Mischief Island

by Robert Lance

  The Third Fleet sailed out of Subic Bay and reached the southern tip of Palawan Island just after three in the morning. Alamo stood at a railing overlooking the cargo bay, mesmerized by the beautiful lines of the Ghost. He’d never seen it before, but it looked kick ass ready to do serious harm. The crew of the Ghost had assembled it and were busy doing last minute inspections. Alamo could have pissed himself as the bay of the LSD began taking on sea water. He knew they were sailing at twenty knots and slowing to launch the Ghost. The odd craft began to float on the outriggers and rose to dock level. Suddenly the two turbo fan engines began to growl and then whine. The crew was doing a final engine test of the beast. Alamo experienced the raw power vibrating and churning water as if begging to be unleashed. He got a thumbs up from one of the technicians. It was time.

  He hurried to dock level and hopped aboard the Ghost. He was as excited as an itchy whore in a bar filled with cowboys. He ducked through the hatch and saw the crew and passengers strapped in, ready for blast off. He found his seat and strapped in. He craned his neck to look through the windscreen to watch the launch. The launch was disappointingly uneventful. The Ghost simply floated past the clamshell doors like oozing mud. He saw the clamshells close and watched the LSD begin to pick up speed, leaving them alone in the Sulu Sea.

  Alamo knew the drill. The jets stopped whining, and he heard the sound of air discharging from the bladders of the out riggers. The Ghost began to sink below the waves. Water lapped at the windscreen, then covered it completely. It was submerged like a mini sub just below the surface. It was almost dark, but for the back light of the radar screen and the nav array in front of the pilot. Suddenly he felt movement as if they were underway. Two electric motors drove what were called “worms”, high tech propellers that moved the Ghost silently under water.

  He had gone through the simulations many times with the crew but the real deal was like a voyage to a different universe. He unstrapped and went forward to the cockpit. Technically he was the Captain, but he didn’t need to make that presumption to the experts driving the exquisite war boat.

  The pilot, Wayne Willer, was a jovial sort with a gift of gab. He was daddy proud of his boat and was always ready to explain anything that might interest Alamo. Willer smiled without looking over his shoulder. “Hey Commander, how did you like the launch? Pretty slick huh?”

  “I’ll say. How far under are we?”

  “We’re at snorkel depth. It’s on autopilot, and there is a depth sensor that allows the compensators to keep the ballast at a constant level. We can stay here forever. The radar is above the waterline and gives us good returns of boats in the area out to six miles. You wanna catch some winks? We’re going to be here until we get good separation from the fleet.”

  Alamo knew the Chinese would have disguised patrol fast boats trailing the fleet, and they’d stay submerged until they passed. He said, “We’re turtling in style. I could get used to this.”

  “Welcome to the future, Commander.”

  Alamo peered into the dark cabin and saw the crew and passengers had sprawled out, sleeping like babies. He was tired to the bone and fought with the decision. They had a long journey ahead, and it was prudent to get some rest while he could. “Wake me if anything comes up.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  A brisk hand shook Alamo’s shoulder. He sat upright, shocked by the sudden disruption of his nap. He went from one dream state to another. For a second he was in transition trying to figure out his surroundings. A voice helped him out.

  “Commander, we’ve got company.”

  Alamo leapt from his seat and had to negotiate around sprawled crewmen to get to the cockpit. He grabbed a headset to listen in on the conversation of the pilot and the weapons officer.

  Hiram “Beetle” Bailey, was a spittin’ image of the cartoon character from which his handle originated. He did a quick head turn and spoke into the mic. We’ve got three targets, one at three o’clock, another at five, and the last one at seven. They’re tracking due south at twenty knots. It’s like you said, they seem to be shadowing the fleet.”

  “Can you tell the type of vessel?”

  “Pamela says they’re long range patrol boats.”

  “Who is Pamela?”

  “The integrated data link babe that processes sonar, radar, and optical inputs. She’s electronic but our babe gives us the ability to see under the skirts of the ladies swimming above us.”

  Willer said, “Beetle, shut down the radar. We don’t need to invite the curious. We’ll track them with sonar.”

