Red Tide

by William C. Dietz

  Ryson felt a mild sense of alarm. His relationship with Kelsey was growing ever more complex. It was never a good idea to mix business with pleasure. Yet that was exactly what he was doing. He forced a smile. “Congratulations, sir … Game on. You must be pleased.”

  Was that too thick? Would Nathan demur? Nope. The plan had his stink on it now, and he was proud of it. “Yes, of course. It can’t hurt, eh what? Well, we need to pack up and get to the airport.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ryson agreed. “But I wondered if you would accompany me on a side jaunt first. Some naval research if you like, that might pay off for us. I took the liberty of making a back-channel appointment.”

  Nathan’s eyebrows rose. “An appointment? With whom? And where?”

  “With the captain of the Indonesian patrol boat Nyai Roro Kidul, which means Goddess of the Sea. She’s anchored in the bay.”

  Nathan eyed him. “You never stop, do you?”

  Ryson tried to look innocent. “Stop what, sir?”

  “Stop coming up with all sorts of harebrained schemes.”

  “No, sir. I like to keep my hand in.”

  “All right,” Nathan replied. “But our plane departs at three, and I intend to be on it.”

  “You will be sir,” Ryson assured him. “Let’s take our bags so we won’t have to return for them.”

  Thanks to an advance warning from Ryson, Lieutenant Swallow had another four-vehicle convoy waiting when they left the mansion. And after receiving instructions from Ryson, the first Bushmaster’s driver led the rest through the downtown business district, into an area dominated by warehouses, and out to the military pier.

  The fact that an Australian admiral was about to inspect a lowly patrol boat created quite a stir. Salutes flew as an Indonesian Letan Satu (first lieutenant) led the visitors to a smart looking launch. It was too large to belong to the patrol boat and was most likely on loan from a destroyer.

  Engines burbled as the forty-footer pulled away from the dock, and began to pick up speed. It was a nice day. And for one brief moment Ryson was enjoying himself as birds wheeled overhead, sunlight glittered on the surface of the bay, and a fisherman waved.

  But the moment came to an end as the launch drew alongside the Nyai Roro Kidul where the ship’s captain was waiting to greet them. “Welcome aboard Admiral … We don’t get very many visitors. Especially those seeking advice regarding torpedoes.”

  Nathan looked surprised. “Torpedoes?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ryson said smoothly. “Torpedoes.”

  “But why?” Nathan demanded.

  “Because,” Ryson replied, “our Armindales are armed with nothing more than an auto cannon and a brace of fifties. Most boats of their size would carry missiles. But it’s a bit late for that. By mounting torpedo tubes port and starboard we could give the Armindales some additional punch. The sort of thing that might come in handy if they were to confront a large warship.”

  “I take your point,” Nathan replied. “But torpedo tubes would be so—so ugly! No offense Captain.”

  The Indonesian smiled. “And none taken.”

  “I get that,” Ryson said. “But please give the idea a chance. Is your gunner’s mate available Captain? I’d like to inspect the launchers, and ask some questions.”

  “Yes. Sersan Mayor (Master Chief) Darwis is present. Please allow me to introduce you.”

  Once the introductions were complete, the captain excused himself, and allowed Darwis take over. As it turned out the ship was equipped with four launchers, with two vertically stacked tubes on each side of the ship, all equipped to fire NATO compatible torpedoes.

  The ensuing Q & A session lasted for half an hour. It ended with a question from Nathan. “So, tell me the truth Master Chief … In the final analysis are the torpedoes an asset? Or a pain in the ass?”

  Darwis smiled. “That depends, sir. If the target is a long way off then missiles are ideal. But in close? Against a large vessel? Torpedoes are the answer. Especially since our bow-mounted autocannon isn’t likely to win that kind of contest on its own.”

  The officers went ashore shortly thereafter. Ryson wanted to push for an answer where the torpedo launchers were concerned, but managed to restrain himself. Nathan liked to make his own decisions. Or at least have the room to pretend.

