by Andrew Watts
Plug found the man he was looking for. “Senior Chief?”
The senior chief was typing on one of the computers they used to keep track of all the maintenance done on the helicopters. The senior enlisted man in the aviation detachment, he was approaching his twentieth year in the Navy, and compared to most of the crew, he’d seen it all. This was his twelfth deployment. He’d spent a total of eight years of his life at sea. Two of his children were born while he was away.
When Plug had been selected by their squadron’s commanding officer to be the maintenance officer on this detachment, the first thing he’d done was go introduce himself to his new chief. Junior officers could go far if they were talented. But they went a lot farther with a good senior enlisted to serve as a partner and guide.
“Sir, how may I be of assistance?”
“Boss wants everyone on the flight deck in ten minutes.”
He grunted. “I was wondering when that was gonna come.”
Plug said, “I’ll go tell the pilots and aircrew. Can you send someone to round up the guys?”
“Sure thing,” he said. “This about why we left Panama so soon?”
“I reckon it is.”
He grunted again. A man of few words.
Plug walked through the ship and into the junior pilots’ stateroom.
All three of them shared a space that was about the size of a large walk-in closet, a triple-bunk on the far side. Juan was reading a novel on the top bunk.
The room was dark, just like every sleeping space on the ship. Ship life was twenty-four hours, and some people had to sleep during the day. It drove Plug crazy that the surface warfare officers were always running their freaking drills and making noise in the middle of the day when people on the night shift were trying to sleep.
The SWOs saw any complaint about lack of sleep as an admission of weakness. Their argument was that SWOs, like surgeons, needed to operate on very little sleep. And that pilots were all pampered prima donnas who slept too much and saw the ship as their personal cruise line.
Pilots considered the ship more of a helicopter barge than a cruise line and argued that while one might be able to drive a ship at twelve knots while fatigued, it was another matter entirely to be tired and try to land a helicopter on the back of a single-spot ship in the middle of the night. Also, pilots required more beauty rest in order to keep their great looks.
Plug actually had a lot of respect for the surface navy. It was, like almost every other military community, a group of hardworking and dedicated men and women. SWOs had long hours, tough living conditions, grueling deployments, and very little recognition compared to other members of the military. They were technical experts and nautical masters. But he would die before admitting as much to any of those bastards.
“Where are the other 2Ps?” he asked Juan.
“Working out.”
“Go get ’em. Boss wants us on the flight deck for a meeting in five.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Shut up, 2P.”
He smiled and slammed the door. While Plug was a HAC, and senior to the 2Ps, the pilot culture had an unwritten rule that none of the officers under the rank of O-4 were ever to be referred to as sir or ma’am. That meant that on this boat, only Lieutenant Commander Victoria Manning would be called ma’am by the pilots. And it was still more common in this environment to address her as “Air Boss,” or “boss” for short. This was because she was the officer in charge of the helicopter aviation detachment on board.
Plug went to his stateroom and swallowed two ibuprofen pills, then walked back to the flight deck. He checked his watch. At least he would be able to sleep off his hangover after this meeting.
The twenty-six men who were part of HSM-46 Detachment Two were gathered around the air boss. It was a little funny having an all-male detachment and a female air boss. Not that anyone lacked respect for her, but a group of twenty-six military men led by one woman sounded like the premise for a sitcom. She was like their mother in some ways. A very smart, driven, whip-bearing, micromanaging mother.
Minutes later, the group was gathered on the flight deck. Boss stood in the middle of the circle, making light-hearted jokes with the men. She took good care of them. They respected her and worked hard to impress her. Plug had never heard her raise her voice. But she didn’t have to. She had the ability to say things in a certain tone, to give you a certain look, which made whatever she said become your life’s goal.
Boss said, “Everyone here?”
Plug, sunglasses still on, nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. I’m not sure how much more time we’ll have. Rumor has it”—she looked around to make sure no one aside from her air detachment was in earshot—“that we may be doing some training this afternoon. As in, general quarters type training.” Groans from the group.
She held up her hands to silence them. “Gents, I need you to suck it up.” She spoke in that serious tone that got things done. The group went quiet. “We got word yesterday that we may be participating in some pretty high-priority assignments over the next few weeks. If I could tell you more about it, I would. But here’s what you need to know. We’re going to be training. Hard. And flying a lot. From here on out, I want to always have an aircraft on the Alert Fifteen. We’re also going to need to have two flyable aircraft, with as little maintenance downtime as possible. No self-inflicted wounds. If we need parts for maintenance, let’s order extra now. Plug, Senior Chief, you have my permission to order stuff that we might not even need, but that might be nice to have. If we need extra space, I can get it. If you run into any pushback, let me know. But we need to have two flyable aircraft, with all our mission systems working. Any questions?”
No hands were raised. Finally, the senior chief said, “Ma’am, what type of training will we be focusing on?”
She smiled. “I’m glad you asked, Senior. We’re going to start practicing torpedo loads once per day. Hellfire loads once per day. It’s also possible that we’ll need to transport Special Warfare operators, so I need us to think about whether we would make any different configuration choices there.”
