Island Warriors c-18

by Keith Douglass

  Coyote gave up. The frigate’s captain would either understand, or he wouldn’t, and Coyote was betting that the more senior officer had spent more time working with the Americans and could see through any misinterpretations made by this young major.

  “If he has any other requirements, please let my staff know immediately.” Coyote gestured at his air operations officer. “Anything within reason.”

  Major Ho Kung-Sun picked up the microphone, inwardly raging. The blatant disrespect, for the admiral to refuse to communicate with his captain personally. And to add injury to insult by implying they were worried about an air attack. No, the admiral had tried to gloss it over, but Ho Kung-Sun understood very well what he’d meant. And he would make it plain to Captain Chang Tso-Lin as well.

  The Marshall P’eng

  1146 local (GMT +8)

  Captain Chang listened as Major Ho detailed the admiral’s plan. At first, he felt a rush of pride. Certainly it could not be often that a foreign ship was given such a substantial role in protecting the carrier battle group.

  But then, as Ho continued, Chang began to frown. The voice coming over the speaker, speaking Mandarin, left no doubt as to Ho Kung-Sun’s conclusions.

  “They often refer to us in derogatory terms when they think I am not listening, Captain. Of course, I do not tell them what I hear — I wish for them to continue to think I do not understand, that I am a fool. But it is quite evident from this latest set of orders that they consider us far less capable.” The major’s voice was querulous.

  Chang frowned. Ho Kung-Sun was a generally competent officer, although, of course, his primary background was in the Taiwanese Army. Still, he had been extensively trained at the nation’s most prestigious military schools, and family connections had gotten him this sensitive position.

  “Perhaps we should look at their actions rather than their words,” Chang said mildly.

  “Yes, perhaps we should. The admiral, he does not call you himself, does he? And look at our position within the screen. Our ship is exposed to the first wave of air attacks. We will, in effect, be a missile sump for the American battle group.”

  “We are repositioned where we are in the best position to prosecute the submarine contact,” Chang countered. “It is the same decision I would make myself.”

  “And you truly believe that is their intention? After all I have told you, my analysis of the dynamics here — you believe that? That with all of their advanced weaponry and sensors, the American Navy still needs the assistance of one broken-down frigate that they got rid of twenty years ago?”

  Chang stiffened. Political pull or not, the major’s tone was becoming unacceptable. “Our ship is—”

  “—an antique. Ancient. Ming Dynasty,” Ho finished, cutting him off.

  The crew inside combat turned pale. Captain Chang, while he was not as well connected as Ho, was well-known throughout the Navy for his ability. For a junior officer to speak to him so was entirely out of order.

  “Believe what you will, Captain,” the major continued. “I will make the report. You’ll see what the results will be. And in the meantime, do not be overly impressed by your interpretation of the admiral’s reasoning. I can assure you that it is merely for public consumption. And this is just why I was placed here, was it not? To provide insight into the battle group’s decisions.”

  Captain Chang, since he was treading on dangerous political ground, refrained from answering. Had he not been hesitant, his answer would have been, “No.” He had been placed there to insure that there was a maximum degree of cooperation between United States Navy and our forces in defending Taiwan. Not for personal glory — not for political reasons. To make sure, just as their man here did, that we understood each other. That is all.

  “I will keep your thoughts in mind,” Captain Chang said out loud. “I thank you for your insight.”

  USS United States

  JIC

  1152 local (GMT +8)

  Petty Officer Jim Lee, a cryptological technician (interpreter), or CTI, groaned as he listened to the conversation coming across his headset. He was taking notes, writing in Chinese characters, making an occasional English comment as a translator’s note. Senior Chief Armstrong Brady stood to one side. On the other side was Commander Busby.

  When the Chinese voices finally stopped, Wells leaned back in his chair and sighed. “They’re pissed, sir. Real pissed. Major Ho Kung-Sun, he’s telling that skipper that we’re dissing him, disrespecting him. By the admiral not asking them directly to take care of that submarine, by assigning them to a station further away from the CV. That frigate captain, I’m not certain what he’s thinking, but he’s listening to the major. Doesn’t sound like he’s buying it one hundred percent, but he is listening. According to the background briefing, the major is connected back home. Real connected, I bet.”

  “That’s right,” Lab Rat said.

  Lee nodded. “That’s about the only thing that could account for the major taking that tone of voice with him. Talk about disrespect — it’s not as much the words as the way he says it, the way he doesn’t back off. I knew there was something else going on between them.”

  “Captain Chang Tso-Lin is a senior naval officer,” the senior chief said. “That major — a ground pounder. I’m betting that the captain understands a lot more than the major does at this point.”

  Lab Rat nodded. “I wouldn’t doubt it. But how is Captain Chang supposed handle this? I mean, Ho Kung-Sun is supposed to be his liaison. The Taiwanese would not have put him here if they didn’t have some confidence in him.”

  “So we let them work it out themselves?” the senior chief asked.

  “Yes, but — it’s always ‘yes, but,’ isn’t it?” Lab Rat said. “We can’t afford to have any misunderstandings right now. Not when everything is about to break loose. So what do we do?”

