Flash Point

by Kenneth Andrus

  The entire sequence left him bewildered. A repetitive modulating noise that he could only describe as someone pounding on a Jamaican steel drum resonated through the hull.

  “Commander, Ace explained, “we are now a gray whale that just happened to be bottom grazing. He came up for air, spouted a beautiful flume, and now is calling for a female.”

  Rohrbaugh gave his head a shake. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  Chapter 32

  BLUE HORIZON

  02:10 THURSDAY 8 MAY

  The ASDS-1’s co-pilot scanned his oxygen and CO2 scrubber indicator gauges. “How we doing, Skipper?”

  “Ten minutes to the last navigation point. When we make the mark, I’ll bring her up for a look around,” Ace replied. “Time to give Rohrbaugh a heads up.”

  “Commander, Senior? Y’all still with us back there?”

  The question was rhetorical. Rohrbaugh wouldn’t have gone anywhere even if he’d had the choice. He and Dane were alone in the rear transport compartment preparing for the final stage of their operation. There was no further need for the Navy divers. They had remained aboard Carter. “Any indication we’re being tracked?’

  “Nothing. We’re approaching our last marker and will come up to depth. Expect some turbulence.”

  “Appreciate the head’s up. We’ll secure the gear. Sure hate to come all this way and drop the eggs.”

  Rohrbaugh’s eggs were well-padded crates of top-secret communications gear they were delivering to Blue Horizon. The nature of their mission, so sensitive, even their arrival at the rig was on a “Need-to-Know:” basis.” Only a select group of CIA Special Operatives remained on watch.

  The operatives left nothing to chance. The sixty roughnecks, roustabouts, and riggers who comprised the actual working crew were asleep in their dorm. Like the crews of their sister rigs in the South China Sea, their wakeup calls in the morning came at 1030. They’d knock off at 2400. These blue-collar men and the two women on the rig were emblematic of America’s backbone. They would fight to protect their beliefs and their countymen’s backs.

  The eighteen CIA and NSA agents assigned to the rig whose hours were decidedly different. The operatives did their best to blend in with their fellow workers. A casual observer would not be able to distinguish the two groups, but to the trained eyes of the professionals working the platform, something was definitely amiss.

  The boss of the rig told the crew the Houston-based execs of Horizon Offshore Exploration wanted some of their new hires on- board for training so they could open up the new rigs.

  “Maybe?” was the skeptical response. If these guys from HOE represented the future workforce not much, if any, oil would ever be pumped. In any event, the regulars were paid handsomely and had been told to keep their mouths shut.

  More problematic to the security of the operation were the five Vietnamese nationals assigned to Platform Ten. Their presence had been part of the deal negotiated with VietPetro. Their leader, Minh Le Tran, seemed a good enough guy. He was a hard worker, spoke passable English, and he stayed out of the way.

  Minh Le was on shore leave in Vung Tau, the coastal resort southeast of Ho Chi Minh City, this particular night. The agents didn’t have to worry about him or his comrades stumbling across their operation.

  Ace set the minisub’s inertial guidance system to execute a thirty-five-degree starboard turn. “Five, four, three, two, one, mark.” He disengaged the autopilot and the submersible assumed its new course.

  “I’ll take her manually from here,” he said. “Ten degrees up plane. Get the mast up.”

  “Mast up and locked.”

  ASDV-1’s periscope broke the ocean’s surface when they reached a depth of fifteen feet. Ace swung the optical sight down from its stowed position and looked through the eyepiece. He was offered a blurry view of the night sky before the lens cleared. He rotated the periscope through a wide arc examining the projected image. “Got it.”

  He manipulated the joystick, lining his approach to the six parallel lights defining the sides of Platform Ten’s docking bay. A laser range finder provided him the distance. One hundred yards. “I’m bringing her up. We’ll complete the run-in on the surface. Flash our recognition signal.”

  A moment later, he received confirmation. “Commander, we’ve good to proceed.”

  “Roger,” Rohrbaugh acknowledged.

