Red Tide

by William C. Dietz

  “There’s been no sign of the Sea Dragon in weeks. And General Haskell wants to know where the bitch is hiding. The NRO doesn’t know. The CIA doesn’t have a clue. And we sure as hell don’t know. But now I have something to push back with. I mean there you were, just short of Mischief Reef, searching a Type 22 for Intel! That should shut Haskell up for a week or so. Here you go, one gin and tonic, with a squeeze of lime.”

  “Thank you,” Ryson said, accepting the glass. “How about Kelsey? And the effort to create ad hoc intelligence networks?”

  “That’s another success story,” Nathan said, as he took a seat. “And another reason for Haskell to be happy. Our girl was able to recruit the owner of a large fishing fleet and a Vietnamese cigarette smuggler. Both of whom stand a good chance of spotting the Dragon.

  “There was a bit of a dustup in Yangon however, where Kelsey and her bodyguards found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time, and wound up in a firefight.”

  Ryson opened his mouth but Nathan interrupted. “No worries. Kelsey and her lot fought their way out. The man they hoped to meet with wasn’t so lucky. He’s dead.

  “But enough of that,” Nathan said dismissively. “Guess where our girl is now?”

  Ryson sipped his drink. The gin was ice cold and felt good on the back of his throat. “Having her nails done?”

  “Of course not,” Nathan replied. “She’s in China! Macau to be exact. Don’t ask me how she got in. Or made contact with a triad leader. But she did!

  “And here’s the best part … It will cost us some money, but the triad is going to break a man out of prison for her. Not just any man, but the naval architect generally credited for the Sea Dragon’s revolutionary design. Imagine the things he could tell us! Haskell will be over the moon.”

  “There’s a catch though,” Nathan added darkly. “The rescue is slated to take place in two weeks. And Kelsey has to bring her man out by boat. My first thought was a hydrofoil. But that’s absurd. The Chinese would never allow a PHM to reach the coast. Never mind survive the return journey.”

  “You’re right, sir,” Ryson replied while Nathan sipped his drink. “And a civilian boat wouldn’t have the means to defend itself. But how ‘bout the Type 22?”

  Nathan stared. “Oh, my god, that’s brilliant! Haskell would love that!”

  “I’m going to need a new bow gun though,” Ryson said. “Plus, some Chinese speaking crew members and a submarine. Given how important this man is, it would make sense to get him off the 22 as quickly as possible.”

  “We’ll get cracking in the morning,” Nathan said. “Meet me for brekky at 0800.”

  Once in his cabin Ryson took the kind of long, hot shower that was impossible on a Peg 2, and went to bed. By getting up early he was able to drink half a pot of coffee before the breakfast with Nathan.

  To his credit Nathan arrived at breakfast with a crucial piece of information. “The Indonesians use AK-630 automatic cannons on some of their vessels,” Nathan announced. “And by promising a certain officer a bottle of rare Orphan Barrel, Muckety-Muck, single-grain Scotch, I managed to secure one. Of course, a gin drinking heathen such as yourself has no idea how special that is.”

  “True,” Ryson agreed, as he ate a bite of bacon. “I assume we’re going to inspect the gun before paying the bribe.”

  “It isn’t a bribe,” Nathan insisted. “It’s a gift.”

  “Okay,” Ryson said. “Let’s grab a gunner’s mate, and take a look, before delivering the ‘gift.’”

  With a chief gunner’s mate in tow, the officers took a trip across the bay, where an Indonesian kolonel was waiting to greet them. He was clearly curious regarding their need for an AK-630 but knew better than to ask a direct question.

  “It’s a good system,” Kolonel Pra assured them, as they followed a yellow line deeper into the navy supply depot. “It can be used against incoming missiles, aircraft, and enemy ships. We bought ours from Russia.”

  Once they arrived Ryson saw that the weapon, turret and all, was sitting on a pallet. The next thirty minutes were spent waiting for Chief Wright to inspect the weapon. He finished by saying, “It has some wear, but not much. I think it’s good to go.”

  Nathan opened his briefcase and withdrew a bottle which he handed to Pra. “This is in recognition of your many years of service to the Indonesian navy. Chief Wright and some of his people will return later today.”

