Tiger's Claw: A Novel

“How about Changyuan de muguang?” the commander asked. Changyuan de muguang, or Long Gaze, was the over-the-horizon backscatter radar located at Chongqing, Guizhou Province. The system reflected radar beams off the ionosphere, down to Earth, back to the ionosphere, and back to a receiver, allowing radar returns to be picked up thousands of miles away, hundreds of times farther than line-of-sight radar signals. The radar beam could be electronically angled to sweep the ocean and skies, locating ships and aircraft at impossibly long range.

“No contact by Long Gaze, sir,” the targeting officer reported. “Long Gaze appears to be down for maintenance.”

It was not surprising—over-the-horizon backscatter radar was not new technology, but it was new for China, and it was not perfect. “How about that patrol boat?” the commander asked.

A few moments later: “Negative, sir. Navigation radar only. No datalink.”

It appeared that the only targeting cues they would have were from the patrol plane’s radar. It was adequate, but multiple azimuths were always preferred. “Very well,” the commander said. “Status?”

“Gyro alignment complete,” the controller reported. “Missile is elevated, course laid in.”

“Very well.” The commander reached up to the top of his control console, withdrew a key from around his neck, inserted it into a lock, and turned it to the left, which immediately alerted command posts all across the area by satellite that a missile was about to be launched. Moments later the telephone beside him rang, and he picked it up immediately. After he gave and received authentication codes, he reported, “Prelaunch checks complete, missile is ready, sir.”

“Launch when ready, Colonel,” General Hua Zhilun ordered.

“Launch order acknowledged, sir,” the commander said, and he turned the key off, waited a few moments, then turned it all the way to the right.

At the launch site, an alarm bell sounded, and moments later a CJ-20 cruise missile shot from its storage canister atop the transporter-erector-launcher and blasted off into the night sky. It climbed to ten thousand feet in the blink of an eye, clearing the mountains in the center of Hainan Island with ease. Moments later wings popped out of the missile body, and the CJ-20 began a slow descent to one hundred feet above the South China Sea as it accelerated to almost twice the speed of sound.

SPACE BASED INFRARED SYSTEM MISSION CONTROL STATION, BUCKLEY AIR FORCE BASE, AURORA, COLORADO

THAT SAME MOMENT

“Missile launch detection!” the sensor technician shouted. That immediately riveted everyone’s attention, and console operators turned back to their computer screens.

“Origin?” the senior controller, Air Force Captain Sally Martin, asked.

“Looks like Hainan Island, China,” the sensor technician replied. “We’ll get the precise launch pad shortly. Heading is south-southeast, accelerating, approaching the Mach.”

“Alert Pacific Command,” Martin said. “Missile departing Hainan Island heading south-southeast supersonic, target unknown.” She studied the large monitor in front of her as the computer displayed a graphical depiction of the missile in flight they had detected. Martin was the duty officer in charge of the Air Force’s Space Based Infrared System, or SBIRS, a network of high, low, and geostationary heat-seeking satellites that was designed to detect and track ballistic missiles, determine their launch and impact points, track and classify their warheads and determine if any were decoys, and pass targeting information to land- or sea-based missile defense units.

What they had determined once the entire system was in place was that the sensors were so sensitive that they could not only detect and track the white-hot rocket plume during ascent or the red-hot warheads during reentry, but even detect the heat trail behind the rocket motor, which gave them even more precise tracking and targeting data. But this time, there was something strange about this heat trail. Martin turned to her deputy controller, Master Sergeant Ed Ingalls, a fifteen-year veteran of U.S. Space Command. “What do you make of that track, Ed?” she asked. “Are we not getting a good look at it?”

“I’d say it’s not a ballistic missile, but a cruise missile, ma’am,” Ingalls responded after a few moments. “Rumor had it the Chinese were deploying antiship cruise missiles, along with ballistic missiles. We might be watching one right now. They stay low so that the atmosphere attenuates their heat trail.”

Martin’s intercom beeped, and she moved the microphone to her lips. “Martin here, go ahead, SPACECOM.”

“What do you have, Sally?” the senior controller at Space Command headquarters asked.

“Master Sergeant Ingalls thinks we have a cruise missile, sir,” Martin replied. “Speed is over the Mach and accelerating, and it’s not rising through the atmosphere. Heading south-southeast.”

“Impact point?”

“Stand by.” Martin studied the display closer and waited to see what the depiction would show, but nothing was happening yet. “The missile is maneuvering slightly, so the computer’s not making any guesses yet, sir,” she said. “It looks like it’ll pass west of the Paracel Islands, but it could impact anywhere between Vietnam and the Philippines and as far out as Malaysia—it’s too early to tell for sure. But my guess would be somewhere in the Spratly Islands. If we have any ships out there, they’d better be notified.”

“I’ll pass the word to PACOM,” the controller at SPACECOM said. “When the computer gives you a definite impact point, give me a shout.”

“Wilco, sir.”

THE SOUTH CHINA SEA, SOUTH OF SPRATLY ISLAND

SEVERAL MINUTES LATER

“Unidentified vessel south of Nansha Dao,” Captain Dang Van Chien of the Vietnamese frigate Shark heard in Chinese, “this is the People’s Liberation Army Navy patrol vessel Qiyu; identify yourself!”

“Is this man dense?” Dang muttered aloud. “Comm, you have been sending out those warnings, yes?”

“Yes, sir. For the last ten minutes, in Vietnamese, English, and Chinese.”

“Continue,” the captain said. “Combat, range to that Chinese patrol boat?”

“Ten kilometers. Heading right for us.”

“Secure from gunnery practice, sound action stations, no drill,” Dang said. The alarms sounded again, but the skipper didn’t feel excitement this time, only dread. He picked up the microphone and changed the channel to the emergency maritime frequency. “Patrol vessel Qiyu, this is the frigate Ca map of the Socialist Republic of Vietnam Navy,” he radioed in Chinese. “You are on a collision course with this vessel. Alter course immediately.” No reply. Dang was now watching the radar repeater on the bridge, and he could see the Chinese vessel was not changing course. “Helm, steady up on course two-two-zero.” That would put them head to head, presenting the smallest profile to the incoming ship. “Combat, stand by on the -176, target that Chinese patrol boat, stand by to fire warning shots.”

“AK-176 ready.”

“Fire a warning shot,” Dang ordered. “Radar-guided warning shot, single-round burst, battery released.”

“On the way,” came the reply, and moments later the AK-176 cannon let loose. In warning shot mode, the fire control system on the Shark’s cannon was designed to land a shell precisely one hundred meters directly in front of a radar target.

On the radio again, Dang spoke, “Patrol vessel Qiyu, this is your last warning. Alter course immediately!” Still no response. Dang closed his eyes for a moment. I do not want to do this, he thought, but he wasn’t going to turn and let this little Chinese pipsqueak chase him out of his own waters. “Combat, fire another warning . . .”

“Target turning, sir,” the radar officer reported. “Turning south . . . now continuing the turn to the east.”