  Ace noted some slippage from the prevailing current and engaged the sub’s side thrusters. The remainder of the docking maneuver went without incident. He had Rohrbaugh’s information to thank for that.

  “Commander, you were right on the mark. Appreciate the assist.”

  “We clear to pop the hatch?” Rohrbaugh asked.

  “We’re secure.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they were submerged on a heading for their rendezvous with Carter. There had been no need to disembark. Rohrbaugh understood Platform Ten was linked to covert operations in the South China Sea, and the less he knew, the better.

  This much he did know; Operation Blue Horizon encompassed the monitoring and transmission of data from the tapping pod his team just placed. It was also probable that agents were being run from the platform.

  What he couldn’t have known was the shroud of secrecy for the clandestine operations of Platform Ten had been penetrated.

  Chapter 33

  VUNG TAU, VIETNAM

  03:17 THURSDAY 8 MAY

  Minh Le rolled over so he would not wake the sleeping form next to him. He studied her a moment before turning over on his back to stare at the revolving blades of the ceiling fan. He couldn’t sleep. Monkey brain, he’d heard it was called. The voices in his head asking so many questions. His Tai Chi master taught him breathing exercises to refocus his mind so he wouldn’t answer the monkeys. They weren’t working.

  He had first seen her shopping in the old Ben Ton Market several months before. Their first encounter had been awkward, but over the ensuing weeks, they spent hours together sharing their dreams.

  She had brought such joy to his life, filling the void in his heart created when his family had abandoned him so long ago. He shared with her the pain he endured growing up as an orphan.

  His companion was an empathetic listener and understood his feelings. Her family was of Chinese ancestry from the northern provinces and, despite being of the third generation, they still suffered from the wounds inflicted by racial discrimination. These she learned to bear, for she had suffered a similar fate. She, too, had been abandoned.

  Her family was poor and they could not afford a daughter. Not only could her three brothers carry the family name, they could work. The answer to her father’s troubles was straightforward. She was sold. At least, this was the story she told him several weeks after they’d met.

  The final gesture forging Minh Le’s bond was her offer to help locate his family. She wouldn’t elaborate on how she could do this except to say she had sources within the Ministry. Exactly what Ministry, she wouldn’t divulge.

  Their evening together had started well enough. A shy kiss. Dinner. A few drinks at their favorite club. Then her questions about his work on Platform Ten became annoying. It was as if she cared more about the Americans than him.

  Minh Le answered as best he could, striving to keep her happy. She had become so fickle. Their relationship had changed, but he stayed with her. She’d made him feel important. And, for the first time in his life, he felt valued in someone eyes.

  Chapter 34

  MANILA

  10:35 SATURDAY 10 MAY

  Lynne shifted her box of groceries and pulled her purse within reach. She pushed around its contents, found her house key, and unlocked the door to her flat. She gave the door a kick, pausing at the threshold to survey the living room.

  Everything was in its proper place. She threw the deadbolt and headed for the kitchen. She dropped her box on the dinette table and sorted through the produce before selecting a papaya. The fruit represented a small victory. She hadn’t been to the
Quezon City market since March when she’d been terrorized.

  Lynne studied the fruit a moment, before turning her attention to the box. What the hell?

  Wedged between a bunch of bananas and a newspaper-wrapped chicken was an envelope. How’d that get in there?

  There was nothing remarkable about it––except her name inked on the outside. More curious than frightened, she slid the blade of a paring knife under the flap and extracted a folded sheet of notepaper. On it, a typed message:

  Ms. Lynne, we have information of interest to you. Rizal Park, Valencia Circle. The Butterfly Pavilion. 1030 Sunday.

  Lynne pursed her lips in consternation and turned the paper over several times. Nothing more. Nothing to indicate what information they had, who had written it, or whom she was to meet. Uncertain of the writer’s intent, she pondered what to do before deciding to finish unpacking her groceries.

