Red Tide

by William C. Dietz

  Now it was clear that political officer Ang was a lot more than a pain in the ass. He was an MSS agent who’d been sent to keep an eye on the Sea Dragon’s Chief Engineer, Captain Bohai Hong. A man who, if Ang’s correspondence was to be believed, was a member of a shadowy group called Shi Quan (The Circle of Ten). A secret society pledged to remove President Enlai from office and replace him with Hong’s brother-in-law Lau.

  So, how to extricate himself? There were two choices, or so it seemed to Jing. He could do nothing and hope for the best. Or, he could anonymously pass the information to Hong, in hopes that the Chief Engineer would find a way to rid himself of Ang. And that was the option Jing chose.

  But how? After considering all sorts of farfetched possibilities Jing decided that the direct approach would be best. After downloading all the messages to a thumb drive, Jing placed the device in an envelope and addressed it to “Shi Quan.” A name which was sure to grab Hong’s attention. Then Jing went to the tiny postal cubby located next to the officer’s mess, and slid the envelope into Hong’s mailbox.

  After returning to his bunk, Jing he wiped his browsing history, and took the time required to reformat the thumb stick he’d been working from. Jing tried to fall sleep. He couldn’t.

  ***

  Aboard the HMAS Eucia in the Celebes Sea, north of Manado, Indonesia

  The Eucia’s bow rose, and spray flew port and starboard, as the patrol boat cut through a six-foot wave on her way north toward the Philippine island of Mindanao. The Armindale’s bridge was considerably more spacious than a hydrofoil’s.

  Ryson was seated next to Lieutenant James Atworthy. Due to the exigencies of war the Australians, like the Americans, had been forced to give young officers commands that would normally go to someone more senior.

  But according to Vos, Lieutenant Atworthy was quite competent, and Ryson had to agree. Part of that competency stemmed from the fact that Atworthy knew the local waters, which showed in the confident way that he pushed his boat north.

  Thanks to radar, GPS, and the Armindale’s computer, the Australian knew exactly where he was. The Eucia was westbound between the Philippine island of Palawan, and the northern extreme of Malaysia.

  “The Spratly Islands are right over there,” Atworthy said, as he pointed west. “Which puts them more than a thousand miles from China. That’s a long supply chain.

  “So, thanks to the sweetheart deal they have with President Costas, the Chinese airlift supplies to Palawan Island, and pay Filipino fishermen to run them out to the bases on the Spratlys. Our job is to disrupt that supply chain, put pressure on those locations, and force the Chinese to evacuate.”

  Ryson knew that the Spratlys were part of a long running dispute between China, Taiwan, Malaysia, the Philippines and others concerning the ownership of the islands, which had strategic importance. And might be adjacent to oil deposits as well.

  That’s why the Chinese had spent years turning reefs into islands, complete with military outposts. “What you say makes sense,” Ryson said. “But what if you succeed? And the Chinese send supplies in via submarines?”

  “Then we force them to tie up subs that they would rather use elsewhere,” Atworthy replied easily. “Plus, it would set them up for our attack subs.”

  “I like it,” Ryson said admiringly.

  “It was Admiral Nathan’s idea,” Atworthy replied.

  Nathan suddenly went up a notch in Ryson’s estimation. Never mind the political aspirations the man might, or might not have, Nathan was a real honest-to-God admiral. And that was a good thing.

  Ryson’s train of thought was interrupted by a voice on the intercom. “We have four targets to the northwest,” an electronics technician announced. “They were traveling west single file. One of them is turning our way and increasing speed.”

  “That’s typical,” Atworthy said. “Three heavily laden fishing boats and a Chinese escort. Sound general quarters. It looks like they want a fight.”

  A klaxon sounded. But that was little more than a formality, since most crew members were at their stations already. Atworthy turned to the helmsman. “Steer to intercept.”

  “From what I can see,” the ET said, “and the speed with which we’re closing with them, the enemy vessel is a Chinese C 14 missile boat.”

