The Pacific Rim Collection

by Don Brown

  The distant glow of the coming morning, fueled by a still-invisible sun somewhere off to the east over the Pacific, cast a dim, opaque gray off to the ship’s port, out toward Hainan.

  Captain Fu Cheuk-yan, awash at the moment by the nostalgic memories of his glorious days as a young naval officer, stood on the bridge and fixed his binoculars in the direction of Hainan. For it was in Hainan, in April of 2001, that as a junior lieutenant in the People’s Liberation Army-Navy, Fu had witnessed history.

  A United States Navy surveillance aircraft, an EP-3, after colliding with a Chinese military jet, made an emergency illegal landing on Hainan Island, in the territory of the People’s Republic.

  When it landed, soldiers of the People’s Liberation Army-Navy surrounded the American plane and took the crew into custody.

  The twenty-four Americans had looked worn, tired, and afraid, Fu remembered. Ten days later, after then US President George W. Bush penned an apology to Foreign Minister Tang Jiaxuan, they were released.

  Fu later concluded that Hainan Island marked a historic turning point wherein the People’s Republic of China eclipsed the United States as the world’s foremost power. That moment, the Hainan Island incident, a moment in which “mighty America” apologized to the PRC, marked the beginning of the twenty-first century power shift from America to China.

  And he was there as an eyewitness!

  Captain Fu smiled at the thought, struck a match, and held it at the end of his cigarette.

  Much had changed in Fu’s life since that glorious experience at Hainan. He had gotten out of the People’s Liberation Army-Navy, had gone to work for several shipping companies, and was now part owner and captain of the Shemnong, doing what he loved most and making far more money in a month than he had in an entire year as a young naval officer.

  But his presence all those years ago at Hainan Island had opened many doors for him. Prospective employers and business partners had peppered him with questions about the interrogation of the Americans. In fact, his experience at Hainan had led to the ownership group for the Shemnong offering him a stake in the company. Indeed, life had been good. And each day brought more promise than the last.

  By the time the sun appeared on the eastern horizon on this day, Shemnong would have slipped outside the protective waters of the Gulf of Tonkin and into the open waters of the South China Sea, headed to Itu Aba Island to deliver military supplies for which he would be paid handsomely.

  His final port of destination on this voyage was Thailand, where he would deliver secret medical supplies under the new transportation contract he had signed with the Qinzhou Medical Group, a contract he believed would make him filthy rich.

  The exclusive contract over the next three years to carry this medical cargo from the Shemnong’s home port in Qinzhou, China, to Bangkok was the break he had been hoping for. His special connections in Beijing had been helpful in securing both the Itu Aba contract and the even richer Qinzhou Medical Group contract.

  “Mr. Chan.” He beckoned to the ship’s first officer, who was manning the wheel.

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Turn the wheel over to Mr. Liu and punch up our navigational chart. I want to see where we are and how long until we clear the coast of Hainan.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  The ship’s navigator, a younger sailor named Liu, took the wheel as the first officer punched in some numbers on a keyboard.

  A second later, a real-time navigational chart popped up just under the bridge windshield.

  “Here is our current position, Captain, marked by the white arrow just west of Hainan Island, a place you are most familiar with, sir.” The first officer nodded and smiled in unspoken tribute to what had happened there all those years ago in 2001. “We have just turned on a course of one-three-five degrees, sir. By the middle of the morning, around ten o’clock, we will have cleared Hainan Island and will be steaming in the South China Sea toward the Paracel Islands. Then we will turn to one-eight-zero degrees, heading south on the next leg of the voyage, followed by another course change, to one-three-five degrees to head to the Spratly Islands. There, as you know, we will rendezvous with military helicopters from Itu Aba Island for the airlift of supplies for our forces there. That should take no more than one hour.

  “From there, our course will be two-five-zero degrees, heading southwest, to a point in the South China Sea south of Long Xuyen, Vietnam. From there our course is three-one-five degrees to the northwest, steaming into the Gulf of Thailand, past the Cambodian coast, before making a final course adjustment to three-six-zero degrees on our final approach to Bangkok.”