  From the Indonesian base the launch went straight to the hidden moorage under the warehouse. The Fractus was in port, which meant commanding officer Lieutenant Mark Conte was as well, and available to take charge of the Type 22.

  That involved putting the new 30mm auto cannon in place, rounding up Chinese speaking crew members, and training them. There were multiple mechanical, as well as electronic systems to master, including those associated with the ship’s missile launchers. Conte eyed Ryson when the list of to-dos was complete. “Can I command her?”

  Ryson grinned. “No. But I’m going to need an XO.”

  Conte nodded. “I’m in. I’ll keep you in the loop.”

  Once aboard the Agger Ryson had no choice but to tackle the stack of paperwork, both electronic and real, which awaited him. And that’s where he was, a pot of coffee at his elbow, when a knock came at the door. Maids came and went all the time so Ryson shouted “Come in!” without turning to look. Arms slithered around his neck and a face nuzzled his cheek. Ryson recognized the perfume. He turned to accept a kiss. “Kelsey … How did you get here?”

  “I have a plane,” Kelsey replied.

  Ryson swiveled to face her. “You were in China,” he said accusingly.

  “Yes,” Kelsey said disarmingly.

  “How did you get in?”

  “My family has been doing business in China for nearly forty years,” Kelsey answered. “I sent a request for a meeting to the Chinese Minister of Commerce who agreed to see me.”

  “And the Australian government said, ‘Okay, fine.’”

  “No,” Kelsey replied. “I forgot to ask them. Why the third degree? The real reason for my visit was to meet with the head of the Hong Kong/Macau triad. Based on information from one of my father’s business contacts, I knew that the Sea Dragon was the work of a naval architect named Fai Pei.

  “But, because he was aligned with ex-president Enlai, Pei wound up in prison. Imagine what he can tell us! All we have to do is get him out of China.”

  Ryson felt uneasy and wasn’t sure why. “That brings us back to the triad,” Ryson said. “Aren’t they worried about retribution from the government?”

  “I asked Mr. Soo about that. He said that the triads were there during the Chinese Revolution in 1949, and they will still be there long after President Lau’s death.”

  “That makes sense,” Ryson said. “The Chinese always take the long view.”

  “So,” Kelsey said, “I need help. Mr. Soo agreed to deliver Pei to a fishing village outside of Macau. But we have to take it from there.”

  “Yes,” Ryson acknowledged. “Admiral Nathan mentioned that. We’re going to use a Chinese Type 22 missile boat. It’s undergoing repairs now.”

  Kelsey’s expression brightened. “Really? How did we get one of those?”

  “The Arcus managed to capture her,” Ryson replied.

  “That’s wonderful,” Kelsey said excitedly. “I have a piece of equipment that could come in handy. And that’s the Chinese IFF gear on my plane.”

  The fact that Kelsey had a Chinese IFF system was almost too good to be true. “And where,” Ryson wanted to know, “did you get that? On Amazon?”

  “No, silly,” Kelsey replied. “The Minister of Commerce sent it to my agent in Vietnam. He was afraid my plane would get shot down otherwise.”

  “Okay,” Ryson said. “I’ll send someone to get it.”

  “My mechanic will take care of that,” Kelsey assured him. “It will be ready for pickup by five this evening.”

  “Good,” Ryson said. “I guess we�
�re all set then.”

  “Not quite,” Kelsey replied, as she started to unbutton her blouse. “There’s one more thing I need help with.”

  ***

  With the need to resupply Samir Island, and the repairs to the Type 22 missile boat, the days passed quickly. And suddenly it was time to board the 22 and cast off. The voyage to China was going to cover over 2,600 miles.

  Given the boat’s top speed of 34 knots, the trip would take at least three days, and require the 22 to refuel 1,300 miles out. That would involve a rendezvous with a so-called “Sea Cow” submarine—a nuclear sub equipped to refuel special ops vessels at sea.

  The missile boat had a nickname by then, and was generally referred to as the “Camo Queen.” A name derived from the “disruptive” blue, gray and black camouflage pattern on the boat’s hull.

