Red Tide

by William C. Dietz

  First however Greer had to stay low, well under Philippine radars, to avoid detection. Meanwhile, by using a lean fuel mixture, and 75 percent power, Greer hoped to maximize the distance he could cover with the existing fuel supply. At 125 knots, or 143 mph, it would be three plus hours before the fuel gave out.

  Ideally Greer would maintain radio silence until the last minute. But, if he did that, Allied forces wouldn’t be able to respond quickly enough to help. So, what to do?

  It was dark by then, and lights glittered like gemstones strewn on black velvet, as the Cessna droned its way south.

  The decision, Greer decided, was no decision at all. He had to contact Allied forces while there was time for them to react. And time for him to consider a forced landing on Mindanao Island if he didn’t get a response.

  The first step was to put out calls on three frequencies typically used for search and rescue operations. Those included the Aeronautical Auxiliary Frequency at 123.1 MHz, the U.S. military voice SAR frequency at 138.78 MHz, and the Joint/combat on-the-scene voice and DF frequency used throughout NATO at 282.8 MHz.

  Greer turned the radio on, put the pilot’s headset on, and selected the first frequency. “My name is Johnny Wong. Some people call me Kilo Wong. I am enroute to Karakelong Island. But I don’t have enough fuel to make it, so I’ll be forced to ditch north of there.

  “I want to apply for asylum in Indonesia. And, as a gesture of goodwill, I will provide the Indonesian government with a list of Chinese sleeper agents in the Philippines. So please send someone to pick me up. Oh, and your SARs boat will need air cover. Over.”

  Greer heard a response thirty seconds later. But it was in broken English, and staticky to boot. So, he took a run at the U.S. SARs frequency. The response was immediate. “This is Reacher-Three. What’s your call sign and approximate position. Over.”

  “It wouldn’t be wise to share either one,” Greer replied. “Not yet anyway. Will you send a boat? Over.”

  “I’ll get back to you on that,” Reacher-Three replied. “Please continue to monitor this frequency. Out.”

  “So,” Dalisay said. “What’s going to happen now?”

  “The Filipino air force will send planes to shoot us down.”

  “Will they? Shoot us down?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Greer replied. “We have plenty of sky to hide in.”

  That made sense and Dalisay nodded.

  As for Greer, he knew better than to believe that bullshit, and was waiting to die.

  ***

  The Celebes Sea, north of Manado, Indonesia

  U.S. Navy Commander Max Ryson was stretched out on a bunk with his clothes on, and oblivious to the fact that the PHM Cumulus was hullborne, and pushing her way through three-foot seas. The dream was nothing new. He was ten or twelve and trying to find his way through a corn maze. Pops was somewhere nearby and yelling instructions like, “Take the next right!”

  But each turn led to a dead end and Ryson was frightened. Then a second voice was heard. “Sorry to bother you, sir … But the skipper wants you on the bridge.”

  Ryson awoke, swung his feet over onto the floor, and remembered where he was: perched on Katie Barkley’s bunk while she conned the ship. “Tell her I’ll be there in a minute. I need to bleed my tank.”

  The com tech’s name was Evers. She grinned. “Sir, yes sir.”

  Ryson felt the bow rise on a wave before sinking again as he entered the head. A moderate sea was his guess and nothing to worry about.

  That assumption was proven correct after Ryson made his way forward and up the ladder to the bridge. It was dark outside but Ryson knew that the PHM Fractus was half a mile to port and on the same course.

  Barkley was present, along with Quartermaster Chris Sanchez, and Combat Systems officer Marsha Lee. She started to say, “Attention on deck,” but Ryson waved the courtesy off. “What’s up? And it better be good. I was dreaming of an ice-cold chocolate milkshake.”

  Barkley grinned. “Good luck with that, sir. A mug of coffee is the best we can do. According to the SAR folks some guy named Wong is flying a plane our way. He claims to be low on fuel, and will be forced to ditch north of Karakelong Island.

  “But here’s the weird part … Wong claims to have a list of Chinese sleeper agents in the Philippines, which he’s willing to turn over in return for asylum.”

  Ryson accepted a mug of coffee from Lee. “Do we have a recording?”