  Beetle said, “Aye Aye.” He looked over his shoulder at Alamo. “It’s a precaution just in case they have sophisticated counter measures to pick up the ping from our radar. They could triangulate our general location, and we sure as hell don’t need them snooping us out.”

  Alamo immediately saw a flaw in the Ghost’s bag of tricks. “How would you know they haven’t locked us on?”

  “Pamela would tell us.”

  Alamo felt only slightly better. He watched the master screen. The sonar blips kept a steady track of the three vessels. They had moved beyond the Ghost, seemingly unaware of them.

  Willer said, “Take a snapshot and send it to fleet. We should let big brother know they have a tail.”

  Beetle was chirping happily. He said, “We could surface and blow all three boats out of the water in seconds. I really have an itch to waste the cocksuckers, but then we’d blow our cover.”

  Beetle’s remark was disturbing to Alamo. He didn’t need a trigger-happy weapons officer on the mission. Beetle Bailey bore watching. He said nothing and continued to observe the sonar targets track to the top of the screen. Beetle turned the radar on to sweep the sea around them.

  Willer said, “With your permission, Commander, we should get underway to our destination.”

  Alamo nodded, then realized Willer didn’t see him and he said, “Take us home, Wayne.”

  Willer said, “Slinky, bring us to patrol level.”

  Greg Vanzyvenden was the third crewman in charge of the engines and the configuration of the Ghost. He was six-five with a farm boy face and long limbs. Greg didn’t talk much and seemed shy when he did. He said, “Aye Skipper,” and began working the panel which sat directly behind Willer. Alamo heard the air pump motors start and the Ghost began to rise as the bladders on the twin hydrofoil began to inflate. The Ghost emerged from the sea like Captain Nemo’s Nautilus. The windscreen shed its watery film, and Alamo saw nothing but blackness surrounding him. Then he heard the twin jets begin to spool up. They were much quieter than he remembered back on the LSD.

  The Ghost gained speed, gliding easily through the waves. Still, the boat bobbed in the waves, making it hard for Alamo to stand. He had yet to get his sea legs under him.

  Willer sensed Alamo’s discomfort and said. “It’ll take us a few minutes to launch Kitty.”

  Kitty was a Kitty Hawk drone. It was used as a forward airborne recon spy craft. It was loaded with numerous optics and sensors to perform many tasks. Kitty was programmed to fly ten miles ahead of the Ghost to survey the open sea for any threats in the path of the Ghost. The small drone was no bigger than a large buzzard and was linked to Pamela that automatically kept the drone in the programmed orbit.

  Kitty allowed the Ghost to shut down its radar emitters that could be picked up by airborne surveillance aircraft patrolling the open seas. There was one flaw with Kitty. It was hand launched from the stern at slow speeds. Alamo recognized the time lapse was a vulnerable window he’d have to account for during mission planning.

  He knew what was coming next and went back to his seat to strap in. He hated fast boats. They slammed into waves at high speed with teeth jarring impacts. If you didn’t have a loose sphincter spasm, a compressed spine, and a concussion, one trip in a fast boat would resolve the issue. He dreaded the next event.

  Once Kitty was in orbit, the Ghost began to change profile again. She began to increase speed and at the same time
the pylons retracted inward pushing the center module upward. Once airborne the Ghost shot forward, riding on its hydrofoil legs.

  The Ghost reached its cruise speed of thirty-seven knots. Alamo was waiting for the bucking to begin. It didn’t come. He noticed other technicians walking about while hanging onto an overhead hand rail. He tagged one of them and said, “You need to sit down and strap in.”

  The man gave him a superior smirk. He said, “This ain’t your grandpa’s buckboard. This baby is Cadillac smooth. The pylons flex on shock absorbers and gimbals.” He laughed at the white knuckled grip that Alamo had on the seat arms. “Relax, Commander, you can go back to sleep.”

  Alamo sat back and relaxed. He thought about his SEALs awaiting him on Palawan, Ted Perrotte in particular. The two of them had been on several fast boat ops that beat their bones to powder. The Ghost had passed its sea trial, and he saw the mission in a different perspective. He said aloud, “Ted, you’re going to get a hard dick when you see this baby in action.” What Alamo Jones didn’t know, was at that very moment, Ted had a hard dick and getting plenty of action with his ex-wife.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Mata Hari was riding to the edge of another orgasm and didn’t hear Domino tripping along the dock in the grotto. Ted did. He frantically tried to buck Heather off of him. To her, it was a second effort that got her over the top. She began to quiver and moan, using all her strength to pin Ted in place in the sandy beach towel that was their bed.