  The convoy took them to the airport and Ryson slept through most of the flight home. And it wasn’t until they were aboard the Agger that Nathan broached the subject that was still on Ryson’s mind. “Against my better judgement I am going to take the torpedo idea up the chain of command. But it will, I suspect, run aground immediately.”

  Ryson nodded. “Thank you for trying, sir. May I ask why you believe the concept will face resistance?”

  Nathan made a face. “You won’t like this. But there are those in senior posts who are, shall we say, a bit out of step with the realities of this war. They may object to the way the Armindales would look were we to hang tubes on them. Please don’t take offense, but one admiral said that your hydrofoils, ‘Resemble tug boats on skis.’”

  Ryson frowned. “You’re serious.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Ryson sighed. “I appreciate your honesty, sir. Please let me know how it goes. I’ll be leaving for Samir in the morning.”

  “Good hunting,” Nathan said. “Find the bitch, Commander. And put her down.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea

  After a lengthy discussion with her father, and a good night’s sleep, Kelsey Parker was ready to leave. The first leg of her trip would take Kelsey to the city of Balikpapan, in Borneo, which was about 2,160 miles away. That necessitated a stop for fuel at Kokenau, New Guinea, since the family plane had a factory-built range of just over 1,000 miles plus an auxiliary tank that would provide the aircraft with a sufficient safety margin.

  The floating hangar was located in among the Parker family docks, warehouses, and administrative buildings that stood shoulder-to-shoulder along the south shore of the bay. Kelsey’s luggage consisted of a beat-up TUMI backpack and an equally disreputable leather briefcase. The bag was home to her laptop, three phones, and a .9mm Glock 26. Because, as her lead bodyguard liked to say, “Shit can happen.”

  The lead’s name was Ronda Chaney. And, as Kelsey entered the hangar, Chaney and her crew were hard at work loading the flying boat with luggage and gear.

  The Dornier Seastar was a parasol wing plane, powered by two Pratt & Whitney Canada PT6A-112 engines, both mounted over the wings in a push-pull configuration. Two engines being a must for the sort of long, over-water trips the Parkers made.

  Other things that made the plane unique included a fuselage fabricated from composite materials, a low center of gravity, and enough room to carry twelve passengers. Although the Parkers’ plane was equipped with only eight seats aft of the cockpit. A configuration that allowed for more legroom, a cramped lavatory, and the cargo compartment located in the tail.

  “Good morning, boss,” Chaney said. “Let me take that pack.”

  Chaney was a thirty something ex-marital arts fighter, ex-surfer girl, and ex-wife. And though pretty, Chaney had a tendency to frown all the time, as if there was no reason to expect anything other than the worst.

  Her “associates” included six-foot six-inch Larry Howe, aka “The Hulk,” and Michael “Pretty Boy” Donnelly.

  The flight crew consisted of an ex-airline pilot Candice Wride, who was starting to show some gray, and the only member of the team with a smoking habit.

  Her co-pilot was an American named Jeremy Brody, better known as “Spock,” due to the vague resemblance. He paused in the middle of his pre-flight walk-around. “I hear Borneo has some great diving.”

  “It does,” Kelsey agreed. “Sipadan Island being the most famous. But you won’t be going there. Sorry.”

  “Bummer,” Brody said. “Maybe next time.”

  “Yeah,” Kelsey said unsympathetically. “A guy can always hope.”

&nb
sp; The third member of the crew was aircraft mechanic Justin Smith, aka “Toolz.” A man who could carry out repairs in remote locations, and lend a hand if things got hairy, which they sometimes did.

  Once everyone was aboard, and Wride had a clearance, the plane taxied into the bay. There was some chop but nothing the Seastar couldn’t handle. The plane took off to the north. Their immediate destination was a bay in the coastal town of Kokenau, New Guinea where they would stop to refuel.

  One of the things that Kelsey liked about long trips in the plane was the opportunity to get a lot of work done. There were financial statements to review, insurance policies to renew, and the construction of a new ship to keep an eye on. Never mind wartime shortages and regulations associated with them.

  Time flew. And it seemed that only minutes had passed when they landed on the bay fronting Kokenau, and taxied in. Wride, Brody and Toolz took care of the refueling process while Kelsey was left to stretch her legs. There wasn’t much to see, and no threats other than swarms of flies, but Chaney was never more than a few steps away.

