Larry Bond - Shattered Trident

“How soon can we increase speed?”

Mai answered immediately. “Now, sir. He’s opened the range to a hundred kilometers from us, and he’s moving away at one hundred forty-five knots—his maximum speed.” He smiled. “We won’t catch up.”

“And you’re sure it’s a southerly course,” Trung asked.

“Absolutely,” Mai confirmed, nodding.

“Good, then tell all units to increase speed to twenty-five knots with less radical course changes. And tell ‘Miss Tham’ to continue straight south.”

“Right away, sir.”

Trung was back out on the bridge as the helmsman advanced the throttle. It felt good to speed up, now that it was safe to do so, but there was no point in racing toward the Chinese at flank speed. In addition to his five ships, and “Miss Tham,” their own support aircraft was inbound. All their movements had to be coordinated with an uncooperative Chinese helicopter. Everything had to be timed very carefully.

And the Chinese task force, tied to the island, wouldn’t stay there forever. The amphibious assault ship had used helicopters and air-cushion landing craft to carry troops and armored vehicles to the island, while the destroyers provided artillery support. With their conquest secure, the ship was now ferrying back the wounded and any troops that would not be part of the permanent garrison.

Trung knew the defenders had left booby traps all over the island, and especially on the pier. Those would all have to be cleared away, but once that was done, and the container ship docked, the task group would leave and his chance would be gone with them.

Mai stepped out onto the bridge wing, facing the wind and stretching. He saw Trung’s worried look and reported, “The chief has taken over watching the plot. The helicopter is heading to a southeastern patrol zone. No other changes. And our ‘air support’ has arrived. I wish it was something more potent than a patrol plane.”

Trung smiled. “Right now, over half the People’s Air Force is pummeling the Chinese base on Woody Island. It’s true we don’t get any fighters, but the Chinese won’t get any, either. Would you like to have an air battle right over our heads? Hard to make a stealthy approach.”

Mai laughed. “It’s broad daylight, our ships are roaring east at twenty-five knots, and we’re being stealthy?”

Trung laughed with him, then said, “That’s enough fresh air. Get back in there and make sure we stay hidden in plain sight.” Mai saluted and left.

5 September 2016

1730 Local Time

PLAN Destroyer Lanzhou, Hull 170

Near Spratly Island, South China Sea

Admiral Sun Lin had decided to make Lanzhou his flagship, even though the amphibious ship Jinggang Shan was fitted with a flag plot. He’d visited the landing ship and inspected the facilities before they sailed, but he knew that once the operation started, his attention would be pulled to the island and the thousand problems even a successful landing would present. He’d let General Tian and his staff, in charge of the marines, take over the spaces.

For Sun, the threat lay in the other direction, toward the open sea. The bare horizon was not reassuring. It was only forty-five kilometers away, but the enemy had missiles that reached three times as far. Lanzhou ’s own weapons had even greater range, but he had to find the enemy before he could kill them.

And what did the bright blue surface hide beneath it? The greatest danger was from submarines, which had already wrought so much damage to his country. But his task group was not made up of defenseless merchant ships. They had sonar and anti-submarine weapons, as good as any in the PLAN. But he’d been in the navy too long, and watched too many Chinese submarines infiltrate formations, to ignore the threat.

By rights, he should have had two helicopters working the screen, but he’d lost two machines during the landing, one to gunfire and the other to a shoulder-fired SAM. A third had blown a compressor stage in one of its engines, and could not be fixed at sea. He could only afford to keep one aloft, busily darting from sector to sector, hurriedly searching in each with its dipping sonar.

And even without an enemy in sight, there were still problems.

The radio talker called, “Admiral, I have Colonel Xu on the radio.” Xu was the air force commander of the base on Woody Island.

Sun virtually snatched the handset from the junior officer’s hand. “This is Sun. What’s your situation?”

“We’ve got the fires out, Admiral, and we’re working to clear the wreckage,” the colonel reported happily.

“I don’t care about the fires, Colonel. When will your runway be operational?” Sun demanded.

“Sir, some of the fires were on the runway, and another threatened my ammunition storage. Now that they’re out, my ordnance people are making the area safe. Then we can start repairs to the runway surface,” he explained. “It will take another six, perhaps eight hours.”

“That’s unacceptable. The standard for repairing damage in a battle is two hours. You know that.”

“Sir, this is a forward base. A regular air base has far more heavy equipment and personnel. The Vietnamese scattered air-dropped mines all over the place, and the wrecked planes can’t be removed until the mines are cleared. I’m using unqualified personnel to assist my ordnance specialists already. After that, I’ll use every able-bodied man to make the runway serviceable, but it will take at least six hours, and that assumes nothing else happens.”

Sun forced himself to listen, then simply said, “Very well. Keep me informed,” and slammed the handset into its cradle. No air cover, while his ships were still committed to defending the beachhead. This was when they needed Liaoning, and when he missed her the most. Damn the Vietnamese for crippling the carrier. And the enemy had to know they were here, had known since they’d launched the assault two days ago.

The radio operator stood quietly, trying to look attentive while avoiding the admiral’s direct gaze. Unhappy admirals could be more hazardous than the enemy.

“Contact General Tian and find out how much longer it will take to clear those demolitions.” Sun’s tone made it clear he wanted to get some good news.

Ly Thai To

Trung checked his watch and keyed the intercom. “Check the helicopter’s position again.”

Mai replied instantly. “Sir, he’s been dipping in the northeast sector of the outer screen for five minutes. He’s eighty kilometers away from Miss Tham, and slightly farther away from us.”

It was what Trung wanted to hear, but he couldn’t bring himself to smile. Not yet. “Tell Miss Tham to get ready.”

“Right away, sir.”

“And tell our boatswain to put up our battle ensign.”

“Yes, sir!”

Trung stepped out on the port bridge wing and looked aft. A sailor was already standing next to the main mast. The wind tore at his clothes, but he stood, bracing himself against the ship’s motion, and waited.

The signalmen appeared just a moment later with a red bundle. While one rating held it, another clipped it to the signal halyards, and then hauled away. The small package flew up to the top of the forward mast, about twenty meters above the main deck. The second signalman now pulled on a cord wrapped around the package and trailing down from it, and a red flag with a bright yellow star burst open, fluttering tightly in the twenty-five-knot wind.

It was the same naval ensign that Ly Thai To normally flew, but that flag was less than a meter long. Their battle ensign was three times that size, and the color stood out vividly above the gray-painted warship.