“We’re back where we started, it seems,” said Simmons to Cortez. The XO knew he was referring to the attack they’d weathered together at Pearl Harbor.
“Maybe they need to put us on different ships next time, sir,” said Cortez, offering a smile.
“I’ll make sure of it,” said Simmons. “You’ll get your own ship after this.”
“Splash seven bogeys,” said the radar officer, narrating the Port Royal’s progress in whittling down the enemy cruise missiles. As he spoke, he made gentle waving movements with his right arm, using a cuff on his forearm to switch between the system’s radar bands to cover all the incoming data.
As the enemy’s missiles advanced closer, the various assault ships in range fired off medium- and short-range Seasparrow and Rolling Airframe missiles in hopes of plinking more of the cruise missiles.
“Eleven enemy missiles left,” the radar officer reported.
“ATHENA, full autonomous mode! Authorization Simmons, four, seven, Romeo, tango, delta,” said Simmons.
The smallest weapons became the most important once again. On the Port Royal, the revolving 20 mm Gatling guns of the ship’s close-in weapons system added the metallic roar of a chainsaw biting into metal.
On the Zumwalt, the undamaged laser-point defense turret fired steadily. The twin Metal Storm guns tracked the incoming missiles and fired another wall of bullets into their path. They pivoted, reactivated, and again fired off thousands of rounds in the time it took to clap your hands once.
“Metal Storm magazines emptied. We’re out,” said the weapons officer. “Five incoming missiles left: two at us, two at Port Royal, and one’s split off for the San Antonio,” he said, indicating the closest of the amphibious ships they’d been trying to screen.
“We could get your dad out on deck and have him throw up a screen of foul language,” said Cortez.
Simmons looked at Cortez, taking in his relaxed demeanor. The XO became more poised as the situation worsened. Simmons realized that Cortez was the kind of officer he himself had always wanted to be.
He reached out and gripped the young officer’s artificial arm. “It’s been an honor.”
North of Oahu, Pacific Ocean
Roscoe Coltan cursed at his raft for the hundredth time as it nearly swamped when he tried to get on his knees for a better view of the ships. He recognized the big one that looked like a jagged piece of metal as the Zumwalt, the fleet’s ugly duckling, he’d heard. It was tied up next to a mini — aircraft carrier that poured smoke into the air.
In the distance there was the shriek of engines coming in low: cruise missiles. A flash of light as a Gatling gun of some kind fired from one of the other ships, an Aegis destroyer of some sort. Then the water all around him burst into hundreds of ripples. He didn’t know whether to cheer the weapons on or curse them until one of the missiles exploded.
“Splash one, assholes!” Roscoe cheered.
He stared at the silent Zumwalt, willing the ship to offer up some defense. “C’mon, brothers, do something!”
Suddenly there were two simultaneous explosions on the aft and bow sections of the Zumwalt. The sound of the twin detonations reached him a moment later.
Another thundering crash in the direction of the Aegis ship followed.
Seeing the smoke pouring from the ships was as painful as seeing his own jet spiral into the ocean after his ejection. Roscoe felt his eyes well up and held his head in his hands. His entire Boneyard Flight was gone. Nobody remained under his command. And now the ships they had given their lives to protect were on the verge of going under. He was alone.
Except he wasn’t. He took off his helmet and ran a finger over the red-and-black lightning bolts that lined the crest.
Then he braced himself, leaned over the side of the raft, and scooped up a helmet full of water. Then again. And again.
The paddling was slow going, but he told himself he wasn’t going to stop until he reached the Zumwalt. The Navy clearly still needed his help.
USS Zumwalt, Below Decks
The unconscious sailor outweighed Vern by at least a hundred pounds, but that did not stop her from trying to drag him by his ankles away from the flames at the end of the passageway. She could manage only five feet before she had to stop and catch her breath in the dark. Gagging on sharp smoke, she strained to put more distance between them and the fire. She hoped she was going toward safety, but anything was better than where she was coming from.
As she struggled on, coughing, she watched two fire-bots worm their way past her and advance into the swirl of flames and toxic smoke ravaging the room. They detonated their fire retardant and began tagging the bodies they found with strobes, giving the room a disorienting celestial look.
“Here, Dr. Li,” said Brooks, coming up from behind her. “We’re gonna do this together.”
She nodded and continued to strain against the weight of the limp body.
“On three, here we go,” said Brooks, lifting the man under his arms. “You keep on the feet there.”
In the light of the strobes, she could see the unconscious man was wearing coveralls, seared black in places so that the fabric had melted against the pale skin on his legs. She could not yet see his face.
“Shit, is this the chief?” said Brooks.
Vern blinked a tear as she knelt forward and caught the smell of leather and bay rum mixing with burned plastic and singed hair.
USS Zumwalt Ship Mission Center
Simmons tried to focus on the face staring at him from the wall screen.
The man spoke before Simmons could remember his name.
“Jesus, Jamie, I’m looking at the Z. Half the ship is on fire!” the man said.
“Still afloat,” said Simmons slowly, still not sure who he was talking to. “Give me your situation.”
“We took one amidships. Fires are contained, but we’re down to fifteen knots, maximum. More important, we shot our wad in that last volley,” the man said. “Our missile magazines are spent. I’ve got the CIWS, which have only a few more fires left. After that, spitballs is all we’ve got to shoot down missiles.”
The fog lifted. Anderson. The USS Port Royal.
“Well done, in any case. Tell your crew they saved a lot of ships today,” said Simmons.
The Zumwalt’s fire-control officer shouted: “Sirs, we have an incoming target. It looks to be a surveillance drone. We’re jamming its radar, but it’ll be in visual range in four minutes. I’m tasking the Shrikes to shoot it down.”
Simmons opened his mouth to speak, then pursed his lips in thought.
“Belay that order. Let it see us,” said Simmons.
“Say again, sir?” said Anderson, worry showing in the crow’s-feet around his eyes.
“They already know where we are. I want them to see us this way,” said Simmons.
Admiral Zheng He, Admiral Wang’s Stateroom
The door to his stateroom shuddered, but fortunately not from another explosion, just his aide’s knock.
Admiral Wang’s aide entered, carrying a tablet computer.
“Sir, I am sorry to disturb you during your contemplation, but we have new reconnaissance information. One of the Soar Eagles launched from Guam at your order has finally entered the area. It is beaming back information line of sight to us.”
The Soar Dragon was a derivative of the U.S. Global Hawk unmanned aerial spy plane. The original American drone was a large spy plane, its wingspan greater than a 737 jetliner’s, built to replace the manned U-2. Chinese designers had added a few flourishes, sweeping the wings back to attach to the tail. Looking like a plane crossed with a kite, their version had a better lift-to-drag ratio and less complex flight controls. But the tradeoff was that the engine had to be mounted above the tail, as in a commuter jet, giving the Soar Eagle a slow cruising speed.