“What?”
“You were on the aircraft carrier Concord. Is that correct?”
Greer felt something akin to cold lead trickle into his stomach. “Yeah … Why do you ask?”
“It sank,” Marikit replied. “The Chinese are very proud. Their TV networks play footage of that moment twenty-four hours a day.”
Greer closed his eyes. How many of his fellow sailors had died? Hundreds? Or thousands? He felt sick. “And the other ships? What about them?”
“The Chinese claim that all but two were destroyed.”
Greer opened his eyes. “Seriously?”
“Yes.”
Tears began to flow. He wiped them away. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Marikit replied. “I understand.”
The visit ended shortly after that. And contrary to Marikit’s advice, Greer’s thoughts turned to the captured pilots. He couldn’t save the Concord. Maybe he could save them.
***
The city of Sanya, Hainan Island, Southeast China
The celebratory dinner was held at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel in Sanya which, in the interest of security and privacy, was entirely reserved for President Enlai, Premier Lau, and their respective retinues. The Mandarin was located on Coral Bay, where visitors could snorkel, or lie on the beach.
But, except for the old men who were paid to rake the sand each day, the beach was mostly populated by members of two different security organizations. The MSS (Ministry of State Security) personnel were there to protect Enlai, and uniformed officers of PAP (People’s Armed Police Force) were equally determined to guard Lau. And while outwardly civil toward each other, a feeling of barely contained hostility hung in the air.
The problem was baked into the system. Technically Lau, as Premier, outranked President Enlai. But since 1993 China’s top leader had been allowed to simultaneously serve as president, the leader of the party (as General Secretary), and the commander-in-chief of the military (as the chairman of the Central Military Commission).
That enabled Enlai to carry out different duties under separate titles. For example, as president, Enlai was the one who met with foreign dignitaries. As Chairman of the Central Military Commission, Enlai issued orders to the military, and as the General Secretary of the Communist Party, Enlai controlled it as well. All of which made Lau angry.
As one hundred and thirty-seven people sat down to dinner in the hotel’s main meeting room the air was thick with suspicion, envy, and hostility.
Because of his position as Premier, Lau was seated at the head of the main table facing east. Enlai was on his right. Lesser officials sat to either side of the table in order of precedence, with the lowest of the low being located at the west end of the beautifully set table—by the service doors. Hot tea was served, immediately followed by appetizers, and soup.
Conversation was stilted and for good reason. Enlai suspected that Lau was plotting a coup. And Lau had every reason to fear that Enlai would have him killed before he could launch a coup.
While good for China, Admiral Wen’s victory over the Americans had strengthened Enlai’s position. He could distract the population from the appalling number of casualties in India, by launching a propaganda blitz on the victory in the Philippine Sea.
“So,” Enlai said, as the main courses began to arrive. “How’s your family? Did your son get into Tsinghua University?”
Tsinghua was the top ranked university in China. And the answer to the question was “Yes.” Something that Enlai was almost certainly aware of. That meant the question was a threat rather than a question: “Consider what will happen to the members of your family if you try to replace me and fail.”
Lau forced a smile. “I’m pleased to announce that he did. And how is the home in Shanghai coming along? Is work going well?”
Threat, and counter threat. As China’s Premier, Lau had the means to not only withdraw the permissions required to construct Enlai’s third home, but to review his taxes, and those of family members too. Maybe the Enlai family had nothing to hide. And maybe sows would learn to climb trees. Enlai paused with chopsticks halfway to his mouth. Their eyes met. “Be careful,” Enlai said. “Be very, very careful.”
“I will be,” Lau replied. “Please pass the Hong shao rou.” (Red-fried pork.)
***
Luzon Island, the Philippines
Two days had passed since Marikit’s departure. Greer was feeling better, so much so that he could walk, albeit at a slow pace. And Datu wanted him to leave.
Greer understood. He was a threat to the village. And the last thing he wanted to do was bring the government soldiers down on members of the underground.
