Ghost Fleet : A Novel of the Next World War (9780544145979) (55 page)

In the distance there was the shriek of engines coming in low: cruise missiles. A flash of light as a Gatling gun of some kind fired from one of the other ships, an Aegis destroyer of some sort. Then the water all around him burst into hundreds of ripples. He didn't know whether to cheer the weapons on or curse them until one of the missiles exploded.

“Splash one, assholes!” Roscoe cheered.

He stared at the silent
Zumwalt
, willing the ship to offer up some defense. “C'mon, brothers, do something!”

Suddenly there were two simultaneous explosions on the aft and bow sections of the
Zumwalt
. The sound of the twin detonations reached him a moment later.

Another thundering crash in the direction of the Aegis ship followed.

Seeing the smoke pouring from the ships was as painful as seeing his own jet spiral into the ocean after his ejection. Roscoe felt his eyes well up and held his head in his hands. His entire Boneyard Flight was gone. Nobody remained under his command. And now the ships they had given their lives to protect were on the verge of going under. He was alone.

Except he wasn't. He took off his helmet and ran a finger over the red-and-black lightning bolts that lined the crest.

Then he braced himself, leaned over the side of the raft, and scooped up a helmet full of water. Then again. And again.

The paddling was slow going, but he told himself he wasn't going to stop until he reached the
Zumwalt
. The Navy clearly still needed his help.

USS
Zumwalt
, Below Decks

The unconscious sailor outweighed Vern by at least a hundred pounds, but that did not stop her from trying to drag him by his ankles away from the flames at the end of the passageway. She could manage only five feet before she had to stop and catch her breath in the dark. Gagging on sharp smoke, she strained to put more distance between them and the fire. She hoped she was going toward safety, but anything was better than where she was coming from.

As she struggled on, coughing, she watched two fire-bots worm their way past her and advance into the swirl of flames and toxic smoke ravaging the room. They detonated their fire retardant and began tagging the bodies they found with strobes, giving the room a disorienting celestial look.

“Here, Dr. Li,” said Brooks, coming up from behind her. “We're gonna do this together.”

She nodded and continued to strain against the weight of the limp body.

“On three, here we go,” said Brooks, lifting the man under his arms. “You keep on the feet there.”

In the light of the strobes, she could see the unconscious man was wearing coveralls, seared black in places so that the fabric had melted against the pale skin on his legs. She could not yet see his face.

“Shit, is this the chief?” said Brooks.

Vern blinked a tear as she knelt forward and caught the smell of leather and bay rum mixing with burned plastic and singed hair.

USS
Zumwalt
Ship Mission Center

Simmons tried to focus on the face staring at him from the wall screen.

The man spoke before Simmons could remember his name.

“Jesus, Jamie, I'm looking at the
Z
. Half the ship is on fire!” the man said.

“Still afloat,” said Simmons slowly, still not sure who he was talking to. “Give me your situation.”

“We took one amidships. Fires are contained, but we're down to fifteen knots, maximum. More important, we shot our wad in that last volley,” the man said. “Our missile magazines are spent. I've got the CIWS, which have only a few more fires left. After that, spitballs is all we've got to shoot down missiles.”

The fog lifted. Anderson. The USS
Port Royal
.

“Well done, in any case. Tell your crew they saved a lot of ships today,” said Simmons.

The
Zumwalt
's fire-control officer shouted: “Sirs, we have an incoming target. It looks to be a surveillance drone. We're jamming its radar, but it'll be in visual range in four minutes. I'm tasking the Shrikes to shoot it down.”

Simmons opened his mouth to speak, then pursed his lips in thought.

“Belay that order. Let it see us,” said Simmons.

“Say again, sir?” said Anderson, worry showing in the crow's-feet around his eyes.

“They already know where we are. I want them to see us this way,” said Simmons.

