Red Tide

by William C. Dietz

  Fortunately, the driver had anticipated the problem, and two neatly folded blankets were waiting behind a false wall consisting of stacked crates. An old mattress was there to soften the ride. “There’s a checkpoint twenty-five miles west of here,” Wally said. “And when the soldiers open the back, they will see nothing but containers of fruit. Then they will pull the door down, and give the driver permission to proceed.”

  Greer eyed the boy. “And if they enter? And find us?”

  “Then we will die fighting,” Wally said. And, judging from the determination in the teenager’s eyes, he meant it.

  There were no windows. Nor was there a way to interact with the driver. So, Greer took the submachine gun apart, and put it back together while Wally surfed the internet. That gave Greer an idea. “Do me a favor Wally … See what you can find out about the other pilots. The ones who were captured.”

  Like most kids his age Wally was very internet savvy. And over the next half hour he shared about a dozen articles with Greer. Most were worthless propaganda stories filled with hyperbole about how evil the fliers were.

  But one story actually had some content, including photos and names. And Greer knew them. He’d flown with them, gotten wasted with them, and gone to one pilot’s wedding.

  The pilots had, according to the article, been taken to the Bataan Prison and Penal Farm.

  “Because the Penal Farm is already operational, and well-guarded, it’s the perfect place to house the American psychopaths,” the story read. “Once the necessary arrangements are complete, the prisoners will be sent to China, where they will go on trial.”

  The last sentence sent a chill down Greer’s spine. Because he had little doubt that once his fellow aviators went to trial, they would be found guilty, and executed. He gave the phone back. “Thanks, Wally. I think I’ll take a nap.”

  Greer closed his eyes, but was thinking rather than napping. And it wasn’t long before the truck slowed and came to a stop. “There will be a line,” Wally predicted. “There always is.”

  The teenager was correct. The truck advanced in a series of fits and starts that lasted for the better part of thirty minutes. That was when Greer heard muffled voices, the latch was freed, and daylight flooded the cargo area.

  Wally put a finger to his lips but there was no need. Greer’s heart was pounding like a trip hammer, and the submachine gun was ready in his hands. “Fruit, huh?” a voice said. “How do I know if it’s any good?”

  “Would you like to try one of our watermelons?” a second voice said. “Just to make sure? They were picked early this morning.”

  “That sounds like a good idea,” the first voice said. Scuffling noises were heard as the driver climbed up into the truck, chose a watermelon, and returned to the doorway. “Here, please accept this with my compliments.”

  “Thank you,” the policeman said. “We will test it during lunch.”

  The door rattled closed, Greer heard the engine start, and felt the truck get underway. “We’ll spend the night in Dingras,” Wally announced. “We’ll be there in a couple of hours.”

  Wally’s prediction proved to be true. And, when the driver pushed the big door up and out of the way, his passengers were eager to get out. The truck was parked in a warehouse. Rays of light streamed in through gaps in the siding, spraying streaks of gold across the floor. “This is it,” Wally announced. “Home sweet home. We’re on our own for dinner. Fortunately, a good restaurant is located nearby.”

  Greer didn’t want to go out. But knew it wasn’t realistic to expect home cooked dinners at each stop. The driver was a short, stocky man named Angel. He was in a hurry to head home. He locked the side door behind them and gave Wally the key. “Don’t let anyone in,” Angel said. “And be ready at eight in the morning.” With that he left.

  It was hot and humid. The sidewalk was cracked where tree roots pushed up from below. Shanties lurked in the shadows between commercial buildings. The sinister thump, thump, thump of bass emanated from a Toyota Vios as it passed by. Greer felt as if he was being watched. Because he was the only black guy in sight? Probably. But he was used to that. A black man could attract hairy eyeballs in the good old U. S. of A. too.

  Wally led Greer around a corner and onto a narrow street. Greer saw signs advertising a laundry, an internet café, a convenience store, and much to his surprise—a Mexican restaurant. It was called “The Blue Cactus.” “I hope you like Mexican food,” Wally said, “because that’s where we’re going.”