With help from Datu’s adult daughter Lita, Greer got dressed. The outfit consisted of a long-sleeved barong tagalog, worn over trousers, with dress shoes. “We have to hide as much of your skin as possible,” Lita said. “And tell a story.”
“What story?” Greer wanted to know.
“This story,” Lita replied, as she gave him a hard-sided briefcase. “You are a businessman from South Africa.”
“It feels heavy,” Greer commented. “What’s in it?”
“Take a look,” Lita suggested.
Greer did as she asked. And found himself looking at a Bullpup submachine gun, a screw-on suppressor, and two extra magazines. “Wow! A Chinese QCW-05.”
Lita looked surprised. “You know it?”
“I know a lot about weapons,” Greer replied matter of factly. “That’s why my squadron gave me the callsign, ‘Gun Daddy.’ Where did you get it?”
“The Chinese ship weapons to the government. President Costas uses them to kill Filipino citizens. Then we kill his soldiers, take their weapons, and put them to good use. Here’s the pistol you were carrying when my father found you.”
Greer accepted the nine-mil. It was tucked into a hand-tooled belt holster. Just right for wearing under the baggy shirt. “You don’t think I’m going to make it, do you?”
“No,” Lita replied. “I don’t.”
***
Aboard the Chinese semi-submersible cruiser, Sea Dragon, Yulin Harbor
Lieutenant Junior Grade Jev Jing was sitting on his bunk, with the privacy curtain pulled, studying for the lieutenant’s exam. That’s what he was prepared to tell anyone who asked. But the truth was quite different.
After successfully installing the keylogger on political officer Lieutenant Commander Ang’s laptop, he’d been able to record every keystroke the other officer entered into his computer, and retrieve the information via Wi-Fi. That was the good news. The bad news was that the data had been encrypted using an unauthorized program.
But Jing had majored in computer technology at the Dalian Naval Academy. And as one of the ship’s communications officers he had the permissions necessary to access various outside networks, including the one set up for students at the academy.
The first step was to submit a snippet from one of Ang’s messages. The second step was to request an ID. The answer came back right away. The encryption program was called “Strong Sword,” after the popular Chinese video game, with the appendage NIK7854 after the name.
Jing felt a sense of satisfaction. Now that he knew what the program was, he could go looking for the necessary decryption software. And that, Jing knew, would be available somewhere on the deep web. Not the dark web, but the considerably larger deep web.
After half an hour of surfing, Jing located a non-indexed site where Strong Sword NIK7854 encryption and de-encryption software was for sale. And that’s where Jing stalled out. The price for a de-encryption key was $1,000 USD.
That was way more than Jing had in his savings account. Not that he could take it from there, because such a transaction would be easy to identify should there be an investigation.
After signing out Jing was careful to delete his browsing history before turning the laptop off. Where was he going to get $1,000? The answer was obvious. He would steal it.
***
In spite of the work already done to repair the Henan’s flight deck, the carrier wasn’t operational yet. That didn’t stop Admiral Wen from using the flattop as his flagship however. And the command conference scheduled for 0900 that morning was just the latest of the meetings Ko had been summoned to over the past couple of days.
The purpose of the conference was, according to the agenda distributed the day before, “… to formulate an interim plan by which Carrier Battle Group 3 can continue to operate while the Henan is being repaired.” It was a subject that Senior Captain Peng Ko had strong opinions about.
And, since Ko was aware of Wen’s love for military pomp and ceremony, he was careful to wear a spotless uniform, complete with the recently authorized Hero of the State medal awarded to those who reported to the admiral.
A launch took Po from the submarine pens across the bay to the pier where the Henan was moored. A floating platform was waiting to receive Po and his fellow captains, all of whom arrived within seconds of each other.
As the only senior captain present it was Ko’s responsibility to lead the others up two flights of metal stairs to the hangar deck. There a coterie of lesser officers was waiting to escort the visitors to the elevator that carried them up to the Flag Bridge.