  After a drink in the town’s only bar the women returned to the dock. “Here,” Kelsey said, as she gave two 6-packs of beer to the Hulk. “Pass ‘em around. Who knows where this stuff was brewed. I hope you survive.” Those who were close enough to hear laughed.

  The plane took off and headed west. Sack lunches were traditionally Brody’s responsibility, and a thankless one at that, since no matter what he provided to the crew it was never considered good enough.

  As for Kelsey she enjoyed the steak sandwich which was loaded with onions, parsley, tomatoes and a touch of salad dressing. Then she put a sleeping mask on, stuck earbuds in, and closed her eyes. Her thoughts turned to Max Ryson. He was good in bed and scary smart. What more could a girl want? Sleep came quickly.

  When Kelsey awoke it was to the sound of Chaney’s voice. “We’re descending, boss. Time to buckle up.”

  Kelsey sat up straight and turned to look out the window. Balikpapan was a seaport city located on Borneo’s east coast. It was a financial center with busy air and seaports. The city had been established as a fishing village in the 19th century, and fishing still ranked as an important part of the economy, even though the oil industry had eclipsed everything else in terms of overall revenue.

  The sun was starting to set. Wride took advantage of what light there was to put the flying boat down, thread her way between the ships anchored in the bay, and taxi to the Balikpapan Seaplane Base. It was a modern facility, with six slips, half of which were occupied.

  Brody was the first person to deplane. His duties included securing the mooring lines, or in this case supervising the local dock jockeys, while they secured the mooring lines, and making arrangements to refuel the plane. A task he was expected to complete ASAP in case Kelsey wanted to leave early.

  Meanwhile, aft of where Kelsey sat, the bodyguards were drawing straws. Standard operating procedure required one of them to sleep on the plane during the night. A security precaution that had paid off in the past. Howe drew the short straw, and was about to complain, when Chaney put a finger to her lips.

  The rest of the party went ashore with duffle bags in hand. All of them were armed. That was illegal of course. But the Parkers had high-priced lawyers everywhere. And a night in jail was preferable to an eternity spent in a coffin. Because like every other big city in the world Balikpapan had its share of criminals.

  In keeping with the Parker family’s unwritten code Kelsey and her team had been booked into a mid-priced, yet nice hotel, near the company’s Balikpapan office.

  Once her retinue had checked in Kelsey took them out to dinner at a Japanese restaurant. The same unwritten code that specified staying in mid-priced hotels prevented anyone, Kelsey included, from having more than two alcoholic drinks with the meal.

  The entire party was back in the hotel by eight PM. “We’ll meet in the lobby at 7:00,” Kelsey told them. “I have an appointment at 8:30.”

  Donnelly and Chaney had rooms adjacent to Kelsey’s. And both would be on-call throughout the night. But there was no need.

  The night passed peacefully, the group had breakfast in the restaurant off the lobby, and checked out. Two SUVs were waiting outside along with a rep from the rental agency. After searching each vehicle for IEDs and surveillance devices, bodyguards took their places behind the wheel.

  One SUV would have been sufficient to move five people. The second was a spare. And, in the case of a car chase, would be used to block pursuers. In keeping with standard operating procedures, a pilot was assigned to each car.

  Both SUVs were equipped with nav systems which made it easy to find the Dyak Fishing Company. “Dyak,” or “Dayuh” were loose terms for more than 200 riverine and hill-dwelling indigenous subgroups who inhabited the central southern areas of Borneo.

  According to company lore, the company’s founder Aito Eguchi named his company “Dyak Fishing” as a way to honor the indigenous peoples.

  But, according to George Parker, Eguchi knew that a Japanese surname wouldn’t fly in the wake of WWII, and chose “Dyak” for marketing purposes. Not that it mattered anymore. The old man was gone now. And his grandson, Milo Eguchi, was in charge.

  As the lead SUV arrived in front of the Dyak Company’s sleek, modernistic headquarters building, Kelsey was reminded of how successful the enterprise was, in spite of cutthroat competition. Or had been prior to the war. But now? Kelsey could only imagine that the current situation was a good deal more difficult.

