by Don Keith
“What the hell is he saying?” Smitherman shouted to no one in particular. Nor did he really expect an answer. “Look, don’t give me fancy-pants State Department bullshit. Give it to me in plain English. And, by the way, what the hell is this about ‘tonnage?’ I have sense enough to know that gold is always priced by the ounce.”
“Now, Stan, calm down and listen for once,” Dosetti coolly told her boss. “It’s all pretty plain. There’s a shit-ton of gold down there, enough that if we can figure out how to get it to the surface, the law of supply and demand will pull the rug out from under gold prices. That would tank the world economy like nothing else in history has done. But, on the positive side, no one seems to be taking a lot of interest yet in chasing this motherlode. That is, except for the two-bit potentate of Tonga. He is trying to claim everything as his, but there is no way on God’s green earth that he can recover any of the stuff. He would need a real sugar daddy to do this thing.”
Smitherman’s face reddened for a moment, then he nodded a couple of times. “Okay, how do we get on top of this? Or, better still, how do we leverage it to our advantage?”
“We already have a small naval presence in American Samoa. Those sailors can protect our claims there,” Dosetti answered. “And we already have a company working on a method to mine the stash and do so at a carefully controlled level.”
“Carefully controlled level?”
Dosetti grinned. “Yes, controlled at a level that doesn’t affect the market, but fills our coffers up quite nicely. I think that we will have plenty of funds to support your re-election. And you wouldn’t even have to pretend you know how to play golf.”
Ψ
Jim Ward blinked awake. The bright lights were blinding.
It took the young SEAL-team leader a few seconds to realize where he was. Or at least what kind of room he was in. The helicopter flight down to Hanoi and then the next hop to Singapore on some kind of smaller fixed-wing aircraft was mostly a blur. Now he could tell that he was in an antiseptically white hospital room with a couple of nurses hovering over him.
But the first voice he heard was a familiar gruff male one.
“Son, you really need to learn to keep your head down.”
“Dad?”
Jon Ward stepped over to the bedside, into Jim’s range of vision. “You know your mother is losing her patience with these late-night calls about hospital visits. She...”
“How’s Jase?” Jim interrupted.
“He’s still in the ICU. Look, it’s been touch and go for him, but he’s finally turned the corner.” Jon put his hand on his boy’s shoulder. “You know you saved his life out there. No doubt about it.”
Jim smiled through dry, cracked lips.
“Where am I anyway?”
“We flew both of you down to Singapore,” the elder Ward explained. “You’re in Changi General Hospital. Doctors told me that you lost a lot of blood, but that the bullet passed clean without hitting anything you need to keep functioning. Your left side’s going to be sore for quite a while. Don’t plan on any triathlons in the near future.”
Jim tried to sit up, only to grunt in pain. His dad and one of the nurses helped him up while the other nurse plumped the pillow behind his head. Out the window, he could see a palm tree swaying in a gentle breeze.
“How long?”
“Before your next Ironman?”
“Before I can get back to work with my guys?”
“Doctors are saying that if you behave yourself and follow orders, you should be out of here and ready to fly home in a week or so. I have already told them that you are not good at either behaving or following doctors’ orders. The nursing staff is authorized to use extreme measures to ensure your compliance. Understood, tough guy?”
The younger Ward nodded sheepishly. Just his luck, having a father who not only out-ranked him by quite a lot but also knew his son’s every thought.
Sometimes before he even thought it.
“Now, there are several rough-looking SEALs hanging around outside your room who really want to talk with you.”
Ψ
The flight of four blue-gray Shaanxi Y-9 turboprop transport aircraft slowly circled the jungle-shrouded island as they noisily descended. One hundred fully-combat-armed PLAN Marines sat in the cargo bay of each plane, rocking with the motion, trying their best to hang on to their lunches as the planes bounced around in the hot, turbulent air.
A low, rainy mist hid the tops of the craggy volcanic mountains that formed the island’s twisting, curvy spine. The heights threatened to grab any flyer who might be unwary while attempting to descend into such thick clouds.
