by Ian Slater
As each of the Hornets climbed, one of the pilots saw a glint of reflected sunlight amid the carrier island’s cluster of air, surface, and target acquisition radar masts. The pilot took it as a good omen, and the next second both Hornets, climbing, disappeared into the base of a huge cumulonimbus cloud, its ice-cream whiteness already bruising with rain.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Vietnamese divisions fought hard, but Wang and Wei’s PLA infantry and artillery outnumbered the Vietnam regulars. As the pincer closed about Lang Son, the Vietnamese began a tactical retreat, the air full of the whirling and shuffling noise of artillery rounds overhead and the massed stuttering of heavy machine guns and T-56s, the Chinese version of the AK-47s, as the Chinese pressed their advantage.
In Washington the unexpectedly rapid Chinese breakthrough sent shock waves through the Pentagon. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way, and it created a new sense of urgency in the White House. Bypassing the Security Council, stalemated as it was by a Chinese veto, the President, through his ambassador to the U.N., appealed to the General Assembly for assistance in forming a U.N. coalition. He made it clear, however, that if such assistance was not forthcoming, then the United States would act unilaterally and send in troops to assist the Vietnamese, in the interests of preventing a general war in Asia.
It was a sensation, more so because the American offer was carried by CNN to an audience of over 100 million, topping the 94 million who had watched the O. J. Simpson story and the Oklahoma bombing in the mid-nineties.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Whitehall, London
The American offer to send in troops came as no great surprise to the British Foreign Office. The Minister of Defense, Richard Tyler-Jones, had been told by the White House to expect some sort of declaration from the President pertaining to the Chinese-Vietnamese clash.
Tyler-Jones, looking out the window down Whitehall, spoke to his deputy minister, Ronald Nash, without looking at him. “What to do, Nash?”
“Well, I expect we should say something positive. Washington is clearly, however reluctantly, prepared to do battle with the Chinese because they realize that if the Chinese succeed, they’ll not only occupy the border areas between the two countries, but they’ll claim all the oil islands, the Paracels as well as the Spratlys.”
“Not to mention what all the Chinese in Vietnam and Malaysia might do. We could have another Communist insurgency in Malaya, and who would stop it? Apart from that, it would turn the whole of the South China Sea into an Asian Yugoslavia.”
“Ironic,” Nash commented wryly. “The Americans are prepared to send in troops to help a Communist power.”
“Not at all,” Tyler-Jones said tartly. “They helped Stalin— worst Communist of all — a thoroughly nasty piece of work. We helped him too, remember? Besides, without Uncle Joe as well as Uncle Sam, we could have been in a rather sticky situation.” He meant England would have lost the Second World War.
Tyler-Jones sat down and took up his letter opener, a cassowary bone dagger from an old patrol officer who had once journeyed up New Guinea’s Fly River. The weapon made him think of another dagger, the famed curved Kukri knife of Britain’s legendary Gurkha troops. They were fierce fighters, especially renowned for jungle warfare. Late in the 1980s, during a recruitment replenishment drive for just over sixty men, more than sixty thousand men applied. The Gurkhas took only the best of the very best.
“How about we offer them a Gurkha battalion and a squadron or two of SAS?” The Special Air Service commandos had carried out the lightning raid in London against the terrorists in the Iranian embassy in 1961 to rescue British hostages, and had performed sterling service behind the lines in Iraq.
Nash, though deputy minister of defense, couldn’t recall how many men were in a squadron of SAS.
“Varies,” Tyler-Jones told him. “Around seventy-two. I suggest we send two or three squadrons, and have a battalion of our Gurkhas in Brunei on standby — ready for deployment. Not many as far as numbers go, I agree, but top drawer all the same.”
“And we should offer them without strings attached,” Nash asked.
“Not visible ones anyhow,” Tyler-Jones replied cagily. “I’m seeing the Prime Minister at Number Ten this evening. Don’t do anything until I give the green light.”
Nash looked surprised. “You don’t think the P.M.’ll raise any objection, do you?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” Tyler-Jones answered. “You know, England and America — allies in two world wars, Korea, et cetera — Iraq. Our ‘special relationship’ and so forth.”
