by Robert Gandt
Maxwell took the compress. “Thanks for bailing me out.”
“Don’t get mushy on me, Airedale. How about if you shut the fuck up so we can get off this island?”
Good old Wedge Flores, Maxwell thought. Congenial as ever.
<>
They dragged the inflatable boat into the waist-deep surf. Maxwell climbed in behind Flores.
“What about my wizzo?”
“What about him?” said Flores.
“His body is back there. I want him recovered.”
“Not my job.”
“Whose job is it?”
“Who the hell knows? Take it up with your boss.”
Maxwell started to argue, but the boat was already underway. He was surprised at its speed—something over twenty knots. He couldn’t tell whether the motor was electric or internal combustion. It barely made a sound.
There were seven altogether—Maxwell plus Wedge Flores’s SEAL squad—hunched down behind the flat spray screen in the bow. Maxwell had extracted enough from Flores to determine that the SEALs had arrived on the eastern end of the island at about the same time the PLA spec ops troops landed on the western tip.
They’d only gone about a mile when Maxwell felt the boat slow. He peered into the darkness ahead. He saw a long, tubular object barely awash in the three foot waves. As they drew closer, he saw that it looked like a very large torpedo—or a miniature submarine. It had no sail or conning tower. An antenna protruded from either side amidships.
“What the hell is that?”
“An ASDS,” said Flores.
“Which stands for?”
“Advanced Seal Delivery System.”
By Flores’s tone Maxwell could tell that was all he was going to learn. Actually, he had heard of an ASDS, but he’d never expected to be a passenger on one. It was a new class of submersible vehicle, about sixty-five feet long. It could be mated to the top of an attack or cruise missile submarine and was intended for the insertion of SEAL units.
As the raft approached the ASDS, Maxwell saw a hatch open atop the hull. A wet-suited crewman appeared, standing waist-high in the open hatch. A SEAL in the forward compartment of the raft tossed a line to him.
“We’re doing this because of you,” said Flores.
“Doing what because of me?”
“Boarding the vehicle on the surface. Dangerous as hell right now with the Chinks swarming all over the place. Normally we’d go aboard the same way we left—submerged. But we’ve got to drag you along. You’d drown if we hauled you under water.”
“That’s really thoughtful of you, Wedge.”
“Up yours, Airedale.”
Maxwell wanted to ask what they were going to do with the inflatable boat after they’d boarded the submersible, but he could tell Flores was in no mood for more explanations. The SEALs were already climbing over the gunwales and boarding the submersible. Maxwell allowed himself to be hoisted by two SEALs onto the slippery hull of the ASDS where the crewman in the hatch hauled him headfirst into the vehicle.
He took a seat at the end of one of the two long benches inside the main compartment. As soon as the last SEAL had boarded, they closed the hatch of the ASDS and submerged.
Maxwell sat by himself, listening to the low thrum of the vehicle’s engine. He couldn’t see the crew of the ASDS, who were in the forward compartment on the other side of a watertight bulkhead. Like most airmen, Maxwell felt a nagging claustrophobia in the windowless, steel-enclosed confines of a submarine. He had no idea how fast or how deep they were going. Asking Flores any more questions wasn’t worth the effort.
For the first time Maxwell noticed that one of the SEALs, a short, stocky young man with a black brush cut, had a gunshot wound in his thigh. Flores was busy dressing the man’s wound, talking to his team in a voice too low for Maxwell to hear over ambient sound in the compartment. Bitching about Airedales again, probably.
But he couldn’t help noticing something else about Flores. The other SEALs—all petty officers—treated him in almost a reverential manner. Flores looked older than any of them. Maxwell guessed that he was a mustang—a former senior enlisted man who had received an officer’s commission. Mustangs were a special breed in the Navy, particularly in the SEALs where much of the leadership came from within the ranks.
Maxwell closed his eyes. The low hum and vibration from the vehicle was lulling him into a stupor. The headache from the cannon shell that struck his helmet was gone, and so was the nausea from ingesting the sea water. He felt a deep fatigue, the product of adrenaline overload and the exertion of running like a chased animal.