  The effort to find Chinese speaking crew members had been successful. They included: Chief Engineer Ronnie Cheng–a Chinese American raised in Singapore, IT tech Norman Qwan–a member of the Australian navy, and Fire Controlman Mark Simmons–an amateur linguist.

  The Camo Queen left port at 2000 hours under the cover of darkness, in hopes that she’d be able to cover 320 miles before dawn. That would put the boat a few hundred miles short of the South China Sea, where Type 22s normally prowled.

  Ryson hoped the Chinese wouldn’t take notice. Allied planes were under strict orders to leave all 22s alone until noon, when the Camo Queen would be in enemy waters, and steaming north. As a further protective measure, the boat was equipped with an Allied IFF system, in addition to the Chinese unit obtained from Kelsey.

  The night passed peacefully. And that was just as well, since the crewmembers were still in the process of getting to know each other and the ship’s systems.

  Simmons had a label maker and the task of putting English stickers on every piece of equipment, starting with items related to propulsion, followed by weapons, and then everything else. That included the toilet in the male head, which wore a label that read, “Shitter-Male.”

  Ryson managed to catch a few hours of sleep before joining Conte on the bridge as the Queen passed through the Northwest Danger Shoals. Shortly after sunrise the Queen entered the South China Sea, and Conte set a course for the village of Colane.

  Regiments of white caps marched in from the north west. But, thanks to her catamaran-style hull, the Camo Queen was steadier than a hullborne PHM. And though not subject to seasickness, Ryson didn’t enjoy being knocked about, as was often the case in monohulls.

  The first challenge came less than an hour later when a propeller-driven Chinese Y-9W (GX-10) early warning aircraft appeared out of the haze and circled the boat.

  Like its Allied counterparts, the Y-9W was carrying a flying-saucer-shaped radome. And though unarmed Ryson knew the plane was dangerous because of its capacity to summon surface ships and jet fighters. He was quick to grab a mike. “If you don’t look Chinese stay below. If you do look Chinese go out and wave. You can bet that they’re taking pictures.”

  “Contact,” Qwan said, laconically. “Switching to Mandarin.”

  Since Ryson didn’t speak Chinese he had to trust Qwan to get the job done without triggering suspicions. Thanks to the Type 22’s code books, plus a crash course on Chinese radio procedure from an Australian ham radio operator, Qwan was mostly prepared for the job.

  Two or three minutes of gabble ensued. Once it was over the Chinese plane waggled its wings and banked to the north. Qwan was quick to report. “The Chinese IFF system was a big help, sir. They wanted to know why our hull number wasn’t on their list.

  “I told them that our boat is undergoing sea trials, and the hull number hasn’t been posted yet. They bought it.”

  “That was quick thinking,” Ryson said. “Well done. Was there anything else?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. Carry on.”

  With the exception of hazy ships in the far distance, and a seagull that decided to follow the missile boat, there was nothing to see for the next couple of hours.

  Then a fleet of fishing boats appeared. Kelsey was on the bridge, and eyed the boats through a pair of binoculars. “See the white over green paint? Those boats are part of the Dyak Fishing company’s fleet,” she said. “They belong to Mr. Milo Eguchi. And they’re on the lookout for the Sea Dragon.”

  Ryson accepted the binoculars and brought them up to his eyes. He was impressed. What Kelsey had been able to accomplish was nothing short of amazing.

  After spotting the warship, the fleet split in two with boats veering port and starboard. Was that based on experience? Did Chinese warships plow through the middle of such flotillas rather than alter course? Ryson thought they did. Even though vessels that did so risked fouling their propellers in nets.

  Fortunately, the Camo Queen was equipped with waterjets. That meant there were no propellers to foul. It also meant the boat was less likely to be detected by submarines. So, with an open lane in front of him, the helmsman saw no reason to alter course.

  As before, Ryson took no chances. “All non-Chinese personnel will go below. Chinese personnel will make an appearance. No waving this time. There’s bound to be a Chinese spy or two in that fleet. And it seems unlikely that Chinese sailors wave to lowly fishermen.”

