Chapter 74
Aboard the Fuzhou
“A cargo ship?” Zhao asked. “Impossible.”
“It’s the American spy ship, certainly,” Peng said. “We were expecting them.”
“But a cargo ship? Not a combat vessel?” Zhao asked.
“It matches the description my former agent provided. Though how it reached this location in such a short amount of time is a true mystery.”
“It must be a stealth ship of some unknown type.”
Peng turned to Zhao. “And for the record, why didn’t your sonar sensors pick up its arrival?”
Captain Zhao straightened to her full height.
“We’ll get the answer as soon as I slap the Oregon’s captain in irons.”
“No need for dramatics just yet, Captain. After all, ‘the supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting,’ is it not?”
Peng marched over to the comms station and snatched up the microphone. He flashed an arrogant smile at Zhao.
“Let me show you how it’s done.”
★
Aboard the Oregon
“Chairman, the Fuzhou is hailing us,” Hali said. Like the rest of the op center team, he was harnessed to his station chair, ready for anything.
“All of Fuzhou’s systems are hot now,” Linda said. “She’s not hiding anymore.”
“Put her on the overheads,” Juan said. “This oughta be good.”
Hali nodded. “Fuzhou, this is Oregon. Proceed with transmission.”
“Cargo ship Oregon, this is PLA Navy Destroyer Fuzhou-120. You are violating a temporary maritime security zone of the People’s Republic of China. You are instructed to leave these waters immediately. If you do not comply, you will be held responsible for any consequences.”
“Destroyer Fuzhou,” Juan began, “we do not recognize your authority to declare a temporary maritime security zone, nor are we able to comply with your suggestion we leave the area. We are currently experiencing engine difficulties.”
An alarm sounded. “That chopper has weapons lock,” Linda said. She checked her monitor. The Oregon’s combat computer automatically put up the helicopter weapons specs on a wall monitor, but Linda read it aloud, as per protocols.
“Data profile indicates carrying two TL-2 anti-ship supersonic. Missiles with a range of eighteen miles. Fifty-kilogram warhead. Millimeter-wave targeting radar.”
“We got your message, Fuzhou,” Cabrillo said. “Stand down. We need thirty minutes to repair, and then we’ll depart the area.”
“Fuzhou just opened two vertical launch system doors, Chairman.” Ross was referring to the coverings over anti-ship missile wells. “Likely firing YJ-21 Eagle Strikes. Hypersonics—Mach 10–plus.”
“Somebody got up on the wrong side of the futon,” Max said.
“Duly noted,” Cabrillo said to his number two. He then shouted to the overhead speakers, “Fuzhou, we need at least twenty minutes—”
Linda shouted, “TL-2s fired! Twenty seconds to impact!”
Alarms blared across the ship as battle station lights flashed red.
On the big port-side wall monitor, the two TL-2 supersonic missiles raced toward them like burning stars.
“Helm, full starboard yaw, forty-degree vector—execute now!”
Stoney slammed the throttles and thrusters, banking the ship hard like a fighter jet. Anyone or anything not secured was thrown across the deck or slammed into bulkheads as the op center crew strained against their harnesses.
As Stoney executed the breakneck turn, the ship’s AI defensive systems kicked in. Jamming signals were automatically pumped into the atmosphere as chaff rockets fired, throwing up a wide-area radar interference cloud of carbon-coated fiberglass strips.
Linda at the weapons station called out the automated plays like a football color commentator, her fingers hovering over switches and toggles in case of computer failure.
“Chaff and jamming no effect. EMP cannons firing,” Ross said as the two weapons surged with power high above decks. The invisible electromagnetic wave pulses rippled the ocean water like a stiff breeze on the incoming-missile monitor.
Suddenly, one of the TL-2s yawed violently, then spun out of control before splashing into the sea in an explosion of spray and shrapnel.
“Missile number two still on course—ten seconds to impact,” Linda called out. “Laser-point defense engaging.”
A white-hot invisible beam seared the air, lancing across the missile’s fuselage and slicing off a tail fin, its track now wavering and erratic, but still coming on fast.
The bank of three starboard Vulcan close-in weapons system Gatling guns opened up in a hellish crescendo that rang through the hull. The Chinese missile plowed into a wall of 20-millimeter armor-piercing rounds, breaking it apart. But the remaining wreckage lashed forward at supersonic speed.
Linda called out, “Three seconds to impact. All hands brace.”
The Melara 76-millimeter auto cannons opened up just then, firing airburst proximity shells, throwing a cloud of shrapnel in front of the runaway train of missile debris.
The shrapnel cloud stripped away the worst of the red-hot wreckage like a coffee filter straining grounds.
But a fiery chunk of fuselage shot through and hit the Oregon’s superstructure with a hard glancing blow, punching a gaping hole through the corner of the third-story deck.
The debris strike rang like a hammer blow throughout the ship.
“Damage report,” Juan called out.
“No casualties, minor damage,” Max replied from his station.
“Wepps?”
“No radar locks, no missiles, chopper retreating,” Linda said. “All clear.”
“We’re playing rope-a-dope again,” Max said. “I know we could sink that tin can if you’d let us.”
“Orders are orders,” Juan said. “Even the ones that suck lemons.”
“You want to splash that helo, send a message?” Linda asked.
“Don’t even put a surface-to-air lock on it. Let the Chicoms think we’re playing nice.”
The forward bulkhead monitor showed open sea and sky, and the high prancing bow of the Oregon arcing across the horizon.
“How far do you want me to take her, Chairman?” Eric asked.
Cabrillo saw the radar track. The Oregon was now twenty-eight miles from the Baktun and the Fuzhou, now closing on her.
“Put the Baktun between us and the Fuzhou, then hove to.”
Eric grinned. “To block the Fuzhou’s line of sight. Aye.”
“Think the grumpy neighbor has stopped shouting at us?” Hali asked.
“He’s gonna yell a lot louder if we charge back onto his lawn.
” Cabrillo was thinking about the carrier-killing hypersonic Eagle Strikes the Fuzhou deployed.
There was no way the Oregon could outrun them, let alone survive a single hit.
And according to the specs Eric posted, the Chinese destroyer carried at least twelve of them.
Cabrillo glanced at the Project Q countdown clock.
Just ten minutes to go. He had to do something.
But what?