China Star

by Maurice Medland

  He terminated the call, his breathing shallow. For reasons he couldn’t fathom, Zhao Lan hadn’t performed. The ship was still on its way. He had to do something. The South Sea Fleet was engaged in maneuvers off the coast this time of year. When last he checked there were two frigates and two destroyers, the Zhuhai and the Harbin, operating in the vicinity of Macau, not that far from the laogai on Turtle Island. One of the high-speed destroyers could be there in hours. With the rank of senior colonel and his status as a Red Prince, he could request that a PLA Navy destroyer be diverted to patrol the islands as a temporary security measure. No one would question that move, but he would also have some private, off-the-table orders for the destroyer captain.

  He punched out the numbers to the PLA Navy South Sea fleet command in Zhanjiang. He had just one more shot. This one would have to work.

  “You got any more bright ideas?” Scootchy Carter said in a muffled voice, his face buried in a pillow.

  Matt sat on the edge of a bunk in the ship’s infirmary, waiting his turn for Doc Miller to look at his wound and change the bandage. The base of his skull throbbed, sending a ribbon of pain up the back of his head, into his temples. He’d had almost no sleep and was in no mood to listen to Scootchy complain. He took in a deep breath and slowly exhaled, the pain in his arm still throbbing.

  “Shut up, Scootchy.”

  Scootchy twisted his head around, his whole body turning.

  “Shut up? That’s it? That’s all you can say?”

  “Hold still,” Doc Miller said, lifting Scootchy’s bandage off.

  Matt winced. The words clattered inside his head like ball bearings in a coffee can. He rubbed his temples. He’d been up all night thinking, and he had doubts of his own. Maybe the Chinese were on to them, and for reasons he couldn’t understand were playing games. Maybe, but he wasn’t about to share his doubts with his crew. He’d come this far, and he wasn’t turning back, at least not yet.

  “I want to know who that son of a bitch was,” Scootchy said.

  “Just a disturbed passenger.”

  “Disturbed? That son of a bitch damn near killed me. And you. I didn’t know what hit me. Didn’t even see him come into the goddamn engine room.”

  “What was that guy’s problem?” Doc Miller said, tearing off a strip of white tape.

  “He was just an escaped prisoner with his own agenda,” Matt said.

  Scootchy shot an incredulous look at Matt.

  “You really believe that?”

  “Sure,” Matt said. “What else?”

  “Hell, it’s obvious, man. Wake up. The Chinese know exactly what we’re doing. They planted that son of a bitch right in our path, knowing we’d pick him up.” He dropped his face back into his pillow. “I’d of picked him up, all right. I’d of run right over the son of a bitch.”

  Doc Miller looked at Matt. “Think he was dropped, Skipper?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Well, you’re the only one who doesn’t,” Scootchy said. “I say we turn this thing around and get the hell out of here while we can.”

  “Look, I don’t have any reason to believe that guy wasn’t exactly who he said he was.” Matt looked at his watch. “We should be on site in a couple of hours. If the Chinese knew what we were doing, we’d never have gotten this far.”

  Scootchy screwed up his face. “Man, whatever you’re smoking, I’d like to have some of it. The Chinese ain’t here because they thought that goon would take care of us. When they find out he didn’t, what do you think they’re going to do? They’re going to blow us right out of the goddamn water.”

  Matt bristled. Scootchy was making just enough sense to be dangerous. If he spread that theory all over the ship, Matt could have a mutiny on his hands. He turned his head with difficulty.

  “Listen to me, Scootch. I’m only going to say this once. If you say anything like that to any member of the crew, I’ll consign you to the brig until we finish this job and get out of here.”

  “You ain’t locking me in any brig. When that Chink torpedo comes, I want to be the first one off this thing.”

  “Then you’d better keep your mouth shut.”

  Scootchy gave him a long, measuring look. “By God, I think you’re serious,” he said finally.

  “Count on it.”

  Matt gripped the chain on the bunk and pulled himself to his feet. He still felt unsteady, but he had to get away from Scootchy’s carping.

  “I’m going to the bridge, Doc.”

