“Okay, that’s good enough for me.” The P-3’s pilot spoke firmly. “Nail the creeps, Frank.”
“Aircraft! Due south!”
The lookout’s shout brought Commander Sohn’s head around in time to see the two tiny flashes from under the P-3’s wings. “Missile warning! Hard right rudder! Come to new course two seven zero. Alert Retaliation and Avenger!”
Sohn held onto the bridge railing with both hands, braced against the tilting deck as the Revolution came around on its new course. Its two sister ships followed suit, turning in line abreast and throwing spray high into the air in twin roostertails.
Revolution’s gun turrets whined, spinning round to face south. The North Korean commander grimaced. Even though he’d ordered the radical turn to unmask both his boat’s twin-gun 30mm mounts, he knew they’d still have a difficult shot against the enemy missile. The briefings he’d received had said that the Harpoon could skim the waves at more than five hundred knots. Since his guns had a maximum effective range of just over a mile and a half, that meant they would have less than ten seconds to try to knock an incoming Harpoon into the sea before it hit home. Not very much time at all.
He let go of the railing with one hand and leaned over an open hatch to yell down to the boat’s signals rating. “Break radio silence. Inform Fleet Command and all units that we are under air attack and that we believe the enemy convoy is on a course east of Tsushima Island.”
Sohn didn’t wait for a reply but turned away, trying to spot the Harpoons streaking toward him. There. Twin shadows racing over the water almost faster than the eye could see. One was climbing, arcing into the sky as it popped up before plunging down onto Revolution.
Both the fore and aft 30-millimeter guns cut loose with a chattering roar, throwing tracers toward the missile climbing higher above the sea. Sohn’s hands gripped the railing as he willed himself to remain motionless. Yes! A 30mm round shattered the American missile, turning it into a tumbling ball of flame that struck the water two hundred meters short of the Revolution.
Sohn caught a split-second glance of the other Harpoon’s long, white shape as it flashed overhead and was gone. He spun round and staggered as a tremendous shock wave rocked the boat. There, less than a mile off, debris spiraled away from the center of an explosion. When the smoke and spray cleared, Retaliation, his middle boat, had vanished — blown to pieces by the missile’s 227-kilogram warhead.
He broke away from the boiling sea left by the explosion and sought out the enemy plane. It seemed to hang in midair, arrogantly loitering to see the results of its attack. “Hard left rudder! Bring us to one eight zero degrees. I want to close the range to that bastard!” He looked wildly around. “Comrade Lee!”
The boat’s portly weapons officer hauled himself to his feet. “Yes, Comrade Captain!”
“Prepare your SAM team! I want that plane down!”
The Revolution and its surviving consort, the Avenger, surged south, speeding toward the P-3 and closer to the rocky beaches of Tsushima Island.
“I’m sorry, Captain. The island’s blocking our fire. We just can’t hit those Osas from here.”
Levi nodded his understanding. His tactical action officer was right. The two remaining North Korean missile boats were sheltered from his Harpoons by the Japanese island’s hills. The geometry just wasn’t quite right. For a second he wondered if the NK commander had planned it that way. Then he dismissed the thought. It didn’t matter. What did matter was finding a way to get a shot at those fast attack boats before they could launch on him.
Levi ran his eye over the plot, half-listening to the constant stream of reports flowing in from the P-3 twenty miles ahead. There really was only one practical maneuver. He stepped to the intercom. “Mr. Keegan, alter course to zero three zero degrees and increase speed to twenty knots. Signal the Duncan to take station astern and order the convoy to alter course to zero nine zero degrees.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
Levi stepped back to the plot to speak to the tactical action office. “That’ll help us get a clear field of fire faster. And it’ll keep the merchies behind us if missiles start flying.”
The other man smiled, but Levi’s ASW officer didn’t look so pleased.
“Problems, Bill?”
“If there’s a sub out there, Captain, we’re in a world of hurt. At this speed, our sonars aren’t going to be worth a damn.”
Levi nodded gravely. “I’m aware of that. But that’s a risk we’ll have to take. Our helos will have to shield us while we take out those NK boats.” He stopped, hoping he wouldn’t have to eat those words at the court-martial that would follow any defeat.
“They’re still closing, Skipper. Now less than seven miles away.”
The P-3’s pilot smiled. “Maybe they think we’re gonna let ’em get close enough to use those machine guns on us. Keep your eyes on them, though. The boys on the O’Brien and Duncan can use any info we pick up.”
Sierra Five continued its lazy orbit, watching as the two North Korean missile boats charged in. Navy intelligence reports said the NK Osas didn’t carry any significant antiaircraft weapons.
Sohn kept his eyes moving, swiveling back and forth from the American plane to the SA-7 SAM team crouching low beside the aft 30 mm gun turret. They were almost in range — just a few hundred meters more. Closer. Closer. He brought his hand up, ready to signal the attack. Almost…
“Range is now five miles, Skipper.”
The P-3’s pilot heard the questioning note in his radar operator’s voice and let it feed the small uncertainty growing in his own mind. The North Korean missile boats were now clearly visible to the naked eye. “Yeah. That’s close enough. Let’s put some airspace between us and get that sonobuoy line laid.”
His hands were already busy banking the aircraft in a shallow turn away from the NK craft.
“It’s turning away!”
Sohn saw the massive four-engined aircraft changing shape as it changed course, pulling out of the slow figure-eight orbit it had been following. He leapt for the rear bridge railing. “On your feet! Fire! Fire!”
“But Comrade Captain…” The boat’s weapons officer tried to stop him, babbling something about the angles and ranges. It was too late.
The sailor clutching the SA-7 Grail SAM launcher rose from beside the aft gun turret and lifted it to his shoulder, letting the missile’s seeker head find the heat emanating from the P-3’s engines. It locked on and he fired, braced against the pitching deck as the missle ignited and flashed into the sky.
“Shit!” The P-3’s pilot saw the smoke trail curving after him and jammed the throttles all the way forward. A fuckin’ missile, he thought, they’ve got SAMs on those goddamned things. Who would’ve thought it? You should have, cried a voice inside his skull. He watched the airspeed indicator climb, agonizingly slowly, as the SAM gained on them, streaking in at close to a thousand knots.
Sierra Five got lucky.
The SA-7 closed rapidly on the P-3, veering toward the heat thrown off by its two port wing engines. Then, just two hundred yards or so behind its target, the North Korean missile — its propellant exhausted and momentum gone — tipped over and fell away into the sea. The P-3’s turn and burst of speed had carried it out of range.