  * * *

  Lynne kept to her usual Sunday routine, breakfasting on a cappuccino and chocolate croissant. She felt at ease scanning her email, having convinced herself she would be in no danger. Then she spotted the note from her Bureau Chief. An attempted break-in.

  She frowned, wondering if her sense of security was misplaced. She grabbed her purse and felt for the familiar shape of her pepper spray. She released the canister and set off for the bedroom assured by the sense of safety the spray conveyed.

  She sorted through her cloths considering what one should wear for a clandestine meeting on a Sunday morning. She selected a tan pair of slacks, white cotton blouse, and suitable necklace. She tied her long auburn hair into a ponytail and slipped on her Prada sunglasses before looking in the mirror. She smiled. La femme fatale.

  Lynne noticed nothing out of the ordinary on her drive across town to Rizal Park. It wasn’t difficult finding a parking space on a side street near the Shell station. She locked the car, strode across Kawa Boulevard, and proceeded up Valencia to her rendezvous.

  She slowed at the sight of an old man in a tattered coat sitting on a park bench reading the morning paper. Harmless.

  A family passed, then a couple of street urchins looking for a handout. She reversed course, intent on returning to her car.

  “Ms. Lynne?”

  Lynne jumped at the sound of her name. She pivoted to locate the voice. A four-door Toyota with faded green paint coasted to a stop next to her. The rear passenger window was down.

  “Would you join me, please?”

  The door opened and the stranger moved to make room. Lynne hesitated, peering inside. The voice belonged to a middle-aged Caucasian male. Brown hair, average build. He looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place him. He gestured for her to enter.

  Lynne pressed her purse against her side, backing away from the car. Her fingers tightening around the canister of pepper spray. She took another step back and bumped into something. “Excu—”

  A rough shove sent her tumbling toward the car door. One of her shoes fell off before a powerful set of hands grabbed her under her arms, pulled her upright, and tossed her into the back seat. The shoe tumbled in after her. Lynne caught a glimpse of the assailant. The old man?

  She screamed and grabbed for the doorframe. The stranger yanked her back. Struggling out his grip, she reached for her pepper spray.

  “Ms. Lynne, that would be ill-advised,” the man said. His eyes never left hers. “May I have your purse, please?”

  The tone of the stranger’s voice, commanding. Not a request. She clutched at the pepper spray. He pinned her arm and ripped the purse from her grasp.

  He extracted the canister from her grasp and pitched it to the driver. “You won’t be needing that.”

  The man rummaged through her purse and handed it back after finding nothing of interest. “Simply a precaution, Ms. Lynne. You have nothing to fear from me.”

  “God damn you!”

  The man leaned forward and picked up her shoe, ignoring her expletive. “Perhaps, but I’m afraid there are others who wish to harm you.”

  Lynne glared at him, snatching her shoe out of the stranger’s hand. A bead of sweat trickled down her inner arm. What the hell was he talking about? What others? “Who are you?”

  “It’s best you don’t know.”

  “That’s not helpful.”

  “True, but this isn’t about me. It’s about your friend, Mr. Atencio.”

  Her eye’s widened. “Raul?”

  “Are you aware your friend is watching you?”

  She spun around, looking out the window.

  Her captor waited until she turned to face him and answered his own question. “No, I suppose not.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “It’s my business to know such things, Ms. Lynne.” The man’s voice remained calm. “Don’t you think it’s ironic that Mr. Atencio has enlisted the assistance of the Presidential Security Group to trail you?”

  Presidential Security Group? The guy in the market? Why would they do that? Oh, God. And, I thought it was someone from the embassy.

  A hint of a smile crossed the man’s face. It was all part of the game, the weaving of half-truths into a whole. The Agency’s work served a larger purpose and that’s what mattered. “Our problem is that Mr. Atencio is on the payroll of the Chinese Ministry of State Security.”

  Lynne slumped against the back of the seat. Our? Raul was her friend. Or, at least she’d thought. Is this why our last meeting was so strange. He was under surveillance. But by whom?

