Rohrbaugh and the others were ushered through an unmarked door into an adjacent room. Utilitarian at best, the room was empty except for a single table and several rows of chairs lined up along either side of the two longest walls. The obligatory picture of Ho Chi Minh gazed benevolently at them from across the far wall. Several stern officials were positioned in the center of the room behind a wooden table decorated with a pot of red-plastic carnations.
“Welcome to Vietnam, gentlemen. I’m Lieutenant Colonel John Taylor, the assistant military attaché at the embassy. I’ll be your escort. You’ll be meeting Colonel Meyer tomorrow. He motioned to the Vietnamese officer at his side. This is Senior Colonel Vu Tan of the People’s Armed Forces of Vietnam.”
Tan took a step forward.
“Good evening. Welcome to the Peoples Socialist Republic of Vietnam. I trust you had an uneventful flight,” he said in passable English. “Before we continue on to Hanoi, our customs officials will be pleased to inspect your passports and ensure all of your travel documents are in order.”
I’m also sure your comrades will be equally pleased to inspect our luggage, Rohrbaugh grumbled to himself. Well, have at it in the name of peaceful co-existence.
“We will depart for the capital as soon as we complete your paperwork. You will be staying at the Ministry of National Defense guesthouse. This honor reflects the importance the government places on your visit to our country. The government sees great value in promoting a harmonious relationship with the United States. There are certain elements whose activity in the South China Sea has been counter to the common purpose of peace, cooperation, stability, and development in the region.”
Colonel Tan completed his prepared remarks and gestured to the customs officers. “You will now be pleased to complete our entry requirements.”
“Happy to,” Rohrbaugh replied. Bemused by the rigid formality of the Army officer, he added under his breath to a travel mate, “With any luck, he’ll loosen up after a few beers.”
Rohrbaugh knew from personal experience, the Ba M’Ba 33 and Tiger beers packed a punch. Bottled by the Heineken brewery, Ba M’Ba was pretty good. He wasn’t much impressed with the Tiger that bore the unfortunate label “Tiger Piss” bestowed upon it by the American troops who served here during the war.
He fancied himself a beer aficionado and possessed an impressive collection of foreign and microbrewery ales and lagers. Kate indulged his hobby by permitting him to rack the bottles in an unused bedroom in their quarters at Makalapa. He was always on the prowl for a more suitable brew for his palate than those plebeian offerings set out at receptions.
Colonel Taylor, whose focus remained on getting his charges to the guesthouse, cut his musings short. “Right-O, let’s move along smartly, gentlemen. We don’t want to be keeping our hosts waiting, now, do we?”
* * *
HANOI
UNITED STATES EMBASSY
08:05
Rohrbaugh and the rest of the team were rousted out of bed the next morning and hustled off to the embassy to begin their day with the Country Team Brief.
The Deputy Chief of Mission led off explaining that recent events in the region dictated a more aggressive posture be taken to develop military and diplomatic ties with Vietnam. Rohrbaugh and the other members of the liaison team needed to be cognizant of the host nation’s issues and sensitivities while conducting the business of their mission.
Rohrbaugh listened to the senior members of the embassy staff as they reviewed the salient points of their department’s work. The team regrouped with Colonels Taylor and Meyer after a break for lunch to review specific aspects of the site visits scheduled for the next day.
Meyer wound up the discussions. “You’ve had a full day, but we’ve got two more events on tap before we can call it quits. A sightseeing trip and an informal reception. On the surface, they seem innocuous enough, but there can be some real danger if you don’t pay attention to what you say.”
“Remember,” Meyer emphasized, “your every action is going to be scrutinized. We can’t afford to have any slips of the tongue, offish references to the war, or rendering of political opinions. Let me very clear. There will be attempts to pry sensitive information from you. Remain alert. And, I should not have to remind you, do not overindulge this evening. John, you have anything to add?”
