“The Admiral has made it clear we will take whatever actions are necessary to comply with the President’s directive that no country will threaten our right of free passage.”
Dowling paused. “The PLA does not currently present a direct threat. They have, however, made significant progress in fielding an anti-ship variant of their CSS-5. This missile is projected to have a 1500-kilometer range and would place any carrier strike group operating within the South China Sea at risk. That said, they have three significant obstacles to overcome: a proven second stage re-entry vehicle with terminal guidance, penetrating sub-munitions for their warheads, and a lack of ocean surveillance satellites for targeting.”
Rohrbaugh had heard the scuttlebutt about the Chinese missile, but it didn’t address his immediate concerns. “Excuse me, Major.”
Downing stopped. “Commander?”
“That’s all well and good, but my planning is focused on the immediate threat.”
“Understood. Analysis of satellite imagery and SIGINT suggests the Chinese have constructed at least one storage bunker and several launch ramps for their H-2 Seersucker anti-ship missile on Woody Island. They are supported by tracking and targeting radar installations on Rocky Island.”
Dowling pointed out the locations with his laser designator. “Both of these islands are part of the Paracel group in the northwest South China Sea. Furthermore, we have evidence the PLA recently test-fired a C-802 tactical cruise missile from a site in the Paracels. The C-802 has both land attack and anti-ship capability. The PLA will, in very short order, have a credible offensive capability to interdict and destroy vessels transiting the international shipping lanes or attack static targets such as the Philippine base on Pagasa Island.”
Before Dowling could continue, the conference room door opened and a khaki clad naval officer with four silver stars gleaming on his collars strode into the room.
“Attention on deck.”
“At ease, gentlemen, please remain seated.”
Everyone in the room ignored this polite request and came to attention.
“Major, may I take a few moments of your time?”
“Of course, sir.”
Admiral Alberto Cortez, Commander, United States Indo-Pacific Command, took his station at the podium. “Please take your seats. I trust you are finding Major Dowling’s presentation informative.
“My guidance to the Three was to put together a succinct presentation outlining the broader policy and strategic challenges we face in the theater. Your understanding of these fundamental issues will be of great value in your work with your counterparts in Vietnam. The personal working relationships you form with these officers will provide the critical underpinnings for our initiatives in the region. I expect you to be observant, noting the state of their morale, their leadership, equipment, and training.
“Let me share some of my observations on the region. The combination of old resentments, emerging economies, increased military spending, and the restructuring of the social order has created a dangerous brew. With the various nations in the region seeking to exert their influence and protect their national interests, a strategic convergence has developed with their goals and those of the United States.
“Your work will augment the Joint Chief’s directive to increase the visibility and response time of U.S. forces in the Western Pacific. I expect you to frame your thinking within the context of restructuring the command and deployment of our forces.
“All of our indicators point to the same conclusion. If hostilities were to break out in the South China Sea, there will be little, if any, notice. There may be various scenarios such as an increase in small unit encounters, imposition of trade tariffs and counter sanctions, a ratcheting up of belligerent speech and threats, but in the end, the thrust of the sword will be swift, unexpected, and deadly. Major, you may now resume your presentation.”
“Thank you, Admiral. Attention on deck.”
Dowling wrapped up his briefing at fifteen-thirty hours and approached Rohrbaugh.
“Ready to roll?”
“Lead on.”
“The Three’s office is just down the hall.”
“Good brief, Major. Name’s Mike.”
“Thanks. It’s a different life up here with the staff.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.”
“In my real life, I fly Paveways for a living.”
“You been to ‘The Stan?’”
“Yeah. Twice.”
“You?”
“I’ve been stuck at a desk for the past year.” What Rohrbaugh didn’t volunteer was what he had really been doing for the past decade including his three clandestine missions in northern Pakistan.
Chapter 27
DIRECTORATE FOR OPERATIONS
J-3 USCINCPAC
15:30 MONDAY 24 MARCH
Dowling stopped in front of the J-3’s office and rapped on the open door. The red nameplate indicated the occupant was a Marine two star. “General, Commander Rohrbaugh is here to see you, sir.”
“Enter.”
Dowling escorted Rohrbaugh into the room and came to attention. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
“Would you ask the Captain to join us and secure the door as you leave.”
The Marine waited until the door clicked shut before speaking. “Commander, please have a seat. Coffee, water?”
“No, thank you, sir. I’m good.”
Rohrbaugh wasn’t able to get a read on the situation and was further nonplussed to recognize an old shipmate enter through the side door.
“Good afternoon, General. Nice to see you again, Mike.”
“You two know each other then. How come I’m not surprised.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the newcomer. “We’ve shared some interesting times together.”
“I have no doubt. ‘Interesting’ covers a lot of territory.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Since no introductions are necessary, Commander, let me just say that Captain Kaukane has been working a special project.”
A thousand questions spun through Rohrbaugh’s mind, but this, again, was not the time or place to voice them. That would come later. The General’s demeanor demanded he just listen.
“Admiral Cortez has cleared your participation with Admiral Morey. Admiral Morey is the only individual at PacFleet who is aware of the project and your involvement.”