Besides Wen’s quarters, the Flag Bridge was home to a large war room, typically used for staff meetings. There was theater style seating for attendees and a buffet along the port bulkhead. After getting a cup of tea, Ko made his way over to the front row where a seat had been reserved for him. Five minutes passed while the officers checked their cell phones, traded bits of gossip, and in one case dozed off.
All of them stood when the Henan’s executive officer shouted, “Attention on deck!” and Wen entered the room. He had a huge personality for a such a small man and Ko could feel it fill the compartment. Wen said, “As you were,” and the other officers took their seats.
Wen was extremely proud of his victory over the Americans and about to celebrate it again. Something which, though understandable, struck Ko as unseemly. “Here,” Wen said pompously, “are the heroes of the glorious battle for the Philippine Sea! A victory so great it will be celebrated a hundred years from now.”
Ko had doubts about that, but was careful to keep his face professionally blank.
“But incredible though our achievement was,” Wen continued, “there’s more to do. Much more. You’ll be happy to hear that we have new orders. As you know, the Xiao Riben (Japanese Devils) have a blue-water navy which they keep under lock and key in Tokyo bay, rather than risk combat. Our job will be to lure the hundan (bastards) out of their hidey hole, and into the Pacific, where we will send them to the bottom of the ocean.”
The line had been written for the occasion. But that didn’t stop the assembled officers, Ko included, from jumping to their feet and shouting “Shengli!” (Victory!)
Wen grinned. “Yes, victory. Please be seated. Commander Sun is here to tell us how we are going to win.”
***
Village of Bogo, northeast Luzon Island, the Philippines
The village of Bogo was located on the lower slopes of a mountain, with jungle all around, and serviced by a dirt road rife with potholes. The delivery van carrying Greer and his “shepherd” downhill rocked, rolled, and bounced as the driver veered from side-to-side in a vain attempt to avoid the deepest craters.
Greer was in disguise and carrying a doctored South African passport. The forgery consisted of a tiny photo of Greer glued over the picture of a man named Noel Zondi. Greer could feel the bump as he ran his thumb over the document.
When asked who Mr. Zondi was, and how the underground came to have his passport, Lita shrugged. “Who knows?”
Greer’s guide, or “shepherd,” was a teenager named Wally. That wasn’t his real name of course but, as Lita put it, “You can’t tell the interrogators what you don’t know.”
Another indication that seemed to suggest that Lita was far from optimistic about Greer’s chances. Wally was styling an Under Armour tee, patched jeans, and a pristine pair of Nike Air Force shoes. A pair of reflective sunglasses completed the look. He seemed like a good kid, but Greer wasn’t going to take that for granted.
It took the better part of a painful hour to reach a paved road that would, according to Wally, take them to the town of Kasa. “Kasa is located on the highway that connects west Luzon with east Luzon,” Wally explained. “We’ll spend the night there.”
“Then what?” Greer wanted to know. “Are we going to go west, or east?”
“West,” Wally replied. “The east side of Luzon is more developed. And the president’s security people have checkpoints on the highways. We’ll run into roadblocks to the west as well, but not as many.”
Greer was impressed by both the extent of the boy’s knowledge, and his ability to communicate. “You speak very well.”
Greer couldn’t see Wally’s eyes. They were hidden by the sunglasses. But Greer got the feeling that he had inadvertently touched a nerve. “My father lived in America for three years,” Wally replied. “And he was an English teacher.”
Greer took note of the past tense. “Did your father pass away?”
Wally’s voice was cold. “My father was murdered by the police.”
Greer was curious but didn’t want to pry. So, he took the statement at face value. “I’m sorry, Wally. I’m sure he’d be proud of you.”
The moment cell service became available Wally focused on whatever it was that Filipino kids were interested in. And that was scary. Would Wally post something dangerous? That seemed unlikely, given his father’s murder. Assuming the story was true.
You’re getting paranoid, Greer told himself. Keep it up! Paranoia is a survival trait.