  Barkley said, “Yes sir.” She was wearing a headset and clicked it on. “Hey, Evers … Play the SAR message to the bridge.”

  “Okay,” Ryson said, once the recording stopped. “That is strange. Is it my imagination, or does Wong have a southern accent? And would a civilian request air cover?”

  Barkley had bangs and narrow set eyes. She nodded. “Exactly. There isn’t much to go on. But we think he might be one of ours. A downed pilot perhaps.”

  Ryson sipped his coffee. “Right. But why pretend to be a guy named Kilo Wong?”

  “Because he is one of ours,” Lee offered.

  Ryson nodded. “What do you think? Could we make it in time?”

  “That depends on what he’s flying,” Barkley replied. “Assuming it’s a prop job, I’d say yes.”

  “What does the Indonesian navy have on Karakelong?” Ryson inquired. “Maybe they can respond.”

  “I’ll find out,” Barkley answered, and summoned Evers up to the bridge.

  Ryson took a moment to reflect. If Wong was Wong, and in possession of the kind of list he described, then a rescue was consistent with the squadron’s orders. And if Wong wasn’t Wong, but an American pilot, it was his duty to make the pickup.

  It took fifteen minutes to find out that, while the Indonesians had a couple of launches stationed at Karakelong, they were lightly armed, and no match for what the Filipinos and/or the Chinese would probably send south. “Okay,” Ryson said. “Send the following message to fleet headquarters. ‘Aircraft carrying an American pilot, or what could be an intelligence asset, is going to ditch north of Karakelong. Planning to intercept. Request air cover.’ And sign my name.”

  “Yes, sir,” Evers replied.

  Ryson turned to Barkley. “Plot a course to an arbitrary point north of Karakelong. Get the Fractus on the horn, brief Conte, and tell him we’re going foilborne in five.”

  Barkley nodded. “Aye, aye sir.”

  “Oh, and one more thing,” Ryson said.

  “Sir?”

  “Send the crew to battle stations.”

  ***

  Two-thousand feet above Panay Island, the Philippines

  Greer needed to pee. And no wonder. His last leak had been prior to the prison visit. And Greer wasn’t wearing an AMXD (Aircrew Mission Extender Device) which could detect pee and pump it into a collection bag. So, all he could do was pee his pants, or manage to hold it.

  The sound of a voice broke his reverie. “This is Seadog-Three. We’re inbound to your projected ditch area. Let us know when you go feet wet. Over.”

  Greer said, “Roger that, over,” and thought better of it. A guy like Wong wouldn’t understand carrier slang like “feet wet,” to describe the moment when a plane is no longer over land. Was someone testing him? Trying to suss out whether he was military? If so, that was fine. The navy was a lot more likely to rescue an American pilot rather than some dude called “Kilo Wong.”

  Greer turned so Dalisay and Mary could hear him. “Good news! The U.S. Navy is going to help us. Or try anyway. Root around and see what you can find. We could use some life jackets and a flare gun.”

  “I’ll look back here,” Mary volunteered.

  Greer turned to Dalisay. “You said Wong had an accident. What kind of accident?”

  “A fatal accident,” Dalisay answered. “He’s six feet under.”

  Greer was about to reply when a jet fighter roared past so close that the turbulence threw the Cessna sideways. “Shit, shit, shit,” Greer said as he battled for control. “The bastards found
us! Tighten your seat belts. This is going to get hairy.”

  All sorts of thoughts flickered through Greer’s brain as he pushed the yoke forward. What was the other plane anyway? An aging South Korean made KAI T-50 was his best guess, since that’s what he and his fellow pilots had been told to expect if the Filipino air force came out to play.

  What was the pilot trying to accomplish? They want to force us down, Greer thought. And pump us dry. That ain’t a-gonna happen.

  So, what to do? The T-50 had every possible advantage except one. And that was too much speed. The problem was nothing new. Jet fighters had an average takeoff speed of something like 150 mph, while single engine prop jobs could lift off at about 70 mph.

  So anytime a fighter tried to intercept something like a Cessna it was impossible for the jet to pull up next to the smaller plane and hang there. A differential that Greer planned to take full advantage of.

  “Roll through all the frequencies,” Greer ordered, as he passed the headset to Dalisay. “Find the jet jockey. Chances are he’s trying to talk to us. Tell him you’re Wong, and stall for time.”

