“So we end up with a missile threat from the north, from China’s mainland. And an air threat to the east, from the Chinese aircraft stationed in Vietnam. As well as a submarine cruise missile threat to the ships from just about anywhere.”
“I think so,” Lab Rat agreed. “And we may have some information leaks as well, although I’m not certain about that. But the safe thing to do is to keep any plans as tightly compartmented as possible, to minimize the risks.”
“I can just hear Killington now,” COS said thoughtfully. “Based on these assumptions, you’re probably going to want to send him north. He’s going to want to know why, and you’re not going to be able to tell him.”
“He’ll live with it,” Tombstone said shortly. “Be good practice for him, obeying orders for a while.”
“I’ll rough out an air plan for you immediately, Admiral,” CAG said. “We’ll be putting some extra fighters on alert, as well as some ASW assets. Your flight crews are going to be pulling some long hours sitting alert.”
“It builds character,” Tombstone said. “At least that’s what my first CO told me when I bitched about it.”
CAG chuckled. “I can think of at least one young aviator who could use some of that, sir.”
“Gentlemen,” Tombstone said, standing up and picking up his notepad, “thank you for your time. Commander Busby, I think we have some insight into the operational scenario. Good work. Now let’s see what we can do to turn the tables on these bastards!
CHAPTER 15
The Vietnamese lieutenant stared out at the still-dark horizon, trying to see through the early morning fog. Timing was critical to this mission. It was still twenty minutes until sunrise, enough time to maneuver into position near the tiny rock in the middle of the ocean. Ideally, the sun would just be rising as the occupation team deployed.
He looked back toward the fantail, at the small group of men and equipment standing around in the predawn gloom. He pitied them. While life aboard the Soviet Zhuk-class patrol boat was certainly not luxurious, it beat the hell out of where those men were headed.
The Vietnamese naval force was an odd mixture of discarded Soviet and American small vessels. The lieutenant’s Zhuk was one of the most modern additions, transferred to Vietnam in 1989 from the Soviet Union. The twelve-man crew was one of the more motivated crews he’d served with. The boat was twenty-four feet long, and could cruise through the seas at thirty-four knots. While it certainly wasn’t the largest naval vessel to ply the South China Sea, it was more than large enough for this mission.
He wished he could say the same about the occupation team. The stack of boxes and survival equipment that would be placed on the rock with them looked pitifully small. He’d been told that there were enough concentrated rations in one box to feed the five men for two weeks, long enough for the resupply crew to get to them. Beside that box, a tarpaulin to provide shelter from the sun was rolled into a compact cylinder. A few blankets, some rudimentary radio equipment, and a water-distilling pump completed the loadout. And the Stingers — the all-important Stingers. It was the last item that completely blew the team’s cover story of establishing a fishing camp.
Better you than me, he thought. The battle for ownership of the Spratly Islands, according to his superiors, required establishing a presence on the desolate rocks that composed the South China Sea chain. This outpost would be left on a patch of barren igneous rock that was barely bigger than his Zhuk. For not the first time, the Vietnamese navy lieutenant gave thanks that he’d joined the right branch of the military. While navy units might ferry the occupation teams to the rocks, standing presence duty in the South China Sea was solely the province of the Vietnamese army.
“All is ready, Captain,” his phone talker said, relaying the words he received from the other talker on the fantail.
“Very well. Just a little more light, and we will make our approach.” Getting close enough to unload the men and equipment into the small boat that would take them to the rock would be tricky. While the waters were well charted, and his GPS equipment gave him an accurate fix on his own location, too much could always go wrong. Navigating around rocks and shoals in his thin-hulled patrol craft would be safer when his lookouts could see what some lazy cartographer might have overlooked.
Ten minutes later, his forward lookout reported that visibility was clearing. The lieutenant moved back inside the pilot house.
“Take us in, Ensign,” he ordered. The younger officer nodded.
“Engine ahead one-third,” he said firmly.
The lee helmsman echoed the command, and the steel deck began thrumming as the powerful diesel engines that drove the two propellers increased speed.
“Come right, steer course 005,” the ensign ordered. The small craft heeled slightly to the right.
A few minutes later, the ensign said, “There it is, sir.” He pointed to a barely visible rock projecting from the sea.
“Very well. Let’s get on with it.”
In response to the ensign’s orders, the men on the fantail moved over the side into the Rigid-Hull Inflatable boat tethered to the ship. The RHIB, pronounced “rib,” was a mainstay of many naval services. Since it could be deflated, it saved on precious storage space. The outboard motor could drive it through the ocean at far greater speeds than the hull could withstand, so it took careful handling to avoid overturning it.
The young captain of the patrol boat, preoccupied with off-loading his passengers and their equipment, had even less warning than the tank commander had. He saw motion on the horizon and reached for his binoculars. Seconds later, the missile slammed into the patrol boat, impacting amidships at the waterline after cutting through the RHIB and her crew.
The missile penetrated completely through the patrol boat before it exploded. The blast disintegrated the entire midsection of the boat, driving a rain of steel fragments through every other part of the interior. Metal shredded flesh, killing most of the crew instantly. The explosion cracked the hull in half, broke the keel, and peeled the weather decks away from the supporting framework of stanchions and strakes. The warm sea poured in The fire had just enough time to ignite the small arms ammunition and the Stinger missiles before the sea claimed the boat and crew.
The two men were alone in the conference room, as alone as possible in the former Communist country. “What are the Americans thinking?” Ngyugen hissed. “To invade our waters, destroy our islands — it is war!” The Vietnamese ambassador to the United Nations seemed to swell up with indignation, which was part of his standard repertoire when talking about the Americans.