A lot of raised eyebrows at that. Victoria had given herself an exercise the night before. She brainstormed on all the most important missions that someone like Chase—who worked for the CIA—might be involved in. While her helicopter detachments obvious roles were anti-ship and anti-submarine warfare, her one clue had been that he was a former Navy SEAL. She imagined that his work with the CIA was related. So if he was involved, her theory was that they might need their helicopters to provide transport. It was just a hunch, but it was something to prepare for nonetheless.
The ship’s alarm sounded, and the 1MC let out a whistle. “General quarters, general quarters, all hands man your battle stations. Set condition Zebra throughout the ship. This is a drill.”
Curses amongst the group. They looked to Victoria. Her men were clearly anxious to get to where they needed to be but were torn between that and their respect for her, not wanting to leave until dismissed.
She said, “Alright, folks, we’ll continue this later. Get going.”
The group quickly scattered. The pilots walked back to Officer’s Country. They stopped in the wardroom. Plug said, “Special Warfare pax transfers?”
She looked at him and nodded. “We need to be ready for anything right now.”
As if on cue, the 1MC sounded off with another whistle. This time the announcement was for flight quarters.
The air boss said, “Juan, who have you got on the schedule right now?”
He looked nervously around the group of pilots. “Uh…boss, we didn’t have a schedule. We were supposed to be in port.”
Plug said, “It’s going to take us an hour to get one of the aircraft ready.” His splitting headache was only getting worse.
She looked at her watch. “You’ve got thirty minutes. And when they’re done with the maintenance inspection, tell Chief that he will need to get ready for a torpedo
load. I want that done this afternoon.”
Plug opened his mouth to complain, but decided not to say anything. A torpedo load had taken them forever the last time they’d tried it. Boss was acting crazy.
She turned to Juan and said, “Are you good to fly?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Alright, you’re with me. Go get us an air crewman and have one of your sidekicks here”—she pointed at the other 2Ps—“write a flight schedule. We need a twenty-four-hour watch bill. Plug, you and whoever’s on tonight should hit the rack soon.”
That was the first good news Plug had heard all day.
The phone rang in the wardroom. Boss picked it up. “Air Boss. Yes, sir, I’ll be right there.” She turned to the group. “Alright, get your asses in gear, gentlemen. Vacation’s over. Juan, follow me. The captain’s going to have the TAO give us a mission brief. He wants it incorporated into their GQ exercise.”
They left, and Plug looked at the two remaining pilots. “This is ridiculous.”
The noise of the ship’s engines increased as they left the channel. The high-pitched whine grew higher still. The white wake of the ship threw thicker and longer as they gained speed.
13
Manta, Ecuador
Lena clutched the overhead bar of the jeep as the vehicle bounced around on the weathered mountain roads. They passed several small villages. The sunburned faces of the poor looked back at her, their tired eyes squinting.
The villagers always stared at her longer than they did the soldiers she was with. At first, she thought it was because of her race. She had grown accustomed to those types of stares. When she had worked for the CIA, she had spent much of her time deployed to regions of the world where she looked nothing like the locals.
But that was not why they gawked at her. Not anymore.
Her fingers traced the ugly river of red skin up the side of her face and to her right ear. It was blotchy and wet looking. She was still beautiful, if you looked at her from just the right angle. But the frightened look in the children’s eyes told her all she needed to know.
She thought of him when she touched the scars. Chase. A part of her longed for revenge. To humiliate him. To make him feel the same pain she had felt. The pain of fire igniting her clothing and melting away her skin. The pain of lifelong stares and humiliation.
She regularly had to shake herself out of her daydreams now. They always led her mind back to that horror-filled and helpless moment up on the rooftop of the Burj Al-Arab hotel in Dubai. They were close to getting away when Chase Manning had thrown Molotov cocktails at the helipad. She had lain pinned down by gunfire, helpless as the hellish bath of flame erupted around her.
There was the other part of her inner psyche that was equally infuriating. The part of her that longed for him. All those nights they had spent together in Dubai. He was just a plaything at first. But then, oddly enough, it had morphed into something more.
Lena had looked in his eyes and seen a courage and conviction that demanded respect. She had slept with him. For professional reasons, at first. Her physical beauty and sexuality had always been a powerful weapon. It clouded men’s vision and gave her access to a wide set of information. But if she was honest with herself, she knew that Chase was different.
Chase had amplified the clash of two emotions within her. Love and hatred. Beauty and ugliness. Her face had become an outward expression of who she truly was. Her lust for violence. The fulfillment she received from killing and maiming others—that was the ugliness. Something she could never explain. The quality had been with her since the incident at Junxun years ago. Logically, her euphoric reaction to inflicting pain on others—especially men—must have had something to do with her ability to control her own fate. To exact revenge and inflict pain upon the stronger sex, who had tried to harm her.