Finally, the airfield, hard on the island’s north shore, broke into view. Honiara International Airport and its single six-thousand-foot runway was barely long enough to land the heavily loaded Chinese aircraft.
In many ways, not much had changed since the airfield was named Henderson Field and was the sight of one of the most violent battles of World War II. Guadalcanal was far more peaceful these days, but it was still a backwater with little value except as a hopping-off place for air traffic bound for somewhere else. And that was exactly the intention of the Chinese Air Force.
Once on the rough concrete, the planes pulled off the runway onto a little used apron that led to an area beside a pair of dilapidated Quonset Hut hangars. The buildings appeared to have been left over from the Henderson Field days. One still had a weather-beaten sign wired in place above a doorway that might have once had that name inscribed on it. Grass and weeds were making significant inroads on the cracked and broken tarmac. Vegetation was slowly reclaiming a couple of wrecked, rusting airframes that appeared to have been shoved to the side and forgotten for three-quarters of a century. Indeed, this entire corner of the airfield looked as if it had been shoved aside and forgotten.
It was soon obvious that someone was expecting them, though. The transport pilots were still spooling down their engines when two fuel trucks emerged from one of the hangars.
Meanwhile, inside the first plane, the mission commander was already on the radio, back to headquarters on Hainan Island. He reported that the ten-hour flight was complete, that re-fueling was already underway, and that they would be standing by for orders on what was necessary to complete their mission.
The PLAN Marines climbed out of the stuffy cargo holds to stretch their cramped muscles. The heat and humidity were stifling. Just drawing a breath in the cloying air took real energy. The Marine officers set about having their troops set up a temporary camp. Their orders said that they might be required to stay for a week or more but must be ready to take off in under an hour when word came. That meant the camp would lack any of the comforts of an established base.
Several of the more enterprising non-commissioned officers, the NCOs, slipped off and headed down the Kokum Highway in search of a few cold beers. None of them likely were aware that they were walking on the same ground that another nation’s Marines had once fought and died for, all to wrest it from Imperial Japan.
Or the fact that the same war and the bravery of those American Marines had freed China from conquest.
Ψ
The presenter at the front of the conference room rattled on and on, mostly reading the contents of each slide being projected onto the big pull-down screen behind him. Yon Ba Deng, Assistant Vice Deputy to the Minister of National Defense for Naval Matters, struggled to stifle a yawn. He dared not close his eyes or he might well have drifted off to sleep. He needed to at least pretend to be interested in the minutia of correct political training for PLAN officers.
These interminable meetings were becoming more and more taxing on his limited patience. But he knew that the Party structure performed much like a beehive. He could learn from watching the drones at work. Despite little individual accomplishment, if enough dedicated, indoctrinated worker bees were applied to attempt to accomplish a task, it would eventually be completed. These lesser committees under the auspices of the Poli
tburo were populated with just such dedicated drones. Deng knew the value of keeping a finger on them as they provided the pulse of the hive. And each of these drones reported back to someone higher up in the Politburo structure. Painful as it could be, he needed to maintain the appearance of an apparatchik, a loyal functionary of the Party.
Yon Ba Deng glanced over toward the heavy oak door entrance to this drab conference room. As if by Deng’s will, Bing Dou, his obsequious aide, opened the door and stepped inside. The little man literally tiptoed around the conference table, bent down, and whispered in his boss’s ear.
“Elder brother, it is confirmed that our marines have landed safely in Guadalcanal. The four planes with our tanks are still in flight but due there within two hours. By first daylight tomorrow morning, they will be ready to carry out the next-stage orders from you.”
Yon Ba Deng’s expression remained impassive as he gave a short nod. Then he could not avoid a quick smile flitting across his face. His complex scheme was finally coming together. Now, all he needed was for his brother and his flotilla of submarines to arrive in Tonga.
The intricate trap was poised, ready to be sprung. And nobody even suspected what was about to happen.