  “It makes sense now, doesn’t it? Suffice it to say, you are now in a unique position to assist your government.”

  “I am?”

  “We have certain information we would like to pass to Mr. Atencio.”

  Lynne collected herself. “What information?”

  “It’s best you don’t know the details.”

  “But he’s a trusted source.”

  “For whose benefit, Ms. Lynne? You’ll soon learn you have no friends in this business.”

  “This business?”

  “I’ll summarize. It is best to trust the person you don’t know than the friend you presume to know.”

  Lynne tried to process what the man said. “You’re presuming I’ll agree.”

  “We think you’ll consider our offer. You possess certain talents....”

  Lynne flushed, willing her voice to remain steady. “I see. And what is it, exactly, you want me to do?”

  The man reached for a small package on the seat beside him and handed it to her. “Call Atencio and tell him you happened upon some information he will find of interest.”

  “That’s it?” Lynne said, starring at the package resting in her hand, wondering why she had taken it. She threw it at his face. “No fucking way. You just kidnapped me.”

  His hand shot up and caught the package before it struck him. “You’re free to go.”

  Lynne pushed open the door.

  “I’d suggest you consider who is in the best position to protect you.”

  She turned back. “What if he asks––”

  He held out the package. “Tell him you happened upon some documents from the American embassy pertaining to the recent Chinese activities in the South China Sea.”

  “The incident at Pagasa?”

  “Ms. Lynne, it is best this information is not compromised before reaching Atencio. Do you understand?”

  Lynne accepted the package. “Can I read it?”

  “I see we have arrived at your car.” The man reached across Lynne and opened the door. “We trust you will not betray our confidence.”

  Chapter 35

  THE STATE DEPARTMENT

  10:00 TUESDAY 10 JUNE

  Adrian Clarke left his second floor office at precisely ten o’clock and walked to the adjacent conference room. He nodded to the two men who had accompanied him to Manila, Jim Crenshaw and the Marine Colonel from PACOM. An air of tension permeated the room. He braced himself before taking his seat. The strain wasn’t about to get any lighter.
<
br />   He extracted a folder from his briefcase and placed it on the table. “The President isn’t happy. He’s looking for answers, not excuses.”

  Clarke spoke with conviction. He’d been an indirect recipient of Stuart’s displeasure when Valardi accosted him the day before, demanding answers as to why Beijing had been able to counter all of their policy initiatives. “Sean, let’s begin with Vietnam.”

  “Prime Minister Tran confirmed he will be making an official visit to Washington later this year. Part of the package is a preliminary visit by their Prime Minister to the Asia-Pacific Parliamentary Forum in Cancun next week. We’re on tap to meet with him.”

  “Has this gotten out?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any comments from Beijing?”

  “They’re spouting their usual bullshit.”

  Clarke bit his lip. He’d inherited Sean Waites, his Vietnam section chief, from another department in a lateral transfer and was looking for a way to move him out. He managed to suppress what he wanted to say in response to Waite’s useless answer. “No doubt, although I thought they’d have been more circumspect. Has Hanoi countered?”

  “They had a measured response. Tran rejected any suggestion the Vietnamese delegation would discuss how to contain the Chinese.”

  John Breckenridge shook his head. “Beijing won’t buy.”

  “Hanoi is hedging their bets,” Waites added.

  Clarke scowled. “How?”

  “A Chinese business delegation is on tap to visit Ho Chi Minh City.”

  “Do we know their agenda?”

  “Shrimp.”

  “Shrimp?”

  “That’s their pretext.”

  Clarke wasn’t satisfied. He turned to Breckenridge. “John, can you flesh this out?”

  “We’ve had an ongoing dispute with China and Vietnam over shrimp imports that has been simmering for months. What lit the fuse was the recent jump in diesel fuel prices.”

  “What does diesel fuel have to do with shrimp?”

  “Profit margin. The end result was the Southern Shrimp Alliance filed an anti-dumping petition with Commerce and the International Trade Commission.”