“Some of the opposition don’t think there’s a special relationship anymore.”
“They may be right to some extent, but there are the ties of blood Winston spoke about, despite the fact that we are separated by a common language.”
Nash forced a smile. It was a very old chestnut but one that the minister still thought amusing. “Quite,” he said. “I won’t draw up the offer beyond a rough draft.”
Tyler-Jones glanced at his watch. “Ten minutes? If so, I can take it around to the P.M. myself.”
“It’ll be ready, sir.”
“Good… Tuesday, isn’t it?”
“Ah, yes sir.”
“Oh, God — the P.M. and his one-main-course dinner. An example to the nation in hard economic times. Tuesdays, Nash, are corned beef, cabbage, and white onion sauce — none of which I can abide.”
Nash’s eyebrows rose. “Surely, Minister, the menu isn’t as predictable as that?”
“Alas, it is. Our beloved leader, Nash, has not one of the more discerning palates in government. It’s rumored — no, it has been confirmed—that he likes those awful American hot dogs.”
“Perhaps there’ll be a change in the menu — in your honor, Minister.”
“Perhaps,” Tyler-Jones replied, though his tone was not one of conviction.
“One could simply order the soup,” Nash proffered with a smile.
“Yes,” Tyler-Jones answered wryly. “And one could end up on the back benches. No, Nash, I shall do my duty, and you do yours.”
“Yes, sir.”
As Nash reached the door, Tyler-Jones, looking over his reading glasses at the deputy minister, said, “You see how much I trust you, Nash.”
Nash glanced at the very rough draft of Great Britain’s offer, one England could just afford, but one he was sure the Americans would like. However, if it were to get out before the P.M. had seen it…
Tyler-Jones, his hands forming a cathedral, was shaking his head. “No, no, not the offer of troops, old man. The bloody cabbage!”
“Oh — yes, Minister,” Nash said, smiling.
“You mention a word of that and I’m for the high jump.” He meant, for hanging.
“Don’t worry, sir. Mum’s the word.”
The minister, his hands still in the prayer position beneath his closely shaved chin, merely nodded.
* * *
“Mr. Tyler-Jones, Prime Minister,” announced the secretary at 10 Downing Street, and then, withdrawing in utter silence, deftly closed the door to the P.M.’s study.
“Richard,” the P.M. said, smiling, taking off his reading glasses and extending his hand in greeting.
“Prime Minister,” Tyler-Jones acknowledged.
“Sit down, Richard. I’ve been going over these budget figures again. And your department is one that we’ll have to trim.”
“We’ve trimmed to the bone, Prime Minister. You may have noticed that we’ve reduced the number of our Gurkha battalions significantly. We’ve gone from eight thousand men to two and a half thousand.”
“Yes,” the Prime Minister interjected, “I realize that. It’s not a criticism of you, Richard, but I’ve been wondering — do we really need them at all?”
Tyler-Jones was flabbergasted, and fought against his natural urge to respond sarcastically. “I think we do — need them, Prime Minister. Their fighting ability is legendary. Perhaps, sir, not being an avid s
tudent of the military, you might not realize the extent of their reputation.”
“I realize full well, Richard. They are very very good soldiers. My father used to regale us as children with tales of their unquestioning loyalty and ferocity. That knife they carry, the—”
“Kukri.”
“Yes.” The P.M. smiled. “Sounds like something one would use in the kitchen, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps, Prime Minister,” Tyler-Jones said. “The Gurkhas use it to hack their way through jungle and to cut off their enemies’ heads.”
“Yes, Father did mention that, but can’t they be replaced by British troops? I mean by that, of course, home-based troops?”
“Hardly economically viable, Prime Minister. All in all they’re a bargain, and their morale — well, what can one say? In the Falklands War when the Argentinian units heard the Gurkhas were on their way, it caused mass panic — a ‘withdrawal in force,’ I think the Argentinians called it.”
“Mass desertion?” the P.M. proffered.