Admiral Zheng He
,
Admiral Wang's Stateroom

The door to his stateroom shuddered, but fortunately not from another explosion, just his aide's knock.

Admiral Wang's aide entered, carrying a tablet computer.

“Sir, I am sorry to disturb you during your contemplation, but we have new reconnaissance information. One of the Soar Eagles launched from Guam at your order has finally entered the area. It is beaming back information line of sight to us.”

The Soar Dragon
¹²⁸
was a derivative of the U.S. Global Hawk unmanned aerial spy plane. The original American drone was a large spy plane, its wingspan greater than a 737 jetliner's, built to replace the manned U-2. Chinese designers had added a few flourishes, sweeping the wings back to attach to the tail. Looking like a plane crossed with a kite, their version had a better lift-to-drag ratio
¹²⁹
and less complex flight controls. But the tradeoff was that the engine had to be mounted above the tail, as in a commuter jet, giving the Soar Eagle a slow cruising speed.

As he scanned the images of warships smoking and sinking, Wang thought the wait was almost worth it. The only ships unscathed were the slow, toothless American transport vessels now waiting to be scooped up.

“Show me this one,” said Wang, tapping the image of the largest warship in the task force. It was immediately recognizable as their novel
Zumwalt
class. So the Americans had indeed brought back their strange experiment, just as the intelligence reports had claimed. It confirmed all his assumptions that this was the last victory the Directorate would need, just as he had argued to the Presidium. Using a ship like that was simultaneously an act of innovation and of desperation. Indeed, the same was true of the Americans' entire operation today.

The image zoomed in on the massive ship, tied up next to one of their stricken small helicopter carriers. The warship was indeed sleek and lethal-looking, but it was now dead in the water, smoking from what looked to be at least three missile strikes. Smoldering steel debris littered its deck, blocking its main gun turret.

He walked toward the bridge using the exterior gangway. Taking the longer route gave him the chance to breathe in the fresh air, to savor the salinity and the moment itself. He fished in his pants pocket for a stim tab and unwrapped it, then tossed the foil bubble into the wind. He had resisted taking one at the beginning of the battle, the need to exude calm being paramount. Now was the time for energetic aggression.

“‘Prize the quick victory,
¹³⁰
not the protracted engagement,'” he quoted to the aide. “Signal to the task force for all ships to advance at flank speed. It is time to close in for the kill and end this war.”

USS
Zumwalt
, Below Decks

Mike peered into the dark hallway, inhaling deeply from the firefighting breathing unit. Until they could vent the unit, the air was too toxic for anyone to spend time here, but the louvered covers on the vent openings had melted shut and it was going to take some doing, or at least a few minutes with a crowbar, to get those back open.

“Bridge, this is damage-control team. Bridge, this is damage-control team,” said Mike. His voice echoed inside the firefighting mask.

“Glad you're okay, Chief,” said a familiar voice. “What do you have for me?”

“Good to hear you too, son . . . sir. The news isn't good. Multiple casualties, more than I can keep track of. Starboard-side superstructure is melting; the composite just can't handle the hits and the heat. It's still a mess at the laser turret, and debris is blocking the rail gun's movement. That's not the real problem for the gun, though. Those shots took down the whole auxiliary power network. We've got break points across the ship,” said Mike. “The VLS, well, we're not going to get our deposit back. Most of the cell hatches look like they got peeled back with a rusty can opener. But there's something worse away from the impact points. We've got reports of leaks below decks, and the superstructure and hull seam look iffy on the starboard, right below the helo deck.”

“What's the good news?” said Simmons.

“Ship's afloat, and we're still breathing, you and I,” his father responded.

“We need the ship in the fight. How long before I can get the laser and rail gun back online?” said the captain.

“Martin will be graduating college before that laser's back in business. Ninety minutes at least on the rail gun to clear it, and even then, who knows. But I'm not sure you heard me . . . sir. We're taking on water below. Even if it works, we can't shoot the rail gun and keep the ship afloat with no auxiliary power. We gotta have power for the pumps.”