  “Better let me look at that before you go, Skipper. Change the bandage.”

  Matt touched it. “It’s all right for now. Maybe later.”

  “Aye, Captain.” Doc looked at Matt leaning against the rail of the bunk. “I’d take it kind of easy for a while, though.”

  No problem there. He felt terrible. All he wanted to do at this point was make his pickup and get the hell out of there. He stepped onto the bridge, nursing a headache.

  “Captain is on the bridge,” Sam said in his booming voice.

  Matt winced, the words vibrating in his head.

  “Not so loud, Sam.”

  “Sorry, Skipper. How’s your head?”

  “Loud. But I’ll live.”

  Matt drew a cup of coffee the color of asphalt and swept the horizon with his eyes. The sun blazed on the port side of the ship, a great orange ball rising out of the sea. Feathery cirrus clouds drifted high in the sky. He checked the direction of the wind. Northeast. A wind from the south, east, or northeast - in combination with high cirrus clouds - was a near perfect predictor of rain in the next twenty-four hours. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be heavy enough to slow them down. He squinted at the islands just off the starboard bow, a ragged line above the horizon.

  “What’s our ETA?”

  “We’re about twenty nautical miles from the easternmost tip of the island where the freighter is,” Jason Tyler said. “We should be on site in about an hour and twenty minutes.”

  “If you look real close you can see the freighter,” Sam said, fine-tuning his binoculars. “A little gray speck on the beach.”

  Matt felt faint. The ship rolled, and he leaned into a stanchion to keep his balance. He tried to make it look natural, but Jason asked him how he was feeling.

  Matt touched the back of his neck. The crusty bandage felt as thick as a horse blanket. He pressed down and grimaced.

  “Like I’ve been hit by a truck.”

  “That’s what you get for picking up hitchhikers,” Sam said.

  “No good deed goes unpunished,” Jason said. “How’s Scootchy?”

  “Doc thinks he may have a concussion, but it hasn’t stopped his bitching.”

  “Who the hell was that guy?” Sam said.

  It was the fifth time he’d asked the question. “Just somebody who didn’t want any part of that island,” Matt said.

  “Scootchy swears he was a plant by the Chinese to keep us from getting there,” Sam said.

  “Scootchy’s a moron. If the Chinese knew what we were up to, why would they pull a lame-brained stunt like that? They’d just send a destroyer out to sink us.”

  The bridge got quiet. Sam continued to sweep the horizon with binoculars. After a few minutes, he lowered them.

  “Looks like that may be what they have in mind, Captain.”

  Matt picked up a pair of binoculars and peered in the direction Sam pointed. He adjusted the focus and saw a plume of black smoke, then the side profile of a ship on the horizon. Sleek lines, low to the water, twin stacks, red flags fluttering above the superstructure. She was clearly a destroyer, and coming from the vicinity of the islands, she could only be Chinese. The ship made a sharp turn to port. With only the bow in view now, there was no doubt where she was headed. The destroyer was on a collision course with CoMar Explorer and was closing the distance fast. His gut tightened.

  “Let’s go to emergency stations, Sam.”

  “Aye, Captain.” Sam pressed the key on the bridge microphone. “All hands
man your emergency stations.”

  “Right standard rudder,” Matt said.

  “Right standard rudder, aye, Captain,” Jason Tyler said, turning the wheel to the right.

  “I see red flags,” Sam said, peering through his binoculars. “Must be Chinese.”

  Matt watched the gap between the ships grow smaller. As CoMar Explorer eased to the right, following the international maritime rules of the road, the black numbers on the light gray hull of the destroyer came into view. 1-6-6.

  “She’s the Zhuhai,” he said, watching her come. “Luda class destroyer. Upgraded to a Luda III class. Modernized for ASW missions. All new electronics.”

  “What do you think they want?”

  “Beats me,” Matt said. “If they wanted to sink us, they wouldn’t have to get this close. The Zhuhai’s got four twin missile launchers, C-801 Sardines.”

  “Maybe they don’t want to waste a missile on us.”

  “She’s got torpedoes. And if they don’t want to do that, she’s got twin thirty-seven-millimeter guns that could make short work of us from a long way off.”