  Having done his homework Ryson knew that C 14 missile boats had catamaran style hulls, which were originally designed for use in the Middle East. And, as any sailor knows, catamarans are faster than monohulls, in this case much faster. According to what Ryson had read a C 14 could do about 52 knots per hour, while Atworthy’s Armindale would max out at 26. And that disparity might have something to do with the Chinese skipper’s eagerness to engage.

  There was another difference too … C 14s were typically armed with short-range guided missiles, or a pair of torpedo tubes, the latter being something of an anachronism. Which were they about to face? The Eucia was armed with a remotely operated 25mm Bushmaster autocannon and crew-served-weapons that could be brought up from below.

  That was a concern. Not just where the impending battle was concerned, but regarding the Armindales generally, and their usefulness. Should Ryson try to up-gun them? Or, limit how the boats were employed? It was an important choice.

  The distance between the boats had closed by then and Ryson waited to see what Atworthy would do. Surely the Australian knew what a C 14 was capable of and had a plan in mind. What looked like sparks appeared as missiles took to the air. What would happen next? Ryson waited to learn his fate.

  ***

  Aboard the semisubmersible cruiser Sea Dragon, at the Yulin Navy Base, China

  Chief Engineer Bohai Hong was scared. And for good reason. After opening the envelope with “Shi Quan” written on it, and opening the thumb drive, Hong’s worst fears were realized. Not only was he under surveillance by an MSS agent, President Enlai was preparing to move against his brother-in-law Premier Li Lau, and there was an urgent need to warn him.

  As for the person who had intercepted and decrypted the email chain, there were only so many people on the ship who had the necessary skills, and Hong knew who they were. It hardly mattered which officer it was though, since he was clearly an ally rather than a threat.

  Thanks to Hong’s rank, and the fact that the ship was in port, he could come and go as he pleased, so long as his number two was on board, and ready to run the engineering department in an emergency. So, Hong left Sea Dragon, and took public transportation into Sanya, where he spent the better part of an hour pretending to shop—while checking for any sign that he was being monitored in an unusual way.

  That was made more difficult by the fact that all of Sanya’s citizens were monitored. Thousands of computer-linked cameras were watching the city’s residents go about their daily lives and facial recognition software was being used to surveil certain individuals.

  But the need for private communications between Hong and his brother-in-law had been anticipated. And the best way to commit the crime was to do it in plain sight.

  Hong chose a table in an open-air restaurant, ordered tea, and eyed his cell phone. At least half the people seated around him were doing the same thing. The first step was to select a fictious name from his contact list and send a one-word instant message: “Jinji.” (Urgent.)

  Lau was a busy man so Hong knew there would be a wait. He spent his time drinking tea and reading the nonsense on CGTN’s (China Global Television Network’s) website. The victory over the American Battle Group had faded from the news by then. But still, according to the functionaries who wrote for CGTN, the Axis was winning every battle it fought.

  Hong’s phone chirped. As he thumbed it on Hong knew the conversation would be scrambled both ways. “Hello, Admiral,” Premier Lau said. “What’s up?”

  Hong wasn’t an admiral. But Lau had referred to him as such when he was still a lieutenant.

  “Nothing good,” Hong replied. “Here’s the situation.” That was followed by a concise descripti
on of the envelope he’d received, and the nature of its contents, including the message that ordered Ang to “neutralize” Hong on the eve of “the consolidation.”

  “I see,” the Premier said. “It sounds like they are preparing to take action against me. You’re sure this information is genuine? What if it’s a trick? An attempt to provoke us?”

  “No,” Hong said. “I’m not sure of anything. So, I’m going to send you an attachment that includes both the encrypted and decrypted messages. Surely you have technicians who can determine whether the material is authentic.”

  “I do,” Lau said. “Send the attachment.”

  “What if your technicians decide that the messages are genuine. What then?”

  “Then,” Lau said, “some changes will have to be made.”

  ***

  Aboard the HMAS Eucia in the Celebes Sea, north of Manado, Indonesia

  “There are two bogeys, probably missiles, in from the north,” the radioman announced.

