Tipping Point: The Crossing by John O'Brien

Author:John O'Brien [O'Brien, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-03-07T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Six

The attack of over five hundred American anti-ship missiles faded, leaving behind a scattered mess of debris, death and destruction. The shocked faces of Chinese sailors who had survived the onslaught could be seen amongst the wreckage, their expressions a mix of disbelief and pain. The expressions of the dead, carved with stunned horror, lay still and silent.

Three of China's prized Luyang-class destroyers: Yinchuan, Lanzhou, and Changsha had been lost in the attack. The once-proud ships, now reduced to blackened metal and broken hulls, floated lifelessly in the swells. Three Jiangkai-class frigates were also gone, with the Liuzhou and Huludao having already sunk below the waves, the twisted remains of their former sleek outlines descending through the dark waters on their long journey to the bottom.

Blood and saltwater flowed through the flooded compartments of the frigate Xuchang as it bobbed listlessly on the rough seas, its decks awash. The few surviving crew members huddled together in a small area that had remained relatively dry, gripping onto each other for comfort and warmth. They were exhausted, both physically and emotionally, after fighting to survive against impossible odds, and were now adrift in the middle of contested seas with little hope of rescue.

The fires aboard had been mostly extinguished by the seawater that had filled many of its compartments. A few smoldered in still watertight rooms with little oxygen remaining. Bodies floated at the top of passageways, slowly drifting on unseen currents circulating through the ship. Other pale corpses were held down by fallen girders and equipment, their tattered and burned uniforms wafting lazily around bodies that had once held loved ones, dreams, and laughter.

Pillars of dark smoke smudged the night, forcefully billowing from wrecked ships, their hulls glowing red from the heat within. Across the waters of the Taiwan Strait, bathed in the cold rays of the moon, floated the few lucky survivors. Their soot-darkened faces betrayed the shock of their experiences. Pain-filled cries drifted across the rolling swells from the agony of deep burns and broken bones.

The Chinese southern strike force was in shambles, six of its precious escorts mangled or gone. Hundreds of brave sailors had been lost, sent to watery graves by the overwhelming American salvoes. And now, as the survivors waited for relief that might never come, they were defenseless against another attack of that magnitude. The question was not if there would be another attack, but when.

Those untouched physically by the tragedies were thankful for the limited pause, drawing in mental breaths to recuperate from the intense stresses of combat. However, the pause didn’t mean a respite from duty. Already, adjustments were being made. Many of the escorts on the south side of the southern armada had been put out of action. Aside from limited rescue efforts being made, the gap created by the American attack had to be filled.

The Sanming had already been enroute to take up station as an outer picket. The Xianning, sent to replace the Sanming’s position, was redirected to the far south.

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