  Route of M/V Shemnong

  Fu sucked on the cigarette and studied the chart. “Looks good, Mr. Chan. But we must remind the crew to go to high alert once we enter the South China Sea. The Taiwanese may not be happy that our first stop is to deliver military supplies to our forces. Make sure you keep someone glued to the radar until we clear the Spratlys.”

  “You do not think the Taiwanese would interfere with the high-seas passage of a civilian freighter, do you?”

  Fu flicked gray ashes into an ashtray and rose from the captain’s chair. “Nothing about them surprises me. They have fought the People’s Republic since 1927. Any vessel, civilian or military, flying the flag of the People’s Republic is a potential target for them. Remember, the danger of this mission is one of the reasons we are being paid so handsomely under this contract.”

  They lapsed into silence, the humming of the ship’s engines the only sound.

  The first officer said, “Captain, may I ask a question?”

  “Of course,” Fu said.

  “Are you not curious about the cargo?”

  Fu smiled, then took another drag from the cigarette. “You mean the military cargo destined for the Spratlys?”

  “Actually, I was wondering about the secret medical cargo,” Chan said. “After all, we are being paid a lot more for that than for delivering machine guns and antiaircraft rockets to Itu Aba.”

  “Why be curious?” Fu tipped his head back and released a cloud of smoke from his mouth. “The first installment has been deposited in our Hong Kong account. Freedom of navigation exists on the high seas. And besides”—he snuffed out the cigarette—”we have been told that the cargo is medically related and that we are not to ask about it. Even you, my dear Chan, will become rich from this, I am sure.”

  The first officer nodded. “I am grateful, Captain Fu. But still, given the size of the contract, are you not curious about our cargo?”

  Fu smiled. “Whatever it is, it is boarded in crates. If you are all that curious, Mr. Chan, go down into the cargo bay and have a look. Just make sure you bring your jacket. The refrigeration system is on, and it is very cold. That refrigeration system in the cargo bay will make us tons of money.” He smiled as he pondered that last thought.

  “Yes, sir.” Chan nodded.

  “Oh. And one other thing.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Whatever you find down there, do not share that information with me. I do not have a need to know nor do I wish to know.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Navigator, maintain course one-three-five degrees. Steady as she goes.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  Helipad

  US Navy SH-60R Seahawk helicopter

  USS Vicksburg

  The sun peeked above the eastern horizon, casting a bright orange glow across the sea. Lieutenant Commander Gunner McCormick watched from the cargo jump seat as the pilot reached forward and pushed the start button. The helicopter’s engines sputtered. Rotors turned. Engines fired, sending the rotors into full rotation. A sonorous roar drenched the ship’s fantail.

  US Navy crewmen, wearing sound-protection gear, scrambled away as the chopper roared on the deck, awaiting permission to fly.

  “You strapped in, Commander?” The pilot, his olive-drab flight suit zipped up to his neck and white flight helmet strapped to his chi
n, turned around from his left cockpit seat and looked over his right shoulder at his passenger. His copilot, seated in the right cockpit seat, continued his preflight checklist.

  “Good to go, Lieutenant,” Gunner said through his chin microphone, responding to the pilot’s voice through his headset. “You got enough gas in this bird to get us out to our next stop? You know I don’t like to swim.”

  “We do now, courtesy of the Vicksburg,” the pilot said. “We’ll need to gas up again when we get there.”

  “Just what I envisioned when I joined the Navy.” Gunner chuckled. “Long helicopter rides from ship to ship in the middle of the ocean, flying on fumes, and trying to land on tiny helipads on a moving target, with barely enough gas to avoid ditching.”

  “Hey, look on the bright side, Commander,” the pilot said, chuckling. “A tender’s got a bigger fantail than a missile cruiser. So you’ve got a smaller chance of landing in the drink.”