  Lieutenant James Atworthy was unmoved. The orders he gave were identical to the ones Ryson would have given. “Activate ECM, fire flares, blow chaff and take evasive action.”

  Ryson was standing rather than sitting. He felt the deck tilt under his feet as the wheel went over, and the helmsman began a series of random course changes, which might or might not be effective against the Chinese guidance systems.

  There was no way to assess which defensive measures, or combination of measures, prevented the missiles from striking the Armindale. But one missile missed and the other exploded.

  Meanwhile both of the Eucia’s diesels were producing maximum power as Atworthy hurried to close the distance with the enemy patrol boat. And Ryson knew why. Once the Armindale was within two or three miles of the C 14 its missiles would be ineffective.

  And more than that, it was highly likely that the Chinese boat’s secondary armament consisted of little more than a machine gun. If so, the Eucia’s 25mm cannon would win the day.

  But what if the C 14 was armed with torpedoes? They would be even more effective at close range. Atworthy was placing a very important bet. And one which he won since the catamaran wasn’t armed with torpedoes.

  As the combatants came within range of each other’s guns it became clear that the Chinese skipper was no push over. He was, it seemed, keenly aware of the fact that his catamaran could literally run circles around the Armindale and proceeded to do so.

  Muzzle flashes were visible as the heavy machine gun on the C 14’s bow began to chug. And only seconds passed before the slugs were striking the Eucia’s port side and stern. Ryson battled the desire to duck as shells hammered the port side of the Armindale’s superstructure but failed to penetrate the boat’s armor.

  In the meantime, the Armindale’s 25mm cannon had nothing to shoot at, since it couldn’t be brought to bear. Maybe we could mount fifty caliber machine guns just aft of the superstructure, Ryson mused. Where they could defend our flanks and the stern.

  Though less than perfect Atworthy had a solution for the problem. And that was to order the helmsman to put the wheel all the way over, and put one engine into reverse, causing the Eucia to rotate. That brought the bow cannon on target. And with some judicious help from the boat’s helmsman, the 25mm proceeded to pump shells into the C 14 at a rate of 100 rounds per minute.

  There was a bright flash as the Chinese boat exploded, followed by a blast wave that caused the Eucia to shudder, and cheers from the CIC. “Well done,” Ryson said over the intercom. “The first round of beers will be on me.”

  The announcement triggered even more cheers. But Ryson’s thoughts were elsewhere. The Armindale’s crew was first rate. But their boat was badly outgunned. And God help any Armindale that made contact with a frigate or a destroyer—never mind the Sea Dragon. Something would have to be done.

  ***

  The Chaoyang Park neighborhood, Beijing, China

  The 18th century Spring Palace was located in what was considered to be the wealthiest section of the capital, on the periphery of the sprawling green area for which it was known. Chaoyang Park residents were typically rich. And President Enlai was no exception. He was a billionaire who, in spite of the war, had assets hidden within some of the countries China was at war with.

  The Chinese government seized the Spring Palace immediately after the American owner left the country at the beginning of the war. Enlai purchased it shortly thereafter for the token price of 100,000.00 USD. And, as the morning sun inched higher in the sky, the president was standing at the exact center of the beautifully appointed central courtyard preparing for his morning workout.

  After bowing to each direction of the compass, Enlai began the highly ritualized series of moves taught to him by a Jian (Sword) master during his youth. Some said that practicing with such an outdated weapon was silly. But they missed the point. Sword fighting was about focus, harmony, and strength. Glints of sunlight reflected off the narrow double-edged sword as it rose, fell, and cut the air.

  In fact, Enlai was so engrossed with his workout that he was oblivious to the real-world battle occurring all around him. Premier Lau and his loyalists had spent years infiltrating the ranks of Enlai’s household retainers and security detail with members of the PAP (The People’s Armed Police). And that effort was paying off.

  Even though Lau’s agents represented only a small fraction of the president’s staff, they had the advantage of surprise. Enlai’s wife and children were the first to die, immediately followed by the members of his security detail who happened to be on duty.

