty knots…”
“Radar contact aircraft, range fifty-two kilometers, heading west at high speed,” another report came. “Fighter aircraft from Puerto Princesa. ETA, five minutes.”
“Sir,” Captain Lubu said, stopping and standing as close to Yin as he dared, “we are running out of maneuvering room, one patrol boat is grounded, and the other ships are scattering and disoriented — they are unable to defend themselves or defend the flagship. Recommend we reduce speed and provide fire-support coverage for our escorts. Once we are reorganized, we can steam out of the passage…”
Yin appeared not to have heard him. Not four inches from Captain Lubu’s face, Yin was breathing heavily through his nose. Perspiration was running down the sides of his temples. His face was flushed, his brow furrowed, his mouth a tight line. It was as if he were not there, but instead somewhere else far, far away, thinking…
… about how there was no way out.
… about his duty to protect his men, his ship.
… about saving face at all costs.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, but was really less than fifteen seconds, Yin unbuttoned the top button of his tunic, reached inside, and withdrew a large silver key.
Lubu’s mouth dropped open in surprise. His eyes grew wide as he realized what it was. “Sir… Admiral, you cannot…!"
“We cannot be razed like this, Captain,” Yin said calmly. “I will not suffer defeat at the hands of these people.” He inserted the key into a lock on a flat panel on the instrument console in front of his seat, waited as the door popped open. Inside the compartment was a red-colored telephone handset with communications cords and several unmarked buttons. Yin pressed the yellow button. A buzzer sounded around the entire ship. With Lubu looking on in absolute horror, men throughout the ship scrambled to prepare for an order that had never before been executed…
Admiral Yin picked up the red-handled phone within the unlocked compartment before him on the instrument console. “This is Admiral Yin,” he said. “Command is Battle Cry. Battle Cry. Over.”
“Initial code verified,” a voice on the other end of the line asked. “Targets, sir?”
“Target the southern corvette, turn, and target the eastern frigate,” he said in a low voice. “Execute in three minutes, system automatic. Authentication is Red Moon. Repeat, Red Moon. Over.”
“Understood, sir. Authentication verified. Full connectivity check… received. Execution in three minutes… mark. System automatic engaged. Countdown hold in two minutes. Combat out.” Yin replaced the red phone in its cradle.
A crewman dashed up to the two senior officers, carrying heavy gloves, a heavy black smock that resembled a thick poncho, and a heavy helmet with large gold protective eye goggles and a plastic face shield with respirator. Lubu accepted his but did not don it. “Admiral, I ask you to reconsider. We should receive authority from headquarters before attempting this…”
Yin allowed the crewman to help him on with the lead-impregnated smock, placed the helmet on his head, connected the interphone cords and breathing apparatus, and rolled down his sleeves. Inside the helmet, he could hear the reports coming in to Lubu as each desk and each station reported its Red Moon status.
“Admiral, you must stop this…” Lubu persisted.
“Two minutes to Red Moon execution,” the loudspeaker blared. “Two minutes to Red Moon execution… mark. All decks report ready.”
“My fleet is surrounded, we are under attack, we are in danger of losing the Spratly Islands and indeed most of the South China Sea to the Filipinos,” Yin said through the respirator. His flashblindness goggles and oxygen mask made him look sinister, even deranged, like a sea monster from a horror movie. “I have the power to stop them. My only other choice is to surrender to them, and that I will never do.”
“But this will create a disaster of international proportions,” Lubu argued. “We are too close to the Philippine shoreline. The water is too shallow — we will do irreparable harm to the coral reefs and the sea bottom in these shallow waters. You must cancel the order.”
“Put on your protective gear and prepare for Red Moon execution, Captain,” Yin said through the mask and respirator. “That is an order.”
“You cannot do this. We will be in a state of war, with the Filipinos, the Americans, the entire world.”
“Range to the south target?” Yin radioed to Combat. “Thirty kilometers and closing,” came the reply. “Helicopters at seven kilometers, ETA three minutes… sensor warning missiles on intercept course, ETA forty seconds, AA batteries and close-in systems manned and ready…”
“Admiral, please…” Captain Lubu shouted, his hands on the armrest of Yin’s chair. “At least… at least broadcast a warning message, sir.” Yin shook his head, a slow, ghastly gesture that made it look like the Death’s Head itself refusing the pleas of the ones condemned to die.
“You old fool, you can’t do this!” Lubu shouted. He turned to the officer of the deck, who was fully outfitted in his nuclear-chemical-biological-warfare gear. “Cancel Red Moon execution on my order, Commander. Broadcast on emergency frequency that this fleet is disengaging and departing Filipino waters immediately.”