After pursuing a winding path through the foothills, the van entered the town of Kasa, which existed to provide cross-island travelers with food, gas, and lodging. “Get ready,” Wally said. “We’ll get out in a minute. Then we’ll grab a taxi.”
“Why?”
“So the driver won’t know where we went,” the teenager replied.
Greer looked forward. If the driver was offended, he gave no sign of it. And, sure enough, the van pulled over to the curb a few seconds later. Greer was carrying a back pack that contained an extra set of underwear, some cheap toiletries, and a box of nine-mil for the pistol. The briefcase was ready in his right hand.
Wally waited for the van to disappear before crossing the street midblock and turning to hail a cab. It, like all cabs in the Philippines, was white. The interior stank of stale cigarette smoke, there was litter on the floor, and the radio was tuned to a talk show in one of the nation’s 120-plus languages. The best guess was Filipino, a standardized version of Tagalog which, along with English, was one of two official languages.
Wally gave instructions to the driver and they lurched into traffic. After a number of turns the car entered what was a mostly industrial area complete with machine shops, a junkyard, and a scattering of houses with tin roofs.
Wally ordered the car to the curb, paid the cabbie with pesos, and got out. Greer followed. “We’re going to stay in a safe house,” Wally said. “It’s about three blocks away. How’s the leg?”
“It’s okay so far,” Greer replied. “But don’t walk too fast.”
It was hot and Greer started to sweat after a block or so. Eventually Wally turned off the sidewalk and led Greer through the narrow passageway between two buildings and into the shade cast by a tall Bagoadlau tree.
The safe house was a simple affair with a metal roof, a covered porch, and gray siding. A dog came out to meet them and collect a pet from Wally. An elderly woman was sitting on the porch prepping vegetables and chewing betel nuts. She barely looked up as Wally walked past her and into the house.
“The bedroom belongs to Lola (Grandma). But we can use the cots,” Wally said. “Lola doesn’t talk much, but she’s an excellent cook. Wait
until you taste her Adobo. The bathroom is out back.”
Greer was in need of a shower. With his shaving kit in hand the American went out through the back door to discover an open-air shower and a screened commode. The remains of a tumbledown factory backed up to the yard, which made for plenty of privacy.
The lukewarm shower felt wonderful. A shave followed. Dinner was waiting by the time Greer reentered the house. True to Wally’s prediction, the Adobo was a treat. The dish consisted of chicken cooked in vinegar, salt, garlic and pepper with a mound of white rice on the side. It was both delicious and filling. “Thank you, Lola,” Greer said, as he cleaned his plate. “That was a wonderful meal.”
“You’re welcome,” Lola replied. “All three of my husbands liked it.”
Greer laughed. “They were lucky men.”
“Yes,” Lola agreed. “They were.”
The couch that Greer wound up on was lumpy, and even though Lola was sleeping in her own room, he could hear the snoring. Where were the other pilots Greer wondered? And how were they doing? When Greer fell asleep it was with the nine-mil clutched in his right hand.
He awoke to find that Lola was not only up, but baking pandesal (bread rolls) which she served with slices of cheese, and mugs of Filipino coffee. “Remember this,” Wally said, when breakfast was over. “We won’t be so lucky during the next few days.”
Greer paused to say goodbye before leaving the house. “Thank you, Lola.”
Lola turned a wrinkled cheek toward him and tapped it with a finger. “Pay me.”
Greer kissed Lola’s cheek. And, for the first time since Greer had met her, she smiled. Her teeth were reddish-black after years of chewing parcels of areca nuts and tobacco wrapped in betel leaves. “Let me know if you need a wife. I can find one for you.”
Greer nodded. “Thank you, Lola, I will.”
A box truck was waiting outside. A sun-faded watermelon was displayed on the side along with the words, “Jonny’s Produce.”
Once in the back Greer discovered that the cargo area was mostly full of tubs, filled with mangoes, bananas, and pineapples. Thanks to the external refrigeration unit the cargo area was cool. Too cool.
Red Tide Page 6