  “I love it,” Greer replied. “Are Mexican restaurants common in the Philippines?”

  “Of course,” Wally answered. As if Greer had asked a silly question.

  The Blue Cactus was very busy which forced Greer and Wally to eat at a standup table. “Order two San Miguel Pale Pilsens,” Wally said. “What’s a taco without a beer?”

  That was when Greer realized that Wally wasn’t old enough to drink. Should he play dad? Hell, no. He ordered the beers.

  The beer was cold, and the chicken tacos were hot, which was the perfect combo in Greer’s opinion. And all three went down in a hurry. That was partly due to the fact that Greer was hungry. But he figured the faster they ate, and the faster they left, the better.

  Greer couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. The sensation followed Greer out onto the street where he paused to check his six. But it was clean, or so it seemed anyway, and that would have to do.

  It was nearly dark by the time they reentered the warehouse, turned the lights on, and locked the door. “I’ll get the blankets out of the truck,” Wally volunteered. “We can sleep on the floor against the wall.”

  Greer eyed the inside of the warehouse while Wally was gone. And was ready with a question when the teen returned. “What is that stuff?”

  Wally followed a pointing finger over to a fifteen-foot-high pile of baled fiber. “That’s copra,” Wally answered. “It comes from coconuts.”

  “Let’s sleep on top of the pile,” Greer suggested. “The copra will be softer than the floor, and we’ll be up and out of sight.”

  Wally shrugged. “Sure, if you want to.”

  After making use of a filthy washroom, they climbed up to the top of the pile, where they spread their blankets. It was too hot to crawl under the blankets and the copra was scratchy. Greer thought he would have trouble falling asleep but didn’t. The dream was achingly familiar. Greer was back at Annapolis, and sitting in a class, when he realized that he hadn’t done his homework. That was when a large truck smashed through the door.

  Greer heard the roar of an engine, followed by a shout. “Police! Come out with your hands up!”

  Greer was trying to decide how to handle the situation when Wally stood and opened fire with what sounded like a .22 semi. Pop! Pop! Pop!

  Greer swore, fumbled with the latches on the briefcase, and opened the lid. The police were firing back by then, and it sounded as if they were armed with all manner of pistols, assault weapons, and shotguns. The slugs couldn’t penetrate the copra however.

  Wally took a very sensible dive as Greer took hold of the submachine gun and wormed his way over to the edge of the pile. The cops were firing at the place where Wally had been.

  That gave Greer a moment to assess the situation. There were four of them, all dressed in black uniforms and tac gear. Did that include body armor? Most likely. Greer aimed low.

  There hadn’t been time to screw the suppressor on, nor a reason to, since the police were making one hell of a racket. The Bullpup chattered as Greer swept the weapon from left to right. The bullets hit ankle high and dumped three of the cops on their asses.

  Greer missed the fourth but gave himself a do-over and shot the policeman in the head. That was when the submachine gun clicked empty.

  Greer dumped the magazine and was in the process of seating another when Wally went over the side. Greer shouted, “No!” but the command came too late. The wounded cops were swearing as they rolled around on the cement floor try
ing to stop the bleeding. But any one of them could take a timeout to shoot Wally. Greer stood in hopes of distracting them.

  There was no need. Wally had reloaded by then, and was firing. One to the head, one to the chest, one to the head, and one to the chest. The policemen died within seconds of each other. Greer slid down the stack to the floor. “God damnit, Wally … We killed four policemen. The entire force will be after us.”

  “No,” Wally said coldly, “they won’t. These assholes are criminals. Chances are they spotted you out on the street, and planned to hold you for ransom.”

  “Not police? How can you be sure?”

  “Look at their shoes. Cops wear boots, not running shoes.”

  Greer looked. And sure enough, the blood-soaked shoes the men wore were sneakers. “I’ll call for a pickup,” Wally said. “We need to get out of here.”

  Greer took the opportunity to scrounge some 5.8x21mm and nine-mil ammo for his weapons, and to cram everything into his knapsack, while Wally talked on the phone. “Okay,” the teenager said, as he broke the connection. “We’re going to depart on foot, and meet our ride four blocks from here. Let’s haul ass.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Pentagon, Washington D.C.

