‘Aye, sir,’ replied the fire controller. He was a twenty-something lieutenant junior grade.
Rather than easing Richards’s nerves, the man’s reply had put him on edge. That his crew would follow his orders was a given. That the captain was responsible for his ship was an immutable law.
The Laboon was not built to slug it out. The Arleigh Burke-class was made of steel, not aluminum, and reinforced with over seventy tons of Kevlar. But even three-point-nine-inch shells from Chinese guns would make short work of her. And every hit by guns or missiles meant deaths.
‘What’s our speed?’ Richards asked.
‘Thirty-three knots, sir. Engines all ahead full. Course one eight six.’
Richards could feel the vibration of the deck. Four gas turbines turning two shafts. Two hundred thousand horsepower each. And the churning screws put the destroyer on a hundred screens. Every sonarman from the Philippines to the Ryukyu Islands could hear the noise.
‘Range to nearest surface contact?’ Richards asked.
‘Eleven point two,’ the fire controller replied.
‘Any visuals yet?’
‘Negative, sir. There’s a lot of smoke that’s adding to the haze. But it should be any second.’
Richards felt those seconds’ passage. Visual contact wouldn’t lessen the danger. It would raise it. If the Laboon could see the Chinese… the Chinese could see the Laboon.
‘LAMPS is low on fuel, sir,’ the air controller reported. ‘Requests permission to land.’
The destroyer carried an anti-submarine helicopter. It was returning from its sweep of the ship’s rear. It was there the sonic wake of its propellers created a blind spot.
‘Permission denied,’ Richards said. ‘Divert it to the Eisenhower.’
‘Radar contact bearing one nine five — range eleven point one — turning to port.’ Richards looked at his fire control officer. ‘She’s maneuvering toward the McCain. Now tracking a new bearing. Bearing constant. Bearing constant. She’s steadied up. Range ten point eight. Tracking bearing three-four…’
‘Vampire! Vampire!’ called the air defense center. ‘I got one missile! Range ten miles. Bearing one seven nine! Bearing constant! Range decreasing! It’s coming at us!’
‘Begin evasive maneuvers!’ Richards ordered. ‘Fire chaff and IR flares at four miles.’ The deck began to heave under their feet. ‘Unsafe the Phalanxes. Put ’em on Auto.’ Richards steadied himself on the nearest console. ‘I’m going to the bridge.’
Richards left the CIC. He was thrown from wall to wall along the short corridor. The ship was heaving wildly at top speed. The armored hatch was dogged tight. Richards opened it into bright daylight.
‘Cap’n’s on the bridge!’ a seaman announced.
‘Mr Lawrence,’ Richards said. ‘I’ve got the bridge.’ Instead of climbing into his tall chair, Richards grabbed his binoculars. He walked to the angled glass overlooking the ship’s single gun. The helmsman spun the wheel in the opposite direction. The deck heaved. ‘Put the CIC on the speaker,’ Richards ordered. He raised the binoculars.
Tinny reports of inbound missiles filled the bridge. ‘Five miles. Speed six twenty.’
A new voice — his fire control coordinator — suddenly called out, ‘Visual contact! It’s a frigate. She’s got empty missile rails.’
Richards raised the handmike. ‘Fire control, this is the captain. Do we have ID?’
The thudding booms of the chaff dispensers drowned out the first part of the man’s reply. ‘… Hull. No. 508. It’s the frigate Xichang, sir! Definitely Chinese hostile. Range nine point seven.’
‘Fire two Harpoons,’ Richards ordered. ‘Engage with guns.’
‘Aye, sir! Engaging.’
‘I got it!’ one of the lookouts shouted. ‘Eleven o’clock. It’s a sea-skimmer!’
Richards saw the missile just off the port bow. White foam flew into the air with each swell. It obscured the missile. But in between he could see the small, round nose. And the smudge of heat blurring the sky in its wake.
‘Constant bearing, decreasing range!’ the lookout reported. ‘Missile inbound! Missile inbound!’
It was zeroed right in on the Laboon.
The ship shuddered. It fired a Harpoon. Then a second. Chaff dispensers boomed. All of a sudden the five-inch gun opened up. The bridge’s window was filled with gunsmoke. The sea breeze blew the windows clear and there was the missile.
‘Hard-a-starboard!’ Richards ordered the helmsman. ‘Bring her to two seven five! Continue evasive maneuvers!’ He was turning broadsides. Presenting a fat target. But it was also bringing both of the six-barreled Vulcan cannon into action. If he’d maintained course, only the forward gun could have fired. Now both would lock on radar image. When they got one, that was. The five-inch gun below the bridge fired again. Its automatic loader filled the breech every three seconds.
Richards opened the hatch and went out onto the port watch deck. Cold wind rushed by. The five-incher boomed again. He fixed his binoculars on the enemy ship. The seventy-pound shell struck the superstructure. The flash ripped through the radar mast. The frigate belched boiling white smoke.
Richards searched the sky for the inbound missile.
The missile popped up into the air a mile away from the Laboon. Richards looked not at the missile but at the nearest gun. The six-barreled weapon sat atop its white metal body. Fire! Richards silently urged. Both of the Vulcan cannon opened up. Computers unleashing two hundred shells a second.
The ‘Flying Dragon’ missile arced skyward. It nosed over. It headed straight down for the Laboon’s aluminum funnels.
The two six-barreled cannon sounded like buzz saws. The air was filled with their explosive shells. The missile burst in a bright orange fireball. Cheers rose up from the lookouts. Richards watched the rain of debris just off the port beam. He started to breathe the air he’d denied himself.
‘Incoming!’ yelled the lookouts in unison. A shrill whistle barely preceded hot tongues of fire. Richards felt the thunder of a near miss. A tower of water collapsed on itself.
Xicitang’s been hit!’ someone shouted from the bridge. He raised his binoculars. The frigate that had fired the almost deadly missile was listing and low. She was smoking from a direct hit amidships. Her guns had not yet fallen silent. But she was turning in fear of capsizing.
Two Harpoons in succession flew straight into the Xichangs hull just above the water line. An orange explosion just ahead of the Laboon threw a geyser high into the air. The Laboon sailed straight through it. It was the Xichang s final miss — its closest yet. Water rained down on the bow. Mist coated the lenses of Richards’ binoculars. The Xichang lit the hazy day with pyrotechnics. Her main magazine went off in a mini-mushroom cloud.
New visual targets were being called out, and Richards returned to the bridge and fired the remainder of his six Harpoons. The five-incher’s twenty-round-a-minute rating was put to the test. The results were one more Chinese frigate set ablaze, and a destroyer turned turtle amid a pool of burning oil.