“This afternoon we’ll be making what we, at the embassy, call the Great Victory Tour. It can be a little grating if you don’t have the right mindset going in. Among other places we’ll visit is the site of the old Ho Loa prison. It’s better known to you guys as the Hanoi Hilton. Don’t get angry or defensive...”
Taylor caught the look on Rohrbaugh’s face. “Commander?”
“My dad was imprisoned there for three years.”
“Oh, crap.”
Meyer addressed the team. “Let me frame this differently. Listen to what our hosts have to say. Their words will apply to what’s happening now, not what happened forty years ago.”
“Ed, can I add something?” Taylor interrupted.
“Sure.”
“Mike, it’s probable the Vietnamese have done their homework much better than we have. We should presume they know your father was a POW. In fact, count on it. They’ll be watching your reactions. The questions they’ll be asking themselves will be: ‘Can we trust this American? Will he have his own personal agenda that will compromise our goals?’”
“Understood.”
Taylor worked through the awkwardness. “From past experience, we know the Vietnamese have designed this afternoon to serve as an ice breaker. Their intent is for you to get to know your escorts and work through any issues from the war. The returning vets have done very well with this, by the way. That, in fact, is the point of the side trip tomorrow.”
“Good points, John,” Meyer said. “I want to touch on one final item before we head to the bus. Tonight’s reception is co-hosted by the PAVN and the Director of the America’s Department of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. The significance of the sponsorship by the Ministry is probably lost on you, but it impressed us. The reception speaks volumes about the emphasis the Vietnamese government has placed on your visit. Gents, you’re high profile. Questions?”
Receiving none, Taylor set off for the door. “Let’s mount up.”
Meyer caught up with Rohrbaugh. “I’m sorry we bungled that. You alright?”
“Yes, sir. More of my own issues I’ve got to work through.”
“Understand, you’re not the first guy who’s come through here who’s been caught off guard. It can be tough. If you want to talk about anything, give me a ring.”
“I’ll let you know.”
* * *
Rohrbaugh lay on his back resting while sorting through his feelings. The emotions of encountering the ghosts of his dad’s past and those his own childhood compounded his symptoms of jet lag and fatigue from the day’s meetings.
In the solitude of his stark room, he came to the realization he’d found a certain closure with his dad’s death, discovering common ground with his Vietnamese hosts. Their fathers had fought bravely and many had died. They too had grieved and come to grips with the holes in their lives. They also understood when Rohrbaugh broke off from the group and stood in front of the wreckage of an A-6 Intruder on display in the Central Army Museum.
“Mike?”
A knock on the door accompanied the disembodied voice. “You ready to roll?”
“What we won’t do for God and country,” Rohrbaugh said with more enthusiasm than he felt.
Well, suck it up, old buddy, he told himself rolling off the bed. Last event of the day.
* * *
Receptions were trying affairs, but to Rohrbaugh’s surprise, this one was proving to be an exception. However, his mind did drift during a conversation about the impact of Internet technology in the country. He looked around the room and saw an officer standing by the door dressed in the uniform of a commander in the Vietnamese Navy. The man was s
ipping a beer watching the foreign visitors, assessing them.
Rohrbaugh accepted another Ba M’ Ba. He hefted it in a salute to the naval officer and turned his attention back to the conversation that had drifted on to streaming services.
* * *
MINISTRY OF NATIONAL DEFENSE GUESTHOUSE
07:45 THURSDAY 24 APRIL
Oppressive, muggy air smothered the team as they began their mission in earnest. They were herded onto a Vietnamese Air Force plane and headed south. Their first destination; the old Marine firebase at Dong Ha, site of fierce fighting in the central highlands of the former South Vietnam. The excursion was planned to reinforce Hanoi’s willingness to bury old animosities and foster a new sense of collegiality.
The team departed Dong Ha at mid-morning and proceeded to the deep-water port of Cam Ranh Bay. Rohrbaugh knew the history.
The base had been turned over to the Soviet Navy after the fall of Saigon as repayment for Vietnam’s considerable war debt. The Russian presence also provided Hanoi leverage against Chinese expansion into the adjacent oil-rich basins of the South China Sea.