Ψ
Joe Glass stepped onto the gently pitching deck of the captain’s gig. The coxswain, neatly dressed in whites, snapped a salute just as Glass’s foot hit the deck. As Glass returned the salute, he noted out of the corner of his eye that his SUBRON SEVEN broad pennant was broken on the forestaff. Such formality was still difficult for a former sub captain to get accustomed to.
Glass stood in the boat’s cockpit as the gig glided across Pago Pago’s inner harbor. A cooling breeze rippled the turquoise water. Palm trees and bright flowers lined the distant shoreline. It was nice to enjoy the beautiful tropical afternoon and play tourist for a few brief minutes, not having to think about the boiling tension that had brought him out here to paradise in the first place.
The one-mile jaunt over to the Port of Pago Pago Main Dock did not take nearly long enough for Glass. Before he knew it, the coxswain brought the gig smoothly alongside a Jacob’s ladder that hung down from the high, white side of the Deep Ocean Explorer. Glass leapt over to the ladder and climbed up to the research ship’s main deck.
Two men waited there to greet him as he stepped onboard. Both were casually dressed in shorts and T-shirts. The older and shorter of the two smiled as he stuck out his hand. His grip was firm and brief.
“Welcome aboard the Deep Ocean Explorer, Commodore. I’m Rex Smith, the chief scientist onboard. I try to give this motley crew some modicum of adult leadership.” He nodded toward the other man. “This is Captain Bill Bix. He points the bow in the right direction and gets us where we need to be.”
“Thanks, gentlemen,” Glass responded. “It’s a beautiful vessel. I’ve heard much about the work you do and I salute you.”
Smith thanked him with a smile and a nod and then ushered the little group from the broad, open main deck, past the orange UUV strapped securely to it, and forward to the deck house. The three entered a nicely appointed office space and took seats around a small conference table covered with empty coffee cups, charts, and a pile of papers.
“I’m glad you could come over and visit us today,” Smith began. “Bill and I have been discussing King Two-for-One’s little speech before the Security Council. You are, of course, aware that his...well, I guess you call it a ‘land grab’ since ‘sea grab’ doesn’t sound quite right.”
Smith waved toward a chart and continued. “Anyway, whatever you call it, he is claiming that he and his little kingdom own all of this area, and that coincidentally includes the spot where we found the gold field. Pretty obvious bit of timely annexation. Our lawyers are already working on filing a lawsuit and we are in conversation with the US Department of State. But what I really need most is some protection for my ship and my people when we go back out there to continue our research.”
Joe Glass picked up a large-scale chart that mapped the water between where they were located at the moment, in American Samoa, and over to Tonga to the southwest. He pointed to the territorial boundaries clearly marked on the chart.
“Doctor Smith, as far as I am concerned, and as far as my boss is concerned, these have always been, currently are, and forever will be international waters, not under the control of any country. The Deep Ocean Explorer is an American flagged vessel. If you sail out here...” Glass stabbed with his index finger the point on the chart where the research vessel had found the spewing gold. “...and if someone tries to stop you or interferes in your operations in any way, we are obligated to defend you and your rights. You can be assured we will do just that. And do so effectively and enthusiastically.” Glass sat back in his chair. “But I wouldn’t worry too much if I were you. King Tofuwanga doesn’t have any navy to speak of. Just a few marines. Certainly, there is no army other than ceremonial. And even if the Chinese say they are backing him, the nearest Chinese base is over five thousand miles away.”
The compartment was quiet for a long moment. All three men gazed out across the open waters of the tranquil bay. Smith finally turned back to his guest.
“I am so sorry, sir. May I offer you coffee? A cup of tea?”
“No, Dr. Smith. Thank you very much. I rarely turn down coffee, but I do need to get back to some boring meeting or the other. I do wish you had not shared news of your find out there, though. It certainly has caused some issues.”
Smith nodded his understanding.
