“Attack radar up — I’ve got a lock on the last fighter,” Bruno said. “Stand by for—”
“Better save it,” Atkins interjected. “We’ve got only two Scorpions remaining, and it looks like the last fighter is bugging out. They were both going full blower on the attack, and if they do that they only have enough fuel for thirty minutes of flying time. He’s on his way home. The closest of those fighter patrols are at eleven o’clock, forty miles and closing.”
“We’ve got to get out of here, Brad,” McLanahan said. “Those Fox- bats got a pretty good fix on us, and they’re probably vectoring in the other fighters. The U.S. frigates are at three o’clock, eighteen miles. Right turn to heading zero-eight-zero should get us back on coverage. We need some help from those frigates or from Taiwan air defense, if they’re up.”
“Sons of bitches!” Elliott cursed. He got a good look at the speeding Foxbat fighters too, and that was the closest he ever wanted to get to those big, deadly jets. His heart was pounding, his forehead sweating like crazy — he had never felt so close to death before in all his life. “They better be up here!” He switched to the secure satellite channeclass="underline" "James Daniel, this is Headbanger, what’s your status?”
“Vessel calling James Daniel, keep this channel clear and do not approach this task force,” the operator responded.
“What in hell are you talking about?” Elliott retorted. “We’re up here on patrol with you, you squid idiot! We saw the Chinese cruiser launch Stallion rocket torpedoes at you. What’s your status?” There was no response. Furious, Elliott switched to the secondary channel and keyed the mike: “Atlas, this is Headbanger. How do you copy?”
“Loud and clear, Headbanger,” the operator responded. “What is your status? Over.”
“Our goddamn status is that we were under attack by Foxbat fighters and we’ve got four more formations of fighters closing on us,” Elliott replied hotly. “Both frigates are also under torpedo attack. We need fighter coverage up here and we want permission to attack the Chinese warship that is trying to blow your frigates out of the water.”
“Headbanger, this is Atlas,” Admiral William Allen responded himself seconds later. “We copy you were under attack by Foxbats and have more fighters in the vicinity. The ROC is vectoring fighters at this time, ETA zero-eight minutes, flight of two F-16s. Second flight of four F-16s is scrambling from Makung, ETA one-five minutes. We recommend you depart the area and head towards the Pescadores.” The Pescadores was a group of Taiwanese islands, located forty miles west of Formosa and sixty miles southeast of the EB-52’s present position, where several Taiwanese air and naval bases were located.
“Heading one-two-zero, direct Makung,” Denton immediately interjected.
“No, we’re not leaving!” McLanahan shouted. “If we leave the frigates, they’ll be defenseless — and we can use their help against those fighters. We’re staying overhead the frigates until the Taiwan air force arrives. Nancy, get on the horn and send in Carter in the other Megafortress.”
“You got it, Mack.”
“Sounds like a shit-hot plan to me,” Elliott responded. On the satellite channel, he radioed: “Atlas, this is Headbanger, negative, we’re holding our position. There’s a big ass ship, a cruiser or destroyer, about twenty miles northwest of your frigates.” He could hardly believe he was having an argument with CINCPAC—again. “We’ve got it locked up, and we saw it launch those torpedoes. They were rocket-powered torpedoes, and we watched that cruiser launch them.”
“The frigates are conducting anti-torpedo countermeasures at this time,” Allen said, “but they did not report contact with any Chinese war-ships or submarines. We have had that entire region under surveillance for several days, and we noted no large warship movements… stand by.”
“Jesus, there they go again—‘stand by/ ” Elliott said angrily. “Stand by and watch the Chinese blast us to hell.”
“The Duncan has stopped dead in the water,” Denton reported, as he zoomed in on the American frigate task force. He called up more information, then added, “Something’s wrong — the ISAR’s not IDing properly anymore.”
“That might mean it’s hit and may be sinking,” McLanahan said. “If part of its structure is underwater, the inverse synthetic aperture radar won’t scan it completely.”
The interphone got very quiet after that — but only for a few moments, until Brad Elliott shouted, “Destroy that damned Chinese cruiser now! You’re clear on the bomb doors! Launch the Strikers, dammit!”
“Brad, we wait until we get the word from CINCPAC,” McLanahan said. Here it comes again, he thought — another long, drawn-out argument with Elliott on whether or not they should…
McLanahan stopped as he felt a familiar rumble and heard the sound of windblast, and the words “Strikers away.” Jeff Denton, still in the offensive systems officer’s seat, had obeyed Elliott’s command and launched two Striker missiles at the still-unidentified vessel! He had quickly and efficiently designated the unidentified vessel, using touch-screen commands, and prosecuted a double Striker missile attack! Seconds after launch, the Striker missiles had ignited their powerful first-stage motors and blasted out over the Formosa Strait toward their target. They were supersonic just a few seconds later, climbing on a ballistic flight path to almost forty thousand feet.
“Jesus, Denton!” McLanahan exclaimed. “Steer those missiles clear!”
“Why? We’re attacking, for Christ’s sake!” Denton shouted.
“We don’t have permission to launch! ” McLanahan said. “Steer those missiles away from that target! ”
Denton looked confused, stunned, and horrified all at once. “But the AC said—”
McLanahan didn’t blame Denton; he was doing as his aircraft commander ordered: destroy the Chinese ship. Unfortunately, Elliott had jumped the gun. Again. McLanahan frantically checked to be sure that Denton hadn’t locked up one of the Navy frigates — he hadn’t. “Get manual control of the missiles, steer them towards the southwest, away from land!”
“Stay on the target, OSO,” Elliott said. “Continue the attack.”
From his jump-seat position, McLanahan didn’t have voice command of the attack computer. When he tried to reach across, push Denton out of the way, and command the Striker missiles to steer away from the vessel, Denton pushed him back. “Hey, Colonel McLanahan, the missiles are on the way,” Denton said. “That was the ship that hit the Duncan with torpedoes. The AC said to attack, dammit — why are you pushing me?”
“Because I’m the mission commander, Denton, and I say we don’t attack until we get a valid order from CINCPAC to attack!” McLanahan said. “Break the sensor lock, Denton. Give me manual control! ”
But it was too late. Just then, the TV image from the Striker missile’s imaging infrared scanner appeared on Denton’s supercockpit display, just seconds from impact. The first radar-only image was of a massive ship, very tall, riding very high out of the water. McLanahan hit a touch-screen button to switch to imaging infrared view — and then they saw it.
It was not a cruiser, or a large destroyer, or even a warship of any kind — it was a passenger and vehicle ferry. They caught a glimpse of some kind of barge or service tender being towed on a very short hawser behind the larger ship, which could have explained the ISAR’s confusion over the proper identification of the target — but there was no doubt over the identification now! The ferry had a tall vehicle access amidships and three decks above that, and it looked as if it was choked with automobiles and delivery trucks. “Oh my God, it’s a passenger ship, a ferry!” McLanahan shouted. “C’mon, Denton, break auto lock, steer those missiles away!”