  Some of the fishing boats were so close that Ryson could make out individual faces as the Camo Queen passed through the fleet. What were the fishermen thinking? According to Kelsey they were from Borneo, which was theoretically neutral. But surely, with the exception of a tiny minority, they didn’t like the Chinese or their warships.

  The afternoon passed without incident. As the sun sank into the western sky the tension on the bridge continued to increase. The Queen was running low on fuel. And, if something prevented the supply submarine North Dakota from making the rendezvous at 2100 hours, the missile boat would be dead in the water before long.

  The North Dakota had been one of the first Ohio class nuclear powered, ballistic missile submarines to be commissioned. And when newer boats came along, the Dakota was converted for use as an undersea tanker, and special ops troop transport.

  That was the good news. The bad news was that Chinese attack submarines “owned” the South China sea, and were constantly searching for Allied boats of any size or purpose. So, if the North Dakota had been sunk, the men and women on the Type 22 were truly SOL.

  Time seemed to slow. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, 2030 rolled around. And that was the moment when the transport was supposed to deploy a floating wire antenna and establish radio contact.

  Seconds ticked away. And then, just as Ryson was beginning to worry, Qwan spoke. “I have the Dakota on the horn, sir … They’re running on time, and giving away freshly baked cookies with each tank of diesel.”

  Ryson grinned. “Tell them we could definitely use the cookies. And some diesel too.”

  Once in position it was time for the Queen to cut power and wait. Stars glittered, and waves passed under the twin hulls, as the missile boat rose and fell.

  Then came a disturbance off to starboard. Bubbles broke the surface and the water churned when a black conning tower appeared. Seawater ran off the sub’s oblong hull as it rose above the waves. Fenders were dropped into place, and Ryson felt a gentle thud as hulls met.

  A line was passed and used to pull a hose across the intervening gap. An adapter was installed on the hose. Fuel began to flow moments later. Both Ryson and the sub’s CO had reason to worry. The vessels were nearly helpless while refueling was underway.

  Radar would detect incoming planes and ships in time to break contact. But, if an attack sub was stalking the duo, and managed to evade the Dakota’s sonar, both vessels would be destroyed.

  However, it wouldn’t do any good to dwell on that and Ryson didn’t. He made a point of discussing baseball with Conte while sipping coffee.

  Even though it felt like hours. the entire process took less than forty-five minutes. Once the hose was withdrawn, a con
tainer of warm cookies was passed across, and the missile boat was ready for the next leg of its journey. “A message from the North Dakota,” Qwan said. “‘We’ll see you on the flip side. Good hunting.’”

  With full tanks and empty screens Ryson thought it would be safe to grab some sleep. “You have it,” he told Conte. “I’ll relieve you in four.”

  After getting a ham and cheese and a bottle of water from the galley, Ryson retreated to the captain’s cabin, where he ate half the sandwich—and drank nearly all the water. Ryson was fully dressed as he pulled a blanket up over his chest. Kelsey, he thought. She spends most of her time in her cabin. I wonder why? Sleep pulled him down.

  Trouble arrived, as trouble often did, shortly after dawn. It took the shape of a sleek Type 055 guided-missile destroyer. That was how the Chinese classified their ship.

  But by U.S. standards the Type 055s qualified as cruisers because of their size, multi-mission capabilities, and on-board flag facilities. All of which meant the “destroyer” could crush the Queen like an ant should it have a reason to do so.

  “It’ll pass us by,” Conte predicted when the ship appeared on the horizon. And there were plenty of reasons to believe that would be the case. Why, after all, would the tin can’s CO want to hassle a pissant Type 22?

  But the bastard did. As became apparent when the destroyer was about a mile away. “She’s the Yinchuan,” Qwan said. “And she wants to know what we’re doing here. More than that, her captain ordered us to heave to, and wait for a boarding party to come across.”

  Ryson’s mind was racing. Shit, shit, shit. He couldn’t fight and he couldn’t refuse. But a boarding party would be disastrous. What he needed was a believable excuse.

  “Tell them that we would welcome a boarding party,” Ryson said. “Including three or four medical personnel. Tell them to take precautions however, because all but two of our crewmembers have coughs, high fevers and are suffering from diarrhea.”