  In spite of gas rationing, traffic in Washington D.C. was bad. And no wonder, since tens of thousands of civilian workers and members of the military had been added to the city’s population, all vying for cabs, apartments, and reservations at local restaurants.

  Ryson’s orders had arrived two days after the battle in which the Russian cruiser Omsk had been sunk, along with most of her escorts. And the Black Sea was a Russian pond no more.

  Commander Maxwell Ryson had, for reasons unknown to him, been afforded the full VIP treatment, including a seat on a small jet all the way from Turkey, followed by a ride to his hotel in a black SUV, and eight hours of sleep. Now he was in a cab on the way to the Pentagon. The suspense was killing him. They have something in mind, Ryson reasoned as the cab came to a stop. I hope it isn’t a staff job.

  A perky ensign was waiting to greet him. She was, Ryson assumed, a ninety-day wonder and right out of officer candidate school. She was holding a sign with his name on it. “Good morning, sir. I’m Ensign Bradley. This is your temporary ID. Please wear it at all times. The SecNav is running half an hour late. But Admiral Simmons and Captain Dorsey are available to meet with you. Would you like to freshen up on the way?”

  “I don’t need to pee,” Ryson replied. “But thanks for checking.”

  Bradley grinned. “Please follow me.”

  It took the better part of fifteen minutes to pass through a pre-screening, and a final screening, before being admitted to the building. Ryson had done a tour there, and knew the ropes. But there was a new sense of urgency in the air.

  As Bradley led him through the maze Ryson saw American uniforms, British Uniforms and more. Some of which were completely foreign to him.

  “This is the room where the SecDef meets with the Joint Chiefs,” Bradley said brightly. A marine corporal snapped to attention. “Commander Ryson and Ensign Bradley to see Admiral Simmons and Captain Dorsey,” Bradley said. “They’re expecting us.”

  The marine opened the door, said something to a person inside, and turned back. “The admiral and the captain will see you now.”

  Bradley stood to one side so Ryson could enter first. He’d never been in the room before. An oil painting of Lincoln meeting with his generals was hanging on a light gray wall. A well-lit table flanked by nine high-backed leather chairs claimed the center of the room. Two senior officers were waiting to receive Ryson, along with a navy steward and a civilian.

  Bradley withdrew as the officers came forward to meet Ryson. Admiral Simmons was mostly bald, wore wire rimmed glasses, and had a firm handshake. “I don’t believe we’ve met, Commander. But you have an excellent rep.”

  “That’s right,” Dorsey put in. “It’s good to see you Max. What’s it been? A couple of years? All spent on those little piss pots.”

  “Those piss pots did the job,” Simmons said stolidly. “Would you like some coffee? Some java for the commander please. The SecNav is running late. But that means we can pre-brief you. Please grab a chair.”

  A mug of coffee appeared at Ryson’s elbow along with cream and sugar. “Let’s start with the basics,” Dorsey said. “We have a problem, a BIG problem, and we think you could be an important part of the solution.”

  “That’s right,” Simmons said, as he aimed a remote at a screen. “I know you’ve been busy, but I suspect you’re aware of what happened to the Concord, and her battle group.”

  “I am,” Ryson agreed. “Chinese propaganda footage was all over Turkish television. According to what I heard a Chinese battle group, centered around the carrier Henan, sank the Concord.”

  “That’s true up to a point,” Dorsey put in. “But there’s a pretty good chance that the Concord would have survived had it not been for one of the Henan’s escorts. It delivered the final blows and, interestingly enough, hasn’t received any mention by the ChiCom bullshit machine. And here it is.”

  A series of grainy black and white satellite images appeared, and none of them were worth much. All Ryson could make out was a long gray oval with vertical structures at both ends. He turned his gaze to Dorsey. “It looks like a whale with two heads.”

  Dorsey laughed. “In some ways it is. First because it’s big, well over six hundred and fifty-feet long, second because it’s semisubmersible, and third because it does have two heads. Or, in this case, conning towers. One forward and one aft. The Chinese call it the Sea Dragon. And it was the Sea Dragon that killed thousands of our sailors.”