  The senior chief shrugged. “Above my pay grade, sir. But I’d sure as shit get in there with the admiral and tell him what’s going on. Then try to figure out what set this whole thing off. There’s got to be something.” The senior chief turned to Lee. “How about you hang out in combat for a few days, kind of listen in on what’s going on? I’ll have someone else cover your watches. You keep an eye on this major. Maybe you can pick up some clues from how he’s acting. Something’s gone and pissed him off, and we need to figure out what it is before it gets any worse.”

  “Does Major Ho know you speak his language?” Lab Rat asked Lee.

  Lee, who graduated first in his class from the Naval Language Institute, shook his head and smiled. Lee stood around six-foot-three and was a large black man. “No, he doesn’t. And I’m betting I’m not going to be his first guess.”

  EIGHTEEN

  United Nations

  Sunday, September 22

  1030 local (GMT –5)

  T’ing had chosen traditional garb for the occasion, and the delicate silks with flowing lines were so much more natural on him that Wexler wondered he had ever worn a western suit at all. Behind him, his assistants and aides were similarly attired. There was a complete hush over the great hall as he stood.

  “Mr. Secretary-General, members and delegates.” He paused, and let his gaze roam over the entire assembly. Not a seat was vacant. Those who hadn’t heard the rumors had obviously been alerted by his office. “I am deeply saddened to be here today under the circumstances. But the nature of this organization is such that these matters are often before us. Never, however, have I felt so personally distressed over what I must say today.”

  He turned slightly, facing directly toward the American delegation. “As most of you know, over the last two weeks, the United States has committed acts of war against my nation. We offered the United States the opportunity to apologize and pay reparations without further action. That has been summarily rejected. Accordingly, we must now asked that the United Nations pass this resolution ordering sanctions against the United States, and condemning their action. The measures, I know,
seem harsh. But they are no more harsh than the measures the United States has enforced against Iraq for the past ten years. Essentials would be permitted to enter the country, but nothing that could be converted to military use. All assets in China will be seized, and all American citizens and nationals expelled immediately.

  “There is an American saying — what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander as well. I think that applies here as well.” He paused for a moment as countless translators attempted to render the idiom into something meaningful in their own languages. “I apologize for difficulty to the translators.”

  Utter silence fell over the hall. Not a person moved, not even the Secretary-General. As the silence deepened, the Secretary-General finally broke it by asking, “Is there no hope of resolving this in another fashion? The United States has normally been amenable to compromises.”

  The delegate from Taiwan stood then, his face a mask of anger. “No — never!” He pointed an accusing finger at T’ing. “That missile was aimed at my country as are the ones sitting on those ships right now. All of you know it. Only the United States had the courage to step in and prevent this genocide. And now you dare to consider sanctions? If you do this, you’ll completely destroy everything the United Nations stands for.”

  “That missile was in international airspace,” T’ing said implacably. “We have conducted countless tests in the past, and there has never been any danger to your country.”

  “We both know that this time was different,” the Taiwanese delegate shouted. “The beginning of the end — but we will not allow it. Oh no, we will not!” He slammed his hand down on his desk in frustration.

  Wexler waited while the babble of voices around her crescendoed. Finally, she stood, and picked up her microphone. “We have no comment on this matter, Mr. Secretary-General. Everyone here knows the facts. I leave it to the sound judgment of the delegates to draw their own conclusions.” With that, she sat down, and a strange sort of quiet crept into her heart. She and the president had decided on the strategy late last night, finally figuring that it was time to call the world to account for its actions. No more would the United States be the whipping boy for every politically correct movement. No more would they scrape and bow.

  The matter was tabled for discussion, with a vote set for two days hence. There was really no need for that — she was certain that every nation had already made up its mind how to vote. And, she suspected, if it were put to a vote today, China would win.

  She made her way back to her office flanked by her aides, Brad just behind her right elbow. The new security measures were already in place, and he reached past her and punched in the security code to unlock the door. She swept through the administrative spaces, past the locked reception area, and into her own office. She shut the door in Brad’s startled face, and sank down on the couch. As with anything, waiting was the hardest part.

  A knock on the door disturbed her. “What is it?” she snapped, wanting nothing more than to be left alone with her thoughts at this moment.

  “Madam Ambassador — the Ambassador from Russia is here,” Brad’s carefully controlled voice said. In his tone she read the nuances of his thinking — that he knew she wished to be left alone, that the Ambassador had arrived suddenly, and that part of the plan she had hatched with Captain Hemingway was now coming to fruition. Cold dread coursed through her as the full implications of the situation sunk in.

  “Tell him I’ll be just a moment,” she said. She took a deep, calming breath, and retreated to her private room behind her office for a moment to check her makeup and clothes. All in all, everything was in order. Another deep breath, and she crossed the room to open the door.

  The Russian Ambassador was standing there, waiting for her, evidently not wanting to take advantage of the comfortable chairs in the waiting room. That would have implied that he was waiting to speak to her, when what he wanted to convey was some sort of immediate right or entitlement to her attention. It was a maneuver designed to intimidate her, to assert his power over her. In his eyes, she saw secret glee — glee, and determination.