The subsequent collapse of the Soviet Union led to the breakup of the VietSovPetro drilling consortium and Hanoi wasn’t positioned to defend their national interests after the Russian pullout.
Rohrbaugh caught himself watching the activity around the bay and turned to the escort officer.
“...and certain powers have since attempted to exploit this situation. I am certain you are aware of the impact these elements have on regional security. Yes?”
The officer already knew the answer to his rhetorical question and continued without pausing for an answer. “Our government has taken measures to counter these provocative elements, including soliciting the assistance of friendly nations who share our desire for regional stability.
“Another positive development has been the Foreign Ministry’s efforts to encourage the formation of international partnerships to assist us in realizing the full potential of our offshore oil fields. The security of these basins and our exploration platforms in our coastal waters, of course, lie with the Navy.”
Rohrbaugh’s attention began to drift as the escort concluded his remarks with a surprise.
“Because our oil fields are of such strategic importance and their security is vital to the stability of the region, we have added an aerial inspection of the Bach Ho basin and several drilling platforms to your itinerary. Perhaps you know we have granted an American company, Horizon Offshore Exploration, the rights to assist in developing this particular field?”
“Whoa, this ought to be interesting,” Rohrbaugh said to the Air Force colonel traveling with him. What Rohrbaugh didn’t say was that the Americans were also planning their own tidy operation for Platform Ten.
He looked forward to the inspection, but his enthusiasm was blunted when he caught sight of the aircraft that was to transport them to the field.
It was a Soviet Mi-8. Those helicopters had been around since the 60s. Rohrbaugh sighed with resignation as he climbed aboard. He had no doubt the Mi-8 was older than him.
He took his seat and conducted a quick survey. The helicopter appeared to be in pretty good shape. At least there were no tin cans on the deck collecting hydraulic fluid. That was always a positive sign. He was further relieved when the Mi-8’s rotors achieved full rpms, lifted smoothly off the runway, and proceeded over the coast.
* * *
PLATFORM NUMBER TEN
BACH HO OIL FIELD
A finger tapped Rohrbaugh’s shoulder. He nodded and twisted to scan the sea below.
The helicopter slowed to a hover as it approached a rust-streaked drilling rig balanced on a steel latticework of four large pylons. The platform’s outward appearance was decidedly low tech. He studied the structure.
The rig matched the pictures of Platform Ten, code named Blue Horizon. Any creature comforts were subservient to its primary function to tap into the oil-bearing strata below and to withstand the typhoons that ravaged the South China Sea.
The rig appeared to be non-producing. There was no torch of flame belching from the nozzle of the natural gas bleed-off line. More telling, though, was the dirty-brown plume staining the surrounding sea. The stain was composed of debris gouged from the ocean floor by a tungsten carbide drill bit cutting through the soft bedrock of the seamount.
Rohrbaugh studied the length of the plume drifting to the northeast, concluding that the prevailing current ran two to three knots. Docking the ASDS would be tricky even with the use of its side thrusters. Ideally, they should make their approach from the southeast instead of perpendicular to the prevailing current, but the depth of the water wouldn’t permit it. They would approach from deeper water to affect the covert transfer of equipment to Blue Horizon.
He craned his neck to see if he could get a better feel for the approach they would make. There was barely enough leeway between the pylons. He couldn’t see if there were any fenders. That might be a problem.
Rohrbaugh stored the thought and considered the positives. Platform Ten was ideal for its purpose. The rig was perched on the northwest edge of the Bach Ho seamount, a good five hundred yards from the nearest rig. Judging from the deep blue of the ocean, the mount had a steep drop-off. This would provide a safe operating depth for the Jimmy Carter in contrast to the shallower turquoise-colored seas southeast of the platform. He thought of the Carter. She was due on station near the Paracels within the day.