  Domino saw her boss thrashing the living shit out of Ted. Grinding on him. She turned her back and walked back the way she came. At the landing she yelled out. “LT…you down here?” Of course she was, but Domino wanted to pretend otherwise to avoid an awkward moment. She rolled her eyes as she heard the rustling of varmints making for a bolt hole.

  Domino knew she was in forbidden territory, and it was in her mind to leave the two lovers to their stolen moment, but there was an urgency that would cause trouble for both of them. She had the night watch when the beacon in the pet rock sounded an alarm. Alamo Jones was less than an hour, if not minutes away. Her page to Heather went unanswered, and she didn’t have to guess where LT was, or whom she was with. Seconds ticked by, and the lovebirds still had not responded.

  She was frustrated. “Ya’ll need to get your lily-white asses covered up ‘cause Alamo Jones is gonna come through that curtain any second.”

  Ted yelled, “What are you doing down here?”

  “Dumb ass, I’m trying to warn you. The beacon was activated forty five-minutes ago, and neither one of you answered the page cause you ain’t got any clothes on. I warned you Perrotte.”

  Heather was panicked. “Domino, oh my god. Please don’t say anything. Please.”

  “I’m outa here. If I wasn’t here, I can’t say I saw what I saw. Hurry your scrawny ass up.”

  Domino was off like a shot just as the curtain began to silently part. Heather, half naked, and her hands clutching her remaining clothes and shoes, dashed down the dock. The pods of the Ghost slipped past the curtain, and the beak of the Ghost broke into the lit grotto. Ted was too busy to notice. He was sanitizing the love nest, hiding an empty bottle of wine under the sand, smoothing the nest, and looking for a place to stash the beach towel.

  When he did notice the Ghost, he gasped. A steel demon of the deep had slithered to its nest in the grotto. Everything was out of proportion. The thing looked like the confederate Submarine, The Merrimack, on stilts. He saw Alamo’s weathered face peering out the front windshield. He quickly looked down the dock to see Heather’s legs retract into the darkness of the passage. Alamo couldn’t see her from his angle of sight in the Ghost. It was a close call, and Ted let out a lung full of air. He went back to ogling the sleek shape that defied all conventions of physics.

  Soundlessly, the Ghost began a slow maneuver inside the grotto. It used its electric motors to execute a complete turn around so the ship’s bow pointed toward the curtain. A crewman at the stern was issuing instructions over a headset. The Ghost began backing to the dock and stopped a foot from the dock’s edge. There was little sound, no wake or rooster tail of revving engines. The Ghost was as agile and graceful as a swan.

  Alamo was silhouetted in the rear lock of the Ghost, with the smugness of General Macarthur when he returned to the Philippines. The difference between the two was Alamo Jones wouldn’t get his feet wet. He stepped to the dock, looked around, nodded a couple of times as if he was on an inspection tour.

  He had a slightly stern expression as Ted stepped forward. He barked. “Master Chief Perrotte, is this the best you can do for a greeting party? No band?”

  Ted saluted and smiled. “Fuck off, Alamo. We’re having fun without you, and you have a hell of a bar tab waiting on you.”

  Alamo laughed. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.” He paused. The smile dissipated as he continued looking about the grotto. His eyes narrowed. “I see Lt. Cummins little foot prints in the sand. Looks like she’s given you the tour.”

  “Sir?”

  “Someone has taken the initiative to fit out the grotto, and it wasn’t four lizards welded to my bar tab.”

  “Between the LT and Master Chief Gregory, they’ve kept us on our toes. Everything up top is squared away.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing. She got a lot done, and no doubt she had a lot of help. I’m impressed, but we’ll have to make a few minor changes. It’s really good to see you, Perrotte.”

  “Likewise.” Ted changed the subject. “What the hell is this monster?”