  Ryson frowned. “How?”

  “That’s the right question,” Simmons said, as a diagram appeared. “Here’s the way the battle unfolded. The Concord, and her battle group, were here, east of Luzon. The Henan, and her battle group, were here, west of Luzon.

  “The Chinese started the fight, and the Concord responded. But in the meantime, the Sea Dragon, along with what we think were two attack subs, circled north. Due to the ship’s low radar profile, and the fog of war, no one noticed the half-submerged cruiser as it rounded the north end of Luzon. That’s where the Sea Dragon fired five shots from a railgun, along with what we estimate to have been a dozen surface-to-surface missiles. Game over.”

  “Seriously?” Ryson demanded. “A railgun?”

  “Yes,” Dorsey replied. “We have one under development, but it isn’t ready for prime time. The bastards beat us to it.”

  A knock was heard, the door opened, and Ensign Bradley appeared. “Secretary Moran is here.”

  Moran entered, paused to look at the people who were present, and smiled. It was a famous smile, thanks to three years as a successful talk show host. The only talk show host who had graduated from Annapolis, served twenty years in the navy, and been elected to congress prior to becoming secretary. She had a shock of gray hair and even features. “Good morning, gentlemen. I’m sorry to be late. I see our victim is present.”

  Ryson stood as Moran made her way over, hand extended. “Congratulations, Commander. What you accomplished in the Black Sea was nothing less than amazing. Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

  Moran’s eyes were sky blue and her grip was professionally firm. The part about coming on short notice was bullshit of course, since Ryson had no choice, but it was a nice thing to say. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Madam Secretary. As for the Black Sea, I had a lot of help.”

  A cloud seemed to fall over the secretary’s face. “You took 50 percent causalities.”

  The fact that Moran knew that, and cared, meant a lot. Ryson nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I miss my shipmates.”

  Moran forced a smile. “It sounds trite, I know that, but we have to keep on. And that’s why you’re here.” She turned to Simmons. “How much does the Commander know?”

  “We brought him up to speed on the Sea Dragon and her role in the loss of
the Concord,” the admiral replied. “But we haven’t addressed Operation Red Tide.”

  “I’m just in time then,” Moran said, as she took her seat. “Let’s jump in.”

  Dorsey nodded. “The objective of Operation Red Tide is to find the Sea Dragon and sink her. The National Reconnaissance Office (NRO) is looking for the ship, but it’s difficult. You saw the satellite imagery. At least half the cruiser is underwater at any given time, and there are thousands of square miles to search.

  “The sky spooks believe the Dragon is in port right now. But there’s no way to be sure. So they have to scan the South China Sea and the Philippine Sea just in case. And that takes a lot of person power and machine time.”

  “How about our subs?” Ryson inquired. “I assume they’re looking as well.”

  Moran was an ex-submarine skipper. She nodded her head. “We’re short of everything. Submarines included. But yes … We put additional resources into the area.”

  “And one of them might nail the Sea Dragon,” Simmons said. “Let’s hope they do. But here’s the problem. In addition to being difficult to see, the Dragon is hard to hear, thanks to a nuclear-powered waterjet propulsion system. That’s what the Intel people believe, and for good reason. The Sea Dragon’s Chief Engineer is a Captain named Bohai Hong. He’s a longtime proponent of waterjet technology for surface ships.”

  Ryson was quite familiar with waterjet technology since Class I and Class II PHMs were equipped with it. Hong’s face appeared on the screen. He was a handsome man with a high forehead, a long nose, and a well-shaped mouth. But most interesting of all was the look of calm determination in his eyes. “That photo was taken about a year ago,” Dorsey said. “At a meeting of the National People’s Congress.”

  “And that’s where things become even more interesting,” Moran added. “Hong was there as a guest of his brother-in-law Premier Li Lau. And, according to some high quality humint (human intelligence), no love is lost between Lau and President Enlai. How that might impact the situation is unknown.”