He didn’t know how long he was asleep. Someone—it had to be Flores—was shaking his arm.
“Hey, time to get your ass moving.”
Maxwell sat up and tried to focus his eyes. “Where are we going now?”
“Not we, Airedale. You. You’re taking a chopper ride.”
Chapter 24 — Good to Go
Swallow Reef, Spratly Islands
South China Sea
2045 Monday, 30 April
Colonel Minh listened to the sounds of battle. The Vietnamese recapture of Swallow Reef had been underway for eight hours.
It was eerie, he thought. The gunfire was coming in intermittent bursts. Instead of the steady din of grenades and mortars and cacophony of automatic weapons, there were periods of utter stillness. The lull in the gunfire meant either that the PLA forces were in retreat, or the Vietnamese had lost their advantage.
Minh squatted in the darkness beneath the ridge that ran like a spine down the length of Swallow Reef. With him were his radioman, two runners, and a squad of commandos who had taken defensive positions along the ridge.
Since their landing just after nightfall, Minh’s commandos had fought for the narrow little island. The PLA troops had recovered more quickly from the shock of the Vietnamese landing than Minh would have guessed. During the critical first hour of fighting, the only thing that saved Minh’s tiny force was the specter from the sky—the invisible specter—that somehow destroyed the PLA warplanes based on the air field. Without their attack helicopters and close air support jets, the PLA troops were forced to fight a defensive battle.
Meter by meter, hummock by hummock, Minh’s commandos had advanced along Swallow Reef. Two hours into the battle, they took the airfield. From there his force divided into platoon-sized units and fanned out on divergent tracks in the darkness.
The fact that they were outnumbered four to one by the reinforced Chinese garrison did not trouble Minh. Such a ratio was normal. For a thousand years the Vietnamese had waged war against the lumbering giant, China. They were always outnumbered.
The radioman was motioning for Minh.
“What is it?”
“Captain Lieu,” said the radioman. “He reports that they have captured the prison facility. His platoon has freed nearly three hundred of our captured troops.”
Colonel Minh nodded his approval. Captain Lieu was an aggressive young officer whom he had chosen to command the lead platoon of the commando force. Lieu made no secret of his intention to be the first to storm the headquarters complex of the PLA garrison where the Vietnamese soldiers were interned. Lieu’s platoon had advanced even faster than Minh had hoped.
It was purely a symbolic gesture, of course. The released prisoners would be of little use in the battle for the island, but freeing them transmitted a powerful message to both sides. The PLA troops were in full retreat. The Vietnamese prisoners would be replaced with Chinese prisoners. The battle for Swallow Reef—the latest battle—was nearly over.
And not too soon, he thought. The eastern sky was turning pale. Minh couldn’t help wondering what the new day would bring. With the coming of daylight, the attacker’s advantage would be gone.
Tonight’s battle would mark the third change in ownership of the island since Vietnam planted its flag on Swallow Reef two years ago. Colonel Minh had no illusions about his ability to retain possession of the reef. Withou
t the covert but palpable support of the United States, the PLA would obliterate not only Minh’s little force but every military asset owned by Vietnam.
Minh’s landing force had arrived in the vicinity of Swallow Reef aboard three American submarines. Soon after nightfall, the submarines had surfaced. Minh’s troops clambered into inflatable boats and motored the last few kilometers toward their beachhead on the western shore of the reef. Precisely timed with their arrival on the beach came a barrage of Tomahawk missiles targeting each gun emplacement and shore defense battery set up by the PLA. It was then, while he was still sprinting across the narrow beach, that Minh became aware of the invisible specter in the sky overhead. The specter that was systematically destroying every PLA aircraft on the airfield.
Amazing, thought Minh. Without the Americans—the other lumbering giant with whom they’d been at war—they would have no chance against the PLA. But there was some kind of protocol to which Minh was not privy. Neither the U.S. nor China was using their heavy, visible weapons. An entire U.S. Navy carrier strike group was somewhere in the South China Sea, watching but not joining the battle. And the PLA’s massive offensive forces were staying mostly out of sight, deploying submarines and their own species of invisible jets. After losing a number of strike fighters on the ground and in the sky around Swallow Reef, they seemed to be staying low.