But what of the other side of the coin? Her beauty—what was that a symbol of? Goodness? Righteousness? That was what drove her each day, was it not? Serving China with honor. Creating the picture of the better world that Jinshan had painted for her so many years ago. That vision was now being executed.
And Lena was his chief executioner.
The jeep drove off the pavement onto a reddish muddy road. Jungle branches towered overhead. She could hear the troops conducting live firearms training. It sounded like fireworks. The jeep rounded another corner and pulled up to the range. A mile of cleared-out fields stretched in front of them. Wooden huts and tables. A makeshift military gun range. Dozens of men fired on paper targets. They trained on several different types of weapons. Two different style uniforms.
The Chinese Special Forces soldiers were training the Ecuadorian soldiers to use the weapons. She observed one of them demonstrating how to change the magazine on a QBZ-95 rifle.
She thought about what Natesh and the Chinese intelligence analysts had told her. Using standard Chinese weapons meant needing standardized Chinese ammunition. And that meant a long supply chain across the Pacific. Natesh’s solution was to get the factories in South America working on parts and materials so that when the war began, the supply lines were shorter.
He had set about accomplishing that as soon as he’d signed on to join Jinshan’s team, over a year ago.
“Good morning, Lena.”
Speak of the devil. “Hello, Natesh.”
He dabbed at his sweaty brown skin with a handkerchief. “Warm day.”
“Yes.” Her voice was calm. Inside her mind was the pain and burning of ten thousand battles. Outside she was composed. “How are things coming?”
“Alright. I’ll have a status report on your desk later today.”
“Very well.”
She looked down the firing range. About two platoons’ strength, by the looks of it. Ecuadorian regular army. They were being instructed in how to use their newly purchased weapons by Leishen Commandos.
The Leishen Commandos were an elite Chinese Special Forces unit. They were part of the People’s Liberation Army Air Force. For the past few years, this particular unit had been taking part in several training exercises a year in Central and South American nations. It was part of China’s national security policy to strengthen relations with Latin America through training and education.
Lena walked over to a tarped area about twenty yards back from the firing range. The gunfire had ceased for the moment. A mixed group of soldiers—both locals and Chinese—were going over weapons-cleaning procedures. She approached one of the Leishen Commando officers. His head was shaven. His face looked gaunt and tanned. Glossy with sweat and oil.
“Good day, Captain.” She spoke in Mandarin, her words measured. “Perhaps you have a few moments to spare?”
He looked up, a suspicious frown on his face. “Who are you?”
“My name is Lena Chou, and I work—”
Recognition hit him, and he nodded and spoke rapidly. “Of course, of course. My apologies for not recognizing you. They told me you would be coming. If you please.” He held out his hand to direct her to the far side of the covered area. Out of earshot. “How may I be of service?”
Lena said, “How many of our men are now on this base?”
“As of today, we have two battalions of Leishen. And about two hundred support troops for support and logistics. More are coming in every day now, including the Junxun recruits. Almost fifteen hundred in total.”
“How are the preparations going?”
“We have been working with the same two Ecuadorian battalions for the past two weeks. Some of them are making good progress in weapons proficiency. Obviously, their knowledge of the local area is very good. But they have very limited knowledge of strategy and tactics. And…” He frowned, looking concerned.
“Yes?”
“They are lazy. And undisciplined. Not the same quality of soldier we are used to dealing with. These men have never seen combat.”
“We don’t need these men to win the war for us. We do need them to help support our supply chain as we begin to ma
ss our forces. Do you foresee any problems with that?”
The captain shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He looked back at the gaggle of men cleaning rifles on the wooden counter on the other side of the covered area, then looked back at Lena. “If I may ask, ma’am, when will it all begin?”
“Soon,” she said.
The captain took her to his commander, a lieutenant colonel who recognized Lena on sight. It wasn’t hard. Just look for the half-beautiful, half-scarred Chinese woman who was almost six feet tall.
Still, the Chinese officer showed her nothing but respect, and Lena thought to herself that he must have been briefed by his superiors. She wondered how that conversation went. There will be a woman coming. Do whatever she says. She has the ear of our leadership. And a penchant for violence.
“Good day, Colonel.”
“Good day, Miss Chou. I am pleased that you have joined us. I have been instructed to make myself and my men available to you. I assure you, whatever you need is yours.”
They sat at his desk, situated in the corner of the command post tent. Dim artificial lights. The sound of a generator running outside. Cables and wires ran along the floor. There were very few computers. Charts were sprawled out over a large center table. Half a dozen Chinese soldiers were working on them, with a few Ecuadorian officers in tow.
A light rain fell outside. She could see it through the tent’s open entryway, and could hear the pitter-patter of the raindrops on the tarp overhead.
“Colonel, what are your standing orders?”
He looked around the room, taking in who was in earshot. “My orders are to train our partners in Ecuador, and make preparations for a large influx of reinforcements on this base.” He smiled. “Reinforcements beyond these young college students who I am told will start arriving soon.”
He was referring to the thousands of Junxun candidates who were to begin arriving today. He continued, “I am told to expect heavy military reinforcements at any time—by sea and air.”