  A signal light began blinking from the bridge of the destroyer.

  Jason Tyler adjusted his binoculars, translating the pulses of light.

  “Heave-to-or-I-will-fire.”

  “Not very friendly, are they?” Sam said.

  “No reason they should be,” Matt said. “We’re in their territory now. They want to know who we are and why we’re here.” He nodded to Jason Tyler. “All engines stop.”

  “All engines stop, aye, Captain.”

  CoMar Explorer drifted to a stop and hove to, green waves slapping against her hull. A lone seagull swooped toward the ship, squawking. The PLA Navy destroyer approached and stood off about 300 yards, crews maneuvering to keep her guns aimed directly at the bridge. Matt watched a small boat fill with a boarding party. Seven marines in combat gear, headed by a naval officer wearing a side arm. He wasn’t surprised to see marines. Most of the PLA Navy’s 50,000 marines were attached to the South Sea fleet command because of the never-ending territorial squabbles over Taiwan, the Spratleys, the Paracels, and the Senkaku Islands. The signal light from the bridge resumed blinking as the boat was lowered away.

  “Stand-by-to-be-boarded,” Jason said. “Do-not-resist-or-I-will-fire.”

  “Tell them welcome aboard,” Matt said. “Lower the Jacob’s ladder. They’re probably looking for the escaped prisoner.”

  “Let ‘em look,” Sam said. “He’s three miles down, a long way back.”

  Matt’s stomach flipped. The weighted body of the man who called himself Yang Zhi being rolled off the fantail into the inky depths of the South China Sea was a sight he’d never forget.

  “If that’s what they’re after, they may want to search the ship.” He looked at Sam. “Where did you stash the crate from Gray Wolf?”

  “It’s in the engine room, under some heavy pipe,” Sam said. “Even if they saw it, they’d have to work their asses off to get to it.”

  “They’ve got all the guns,” Jason said. “They might make us work our asses off to get to it.”

  “Not much we can do about it now,” Matt said. “Take the conn, Jason. Come on, Sam. Let’s go and greet our visitors.”

  By the time Matt and Sam got to the quarterdeck, two of his crew had lowered the Jacob’s ladder and a boat fender. Matt watched the small boat from the Chinese destroyer chop its way across the divide. One of the marines stood in the stern with an assault rifle aimed at the crew on deck. The naval officer sat in the bow. The PLA Navy, with all its supposed equality, was no different. Officers were last in, first out. One of the marines tied the boat up to the ladder and held it. The naval officer came up first, followed by the marines.

  “Request permission to come aboard,” the officer said in perfect English, stepping onto the quarterdeck.

  “Permission granted,” Matt said, as though he had a choice. The officer appeared to be several years younger than Matt and looked strangely familiar.

  “I’m Commander Chen, PLA Navy, commanding officer of Zhuhai.”

  The CO. Matt had never heard of a commanding officer, in any navy, leading a boarding party. Whatever they want, they’re serious about it. He extended his hand.

  “Happy to meet you, Captain. I’m Matt Connor, captain of CoMar Explorer.”

  Captain Chen glanced at the Panamanian flag snapping in the breeze, then at Matt. “What’s your nationality?”

  “American.”

  The Chinese officer shook hands and smiled. “I studied in your country. Annapolis, Maryland. U.S. Naval Academy.”

  Matt stared. That’s where he’d seen him before. A couple of midshipmen from Taiwan had been admitted to the class three years behind him. It had been an experimental program to strengthen the Taiwanese Navy that had blown up and embarrassed a lot of people in Washington. Everyone had heard the story. It was discovered after graduation that one of the midshipmen was actually a spy from the mainland. After getting a fine education in the way the U.S. conducts war, he’d returned to China and was now an officer in the PLA Navy. Matt had assumed that part of the story was apocryphal, a tale concocted by xenophobic classmates, but apparently, it was true. I’ll be damned.

  “I hope your stay in America was pleasant.”

  “For the most part.” Chen’s left eyebrow went up almost imperceptibly. “Why do I get the feeling I know you?”