“Just so,” Tyler-Jones responded, adding, “Of course, during Mao’s cultural revolution they also proved invaluable.”
“Really? How?”
“Difficult to know where to begin. In any event, when the Red Guards let loose by Mao spilled over into Hong Kong and caused massive riots, we sent in the Gurkhas — had ‘em draw their Kukris. Once they draw the big knife, you see, there’s an imperative to use it before they can return it to the scabbard.”
“Oh,” the P.M. said. “That I didn’t know.”
Tyler-Jones saw his opportunity, and the moment the P.M. finished speaking, he added, “And I thought that if Beijing wants to foment more trouble on the Vietnamese-Chinese border, we might be able to assist our American cousins with Gurkhas.”
“Very good, Richard,” the P.M. responded, unwinding, both arms outstretched for isometric exercise, pushing hard against the edge of the desk. “Very good indeed. And of course the Gurkhas, black chaps and—”
“But Asian in appearance. They come from Nepal.”
“Quite. That’s what I meant. Asian-looking. And in Asia, Asian troops on our side would look much better than— Good.” The P.M. was plainly pleased with himself, as if it had all been his idea from the first. “Excellent.” A light on his console blinked silently. Not bothering to lift the scrambler phone, the P.M. spoke into the small intercom. “Very good. We’ll be out in a moment.” He turned to Tyler-Jones. “Dinner,” he announced. “You’ll stay to partake, Richard?”
‘Thank you, sir.” Any meal with the P.M. was a feather in one’s cap, particularly when one had been instrumental in putting the P.M. in such a good mood.
“Corned beef, cabbage, and white onion sauce, Richard. How’s that sound to you?”
“Delightful, Prime Minister.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The dot in the distance looked like all the others, seabirds of one kind or other, some lazily gliding about a crinkle of white as turquoise swells broke upon a barely submerged reef like the one Mellin had drifted onto. Though his legs had been lacerated by the reef, he owed his life to the rocky outcrop. Mellin knew he could have lasted days without food, floating in his Mae West, but could not have survived without water, and in the higher depressions of the rocks, those not flooded by seawater at high tide, he found a few pools of rainwater from the downpour that had followed the attack on the drill ship. It wasn’t much water, but it was enough to prevent what would have been a fatal dehydration. As for food, he’d forced himself to eat and swallow a slimy sea urchin from one of the tidal pools, and had almost thrown up.
Soon Mellin could discern another ship close to the dot, and then he saw that the two seemed to cohere and were now one. Several seconds later he could see it was a speedboat, most probably a patrol boat passing the almost completely submerged reef in the distance and coming toward him. Now, after the days and nights of hoping and waiting, he was suddenly afraid.
Would it be a rescue or a killing? He guessed the vessel, whoever’s it was, would reach him in about twenty minutes. Then it occurred to him that maybe the boat wasn’t Chinese or Vietnamese. Perhaps it was a speedboat coming westward from Brunei. It also occurred to him that although the reef wasn’t large, only thirty to forty yards long and ten to twenty wide, he could, if he wanted to, hold on to the edge of it as one would grasp the edge of a swimming pool, all but his head submerged, to somehow hide and see them before they could see him.
* * *
Hanging behind a piece of coral that jutted out from the reef like a small peninsula, Mellin now realized how absurd it was to think that it mattered whether they saw him first or he saw them. The reality was that unless he wanted to die on the reef, he would have to go with them, whoever they were. He saw the flag of the Red Chinese — its five stars representing China proper, Manchuria, Mongolia, Sinkiang, and Tibet — fluttering from the stern of the ship, not a gunboat, but a frigate, its bow, a quarter mile from Mellin, slicing through the light swells with an effortless grace that belied her purpose.
On the frigate’s bridge, an officer walked out to the port wing and, binoculars in his hands, began to peer more intently at the reef. Mellin knew they had to spot him. After thirty seconds or so it struck him that the ship might in fact be on a routine patrol of the Spratly Islands and reefs to check that no foreign structures or markers had been placed there, the Chinese and Vietnamese having had confrontations about such claims, and on several occasions firing upon one another. In one incident several years ago, in the early nineties, over fifty Vietnamese had been killed by the Chinese. In a way, Mellin was relieved to see the Chinese flag, signifying that it was a PLA naval warship, rather than a fast patrol boat of the kind some pirates used in drug runs across the South China Sea to the countries that lay on its rim.