For how long? Minh had a bad feeling about the Spratly Island war. The fate of his tiny garrison—and of the Vietnamese claim to the Spratlys—depended on the ability—and the will—of the Americans to fight the Chinese.
The radioman was motioning again to Minh.
“What?”
“Captain Lieu reports that the PLA forces have retreated to the far end of the island. They have ceased firing and he sees a white flag being hoisted.”
Minh nodded and rose to his feet. Just in time, he reflected, looking over his shoulder at the glow on the eastern horizon. He would accept the surrender of the Chinese commander—the same commander who had accepted the Vietnamese surrender only a few days earlier.
Minh wondered if he was next in line.
“Tell Captain Lieu I’m on my way.”
<>
USS Ronald Reagan
Boyce watched the Seahawk settle onto the flight deck.
It was nearly midnight. A round splash of light illuminated the deck directly beneath the boarding door of the helicopter. Two helo crewmen exited first, followed by the lone passenger. Like all fighter pilots forced to ride in rotor-wing aircraft, the passenger ducked as he moved beneath the still-whirling blades. Hunched over, he followed the waiting yellow-jerseyed crewman across the deck to the door in the island where Boyce stood.
Boyce waited until they had stepped inside and Maxwell removed his cranial protector. It was as Boyce expected. Maxwell looked as though he’d been through a meat grinder.
“Congratulations,” said Boyce. “You look like shit.”
Maxwell forced a grin. “Thanks, Admiral.”
“What the hell happened to your eyebrow? Looks like you were whacked with a cleaver.”
“You’re close.”
Boyce already knew. He’d been briefed by Wedge Flores on Maxwell’s encounter with the knife-wielding PLA soldier. He also knew about the extraction by the SEAL team, the transfer to the ASDS submersible, then the pickup by the Seahawk.
There were big parts of the story that Boyce hadn’t been told. Where did the ASDS submersible come from? A submarine? Did it return to the same submarine after offloading Maxwell? Flores had taken an obvious pleasure in telling a rear admiral that he didn’t need to know such things.
Boyce was looking at Maxwell’s flight suit. “Do everyone a favor and trash that flight suit, okay? Looks like somebody puked on it.”
Maxwell shrugged. “Somebody did.”
Boyce led them down the passageway, around a corner, then down a ladder.
“Where are we going?”
“Sick bay. They’re going to check you out, dress that wound, see if you’ve got any serious damage.”
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah, right. Try looking in a mirror. After the quack is finished with you, we go to flag intel. And don’t worry, I’m not going to let them grill you tonight. We need a first-hand account of what happened to Wayne and Heilbrunner. And we want to know about your furball with the Dong-jin while it’s fresh in your mind.”
“The furball I lost, you mean.”
“The one we all lost. Nobody expected that the Dong-jins could penetrate our cloaking.”
“I shouldn’t have let Zhang get in my six o’clock.”
Boyce stopped in the passageway and looked at Maxwell. “Why do you think it was Zhang?”
“I knew it from the moment he jumped us. He confirmed it when he came back to strafe us in the chutes. Had to be Zhang.”
Boyce caught the hard edge in Maxwell’s voice. “How did he happen to miss when he strafed you?”
“He probably thought he killed me. A shell smacked the side of my helmet and knocked me out. Then he went after Sharp.”
Boyce nodded, then continued down the passageway to the ship’s sick bay. Waiting inside was Knuckles Ball, the air wing flight surgeon, and two medical corpsmen.
Maxwell endured the flight surgeon’s probing and testing, then let one of the corpsmen clean and dress the cut over his eye. The doctor gave it four stitches, applied a bandage, and declared him physically okay. Nothing broken, a minor concussion, some scrapes from the rocky surface of Northeast Cay. What Maxwell needed was sleep and rehydration and a break to get his mind off what happened. He ought to take some leave, go lie on a beach somewhere, drink a few mai-tais.