  Matt shrugged. He didn’t think Chen would recognize him. As an upperclassman, he’d had no contact with the two Taiwanese plebes other than seeing them here and there. Besides, both men had changed a lot over the years. Chen and his running mate had looked like they were about twelve years old back then, and Matt had a lot more miles on him now.

  “I have one of those typical American faces.”

  “On the contrary,” Chen said, “I’m sure I’ve seen yours before.”

  “I’m sure I’d remember you,” Matt said.

  “Connor, Connor . . .” Captain Chen folded his arms and rubbed his chin. “Even the name sounds familiar.”

  “It’s a common name in America. My ancestors weren’t very good at growing potatoes.”

  Captain Chen looked at him for another few seconds, apparently unconvinced but unable to place him. Time to get him off the subject.

  “How can we be of assistance, Captain?”

  All business again, Captain Chen said, “Please assemble your crew on deck.”

  “No problem.” Matt nodded to Sam.

  As Sam walked toward the bridge to make the announcement, a marine fell in behind him with an assault rifle at the ready. What Matt had originally thought were AK-47s were, in fact, AK-74s, a newer version of the Kalashnikov designed to use the new 5.45 mm cartridges. The Soviets had come up with it, trying to find one even more deadly than the 5.56 mm NATO cartridge. The bullet had a soft jacket with an air gap in the nose that made it shatter on impact. During the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, the Mujahedeen had called it the “poison bullet,” because almost nobody who was hit by one survived. He glanced at the thirty-round magazines. In the hands of seven tense marines, it was a formula for disaster. He hoped none of his men made any sudden moves when they came up on deck.

  Captain Chen turned to the sharp-eyed marine who hovered near him. One broad stripe with three smaller ones. The CCP had abolished all ranks a few years ago, then reinstated them when the plan proved to be unworkable. It had been a while since Matt had studied Chinese military ranks, but he thought the markings indicated a sergeant first class, a heavy hitter in the PLA marine corps. Whatever his rank, he was obviously the senior enlisted man.

  “Disable the radio and search this hulk,” Chen said in Mandarin. “Bring me the ship’s log. Confiscate any communications devices or weapons you find.”

  Disable the radio? Matt held himself in check. He couldn’t object without revealing that he spoke Mandarin, and that would cost him the only advantage he had. Damn. He shoved his hands in his hip
pockets and felt the pistol he’d fished out of the bilge. He’d rethought his intent to throw it over the side after his little encounter with the escaped prisoner in the engine room. With all the guns trained on them now, he was convinced he’d made the right decision.

  The crew came up on deck a few at a time, prodded by marines, blinking into the sun. Doc Miller came up with Scootchy Carter draped over his shoulder. Scootchy looked panic-stricken. At least he was keeping his mouth shut, probably too frightened to speak. Jason Tyler and Sam came from the direction of the bridge. The marine nudging them from behind had the ship’s log under one arm. He handed it to the sharp-eyed sergeant, who opened it to the latest entry and handed it to Captain Chen.

  Chen read the last two pages in the log, then closed the book, his index finger marking his place. He glanced at the assembled crew and frowned.

  “Did you ever see such a stinking mess?” he said in Mandarin. The Chinese marines laughed.

  Matt said, “Does my crew amuse you, Captain?”

  “Forgive them, Captain, they laugh at anything,” Chen said. “We’re searching for a man adrift on a raft. Have you seen such a person?”

  Matt tried to relax his face. He wasn’t very good at lying. He made eye contact with Chen and shook his head.

  “No.”

  Captain Chen opened the log. “It says here you sighted a raft adrift yesterday at 1130 hours.”

  “That’s right,” Matt said, “but there was no one on it.”

  “The raft was empty?”

  “Yes.”

  Captain Chen peered around at the bandage on the back of Matt’s head. “You are injured, Captain.”

  “I fell down a ladder.”

  He nodded toward Scootchy. “Another member of your crew has similar injuries. Did he fall down the same ladder?”

  “Yeah, we’ll have to get that fixed,” Matt said. “I’ll trouble you to explain why you’ve boarded my ship, Captain.”