“Chief, just get the rail gun back online,” said Simmons.

“Aye, Captain,” said Mike. He paused and then added, “Or should I say Admiral? Heard you got a promotion.”

“Not really,” said Simmons.

“Well, congratulations either way,” said Mike. “Wear it proud. I am.”

“Just get the rail gun ready, Chief,” said Simmons. “We're counting on you all down there.”

Mike turned to address the crew, most of whom were working slowly, unable to shake their dazed looks.

“You heard the captain. Take stim tabs if ya got 'em, and then let's get to work,” said Mike. “Brooks, have your team concentrate on getting this debris cut away topside. Dr. Li, you're with me, we're going to unfuck this wiring. Captain wants us back in the fight, and we're not going to let him down.”

The crew scattered, foraging in their pockets for whatever stims they had left, not thinking about the last time they had had something to eat or a stretch of calm to sleep.

Vern, her hair matted with sweat, began to head down the passageway toward the rail-gun turret, but then she stopped and turned, her face angry.

“I thought I found you—your body,” said Vern.

“Doesn't seem like it,” said Mike.

“It was Davidson,” said Vern. “He's gone.”

“You confused me with that reeking tub of guts?” said Mike, knowing his old friend wouldn't want him to answer any other way.

She reached into a pocket on her vest just below her heart and pulled out two square foil packets. “This thing's stocked like a pharmacy,” she said, handing one of the stim tabs to Mike.

He shook his head. “Not sure my heart can take it. I think, though, when we get back to shore I'll have a stiff drink. I think we've earned it.”

“It's a date, then.” She smiled.

USS
Zumwalt
Ship Mission Center

If it was possible to be calm aboard a sinking ship, the
Z
's crew was managing it. There was a studiousness in the mission center, as if the hull breaches below decks were the least of their problems. And to the captain of the
Zumwalt
, they were.

Cortez was below decks, checking on the largest breach. One of the monitors near the captain's chair, which Simmons still hated using, showed the view from Cortez's glasses. It was just aft and below where the superstructure joined the hull, a foot-long opening two inches wide. The worry was that it had ripped open on its own, almost like bark peeling from a tree. There were sure to be more such breaches soon.

“Sir, we've got a homing-pigeon drone coming in. It's from the
Orzel
,” said the communications officer.

“Let's have it,” said Simmons, feeling his stomach knot. If the Poles, safely hidden away beneath the ocean's surface, had broken cover to pass along a message, it had to be bad news.

“‘Three enemy carriers detected,'” the officer read. “‘Quadrant seventy-four X, fifty-six G. The
Shanghai
¹³¹
and two
Admiral Kuznetsov
–class carriers, one believed to be the Russian original and the other the
Liaoning
,
¹³²
accompanied by five escort ships. Will engage after communications drone launches.'” The communications officer stumbled through the next sentence. “‘
Za wolność Naszą i Waszą.
For our freedom and yours.'”

“Anything more?” said Simmons.

“That's all we have, sir,” said the officer. “Database has the closing lines as something from their history, a saying by doomed Polish resistance fighters.”

Simmons was silent, thinking not of the Polish sailors, he shamefully realized, but of the need to decide the next course of action.

“Order the combat air patrol to that quadrant,” said Simmons.

The tactical action officer cleared his throat before speaking in a parched voice: “Sir, they're armed only for air-to-air. They'll be able to engage the remaining enemy planes, but that's it. They're not carrying any bombs or anti-ship ordnance.”

“You neglected to mention that tasking out our combat air patrol will also leave us naked without overhead cover,” said Simmons.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good; don't be afraid to challenge me when it is needed. Just not too often,” said Simmons. “I understand your concern, but they're an asset we have to use, in this case just like the original designers of drones intended. Deadly, but disposable. Order them out, command protocol Divine Wind.”
¹³³