Chinese frigate Yangcheng 10 miles off the Senkaku Island cluster
Captain Li Sandai pushed through the door onto the bridge of his ship. His ship.
Finally, after twelve years of groveling and fighting for scraps, he had his first command at sea. First in his graduating class at Dalian Naval Academy to get a command pin. Not bad for a boy from Wuhan who’d never seen the ocean until he joined the PLA Navy.
“Report, Mr. Wei,” he snapped. The key to command was to be unpredictable, make his crew think he was watching them as individuals. Keep them on their toes. Then they would respect him.
“No surface contacts within ten thousand meters, Captain,” the officer of the deck replied from the red-lit bridge. The sun had gone down only a few minutes ago, and Li noted with satisfaction that his OOD had already rigged for night running.
“Very well,” he said as he strode onto the bridge wing.
This command wasn’t much as far as ships went—only a frigate, after all—but he’d turn this into a platform to really launch his career. After two years of command, he’d secure a shore tour in Beijing at the People’s Liberation Army Navy headquarters. From those contacts, he could get command of a cruiser. Maybe even an aircraft carrier someday.
The line of the horizon was clear against the darkening sky. The stars were just starting to gain real brightness.
“Mr. Wei,” he called into the bridge. “Set a course to take us within five miles of the Diaoyus.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” came the prompt reply.
The ship heeled to starboard and the engines thrummed under Captain Li’s feet. A white wave curled out from the bow as the Yangcheng—his ship—cut through the water. He smiled into the freshening wind.
“All ahead full, Mr. Wei,” he shouted. “Let’s show these thieving Japanese fishermen the power of the Chinese navy.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” came the faint reply. The bow wave grew wider. He gripped the railing.
Wei appeared at his side. He leaned in and shouted in his captain’s ear. “New radar contact, Captain. Classified as a fishing vessel.”
Li stepped back into the shelter of the bridge, his ears ringing in the stillness. The radar operator stepped to the side so the captain could view the screen. “Only six thousand meters off the coast, Captain. Well within our territorial waters,” Wei said.
Li nodded, pinching his lower lip. Perfect. A golden opportunity to set an example with these Japanese fishermen, let them know there was a new Chinese captain patrolling these waters and he was not about to let anyone violate the sovereignty of the People’s Republic of China.
“Set an intercept course, Mr. Wei.”
The ship came into sight. The Yangcheng reduced speed, and the OOD brought a pair of binoculars to his captain on the bridge wing. As they suspected, a Japanese trawler, barely making way, but no nets out. Lit up like a Spring Festival parade.
“Rig ship for shouldering operations, Mr. Wei.”
“Captain?”
Shouldering operations, where a ship would bump another to alter its course, were normally done in daylight, although there was no regulation against doing them at night.
Be bold, Li thought. You are in command.
“Did I not make myself clear, Mr. Wei?” he said in a voice loud enough for the whole bridge to hear. “Rig ship for shouldering ops.”
The general-quarters alarm rang, and the Yangcheng filled with the sounds of running feet, his men taking their stations.
Li took the radio himself. “Japanese trawler, this is the People’s Liberation Army Navy warship Yangcheng. You are violating the sovereign waters of the People’s Republic of China. You will turn back to sea. Immediately.” He nodded in satisfaction at his bold tone.
A long blast of Japanese, interspersed with blasts of static, came back.
“Where’s our translator?” Li demanded.
“Petty Officer Wu is on leave, sir. The only Japanese speaker on board is Seaman Hai.”
“Well, get him up here!” Li fumed. He would have words with the senior enlisted man who set the watch stations. Translators should be part of the watch rotation.
Seaman Hai was a skinny, acne-pocked kid still in his teens. His eyes were wide with apprehension as he stepped onto the bridge. “Reporting as ordered, sir,” he said to the OOD. Wei pointed at the captain, who was pacing between the radio and the radar station.
“You speak Japanese?” Li demanded.
Hai nodded. “Yes, sir,” he whispered.
Li thrust the radio handset at him. “Talk to them. Tell them to move out to sea.”
A long exchange ensued between Seaman Hai and the Japanese trawler. “They say they are making best speed, but their ship is slow,” Hai said. He shifted from one foot to the other. “Their accent is very strong, and they are talking very fast. My translation is limited, sir.”
Li nodded. “Tell them to turn to seaward. We will escort them.”
Another long exchange as the trawler made minimal progress away from land.
The OOD approached Li. “Captain, they may have engine trouble. Maybe we should wait until morning—”
Li raised his binoculars. “They have men on the fantail. They’re putting out nets! They’re just ignoring us.” He dropped the binoculars. “All ahead two-thirds, Mr. Wei. Let’s give them a push in the right direction.”
The radio erupted in another volley of Japanese and static. Seaman Hai looked frozen to the deck.
“Captain, I recommend we—” the OOD began.
“Mr. Wei, I have the conn.” On the ship-wide system: “All hands stand by for shouldering operations.”
As the announcement rang through the ship, Wei tried one more time. “Sir, we’re moving quite fast—”
“You stand relieved, Mr. Wei.”
Captain Li stepped up to the bridge window to better judge his speed and angle of attack. The bright lights of the trawler made for an easy target and he could see the Japanese men watching him from the fantail.
He’d done this simulation a hundred times. Match their course, take an oblique angle, and bump them as his ship went past. Normally, the drill called for the shouldering ship to match speed, but the trawler was barely moving. He’d give them a glancing blow, a tap and nothing more.
“All ahead one-third,” Li said.
“One-third, aye, sir.”
The speed didn’t die off as fast as in the simulator and Li considered putting on a backing bell to drop his speed. Not needed, he decided. He’d just clip them on the way past.
The water at the stern of the trawler boiled as they tried to get away. Li’s lips curled back in a smile.
Finally, you start your engines, you lying Japanese bastards.
“Captain, I think maybe one of their engines is out! Recommend we break contact!” Wei had binoculars to his eyes and his voice cracked with concern.
Li raised his own binoculars. Wei was right: the boiling of water was only on the starboard side of the fantail. He watched the fishermen scramble away as the Chinese frigate bore down on them.
Then, under the force of one engine at full power, the Japanese trawler began to turn—right into the frigate’s path.
“All back emergency!” Wei screamed. “Hard right rudder!”
The helmsman hesitated, looking from his captain to Lieutenant Wei.
Those precious few seconds were all it took. The lights of the trawler flashed by the bridge of the Yangcheng and Li heard the sickening crunch of metal on metal. The Yangcheng slowed for an instant, then plowed forward.
Li raced to the bridge wing. The bow of the trawler was gone—sliced off by the sharp keel of the frigate. The fishing vessel, her front a gaping hole, plowed into the next wave and sank out of sight.