1MC blaring, “Flight quarters, flight quarters. Launch the alert five Hornets. Now, flight quarters.” The sound of Hornet engines turning immediately thrummed through the ship, as the alert fighters waiting on the catapult prepared to launch.
CDC was the nerve center of the carrier. Originally called Combat Information Center, or CIC, the new name was a reflection of the changing ways that a carrier battle group controlled the ebb and flow of war at sea. The main compartment was dominated by a wall-sized blue screen that displayed every contact held by every sensor in the battle group. The CDC officer and the Tactical Action Officer, or TAO, sat side by side at desks in front of the display. Around them, enlisted technicians monitoring aircraft manned radar and data consoles. In a separate room immediately behind the TAO, another group of watch standers managed the ASW problem, coordinating their tactics over the bitch box with the DESRON five decks above their module. At one end of the compartment, two parallel rows of consoles were reserved for Tracker Alley, the group of Operations Specialists that correlated and deconflicted the radar inputs from every ship and aircraft in the battle group.
“What’re they loaded with?” the TAO asked, as she watched the Hornets power up on the catapults.
“Two Sidewinders, two Sparrows, plus a cluster bomb on the Hornets. Harpoon only on the alert Vikings, although the airborne Viking has two torpedoes. We’re out of luck if 701 loses him and the sub dives,” the watch officer replied.
“That S-3 is out of luck if she doesn’t. And the Hornets aren’t going to be wild about going in, either.”
Suddenly, the speaker over the TAO’s head came to life. “Homeplate, Hunter 701. Looks like the SAM has fallen off. We’re RTB.”
Twenty-two people in CDC simultaneously let out the breaths they’d been holding. Freddie, the traditional handle for the operations specialist controlling an ASW aircraft, answered for them all, relief evident in his voice. “Roger, Hunter 701. Say state.”
“Four thousand pounds. We’re fine, Freddie, enough gas for a couple of passes.”
“Hunter 701, contact Pri-Fly,” the OS said, adding the flight control frequency.
The speaker hissed as Hunter 701 left that circuit to contact the Air Boss who would control its return to the carrier. “Close one,” the TAO muttered.
“Too close,” the CIC watch officer responded. “I guess now we know what launched those other two attacks.”
Maybe. And maybe not, the TAO thought, glancing at the surface warfare officer who was her assistant. Never heard of a SAM being targeted at a land-base or a ship. SAMs are anti-air weapons. Still, it might be possible, so better safe than sorry.
If the submarine had launched the other two attacks, the mystery was solved. And if it hadn’t — well, the carrier still had something to worry about.
CHAPTER 5
Battle-ax, thought T’ing. He’d just learned the meaning of the word from one of his aides. It suited the ambassador from the United States. She was two inches taller than he was and twenty pounds lighter, but her iron demeanor and uncompromising insistence on the American view of the world made the word fit her too perfectly. Pity that American women don’t age more gracefully. A Chinese woman is perpetually of a certain age, until she suddenly grows old and dies. That is the way it should be with women. The American compulsion to thrust them into every arena ages them too quickly.
Still, battle-ax or not, Ambassador Sarah Wexler was the only opponent that concerned him on the Security Council. The little charade he was about to play had been carefully crafted for her alone.
“it is regretful that I must make this complaint on such short notice, but events leave my peace-loving country few alternatives,” the Chinese ambassador said silkily. T’ing paused for a moment and surveyed the members of the Security Council.
The Russian ambassador already knew what China would say, the result of a carefully worded briefing earlier that day. Both countries had played political games with the United States for too long not to understand the rules.
“The Council understands that sometimes circumstances require immediate action. Please, continue,” the Russian ambassador, currently chairman of the Council, said solicitously.
“Very well. It is our hope that this distinguished body can intervene immediately to short-circuit what appears to be an escalating state of affairs immediately off our coast.” T’ing kept a careful watch on the ambassador from the United States. Surely she must have some hint of the subject he was about to broach! But her face wore the carefully schooled blank look of polite attention so characteristic of professional diplomats.
“At approximately eight o’clock yesterday morning, American forces conducted an unprovoked and completely unlawful attack on Chinese land located in the South China Sea — the area the United States refers to as the Spratly Islands. This action resulted in the deaths of two Chinese servicemen, as well as the destruction of government property.” A murmur filled the room as the aides to the various ambassadors conferred in whispers with their bosses.
Ah-ha! That got her attention, he thought, as he watched the American ambassador’s color deepen. She opened her mouth to speak, then paused as an aide tugged on her jacket from behind.
“Mr. Chairman,” the American ambassador began, her eyes blazing as fury flooded her face.
“I am not finished, Mr. Chan,” T’ing interrupted smoothly. “The rules do entitle me to complete my complaint before the aggressors are allowed to respond, I believe?”
“Of course, Ambassador T’ing. Ms. Wexler, please hold your comments until the ambassador is through,” the Russian chairman said blandly.
“Since there is always the possibility that the American forces are carrying nuclear weapons, we have taken the precaution of declaring an exclusion zone in the South China Sea. This action is necessary to protect Chinese lives and the security of our good neighbors who border this historic bay.” And take that, Madam, he thought viciously.
“I have in my possession radar data and other military information that will show the necessity of this action. At the time of the attack, the only military forces in the area were from the American warships. We believe that a circling fighter aircraft, known as an F-14 may have been the launch platform. Naturally, portions of these documents are classified, but I have taken the liberty of making as much of that data available to the Council as is consistent with our national security,” T’ing concluded.
“A horrible story, Mr. Ambassador, and one you can be assured the Council will investigate thoroughly,” the Russian said. “Ms. Wexler, has the United States any possible excuse or explanation for this blatant imperialistic attack?”
The American ambassador stood, slowly unfolding her lanky frame from the chair. She glanced at some notes written on small cards and then tossed them on her table. She surveyed the faces around the room — one friendly, two decidedly hostile, and the remainder as carefully bland as her own had been minutes earlier.
“Mr. Chairman, fellow delegates, the ambassador from China is sadly misinformed. It is true that an American task force was in the area, exercising its freedom of navigation on the high seas. The South China Sea, despite China’s claims, is not subject to the whims of one nation’s control, nor is there a basis for this supposed exclusion zone that China wishes to impose.
“I received this morning,” she continued, “a report forwarded from the on-scene commander. He states that there was an explosion in his vicinity yesterday morning, probably the result of an undetected cruise missile fired at an island. A thorough search for survivors was made, as well as for the source of the missiles, and none was found.”
“How kind,” China’s ambassador said viciously, “to first annihilate a target and then go through the motions of looking for survivors!”
“If I may continue?” she snapped, glancing at the Russian, who nodded abruptly.