“Understand we are obligated to tell our donors and supporters of anything of interest,” the scientist said. “And manage their expectations. They have to understand the limited possibilities for ever recovering enough of that gold to even make it worthwhile to attempt to get it. I’m afraid many others are not at all aware of that very big issue. But obviously someone in our group let the word get out.”
“Yes, and I know they did not anticipate how such news might play into the rather complicated political stuff that is going on now, partly as a result of your discovery. But be assured we will do all we can to protect you, your ship, and your work.”
“Allow me to thank you for your assurances,” Smith replied. “That makes me, and I’m sure all our crew, feel much better as we prepare to return to the area. We have much work to do, including understanding the science behind geo-physical actions that created that mound of precious metal out there.”
Joe Glass shook the hands of the two men, thanked them again for the work they did to better help mankind understand the planet’s least explored territory, the oceans. Then he quickly headed back to his boat.
The submariner was not at all sure the scientist and the boat’s captain believed what Glass had just told them. And he did not blame them one bit.
One thing was solid, though. The US Navy would do all it could to protect the vessel. But Glass well knew that might turn out to be a much bigger job than he had led the scientist to believe.
Ψ
The old and much used Boeing 737 taxied up to the terminal at Vava’u Airport’s tiny single-story terminal building. The airplane, a secondhand gift from the People’s Republic of China, was painted in the red and white livery of Tonga International Airlines. Of course, it was TIA’s only jet, and the aircraft had only ever served one passenger.
The ground crew shoved the air-stairs up against the aircraft as the passenger door swung open. King Tofuwanga emerged from the interior and paused for a moment at the head of the stairs to allow his eyes to adjust to the brilliant sunlight.
No cheering throng of loyal subjects greeted the monarch. Only a few disinterested ground mechanics milled about.
All just as well, the king mused. He was here at this place, after all, to greet and then send his armed forces off on a vital mission. Secrecy and discretion were of some importance in such a matter.
An ancient jeep, probably left over from some long-forgotten cooperation treaty with this or that western country, wh
eezed up to the foot of the stairs and stopped amid a cloud of blue-black smoke. King Tofuwanga came down the steps, ignoring the salute of the jeep’s driver, who had jumped out to greet his king, and then carefully slid into the rear passenger seat, trying to avoid soiling his field marshal’s uniform on the grease and oil that festooned the vehicle’s side. Once he was seated, the jeep shot off toward the airfield’s back gate, leaving a trail of the blue-black smoke across the tarmac.
The ten-kilometer drive down Tiu Road ended at the piers in Neiafu, Vava’u’s principal village. The entirety of the Tonga Maritime Force, consisting of three Australian-built patrol boats and a Vietnam War-vintage landing craft, were tied up at the village pier. The entire Royal Tongan Marines—all three companies of them—milled about on the adjacent street.
When the jeep screeched to a halt at the pier, King Tofuwanga stood, prepared to address his troops. When they saw their king, the troops began to congregate around his vehicle, but still mostly managed to stay back in the shade of the nearby fish-cleaning sheds.
“Warriors of Tonga,” the king called out, his voice lost in the shrieks and calls of the seabirds congregating around the refuse from the sheds. Only then did the driver remember to turn on and hand to Tofuwanga a bullhorn. The monarch cleared his throat and started again. “Warriors of Tonga. Today you venture forth to right an historic wrong. As you are aware, the island of Niue and our brothers and sisters were wrongfully separated from us many years ago by the colonial powers of the West. Ultimately, they and the sovereign territory were given to one of the colonialists’ own, New Zealand, to protect. The white man calls this a ‘free association.’ But our Niue brothers and sisters are still not free. They still remain reluctant subjects of the English queen.”
“Warriors of Tonga,” he ranted on. “Our ancestors settled Niue in times before white man’s written history. Our legends speak of crossing the Deep Waters. The people of Niue are of our clan. We must return them to Tonga and finally please our common ancestors and honor the sacred mutual heritage of our people.” The king pointed to the waiting boats alongside the pier. “Go! Go, and with your bravery, restore pride and honor to all our people!”