  “It’s not in stock. Doesn’t even have a Navy identity code. It’s called the Ghost, and that she is.”

  “We didn’t hear you until you were through the curtain.”

  Alamo caught the gaff and cocked his head. “We?”

  Perrotte followed his eyes to a small wad of black cloth sticking out of the sand, Heather’s bikini top.

  Ted rushed his response. “You activated your transponder, and we knew you were inbound, so I came down to turn the lights on.”

  By the expression on Alamo’s face, his answer was less than satisfactory. Eagle eyes were studying him. “This is a highly classified secure facility, Perrotte, not some god dam nude beach. Find the owner of that bra and have her report to me—Come aboard, I want you to meet the crew.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The late arrival of Commander Alamo Jones didn’t clear up any of the mystery. The civilian crew and technicians were checked-in and went directly to their quarters. The other guests at the resort were chickens in the yard, scratching and pecking aimlessly, looking for something to do or something to happen. Even Ramon was standing under his big hat with a spatula, stirring eggs, eyeing Alamo suspiciously.

  Alamo finished his personal inspection of the compound and sauntered to the patio deck where SEAL Team Four was gathered and muttering. All four men stood and saluted and he yelled at them, “Don’t ever fucking do that again. Sit down. Nice shirt, Perry. I like the flowers. Makes you goofy looking, a hayseed tourist. The rest of you are wearing navy macho bullshit that’s like a recruiting poster. After breakfast, you’re going shopping at the flea market. Buy some sissy looking Barong shirts, Perry, you’re in charge.”

  Alamo flopped into a deck chair and briefly shot the shit with his hand selected team. It was a moment exclusive to SEALs where they bare their souls with outlandish insults, nasty barbs, and name calling in a language undistinguishable to the uninitiated. It was “bad bonding” of the brotherhood of equals, a secret handshake of warriors.

  Alamo ended the mud slinging, saying, “Listen-up tadpoles. I’m about to give you the breakdown on the mission objective. It’s high and tight to the president and one layer down…only.”

  The men looked at each other knowing the seriousness of the classification.

  Alamo continued. “The Chinese have set up a Nine Dash Line that includes most of the South China Sea. They have militarized the area and set up an Air Defense Identification Zone. We belie
ve the Philippine ship sunk north of Scarborough Shoals was because it was about to interdict a Chinese cargo ship transporting Dong Feng 21-D missiles into the Nine Dash zone.”

  That got the team’s attention, and they squirmed in their chairs waiting for what came next.

  “Naval Intel has failed to collect any data or imagery of the area because the last three administrations have been asked by the Chinese to remain passive and neutral over the disputed area. All we have to go on is a satellite image taken by the French, three years ago.”

  “That’s it?” asked Perrotte. “Are you saying we can’t do over-flights, send in drones, or better yet, park a satellite over the area?”

  “We could now, but the goat is in the shed. The Chinese don’t have land mass in the area to hide the nukes, so they have them stored at sea in cargo ships. They are playing a shell game, and guess who is going to look under the shells?”

  The men were all slack jawed. Gates asked. “Tell me you’re kidding?”

  Alamo allowed a pause to let his remark sink in. “One of the islands is of particular interest because it’s close, within the Filipino zone, and has launcher barns we’ve seen on Hainan Island. The island is Mischief Island. The Filipinos have collected some data, but the Chinese have cordoned the area and run off any ship close to the area. The president needs some reason to believe the Chinese have a nuke capability. He needed that feed ten days ago, so that is our first objective before we go any deeper into the operation.”

  Fitzgerald said, “Fuckin’ fast boats and mini-subs. My asshole is only good for one trip. I knew I shoulda taken a pass.”

  “I brought a toy you’re going to like, right Master Chief Perrotte?”

  “If you say so.”

  Alamo chuckled. “Snuck right up on the entrance and turned on the ground penetrating radar and guess what showed up in the view finder? Looked like two muskrats in a fight to the death.” He laughed aloud. “You and Lt. Cummins are busted.”

  Ted didn’t need to hear that as he listened to nervous laughter from his mates. He was furious with Alamo, but mostly with himself. He had been warned. From the laser glared from Alamo, he knew he would pay. It was beginning, just like Heather said it would.