  It wasn’t until Enlai completed his highly stylized series of moves, and returned the sword to the resting position, that he sensed something was wrong. But what?

  Enlai turned a slow 360. His bodyguards, all four of them, had been replaced by men wearing black hoods. They were armed with suppressed weapons and stood like statues.

  Enlai felt a terrible sickness enter his stomach as Li Lau appeared from the shadows. The Premier made a show of looking around. “No matter how splendid this is, it represents only a tiny fraction of your wealth, much of which is hidden abroad.

  “The Chinese people will be treated to a video tour later today, along with photos of your other homes, and documents listing your foreign investments. Some of which are making large sums of money manufacturing weapons used to kill our soldiers.”

  In seconds everything Enlai had worked so hard for, and hoped for, had come crashing down. “And my family?”

  “All dead. Slaughtered by you before you committed suicide.”

  “But I didn’t …”

  Enlai dropped the sword as a bullet hit his head. His body fell on top of it.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The village of Bagao, in the Province of Bataan, the Philippines

  The fishing village of Bagao was located down the coast from the town of Morong. And after a week at sea Greer was thrilled to see it. During his voyage the pilot had been able to overcome bouts of seasickness, learn some Tagalog, and make peace with the name “Hey-you!” As in “Hey-you, pull on that rope!” “Hey-you, empty the garbage can!” And, “Hey-you, throw up over the side.”

  Now he was, in the words of the skipper, “As useful as a three-legged dog.” And that, according to a fisherman named Pedro, was a compliment.

  There was no dock. Just rows of brightly painted Banca boats which had been beached. “It’s Sunday,” Pedro said. “They aren’t fishing today.”

  The Saint Andrew was too large to beach, so a rusty anchor went over the side, as a sun-bleached RIB boat was lowered from the stern davits. Greer asked if he could go ashore and the skipper said, “Hell no. Not until Roberto says so.” Then he left.

  It was hot. But a much-patched sail had been rigged to throw some shade onto the deck. And, when a bright blue rowboat came alongside, Pedro bought 2 six packs of ice-cold beer. Greer savored a bottle of San Miguel, and wondered if he could get it in the states.

  Time passed. The hammock Greer was l
ying in swayed with the boat. His parents came to mind. Did mom and dad think he was dead? Of course, they did. But, if the plan worked, he’d call them from Indonesia. Or he’d email them … Or …

  Greer heard a thump as another boat came alongside. That was followed by the sound of the skipper’s voice. “Hey you! Roberto’s here.”

  Greer felt a rising sense of excitement as he stood and went to shake hands with the underground leader. “Damn, it’s good to see you Roberto.”

  “And you,” Dalisay replied. “Are you ready to go ashore?”

  “More than ready. Is the plan intact?”

  “Yes,” Dalisay answered. “A local woman knows a prison guard. She can’t ask direct questions without revealing too much. But the man is quite loquacious. Especially when drunk. Which is most of the time. So, we know roughly how many guards there are, and which building the Americans are housed in.”

  “What kind of condition are they in? That will make a big difference if a special ops team goes in to rescue them.”

  “We don’t know,” Dalisay confessed. “That’s why we made arrangements for you to go in and talk to them.”

  “You did what?”

  “You heard me,” Dalisay said. “A South African journalist named Noel Zondi is scheduled to interview the American prisoners at 4:00 pm this afternoon. South Africa is neutral. And China wants to win hearts and minds there. That’s why my government is willing to let you visit the Bataan Provincial Detention Center, and write what they assume will be an anti-American story. I can’t accompany you. Photos of me are posted everywhere. But an agent named Mary will act as your guide and interpreter.”

  “Is that her real name?”

  Dalisay grinned. “No, of course not. Do you have any luggage? If so, get it. We’re leaving.”

  All Greer had were the clothes on his back and the hard-sided briefcase full of guns. With that in hand he followed Dalisay to the gangplank and from there to the dock. Greer waved to Pedro and got a one fingered salute in return. So much for fond farewells.