  Greer pulled out of the dive about 500 feet off the ground and began to zig zag as a stream of tracers shot past him. Thanks to its speed the T-50 had been able to circle back around and come up from behind!

  Greer heard Dalisay speak. “This is Johnny Wong. Stop shooting!”

  The key was to ignore the back and forth and look for an opportunity of some sort. Greer’s eyes were drawn to a pair of strobing lights in the distance. Cell towers? It didn’t matter. What mattered was that they were close together. Very close together. Could the asshole on his tail fly? Greer was going to find out.

  Dalisay continued to babble all sorts of nonsense into the mike as the Cessna closed on the towers. Where was the T-50 anyway? Circling? Or on his six? Greer hoped for the latter. Some right stick put the 172 on target. But Greer was having second thoughts as the flashing beacons rushed at him.

  Then, before he could chicken out, the red beacons flashed past both wings. Greer pulled back on the yoke and was starting to climb—when a flash of light lit the inside of the cabin—and a blast wave hit the Cessna. “Something blew up!” Mary exclaimed, as she looked out through the back window.

  Greer banked to the right, saw a pile of burning wreckage, and realized that the T-50 was down. Would the government send another T-50? Of course, they would.

  The fiery wreck would serve as an excellent marker. Start there and head south. That’s all the next plane or planes had to do.

  But the 172 would cover some important miles while the Philippine air force was getting its shit together. Greer glanced at the fuel gauge, didn’t like what he saw, and decided to ignore it.

  ***

  Aboard the PHM Cumulus, west of Karakelong Island, in the Celebes Sea

  The incoming call was heard on the bridge. “This is Longjohn and Smoker inbound from the south with missiles and guns. Whatcha got? Over.”

  Barkley spoke into her headset. “This is Seadog-Three. We’re expecting a light plane. It will ditch north of Karakelong Island. Philippine and/or Chinese fighters may be chasing it. Keep them off us but don’t overfly any Filipino territory. That would constitute an act of war on a neutral country. Do you read me? Over.”

  “Loud and clear,” came the reply. “Over.”

  Ryson turned to Lee. “Put a call into the sky spooks,” Ryson said. “Ask them for any imagery they may have regarding shipping south of Mindanao Island, and north of Karakelong. I want to know what kind of assets the Filipino government sends to intercept us.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lee said, and left the bridge.

  “We’re rounding Karakelong,” Barkley said. “And turning onto our new course. ETA at the projected crash site is just under an hour.”

  “Confirm with the Fractus,” Ryson replied. “And tell Conte that, in the case of a ditching, I want him to pull the pilot out of the drink. The Cumulus will take up a position to the north and shield him from surface craft that may enter the area.”

  “Aye, aye,” Barkley replied. “Permission to rotate the crew through the galley.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Ryson said. “Assuming Wong makes it to the rendezvous we’re going to be busy.”

  ***

  One-thousand feet above Mindanao Island, the Philippines

  The headset was unplugged so the voice boomed through the plane’s ceiling mounted speaker. “This is Filipino air force plane Cat-2. You will immediately execute a one-eighty and follow my directions. Otherwise, I’ll shoot you down.”

  Greer executed a tight 180 degree change in heading, and pulled the yoke back into a near vertical climb. That caused the airspeed to drop. Then, before the 172 could stall, he applied a hard rudder, putting the plane into a vertical flat-turn, with his port wing pointing straight up.

  The maneuver was called a wingover. And something Cessna 172s weren’t designed to do. But Greer knew he was near Mindanao’s southern coast, and hoped to shake his purser just long enough to go feet wet, and reach the ditch site.

  As the Cessna’s speed fell off Greer made a 180 degree flat-turn over the top of the climb, dived to his original altitude, and was back on course. He thumbed the mike. “This is Kilo Wong. I have a T-50 on my ass, and I’m about to cross the coast at 1,000 feet. I’m turning my navigation lights on. Be advised that I have two, repeat two passengers, both wearing PFDs.”

  The response came as a surprise. “Roger that, Kilo. This is Longjohn and Smoker. Two 18s in from the west with missiles and guns … We’ve got you buddy … Lead the sucker out over the water. Over.”

