“Sir, I must have the cancellation code,” the officer of the deck shouted through his mask. The officer of the deck was trained to respond to orders from the ship’s captain, not the Admiral on board; therefore there was no question that he would obey lawful orders from Lubu. But procedures still had to be followed, especially in combat conditions and with the flotilla commander on deck in active command.
Lubu looked at the dark visage of Yin behind his mask. The Fleet Admiral made no movement, spoke nothing. Lubu said angrily, “On my authority, Commander. The codes are in a safe in my cabin. You know I have them. Until I retrieve the codes, I order you to cancel the execution order immediately.”
The officer of the deck turned to look at both Yin and Lubu. Most of the rest of the bridge crew was watching the exchange as well. Then the officer of the deck said, “I’m sorry, sir, but the Admiral is still on the bridge and he has command. I cannot supersede his orders.”
“Sixty seconds to Red Moon execution. All decks report ready… fifty seconds…”
“Cancel the order, Admiral,” Lubu warned him.
“Don your protective gear and stand by, Captain,” Yin said evenly.
Lubu’s eyes telegraphed his next move — he lunged forward for the silver key in the lock of the Fei Lung-9 command-control panel. Removing the key would disable the direct line to Combat, which would prevent the final execution order from being given from the bridge. The launch officer would hold the final launch countdown at twenty seconds if the final order was not given either by the direct phone or in person.
Just as Lubu touched the key, a shot rang out. Lubu was thrown away from Yin’s chair and onto the floor, a dark red stain spreading across his belly.
“You are a coward and a dishonorable man, Lubu Vin Li,” Yin said half-aloud, placing the smoking 7.62-millimeter Type 54 automatic pistol on the instrument console in front of him. “You cannot change my destiny. You have disgraced yourself trying.” Yin then picked up the red phone, lifted his mask and helmet, and spoke: “Combat, this is Admiral Yin.”
“Combat. Entering Red Moon countdown hold.”
“Execution order is Dragon Sword. Dragon Sword.” And he dropped the phone once more and lowered his respirator into position. As he closed the elastic seals on his gloves and neck of the protective smock, he spoke into the helmet’s interphone system: “Seal the bridge. Order all antennae and receivers into standby and—”
But just then Yin heard the collision-warning horn sound on the bridge loudspeaker and the loud, angry buzz of the Phalanx Close-In Weapon System. The radar-guided Gatling gun automatically tracked inbound targets and opened fire with a murderous hail of 30-millimeter bullets when it computed the object within range — Yin knew it was a last-resort weapon, and that its chances of stopping an incoming missile were slim.
Yin heard another warning horn blare — it was the T minus ten-second Fei Lung-9 launch-warning horn — just as a huge explosion erupted outside the port observation windows. The incoming Harpoon missile had been hit by the Phalanx cannon and detonated as it began its terminal popup maneuver, creating a huge overpressure in Yin’s ears seconds before the big, thick observation windows bowed inwards, then outwards, and exploded like a balloon. The overpressure seemed to suck the air out of Yin’s lungs, and the very air he was breathing seemed as if it were on fire…
Tamalko saw the patrol boat at about three miles’ distance, and opened fire just inside one-half mile. The Chinese warship opened fire immediately with what appeared to be a solid wall of tracers, and for a moment he thought he would have to break off his run and try a different attack axis; but just then, a half-second later, the firing abruptly stopped. Tamalko walked his 20-millimeter shells up to the ship’s stern, using short bursts from the four-thousand-rounds-per-minute M61A1 cannon, then, banking hard left and controlling his fighter’s swaying action with rudder pressure, managed to stitch a fine of bullets right down the centerline. He was rewarded with a few secondary explosions, and it even appeared that the ship was listing to one side, although he doubted seriously that single gun pass had anything to do with it.
“Radar contact on another vessel, now one o’clock, three miles,” Pilas called out. “Locked on, steering is good.”
“Roger,” Tamalko replied.
Just as he rolled out on his new heading toward the second Chinese vessel, he saw a huge cloud of fire burst directly abeam the radar cursor in his HUD. The ship was clearly illuminated for a second or two, and Tamalko could not believe the size of the ship — it was as big as an aircraft carrier, he thought, and as tall as a skyscraper. It was easily the biggest ship he had ever seen so close to Palawan. Only a search radar still emanating from this one — it seemed unaware of his presence.
Well, perhaps not.
Just as Tamalko considered the lack of threat signals from the big vessel, he saw a streak of fire arch skyward from the rear of the Chinese ship. It trailed a line of fiery exhaust that could be seen for dozens of miles, and it flew fairly slowly, picking up speed only several seconds after launch.
The big missile continued south and made no attempt to turn east toward him. That was odd, Tamalko thought.
“Coming within two miles,” Pilas said. “Two miles… now.” Just then, the heads-up display circular firing cue began its clockwise sweep, like a racing timer — when the sweep circle passed the three o’clock position on the HUD, he could open fire. Tamalko checked his switches visually instead of by feel, double-checked his gun status — still not jammed after 340 rounds fired off, which was above-average for the M61A1 cannon — and by the time he faced forward to fine up on target, he was within a mile and a half. Pipper in the center of the radar diamond, a good ARM 260 indication — and Tamalko let loose, maintaining short trigger pulls, feeling the reassuring buzz of the gun when it fired, keeping the pipper lined up on the radar target diamond. There was no return fire from the big Chinese ship.
The cannon jammed with thirty rounds remaining, but every one of the others had been placed neatly into the ship’s midsection. Tamalko clicked the gun to “Safe” and banked up on his left wing, keeping a low, thin profile to the ship as he passed overhead. He caught glimpses of flickering fights on deck as he screamed over the ship at Mach one, but whether they were secondary explosions or reflections of fight, he couldn’t tell.
Tamalko banked left, heading south, keeping his engines out of afterburner to avoid attracting any heat-seeking missiles or optically guided guns. The threat radars from the big destroyer were gone. Maybe he did hit something vital!
And then it happened.
For a millisecond Tamalko’s eyes registered the brightest flash of light he’d ever seen. It was just on the horizon, almost directly off the nose. And just as quickly the light enveloped and blinded him. His eyes became two red-hot spheres of excruciating pain, burned, it seemed, by molten lava.
Behind him, Pilas was screaming and Tamalko realized he, too, was screaming…
The roar of the F-4E’s big engines was gone, which meant they had been hit by something big enough to cause a double flameout — a big missile must have exploded right in front of them, blinding them and shelling out the engines. The control stick was beginning to tighten up as hydraulic power bled away — soon it would freeze up completely.
He hauled back on the stick to try to start a zoom maneuver and trade some of their Mach one speed for altitude — if they ejected at Mach one, the windblast would tear them apart. He couldn’t tell if they were gaining altitude… there wasn’t time to think. “Eject! Eject!” Tamalko screamed, then crossed his wrists in front of him, grasped the ejection ring between his legs, and pulled.