Chinese radar burned through American jamming and presented them with three massive targets: 747s. From thirty-four kilometers away, the Chinese launched Black Thunder air-to-air missiles. They were radar-guided, a deadly piece of ordnance.
The big transports had been engaging their anti-radar jamming as well as ejecting chaff and EW decoys. It was a war of computer chips and software. Three Black Thunder missiles veered off course. One hit an EW decoy, creating an intense explosion in the sky. Two of the missiles zoomed at the lumbering transports. The first slammed into the giant aircraft and exploded spectacularly in a massive fireball, consuming jet fuel and incinerating the majority of the fighting men aboard. The survivors plummeted to Earth. No parachutes deployed from those inert figures. The second 747 was luckier at first. With smoke billowing from a joint of wing and body, the monstrous plane made an emergency landing on a highway. Tires skidded and smoke billowed from the rubber. It was looking good until the end. The wheels left the blacktop and hit gravel. The left wing went down, hitting the ground, scraping. Metal sparked and screeched. Seconds later, a fireball explosion killed every U.S. Army Ranger aboard.
The last 747 survived the air-to-air missile barrage, a tribute to chaff, EW decoys and luck. The pilot also attempted to jink, giving his passengers a wild and terrifying ride.
Two of the Chinese fighter-jocks became overeager, unsatisfied with their destruction and wanting more. Trusting in their jamming, they raced into Anchorage’s sanctuary zone. They wanted the last transport and therefore came within range of the airport’s defensive lasers. One of the Chinese fighters disintegrated in the air, parts simply dropping away. The remaining fighter veered away sharply. The pilot must have come to his senses as he fled for safety.
In the end, one 747 landed at the airport, disgorging the needed soldiers onto the tarmac.
It also started an argument between General Sims and his Air Chief. Should they rush the needed troops to Anchorage or land farther away at Fairbanks and put the soldiers on a train for the front? It was a matter of time, keeping air-transports intact and sheer desperation. Sims needed to stem the Chinese advance, and for that he required more and better-trained soldiers and always tons more munitions.
Captain Roger Clemens stood at the command module of his Virginia-class nuclear-powered fast attack submarine. It was also known as a 774 class. His hands gripped the module’s sides. He mustn’t let the crew know he was having doubts.
I’m going to die today.
Captain Clemens knew it because he was going to show the Chinese what happened when you challenged the United States of America on its home ground.
“The destroyer is turning north four degrees, sir,” the boat chief said.
Tightening his grip on the module, Captain Clemens watched the VR blips. The module was one of the newest improvements of this submarine. He swallowed. They had spent the last ninety-seven minutes sneaking up on a carrier in the center of the defensive zone surrounding it, using a deep layer of cold water to do so. During these last few minutes, they had crawled out of the layer and into the warmer, upper water.
Captain Clemens was a small man. He had a narrow nose and close-set eyes. He now removed his captain’s cap and pulled a comb out of his back pocket. He ran the comb through his thick dark hair. His mother and later his wife—before the divorce—had continuously commented about it. Combing his luxuriously thick hair was a nervous habit of long standing. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught one of the sonar men nudging his fellow. The other man looked up, and both craned around to glance at him.
“Do you have something to report?” asked Clemens.
The two sailors turned back to their sensors, their heads hunched as they peered intently at their monitors.
Clemens swallowed as he realized they thought his behavior odd. He put away the comb, put on his hat and tightened his grip on the module so his fingers began to ache.
I’m going to show the Chinese what it means to come stomping in our playground.
The chief, a big man with a red face, moved beside him. “Are you feeling well, Captain?” he whispered.
Clemens couldn’t answer that even though he wanted to present the calm image of a daring and tough-minded submarine captain. He’d watched every movie ever made about submarines and knew how a good captain was supposed to act. During his younger days, he’d read endlessly about underwater warfare. The last time there had been a really good naval war involving submarines had been between the Imperial Japanese Navy and the American Navy during World War Two. Now there had been a group of submariners. No one had ever beaten the records of those American submarine captains. His favorite story in those days had been called, “The Skipper who Hated the Japanese.” In the story, Bridge Commander Sam Dealey had shown the Japanese that American subs could hunt destroyers. Clemens still knew the story by heart, and had always wanted to emulate Sam Dealey, a lean, quick-tempered Texan.
“What’s our way out?” the chief whispered.
With an effort of will, Captain Clemens tapped the module. “Right there,” he said. “We’re hitting it.”
“The carrier?” asked the chief, sounding shocked. “If we attack them now from where we are they’ll pinpoint us, sir.”
“I have an idea about that,” said Clemens. He wanted to destroy an enemy carrier. He wanted people to point at him and whisper to each other about his courage. Yes, they would say it took fantastic courage to slip in among hunting destroyers and helicopters and demolish a Chinese supercarrier. The Chinese had taken the place of the Imperial Japanese. Why was it always one of the Asiatic peoples trying to attack America? What was wrong with them anyway?
“What idea, sir?” the chief asked, looking at him closely.
Clemens tapped the image of the carrier again.
“Can you tell me your plan, sir?” asked the chief.
Clemens was hardly aware of the question. He was thinking about his early years in the service. He’d joined when America had been the predominant naval force in the world. It was inconceivable the Chinese could better them. If the Imperial Japanese hadn’t been able to do it, how did the nationalistic Chinese think they could?
We beat the Japanese. Heck, we destroyed their entire navy, just about sank every one of them. Now I’m going to destroy a Chinese carrier.
“Maybe we should rethink this, sir,” the chief whispered.
“Ready torpedo tubes two and three,” Clemens said.
The chief blinked at him. There was fear in his eyes.
“Four degrees starboard and up fifty feet,” Clemens said. “I want us in firing range.”
“You can’t go up there, sir,” the chief whispered. “They’ll pinpoint us for sure.”
Clemens pointed at the image on the module. “Do it, Chief, or face a court martial when we dock.”
The chief’s head swayed back as if he’d been slapped. His blunt features turned crimson. He gave the needed orders, and then he went across the bridge, standing far away from Captain Clemens.
That suits me just fine. The chief needs to do something about his body odor.
For the next fifteen minutes, Clemens gave clipped orders. The Chinese had the advantage with their advanced tech and superior numbers. Well, he was going to change that. They’d taken out two American carriers with a dirty terrorist attack. He was going to hunt down the Chinese carriers and take them out one at a time. He was going to show the world what the American Silent Service was made of.