  Greer felt his spirits soar. He didn’t know either one of the pilots, but that didn’t matter. He was close, so damned close, if only … A stream of tracer shot past, the plane shook as the starboard wing took a hit, and Greer saw nav lights blur past.

  ***

  At the projected ditching site 30 miles south of Mindanao Island

  “We have surface targets inbound from the north,” Combat Systems Officer Marsha Lee announced from the tiny CIC. “The larger blip could be the Kagitingan class patrol boat which was docked in the port of General Santos late yesterday. The smaller blips are likely to be patrol boats.”

  Ryson was on the bridge with coffee mug in hand. “What kind of armament are we up against?”

  “Assuming it is a Kagitingan class, we’re looking at an Emertec 30mm, or a Bofors 40mm, depending on which vessel it is. They also carry 4 fifties, and a couple of 7.62mm machine guns.”

  Ryson turned to Barkley. “Try and raise them. Tell them who we are. And warn them. They will change course or be fired on.”

  “Here comes the plane!” a lookout shouted. “It’s on fire!”

  ***

  Three hundred feet above the Celebes Sea, south of Mindanao Island

  The starboard wing was on fire. That was the bad news. The good news was that there was very little fuel remaining in the plane’s tanks. And the flames would make the 172 that much more visible to the SAR people.

  Meanwhile Greer was trying to pull up the rules about ditching from his mental files. A process which, thank God, he’d never been required to use before. “Touch down on the top of a swell.” He remembered that much. But it was impossible to see that kind of detail.

  “And ditch at low speed.” No problem there … His airspeed was falling.

  “But what about ditching into the wind?” Greer had no idea which way the wind was blowing. He thumbed the mike. “Gun Daddy to Seadog. Wind direction please. Over.”

  “South to north,” came the reply. “We can see you. Veer to Starboard by five degrees. Then you’ll be straight in. Over.”

  Greer did as he was told. He was skimming the surface of the sea by then. And thanks to his nose light he could see the foam topped swells. “Brace yourselves!” Greer warned. “We’re about to …”

  Greer never got to finish the warning. The Cessna hit the crest of a wave, skipped like a stone,
and bellyflopped into the trough between two swells. “Out, out, out!” Greer shouted.

  The water wasn’t up to the doors yet which meant they could still be opened. “Roberto … Help Mary.”

  “Mary took a hit!” Roberto shouted. “I’ll pull her out.”

  Greer turned to look and saw that Mary was slumped sideways in her belt. A dark stain marked the center of her PFD. Her hands were clasped in front of her. As if sitting in church.

  “Get out!” Dalisay shouted, as the nose dipped.

  Greer released his belt, pushed the door open, and threw himself out. A wave of cold seawater washed him back past the tail and the beacon perched on top of it. The red glare lit the ocean swells as the light flashed on and off.

  Geysers of water leapt into the air as cannon shells struck all around Greer and a jet roared overhead. Some of the shells struck the Cessna. It shuddered and sank. The beacon vanished with the plane. A bright flash lit the surface of the sea. The sound of an explosion followed. Longjohn? Or Smoker? One of them had scored. And payback was a bitch.

  The rumble of engines announced the boat’s arrival. As seen from below, it looked huge. A searchlight snapped on, swept back and forth, and nailed Greer in its glare. The pilot felt a stab of fear. What if the boat was Filipino? But the voice on the loudhailer put that concern to rest. “This is the PHM Fractus. Grab the PFD!”

  Someone knew what they were doing. The life preserver slapped the water not two feet away. It was attached to a line. Two strokes were enough for Greer to grab on. Strong arms pulled him in.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Aboard the PHM Cumulus, the Celebes Sea

  Barkley appeared from below. “I just got off the horn with the patrol boat’s skipper, sir. He has orders to capture our boats, and bring them into port.”

  Ryson was surprised. “Does he understand that our boats are armed with Harpoon anti-ship missiles?”

  “He understands sir, but I got the impression that he’s more scared of President Costas, than he is of us.”

  “Okay,” Ryson replied. “I think discretion is the better part of valor here. We can out run them so there’s no need to blow the Filipino boat out of the water. Fractus has the survivors on board. That’s what we came for. Set a course for Manado. Copy the Fractus.”