“What about your long range bomber fleet?” the President asked.
“Of course, our B-2s could range targets in Taiwan from bases in America, the problem is we can’t protect them.” Taylor clenched his jaw.
“Can’t protect them?” the President looked confused.
“Mr. President, the B-2 is vulnerable to air-to-air attack. The Chinese have developed a system for detecting stealth aircraft. It’s not accurate enough to target one with a missile, but it is good enough to scramble fighters to intercept. Without air cover from a significant force, preferably including two aircraft carriers, our B-2s cannot be safely employed against China. It will take at least ten days to assemble the forces we need to respond to China’s aggression.”
The room was silent. Thankfully, one of the phones rang. Maus picked it up. His eyes went wide and he covered the receiver, “Mr. President, it’s the Chinese Embassy. They want to talk to you about the terms for the immediate surrender of U.S. forces on and around Taiwan.”
The President started to reach for the phone. Lindley jumped as if snapped out of a stupor. “Wait, Mr. President. You can’t discuss surrender terms,” he turned to Maus, “Put them on hold for a moment.” Lindley turned back to the President, “Sir, no American President has ever directly negotiated the surrender of U.S. forces in the field. You don’t want to do this. It’s not right,” Lindley leaned over and hissed in the President’s face, “Sir, think of your legacy—let the general do it!”
The President nodded and dropped his outstretched hand.
Lindley turned to the general, “General Taylor. Take this call. Find out what the Chinese want. Stall for time. See if we can avoid the term ‘surrender’ at all costs. There’s no need to be drastic. I’m sure we can come up with a solution that’s acceptable to both sides.”
A stunned general took the phone. He had expected to discuss military options for reinforcing Taiwan or conducting a naval blockade to deny supplies to the Chinese troops on the island — not discuss terms of surrender with a Chinese foreign service officer. What was he going to do? Tell the President to go to hell right to his face?
25
Fog
Commander Meade calculated he had at most three minutes before the first of the cruise missiles spotted by the Harrier found the Curtis Wilbur. Meade smashed his fist into his palm and shook his head. If the Chinese had spotted him and targeted him with another volley of their large supersonic cruise missiles he was sure the Curtis Wilbur would succumb. His blinded Aegis air defense system and one Phalanx could only do so much. Of course, he could try to target his SM2 anti-air missiles at the threatening missiles as he did with the Chinese fighter aircraft, hoping the radar waves reflected off the missiles would be enough to give the SM2s a target to aim for. The problem was that, unlike the aircraft, he didn’t know how many missiles there were, nor did he have a good a fix on their location. Meade made a decision. Well, the Standard Missiles aren’t going to do any good sitting in their launch tubes.
“Fire Control! I want the Aegis to illuminate to the west. I want a spread of 12 Standards, two each, running every two degrees from 262 degrees to 272 degrees. Launch with a four second separation between missiles set at the same course. Tell the Harrier to hug the waves, no use having him draw fire.”
Commander Meade’s words sent the CIC’s activity level ratcheting up yet another notch. Half the computer stations in the critical nerve center seemed to have their guts exposed with two heavily sweating sailors working on each one. Everywhere else, sailors were trying to do their jobs with equipment of uncertain functionality.
Not a minute after a dozen SM2s rippled out of the bow of the Curtis Wilbur, Meade heard the first indication of an inbound missile: the chaff dispenser system firing clouds of aluminum strips into the air—A lot of good that will do us while we’re dead in the water.
There were eight missiles bearing down on the American destroyer (the SM2 volley had already downed two). They were unlike anything the Americans understood the Chinese to have in their arsenal. As with much of China’s high tech military gear, these missiles had their origins in American engineering. Relatively simple in design and concept, these missiles zeroed in on the radar emissions of a target ship. Specifically, these missiles sought out the radar signatures of the famous American Aegis System or its junior partner, the Phalanx Close In Weapon System (CIWS).
The missiles came in, one right after the other, at 1,000 feet — very high for a missile designed to attack a ship. The employers of these missiles wanted them to be seen and engaged by the ship’s defensive systems, especially the SM2 missiles. The reason for this was two-fold: one, the missiles needed to have an active radar signal to track and target, and two, the missiles were very cheap to manufacture, costing less than one-fifth of an SM2. Thus, in a war of attrition against a high-tech opponent, the Chinese could afford to lose many missiles to the more expensive anti-aircraft missiles and still come out ahead.
One by one, the Phalanx acquired and downed the missiles, each missile making it a little closer to the jury-rigged and now over-worked system (looking somewhat like a white R2D2 of Star Wars fame rocking wildly to and fro).
The seventh missile detonated only 300 yards astern, its unburned fuel exploding with a frightening warmth of things soon to come. The CIWS belched its last torrent of tungsten darts and fell silent, out of ammo, its radar still tracking the last incoming missile.
Missile number eight drew a bead on the Aegis phased array radar and dove on the Curtis Wilbur at a 45-degree angle. Only 30 yards away from the large radar panel the missile’s warhead detonated, sending thousands of steel balls hurtling forward, shredding the radar and the superstructure underneath. The unburned jet fuel in the missile ignited into a fireball, burning and peeling the Curtis Wilbur’s gray paint. Some of the burning fuel made it into the ship’s vulnerable interior; fortunately, not so much as could be quickly dealt with. Only two sailors were wounded in the attack — but the Curtis Wilbur lost its only functional Phalanx system as well as the stern Aegis radar transmitter array.
Commander Meade decided he could use some good news right about now. He considered his career as an officer, a husband and a father. The ship’s chaplain once told him that God wasn’t much for making deals, “God, if you get me out of this one, I’ll…” So Meade just said, “God help us,” under his breath and drove on, not really knowing what else to do.
A phone rang. A young and tired-looking sailor’s face broke into a broad grin, “Sir! Commander Meade! We have power to one of the shafts! We can move!”
Meade looked up the ceiling, Thank you. He smiled. Deals or no deals, he knew he owed God big time for that one.
Meade grabbed the phone, “Meade here, what kind of power we got?”
“Sir,” it was Lieutenant Commander Clarke, head of engineering, “I’ve got one turbine and one shaft operational. The other shaft is beyond help. I can probably get you six, maybe seven knots. We’re working on getting another turbine up. The fuel system was scorched pretty bad by the missiles a few hours ago but we’re cannibalizing the other two turbines as fast as we can strip them of anything useful.”