Pausing, the Marine looked at Rohrbaugh to emphasize the implications of his statement.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, we’ll proceed. You’ve been selected to be part of a special surveillance and intelligence gathering mission code-named, ‘Valiant Crane.’ Captain Kaukane has been working the mission since its inception and will be your point of contact. I’ve asked him to provide you the thumbnail. Captain.”
“Mike, elements of the mission team are already in transit. You will detach from your liaison team and lash up with them via an at-sea transfer.”
Kaukane read the look on Rohrbaugh’s face. “Question?”
“Negative.”
Rohrbaugh cast a look at the General. The Marine’s expression indicated he wasn’t going to insert himself in the conversation.
“Your timelines are tight,” Kaukane continued. “They’re covered in the mission planning book we’ll go over tomorrow morning. I can tell you, that once on site, the team’s mission will have several components: mapping navigation points, oceanographic analysis, surveillance, and intelligence collection.
“The Chinese have several high-value assets in the area we want to exploit. The nature of the mission is such that certain elements are compartmentalized.”
Rohrbaugh pondered Kaukane’s statements. There were clandestine elements even he couldn’t be brought in on. He wondered who else was involved in this operation.
“Thank you, Captain. I believe we have provided Commander Rohrbaugh a starting point to begin mapping out his mission.”
Standing, the General ended the meetin
g. “Stay in touch.”
“Yes, sir,” the two SEALs responded in unison.
Rohrbaugh pulled up in the hallway. “Just what exactly have you signed me up for, old buddy?”
“Just looking after your welfare. The word on the street is you’re pining away at your desk job. I thought you might be needing some excitement in your life.”
“Thanks.”
“Let me show you where I’m hanging my hat. You got anything online for tomorrow morning?”
“I’ll clear my schedule.”
* * *
COMPACFLT
“Any luck with the N-2 shop?” Rohrbaugh asked on returning to his cubicle.
“They’re skeptical, Skipper,” Mackenzie replied, “but I think I’ve convinced them your theory warranted a deeper dive.”
“That’s a start.”
“How was the brief?”
“Went well enough. Got our rudder orders. The CINC stuck his head in the door.”
“Oh? What’d he say?”
“Gave the world view. My takeaway? The work we’ve been doing on 1729 is right on course.”
“How about your detail to Nam?”
“Still tracking. The Air Force is going to check out the fields at Bien Hoa, Da Nang, Nha Trang, and Tan Son Nhut while the Navy focuses on Cam Ranh and Da Nang. I’ve got follow-up meetings scheduled for tomorrow morning and Wednesday to cover the details. Admiral Cortez’ll be leaving next week to lay the groundwork.”
“Got any specifics?”
“He’ll be exploring opportunities for joint training, exchange visits, base sharing, status of forces agreements.”
“Timelines?”
“We’re looking at a several-year evolution.”
“Judging on how things are shaping up, I don’t think that’ll cut it.”
“I’ve got a hunch our trip will speed things up. We will have the camel’s nose in the tent soon enough.”
“You working an angle, Skipper?”
“Possibly.”
Chapter 28
PACO MARKET
ESTERO DE PACO, MANILA
17:45 TUESDAY 3 APRIL
Lynne payed the cab driver and paused on the cracked sidewalk before making her way to the Paco Market a block away. She had dressed down for the meeting: sandals, jeans, blue-cotton T, her long auburn hair gathered into a ponytail.
Why Raul had asked to meet him at the market mystified her. But then, all of his communications of late were obtuse. Perhaps he wanted an update on her reporting of the Pagasa Island and P-8 incidents? Or something else?
She swiveled her head, surveying the decayed neighborhood. Hardly the quiet ambiance of the Manila Hotel or the safety of the Quezon City market. Safety, that is, until that guy scared the shit out of me last month.
She pressed her purse against her side, conscious of the pickpockets and thieves known to prowl the banks of the Estero de Paco, the listless tributary of the Pasig River that flowed into Manila Bay.
She startled at a shadowy form that ducked out of sight between two buildings. She gripped the clasp of her purse, fighting the temptation to pull out her canister of pepper spray. Just because I’m being paranoid doesn’t mean someone isn’t following me.
The government had invested a considerable amount of money to eliminate the squalor along the riverbank to no avail. Falling back into decay, shanties with rusted corrugated metal roofs once again spilled onto the sidewalk. A watcher could be anywhere.
She swatted away a mosquito and made her way across a crumbling concrete bridge. The smell of raw sewage rose to meet her. A printed sign tied to a paint-flaked pole caught her eye: Bawal Magtapon NG Basora. “It is forbidden to throw trash.” Judging from the smell and the garbage caught on the exposed rocks of the dull-gray water, few paid attention to the sign.
She left the bridge behind and proceeded down the opposite bank lined by the remnants of old tropical plantings. A trio of smudged children in tattered clothing made their way toward her. She gestured the nearest away, admonishing him to go away and return to his mother. “Humito ka sa akin. Umuwi ka san an mo.”