Now the ship leaned hard astarboard, turning away from the island. Suddenly Mellin was yelling out as loudly as he could, raising his voice above the slap and smash of the swells along the hundred feet of rock and coral.
The officer of the watch, however, had seen him, and the ship was merely coming about to better launch its rubber boat. It was with a mixture of gratitude and apprehension that Mellin saw this taking place. He could hear an outboard motor coughing, spluttering, and dying. Chinese maintenance, he thought, and grew more anxious now, not because of the temperamental outboard — he knew they would get him somehow — but because of what appeared to be spikes — rifles sticking up from two of the four men aboard. The outboard now sounded like an angry wasp as the Zodiac’s bow rose, slapping the crest of a wave then disappearing for a second or two before reappearing again, the blue-and-white-striped shirts of the sailors standing out against the sea, now a gunmetal gray beneath a big cumulus that had obscured the sun.
The first thing that struck Mellin after they took him aboard was the stiff attitude of the four PLA navy types. Every face was solemn. The petty officer at the control console pointed to the middle of the boat and said in Chinese, “Sit there!” Mellin didn’t know much Chinese, only what he’d learned as a POW in Vietnam, where he had been guarded by Vietnamese Chinese.
“Xie xie ni.” Thank you.
No one answered him, two of the four using their rifle butts to push the rubber boat away from the reef, where it could easily capsize should a sudden swell rise high above the reef’s edge then just as suddenly drop precipitously onto the coral below. Steadying himself in the middle of the Zodiac, he thanked them again. The unsmiling bosun, a rather sorry sailor, said something to him gruffly and pointed to the rest. The bosun waited till the water lifted the rubber boat high, then turning the wheel sharply to starboard, he gave full throttle and they were heading back at about eight knots toward the frigate.
The bosun pointed impassively toward the reef and again said something just as grumpily as before. Mellin couldn’t understand the tone. As far as he knew, the Chinese and U.S. had cordial relations due to joint Chinese-U.S. ventures. It then occurred to him that even i
f they could have understood what he said, they might not know about the attack on Chical—or had they been part of it? There had been reports before, particularly in 1994, about pirates in PL A uniforms telling foreign vessels to stop, whereupon the pirates had proceeded to ransack the ship’s cargo.
They were nearing the ship now, and Mellin made one more attempt at conversation. “Shipwrecked,” he lied. Maybe it would be better for him to stick to a shipwreck story and say nothing about the Chical. None of them responded as they reached the netting ladder just forward of the bridge. “Well, you’re uncommunicative bastards,” Mellin said, smiling, “but thanks for picking me up anyway.”
“Get up the ladder!” the bosun ordered in clipped but perfectly understandable English.
Mellin had a distinct sinking feeling.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Fort Bragg
General Douglas Freeman was in his tiny kitchen, emptying the last of his coffee around his aspidistra plant — an aspidistra was able to take anything and thrive — when the phone purred. It was the Pentagon telling him that the Emergency Response Force was to be activated for immediate deployment. Freeman knew it was for Vietnam, and a shiver of excitement rather than apprehension passed through him.
“Yes, sir,” he answered crisply. The irony of Americans returning to the country where they had suffered their first and most humiliating defeat in the twentieth century was on his mind, and he knew it would be at large among the EMREF’s troops; if not the British SAS contingent, then certainly among the rest of the force. But he welcomed the Pentagon’s decision, for whatever the American troops’ apprehension, Freeman saw it as an opportunity to exorcise once and for all the stigma that had been the legacy of America’s Vietnam vets.
The Pentagon’s view, however, was quite different. Its hope was that the very announcement of the American-led EMREF being activated, via Hawaii, would send a timely and clear message to Beijing — to stop the fighting and to withdraw its troops from Vietnam.