Boyce and Maxwell both nodded, neither changing expression. Boyce thanked the flight surgeon and steered Maxwell out of the sick bay.
“Knuckles means well,” said Boyce.
“I liked the part about lying on a beach and drinking mai-tais. When do I start?”
“In your next life. This one ain’t over yet.”
Maxwell shrugged.
After stopping at Maxwell’s stateroom long enough for him to change into clean khakis, they continued to the flag intel compartment. Boyce stepped inside the harshly lit compartment, blinked, then saw the figure sitting at the end of the briefing table.
“Uh, oh,” he said in a low voice.
Gypsy Palmer was still wearing her flight suit. Her face looked haggard, her eyes red. Beside her sat Dana Boudroux, wearing the trademark blue jumpsuit, no make up, hair pulled back in a pony tail. She nodded to Boyce and Maxwell as they entered.
Crud Carruthers was standing in the front talking to Harvey Wentz. Wentz was pointing at something on the illuminated chart of the South China Sea. They stopped talking and looked at Boyce.
Maxwell went to Gypsy. “I’m sorry, Gypsy.”
She looked at him through red-rimmed eyes. “Did Sharp tell you?”
Maxwell hesitated, looking over at Boyce. Boyce gave him a nod. Before their deployment aboard Reagan, Boyce had learned about the romance between O’Toole and Palmer. They promised him they would keep it out of sight until Dragon Flight was over.
“He told me,” said Maxwell. “Sharp was very excited that you two were going to be married. He was as happy about that as he was that he’d been selected for astronaut training.”
She chewed on her lower lip for a moment. “You were his hero, Brick. He was so proud that he was following in your footsteps.”
Maxwell closed his eyes for a moment, then lowered himself into the seat next to Gypsy. “Listen, Gypsy. What happened to Sharp was my fault. He did his job exactly right. If I had been doing my job, we would have—”
“That’s enough,” snapped Boyce. He walked over to the table. “We’re not going to hear any of that crap about who’s to blame. This is war, and we’re professional warriors. We have to accept the fact that the results of battle don’t always match our expectations.”
He paused and looked around the room. Th
ey all wore fatigue-filled, cynical expressions. Gypsy was staring at him with her grief-stricken face. Maxwell was giving him that old narrow-eyed look that Boyce had seen enough to know what it meant: Say whatever you want, but I’ll believe what I want to believe.
Boyce sighed. He hadn’t planned to give a speech tonight. Not while nerves and feelings were still raw. But he could sense the morale of the Dragon Flight team eroding like a castle in the sand.
He walked up to the front of the compartment. Harvey Wentz took one look at his face and moved aside. Boyce pulled out a half-gnawed Cohiba and rolled it around in his fingers.
“I know what you’re feeling. We lost three terrific guys today. They were like my own kids, and I grieve for them as much as any of you. But we’re not gonna waste our emotional energy beating up on ourselves about it. Duke and Plug got killed fighting a determined and probably suicidal enemy. Sharp is dead because some murderous ChiCom pilot—and we have an idea who it was—shot him while he was hanging in his chute. Here’s the bottom line, folks. We’re going to mourn our lost brothers. But we’re going to dry our tears and go back out there and make the sons of bitches sorry they ever went to war with us.”
A moment of silence passed, then someone—it sounded like Crud Carruthers—said, “Amen.”
Boyce studied his cigar for a moment. “The news is bad, but it’s not all bad. Our covert efforts both in the air and under the sea have turned back the Chinese. I’ve just been informed that Vietnamese troops have recaptured Swallow Reef, thanks to your efforts. The convoy that was coming to resupply and reinforce the ChiCom garrison lost a couple ships and has turned back to its port in Guangzhou.”
“What about Otis and Foxy?” asked Carruthers. Otis McCollister and his wizzo, Foxy Wolfe, were in the sole remaining Black Star. They were on their second consecutive sortie covering the landing on Swallow Reef.
“They splashed two SU-27s about an hour ago. Since then no others have come out from Hainan to join the fun. The PLA aircraft on the field at Swallow Reef were taken out before they got airborne.”