The startled kids parted, opening a passage as she continued on to her destination. The market, advertised as the centerpiece of the prior restorative efforts, was a disappointment. Three wide arches and two yellow pedicabs defined the front of the white-washed concrete block building. She made for the center arch and stepped around a burlap bag of Hog Grower Mash that sagged against a banner advertising a smiling Facebook influencer.
Ducking under a drooping black tarp, she entered the cavernous warehouse and walked down the central aisle counting the side-bays. She stopped at the third fronted by a four-tier display of gaily-colored children’s clothing.
“Here.”
She recognized Raul’s voice and squeezed through a clutter of bargaining locals into a large room. Atencio was the only occupant. He rose to greet her, patting his lips with a ragged paper napkin.
He pointed to several oil-stained paper plates overflowing with pork and vegetable filled Lumpia and Turon Sagings. “Please,” he said offering her a can of Coke. “These are the best in all Manila.”
Lynne eyed the sweet banana and jack-fruit filled Turons and decided they could wait. There had to be another reason he had invited her to the market besides the food. She popped the tab of the Coke and took a seat in a white molded-plastic chair while studying Atencio’s face.
“Ms. Lynne,” he opened. “You are a keen observer and your reporting of the Pagasa Island affair have been most useful in articulating our government’s position to those in the Washington establishment.”
“You are too kind. I was only––”
“And you are too modest,” Atencio interrupted. “My colleagues and I of the Government of National Unity movement feel you understand that the recent actions by Montalvo and his cronies at Malacalong Palace run counter to our country’s long-term interests.”
Lynne’s eyes narrowed. Had Raul just made an overt play for my support of his opposition?
Atencio slid a thick envelope across the table. “You are in a unique position to help our country. Perhaps you will consider.”
“I––”
He stood. “I will see you home. We wish that no harm will come to you.”
Lynne stood, dazed, and followed him outside to a narrow alleyway. A black Toyota Avalon waited, engine running, guarded by two muscular men, one whom held open the rear door of the car. The Avalon was Toyota’s most expensive sedan, not something a mid-range bureaucrat would have. Then she saw the conspicuous bulge under the guard’s long sleeve Barong. He packed a very deadly weapon, a Uzi pistol favored by the country’s security service.
Several youths hovered in the distance, having likely been chased away after pestering the guards about the name of the mobster who could own such a car.
She fingered the envelope, put it in her purse, and followed Atencio into the back seat.
Chapter 29
UNITED AIRLINES FLIGHT 869
SOCIALIST REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM
21:20 WEDNESDAY 23 APRIL
United Flight 869 descended through a layer of high cirrus clouds covering the South China Sea. Buffeted by moderate chop, the Boeing 767 completed a fifteen-degree turn to begin its approach to Tan Son Nhut International.
Rohrbaugh stirred in the cramped confines of his seat, jostled awake by the turbulence. A thin layer of scum coated his teeth and his mouth tasted like a mouse had died in it. He massaged his neck and pulled up his left sleeve. 2120.
A flight attendant completing her rounds stopped at his isle. “Water?”
“That would be great, thanks.”
“Lemon?”
“I’ll come get it,” Rohrbaugh replied, hoping the lemon juice would dissolve the layer of glue covering his teeth. He eased out of his seat and followed her to the rear of the aircraft.
“First trip?” she asked.
“Yeah. I was just thinking. My dad deployed a couple times
. A-6 Intruders. He spent the last three years of the war as a POW.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Is he okay?”
Rohrbaugh didn’t hear. “His RIO didn’t make it. Hard to believe it’s been over forty years. Things have changed. Forrestal’s a tourist attraction in Texas and the Oriskany is an artificial reef off Pensacola. Dad ...”
“I understand. My mother was an attendant on the Trans World flights bringing the guys over. She can still hear the voices of the kids who didn’t come home. She doesn’t talk about it much.”
“Neither did Dad.”
They were interrupted as more turbulence shook the aircraft.
“It looks like we’ve encountered some rough air. I’d better take my seat.”
Rohrbaugh settled in and fastened his seatbelt. He looked out the window. The appearance of twinkling lights below indicated they’d crossed the coast. The world below seemed peaceful––a different reception than his dad experienced.
His father never shared the stories about the years he spent as a POW in the Hanoi Hilton. He’d kept those memories locked up forever. Over the years, Rohrbaugh tried to break through this impenetrable barrier to release the demons. He never could.
The overhead speaker blared as Rohrbaugh wrestled with the memories.
“We will shortly be arriving at our destination. The local time is eleven fifty-five. Please ensure your seats are in the full upright position and your tray tables are secured.”
United Airlines 869 touched down fifteen minutes later and taxied to the terminal, their arrival at the gate signaled by the impatient clicking of seat buckles. Rohrbaugh joined the other passengers jammed together in the aisle and shuffled off the aircraft.
He scanned the crowd in the reception area. Two tanned Caucasians with close-cropped hair stood off to one side. With them were several men wearing the distinctive dark mustard-yellow uniforms of the Vietnamese army.
“Must be our reception committee,” Rohrbaugh commented to his teammates.
One of the men from the delegation confirmed Rohrbaugh’s assumption. “Hawaii? Follow me.”
Flash Point Page 19
