Actually two destroyers had sailed, but Number 105 had gone dead in the water with an engine room casualty before it cleared the base breakwater. Sabotage, Lieutenant Tan suspected, but he didn’t say so with the quartermaster and helmsmen within earshot. These two were surly, doing their duty with the minimum acceptable professional courtesy. No doubt they sympathized with their rioting mates and perhaps with the rebels in the bank square.
Number 109 steamed on alone.
Lieutenant Tan began thinking about the professional problem he faced. The gun to use for surface bombardment was the twin 130-millimeter dual-purpose mount on the bow. There was a similar mount on the stern, but it was out of service for some critical parts.
The bow gun would do very well. Unfortunately in this ship the Sun Visor fire control radar that was designed for this gun was never mounted, so the gun had to be aimed visually. The gun had an effective range of eight or nine miles; that was no problem. In fact, the ship was within maximum gun range now.
The problem, Lieutenant Tan told himself as he stared at the chart of Hong Kong on the navigator’s table, was going to be putting the shells into the square. He was going to have to lob them in with the gun elevated to a high angle. Maximum elevation angle was eighty-two degrees.
If he missed the square and started scattering 130-millimeter, 33.5-kilogram high-explosive shells around the downtown, there would be hell to pay later. Regardless of what they said now, the governor and base commander would want pieces of his hide then.
Of course the designated gunnery officer was not aboard. Lieutenant Tan was the only officer qualified to lay the gun, and he also had to con the ship.
He was so nervous his hands shook. He laid the chart on the table so it wouldn’t rattle and consulted the range and elevation charts for the gun. Shooting at a hidden urban target was going to be a challenge, perhaps an impossible one.
He put the binoculars to his eyes and studied the buildings in the Central District. The ship was about five miles from the downtown, he estimated. Needless to say, the buildings did not appear on his chart of the area’s waters. If he could remember which buildings were which…
He asked the helmsman for the speed.
“Eight knots, sir.”
He was studying the chart, measuring, when he heard the lookout.
“Bogey on the starboard bow.”
What?
“Jet airplane, sir, looks like he’s lining us up for a low pass.”
Lieutenant Tan looked.
A fighter, two of them. They were completing the turn to pass the length of the ship, bow to stern. Dropping down, one trailing the other, not going too quickly, maybe three hundred knots…
Suddenly he knew. “Air attack!” he screamed. “Open fire!”
Flashes on the wing root of the lead fighter… the water in front of the ship erupted. Quick as thought, the shells began pounding the ship, cutting, smashing.
The glass in the bridge windows shattered, the helmsman went down, shrapnel and metal flew everywhere.
The attack ended in a thunderous roar as the jet pulled out right over the ship, and the next fighter began shooting.
Screaming… someone was screaming amid the hammering of the cannon shells…
Fire! Smoke and flame.
When the shooting stopped, Lieutenant Tan tried to stand. The ship was turning to port, out of the channel. The helmsman was lying on the deck, his head gone. Tan spun the helm to center the rudder, bring the ship back under control.
“Arm the see-whiz,” he shouted, meaning the CIWS, the close-in weapons system that the Chinese navy had purchased from the Americans.
Behind him he heard the talker repeat the order. The talker was huddled on the floor, bleeding badly from a wound that Tan couldn’t see.
Tan looked aft. Something was burning, putting out smoke. He rang for full speed on the engine telegraph, a bell that was answered. The ship seemed to accelerate noticeably as the gas turbine engines responded.
The jets were on a downwind leg, high out to the right over Kowloon.
“Forward turret, fire at will at the enemy planes,” Tan ordered. “CIWS on automatic fire.”
This time as the planes dove, the ship was going faster, perhaps twelve knots. The forward turret opened fire unexpectedly. Of course the gun crew was shooting visually, using an artillery piece to shoot at a fly, but the noise and concussion helped steady Tan. He huddled down behind the helm station as the fighter’s cannon shells slammed into the base of the mast and bridge area.
The noise had become beyond human endurance — the twin 130-millimeter mount was hammering off a shell every two seconds. There was a pause as the first jet roared overhead, then the gun began again. Despite that racket Tan clearly heard the chain-saw roar of the 20-millimeter Gatling gun of the Phalanx close-in weapons system when it lit off, spitting out fifty tungsten bullets per second.
Then, suddenly, the guns fell silent. Only the roar of a jet engine changing pitch, then nothing. Tan rushed to the side of the bridge in time to see a man ejecting from a stricken fighter. Then the fighter rolled inverted and dove into the choppy water of the strait.
Pulling out, climbing away after his second strafing run, Major Ma Chao also saw his wingman eject and the plane go into the water.
The destroyer was on fire, smoking badly from the area behind the bridge.
The crew would probably forget about the mission to shell the square as they fought to save the ship.
That was enough.
Ma Chao’s commanding officer had a bullet hole in a lung, and one of the squadron’s planes had been shot down — status of the pilot unknown.
And so we begin.
“A good beginning.” Rip Buckingham used those words as the title for the story he wrote for the Buckingham newspapers. He told the story as completely as he could, leaving out the Sergeant York robots, concluding with the surrender of General Moon Hok in the bank square. When the story was finished he printed it out, then went to his den. He had an antique cabinet in one corner, one that he hinted to the maid contained liquor, which was why he kept it locked.
Inside the cabinet was a shortwave radio, an unlicensed ham set, the existence of which was unknown to the Chinese authorities.
Rip plugged the radio into a wall socket and connected the antenna lead. He used the wire that held up the awning on the roof patio for an antenna. Rip checked the time and ensured that the radio was tuned to the proper frequency.
He plugged in a hand microphone, then pushed the key and transmitted. “Hey, Joe? You there?”
“I’m here.”
“Got a story for you.”
“Wait until I get a pen and paper.”
The man who monitored the radio would take down the story in shorthand, transcribe it, and send it via E-mail to Rip’s father, Richard. Tomorrow it would be in the Buckingham newspapers worldwide.
“I’m ready.”
“Okay,” Rip said, and began reading aloud.
The televised celebration in the bank square was still going on hours after General Moon’s surrender. Jake Grafton wondered why the giant block party had gone on so long because he knew that Cole and the rebels must prepare for the next battle, the real Battle of Hong Kong. What he didn’t realize was that the rebels had lost control of the crowd. It was now a mob.
Beyond the range of the television cameras, the mob began seeping away down the side streets, flowing toward City Hall, which was on the waterfront.
The four policemen in front of City Hall stood their ground when the rioters first appeared by the dozens. By the time the crowd numbered several hundred, they were nervous. Not a single soldier was in sight.