  “Please come in,” she said quietly. She stepped back to allow him to enter. “Just you, Mr. Ambassador. I think our aides can all find something else to do.” She saw the look of protest on Brad’s face, and heard the Ambassador’s aides start to protest. “Your English is certainly strong enough, and coupled with my meager Russian—” A lie; she spoke Russian quite fluently. “—we should be able to come to an understanding.”

  The Russian hesitated for a moment, then barked out an order to his people. They stepped back from the door, although they were clearly determined to wait right there until the ambassador emerged. The ambassador entered alone, and immediately walked over to her favorite couch.

  “Understanding… an interesting phrase,” the Russian Ambassador said. He settled himself into the couch, leaned back, and pulled out a cigar. “Do you mind?”

  “Very much. I do not allow cigars in my office. Among other things,” she said, going on the offensive. If what she believed was true, then he would understand what she meant.

  He met her eyes with his, and just for a few moments it was the test of wills. Finally, he put the cigar away. “It may not always be so easy to have the world cater to your every whim, Madam.”

  “That applies to both of us, don’t you think?” she asked pleasantly. “But then, the art of diplomacy includes understanding each other’s strengths and weaknesses, and using a reasonable degree of civility in working out solutions, does it not?”

  “Perhaps. And we all know that this is certainly the United States’s position, this business of civility.”

  Wexler inclined her head ever so slightly. “As refreshing as it is to discuss diplomacy with you, sir, I wonder if we could dispense with the formalities and come straight to the point. After all, we understand each other all too well, and I will not think less of you for getting straight to the point.”

  He smiled and stretched his arms across the back of the couch, evidently completely at ease. That, Wexler hoped, would change shortly. “I treasure the friendship that makes such candor possible between us,” he began, a cruel expression on his face. “And, as friends of the United States, I wish to tender a warning from our government — many would not understand, although we do, of course — about the United States’s decision to deploy Patriot batteries in Taiwan.” He waited, searching her face for an expression of surprise, and looking faintly disappointed when it was not forthcoming. “Of course, Russia understands the necessity, and we’re willing to support the United States in this move.”

  “There has been no discussion of such a matter,” Wexler said.

  The Russian ambassador wagged a stubby finger at her. “Ah, there is no need to dissemble. Not with your few friends,” he said. “Rest assured that we know the United States plans to do this. And, as I said, we’re not opposed to such move. Certainly allowing China to repossess Taiwan would destabilize the region. Although,” he continued, a look of longing on his face, “there’s much to be said for the firm repatriation of wayward provinces.” He seemed to reflect for a few moment on Russia’s previous days of glory, then shook his head. “No, Taiwan and China — Hong Kong was bad enough, but this cannot be allowed.”

  “Then we can count on a contingent of Russian ships to assist us in defending Taiwan, I hope?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “No, it would not be wise to be so openly aggressive to our eastern neighbor. There are many issues to be worked out between Russia and China, you understand. Many issues.” His eyes undressed her for a moment, and he said, “What Russia is willing to promise is her silence.”

  “I see. Russia’s silence. And that would be in exchange for…?” She let the question hang in the air.

  He splayed out his hands in a gesture of openness. “Silence on the issue of the Kurile Islands. I think you must agree that our claim to them is far stronger than China’s claim to Taiwan. Besides, it is a
rocky, useless chain of islands. Of no import in the world economy.”

  “The Japanese don’t think so,” she said.

  “The Japanese — bah.”

  “Yes, the Japanese. I believe they are currently in possession of the Kuriles and would probably object most strongly to a military action to retake the Islands. And I assume that is what you are proposing, since that is normally Russia’s way. Or are you asking me to support the fair and democratic election in the Kuriles to allow the inhabitants to determine their own destiny? It is possible that they would choose to return to Russia’s domination, I suppose.”

  It would be a cold day in hell before the Kuriles chose that indeed. The vast majority of the population have roots in Japan rather than Russia, and I suspect that taking the Islands from Japan would prove to be a difficult task.

  But it would be less difficult if we don’t interfere. Less difficult, less costly, and probably done quickly. Because we have assets in the area, we could divert them from Taiwan to the Kuriles. Whether or not we chose to do so would send a strong message to the rest of the world. And by the time we can get more carriers over there, it would be a done deal.

  “But as I said, I suspect the issue is entirely moot,” she said, bringing them back on track. “Because we have no plans to deploy the Patriot missiles in Taiwan. None at all.” Now she leveled a hard glare of her own at the Russian Ambassador. “But I do think this little conversation has answered a number of questions in my mind. And perhaps some debate in your contingent as well.” She stood, dismissing him. “I would not advise attempting any aggression toward the Kurile Islands or Japan,” she said sternly. “Speaking as a friend, of course.”

  “But… but… you will regret this, Madam Ambassador. You will regret this.”

  “Ambassador! Such a tone to take with a friend. Before you go, please do me the favor of rendering me one final opinion. I would treasure your thoughts on the matter of redecorating my office.”