* * *
DA NANG
Rohrbaugh stepped onto the tarmac of the old American airfield at Da Nang. He hesitated while his eyes adjusted to the glare. In the distance loomed the edifice of Monkey Mountain guarding the northern approach to the deep-water bay. He only had a moment to note his surroundings before being ushered onward.
“This way, please. This way,” urged his escort, pointing to a row of sedans lined up at the edge of the runway.
Rohrbaugh had barely settled in his seat before the door slammed. Their escort scrambled in the front seat and they roared away, leaving the others to catch up.
“Wonder what the hell’s going on?” Rohrbaugh said to the equally puzzled Air Force colonel seated next to him.
“Guess we’ll find out soon enough.”
The sedans pulled up in front of the headquarters building of the Fifth Military Region.
“This way please. This way.”
The escorts were very excited as they led the team past several saluting sentries to the office of Major General Danh Ngoc Loi. They were most impressed with the impromptu audience the General granted the Americans. He was a busy man and rarely spoke to outsiders. His willingness to speak to the Americans was a most magnanimous gesture.
The General wasted little time on perfunctory statements before conveying the startling news that the Ministries of Defense and Foreign Affairs had agreed to move ahead with direct military-to-military exchange programs.
The team had been briefed that the Vietnamese would take a nuanced approach to negotiations. Rohrbaugh recalibrated, caught off guard by the pronouncement. There’s nothing the least bit circumspect in the General’s pronouncement. What prompted this move? Do the Vietnamese know something about the PLA’s intentions American intelligence didn’t? Likely. Could their urgency to formalize military cooperation be tied to a threat to their merchant shipping, or was more trouble brewing in the Spratlys? The Chinese couldn’t be happy about being blamed for the latest fishing boat incident. Are they planning a counter-move?
No closer to an answer, Rohrbaugh settled into his vehicle’s seat to resume the window tour of the base. This was just as well, since they couldn’t compare notes about the meeting until later. That would have to wait until they could speak without their hosts eavesdropping.
He listened to the escort officer’s running narrative of the facility’s history and realized that other than being of historical interest, the sites held no emotional impact.
The caravan passed the end of the ru
nway and neared an arched gate with ‘CAMP TIEN SHA’ embossed in faded letters across its horizontal beam. The sign was a vestige of the American presence years before. The gate wasn’t the only reminder of the Navy’s past. The caravan slowed by a wide expanse of sandy beach.
“China Beach,” Rohrbaugh’s host commented. “It used to be a popular recreation area for your forces.”
The conversation died of its own accord when the sedans slowed near a series of stone jetties. Tied up to one of these, a patrol boat.
“Can we stop a moment?”
“Is there something you wish to see?” the escort responded.
“The patrol boat. That’s one of —”
“Ah, the ship I mentioned yesterday? I see she hasn’t departed for its escort mission. HQ-371’s commander is one of our most accomplished captains.”
“Didn’t he just return from a mission to the Spratlys?” Rohrbaugh asked, fishing for information to confirm his theory.
The escort evaded the question. “Our navy spends a considerable amount of time at sea. I’m afraid I am not familiar with the captain’s orders.” He cut Rohrbaugh off before he could ask another question. “Shall we return to the car?”
Rohrbaugh pondered the officer’s oblique response and dropped the subject before he noted something else––a working party near the bow. Further down the hull, a painted rectangle in new haze-gray validated his assumptions. Unlike the Vietnamese Navy, the PLAN located their ship identification numbers below the bridge. The crew had just stenciled a new set of hull numbers near the bow.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Excuse me?” the escort office said. “Is something wrong?”
Rohrbaugh caught himself. “No. Not at all. She’s a very good-looking ship.”
Chapter 30
THE WHITE HOUSE
10:25 TUESDAY 6 MAY
South Rock? Stuart sighed. He had multiple issues to address, but those in the South China Sea kept intruding. The feud between Manila and Beijing just wouldn’t go away. He set the latest update on the incident near Scarborough Shoal in the outbox and called his secretary. “Mary Allus?”
Flash Point Page 20