  Donnelly got out to open the door for her. “Ronda will go in with me,” Kelsey said. “You know the drill.”

  “The drill” for what was considered to be a low-risk meeting was for Kelsey to take one bodyguard with her, and leave the rest of them with the vehicles.

  Kelsey had a small radio in her jacket pocket. And, after a quick radio check, she put it back. Kelsey was wearing an all-white outfit consisting of a waist length jacket, a tee shirt, and peg pants. A pair of red high heels completed the look.

  Chaney’s black business suit was one size too large for her in order to provide room for a bullet proof vest, two handguns, and backup mags. She was wearing black high-tops which, though covered with glitter, would allow the bodyguard to fight effectively should something bad come their way. She followed Kelsey to the front door which swished out of the way as they approached.

  The lobby was cold in contrast to the muggy atmosphere outside. A young man came forward to present his business card. “I am Mr. Eguchi’s Executive Assistant, Shiguru Okada. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “And I am Kelsey Parker, Executive Vice President of Parker Shipping.”

  Okada bowed. “Mr. Eguchi is expecting you. Please inform your bodyguard that her weapons are to remain holstered.”

  “She knows,” Kelsey said. “Thank you.”

  So, the front door was more than a door. A scanner was built into the frame. And it was Okada’s duty to inform Kelsey that the company’s security people were watching. Mr. Eguchi could have refused to see her of course … But nearly every executive Eguchi met with had at least one bodyguard. And no wonder given all of the potential threats.

  An elevator whisked the party up to the fifth floor. Okada led his guests to a conference room, showed them inside, and gestured to a side table. It was loaded with western and eastern breakfast items. “Mr. Eguchi will be with you shortly. Please help yourselves.”

  Kelsey poured a cup of coffee and took it over to a huge picture window. The Dyak docks were immediately below with the busy harbor beyond. The company’s boats were white over green. Good luck colors.

  But very few of them were in port. Most of Dyak’s fleet was out fishing. And Chinese competition was fierce. Estimates put China’s pre-war fleet at more than twelve-thousand vessels, fishing in waters all around the world, even as far away as Argentina. And doing so with government subsidies that averaged three hundred and fifty-thousand dollars a year.

  That
put companies like Dyak at a tremendous disadvantage. And Kelsey couldn’t imagine how the war was making things any better. “Hello,” a male voice said. “Sorry I’m late.”

  Kelsey turned to see a middle-aged Japanese businessman in a dark blue suit. They already knew each other, so there was no need to exchange cards.

  “I was on the phone with my manager in the UAE,” Eguchi said, as he came forward to shake her hand. “Diesel fuel is in short supply as I’m sure you know.”

  “We do,” Kelsey said. “That’s why we accept government cargoes at below market prices. The fuel allotments make up for the losses.”

  “That’s clever,” Eguchi said. “Very clever. I wish we could do the same. Please, have a seat. I see you have coffee. Can I get you something else?”

  “No, thank you,” Kelsey replied.

  “Then we’ll get down to business,” Eguchi said. “What brings you to Balikpapan? It’s been a while.”

  “I, which is to say the Alliance, need your help.”

  “Japan is part of the Alliance, that’s true,” Eguchi said. “But this is my home. And Borneo is neutral.”

  “No one is neutral,” Kelsey replied. “Every country has a preference, even if they pretend otherwise. And Borneo is no exception.”

  Eguchi smiled. “It’s been twenty-five years since I went to school in Australia. As a result, I tend to forget how direct Aussies can be. There is something to what you say. So, what does the Alliance want from Dyak Fishing? More fish?”

  Kelsey smiled. “No. What the Alliance wants is information. Specific information regarding the Chinese cruiser Sea Dragon.”

  Eguchi’s expression darkened. “The ship that attacked Okinawa.”

  “Yes.”

  “What sort of information?”

  “Information about her movements.”

  “So, you can attack her.”

  “Exactly. You have boats in the South China Sea. Hundreds of them. Each carrying three or four men. That’s a lot of eyeballs.”