Simmons stared at the systems feed, and he could feel everyone in the cavernous room looking up to see how he would respond. He kept his face blank and set his jaw. Inside, though, he cursed himself, hearing his dad’s voice in his head. If he’d just shown a little patience and listened, they would already be engaging the enemy fleet.
“We can worry about the engines later. ETA to get the gun back online?” said Simmons.
“Don’t know, sir. The chief and Dr. Li are already back in the turret, working the problem again,” said Cortez.
“Range to the enemy?” asked Simmons.
“Twenty-one miles,” Richter responded. On one screen, ATHENA mapped out estimated locations of the enemy task force based on their jamming emissions and radar sweeps of the area. A second screen showed the status of the Z’s weapons systems; a red sphere over the rail gun indicated it was offline.
“Get me Port Royal,” Simmons said.
Captain Anderson appeared on the screen, replacing the weapons-systems view.
“Captain Anderson, bad news, our main gun is still offline and we’ve got engine power loss. We’re not going to be able to contribute to the fight the way we planned. But we’re still going to play our part. As the larger target, we’re the one they’re going to focus their fires on. I want you to position the Port Royal and the America behind us to ensure that. When they open up, that’s when I want you to make your attack run. There’ll hopefully be enough smoke and confusion from what’s happening to us to get you in range.”
“Understood,” said Anderson. “We’ll do our best to make them pay.”
“Thank you. It’s been an honor. Zumwalt out.”
Simmons turned back to Cortez. “Damage-control parties standing by?”
Cortez nodded and offered Simmons a stim tab from his uniform’s breast pocket. “Last one,” said the XO.
Simmons tore open the foil with his teeth and began to chew the gum, eyes fixed on the monitors. He tried to ignore the lost looks that more than a few of the youngest sailors had as they snuck peeks up at the main screens, which were back to showing the tactical map and weapons-systems status, all glowing red.
“Two minutes until the enemy has us within range,” said Richter, her voice steady, professional.
Then the red sphere representing the rail gun pulsed green.
“Rail gun back online! Updating the targeting solution,” said the tactical action officer. A cheer went up in the room and the crew leaned into their workstations.
Mike’s voice echoed through the two-story-high room.
“Bridge, we’ve got the fix, and the rail gun is ready. It’s an ugly solution here in the turret, but it should work.”
Jamie cued up the line to his father.
“Did you say here in the turret?”
“That’s affirmative.” His father’s voice sounded softer than he’d ever heard it.
“Damn it, Dad, what are you doing in there? Clear out! We have to fire now. We’re sitting ducks.”
“Jamie, the power coupling won’t stay in without a little help. The impact shook loose the mountings and cracked the last repair job we did even wider. We’ve patched it again,” said Mike. “But the thing is… just another weld on a gap like that isn’t going to hold unless we get at least another half hour at it. Vern and I are kind of wedging the power line into the coupling so that the heat will fuse the plastic of the fitting fully this time.”
“What heat? You mean the heat from the rail gun firing? That won’t work; we can’t fire it with you in there.”
“Yes, Jamie, you can and you will. Vern and I understand the consequences,” said Mike. “You know what you have to do.”
“Thirty seconds until enemy contact,” said the tactical action officer, focused on his task, paying no attention to the conversation behind him. “ATHENA’s targeting solution is online. Ready for rail-gun release on your order, sir.”
“Jamie, just take care of those kids. Be there for them. Be better than me,” said Mike. The channel went quiet.
After a second of silence, Cortez cleared his throat. “Sir, we have to act,” he said, eyeing his captain with concern. “If it’s needed, I can take over, sir.”
Simmons blinked away tears and spoke.
“Battery release… do it. Fire the rail gun.”
Admiral Zheng He
Water from the spray over the bow soaked his uniform jacket as the flagship cut through the water at almost thirty knots, the rest of task force arrayed behind it.
Wang knew he should be waiting calmly in his ready room, but his blood was up. It was not just the stims; it was the moment. On deck was where a sailor should be, especially for a fight that was ending like this. It was also the kind of image his sailors needed to see. Their fleet had felt the sting, but now they would gain their revenge and taste victory, all the more sweet up close.
Beside him, one of the main 130 mm gun turrets began to swivel, its turn aligning the barrel with the enemy’s largest ship. The ship was not yet visible in the distance, but small plumes of smoke indicated it lay directly ahead.
Wang took the groan of the gun turret moving as his signal to go back to the bridge. He turned quickly, not wanting to wait anymore, and the next thing he knew, he was splayed out on the slick deck, flat on his back. Of all the times to slip and fall.
His aide helped him up with the care he would show a withered old woman who’d fallen while feeding pigeons in the park.
Wang nodded his thanks and took the stairs up to the bridge, aggressively, fast, two at a time, to show them he was not such an old man as they thought. His left knee cried out with every step as his aide rushed to keep pace behind him.
On the bridge, the tactical map was projected into the center of the room; the sailors went silent when the admiral entered. He wondered if they had seen him fall. No matter — the moment would be forgotten amid the glory.
The hologram showed the American task force, blue icons indicating each one’s suspected class, name, and status. What was more important, though, was the parallel series of dotted red lines that steadily drew ever closer to the blue. The lines represented the targeting envelopes of the various weapons in the force; the Zheng He’s main battery of 130 mm guns were the closest red line to the American fleet. All that was needed was for the red line to cross the blue icon of their primary target.
He stood before the screen, not engaged in his usual contemplative pacing but instead trying to take the weight off his aching knee. He willed the line closer so that this would all be over sooner.
There!
“In range, sir, on your orders, we are ready to engage,” said his aide. He held up the tablet screen, ready for Wang to press the icon to clear all ships to fire.
Wang extended his trigger finger and then paused, holding it in the air six inches from the screen. It sounded like a freight train was racing right past the bridge. The very steel of the superstructure seemed to vibrate, tickling the soles of his boots. A giant splash erupted on the port side of the Admiral Zheng He, the water spray rising higher than the ship itself. A few seconds later, another erupted to the starboard side, sending water hundreds of feet in the air in a sharp fantail of white and blue.
He felt rivulets of sweat track their way down his back, and then chastised himself, whispering, “ ‘Pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant.’ ”
He jabbed his finger down, but it never touched the screen. The rail-gun round entered the Admiral Zheng He’s superstructure approximately thirty feet beneath where Admiral Wang stood. The strike transferred its kinetic energy with such force that the metal superstructure was literally peeled apart as the round plowed through. The ensuing explosion amidships sent a ball of flame hundreds of feet into the air as the ship’s hull cracked in two.