  “That’s comforting to know,” Gunner quipped. “I know how you flyboys are. Taking bets on which passengers reach for the barf bag first.”

  The copilot chimed in. “We’ll have to try the barf bag thing on this leg of the flight. I think we’d both lose our wings if we try it on the way back.”

  “That’s for dang sure,” the pilot said. “You can never have any fun when you’ve got VIPs on board. Even if you outrank the VIP. No autorotations. No fake fuel losses. No nothing.”

  “Seahawk Three. Vicksburg control.”

  Gunner heard the ship’s air traffic control through his headset.

  “Seahawk Three. Go ahead, Vicksburg.”

  “Seahawk, you are clear for takeoff.”

  “Vicksburg. Roger that.”

  The roar of the engines grew louder, and the helicopter shook on the Vicksburg’s helipad. Gunner felt separation from the fantail, the lofty feeling when an aircraft first leaves the surface. The chopper rose, climbing into the morning sky. A moment later, the sleek gray missile cruiser was cutting through the water off to the left as the chopper climbed high above her.

  “Seahawk Three. Vicksburg Control. Go to two thousand feet. Set course for two-two-zero degrees. Good luck and Godspeed.”

  “Vicksburg. Seahawk Three. Climbing to two thousand. Setting course for two-two-zero degrees. Thank the skipper for his hospitality. Hope to see you next time.”

  The Chinese (PRC) freighter M/V Shemnong

  South China Sea

  between Da Nang, Vietnam, and the Paracel Islands

  course 180 degrees

  Against the swirling tropical wind, two long gongs rang out over the length of the ship. These gongs were followed by a pause, followed by two more gongs.

  Like most freighters and merchant ships on the high seas, M/V Shemnong operated on six separate watches of four hours each, with the forenoon watch beginning at 8:00 a.m. and running until noon. The gongs of the ship’s bell were used to signify the beginning, middle, and end of each of the ship’s watch.

  The two gongs, separated by a pause, and followed by two more gongs, signaled that the forenoon watch was half over.

  First Officer Kenny Chan, walking along the windswept portside deck when the gongs sounded, checked his watch. Ten o’clock sharp. Right on time.

  M/V Shemnong had cleared the waters of the Gulf of Tonkin and was now steering a southerly course at full speed in the warm waters of the South China Sea. Chan, halfway through his rounds, had just stepped out of the galley and come topside.

  He extracted a pair of sunglasses from his pocket, slipped them on, and gazed out across the aqua-blue sea, in the direction of the Spratlys and beyond toward Borneo.

  How could such placid-looking waters harbor such danger as the captain had warned? Yes, it appeared the war between China and Taiwan was about to erupt in the Spratlys, and from that one of two good things could happen. China could establish total control of the Spratlys and all their natural gas reserves. Or, even better, Chan thought, the war could escalate and lead, finally, to the toppling of the traitorous regime in Taipei.

  Still, Chan wondered why he had a sense that the danger lurking over the horizon somehow paled when compared to the danger lurking in the belly of his own ship. How odd, he thought, that the captain was not interested in the contents of the cargo.

  Why would the shippers of medical supplies not want the captain to know what he was shipping? And why would all the supplies be boarded up so they could not easily be inspected?

  “Forget it,” Chan mumbled. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth and reached in his pocket for a lighter. If the captain wasn’t concerned about it, why bother? There would be plenty of options for spending the bonus money from this voyage. Chan would take a two-week vacation to Tahiti and spend the rest on a down payment for a high-rise flat in Hong Kong.

  Time to get back to work, he decided. Chan glanced at his clipboard. He had already checked the galley, the boiler room, and the engine room. Still to be checked, the crew’s quarters, the radio room, the cargo bay …

  The cargo bay. He remembered the captain’s words: “But if you are all that curious, Mr. Chan, go down into the cargo bay and have a look. Whatever you find down there, do not share that information with me. I do not have a need to know nor do I wish to know.”

  He had to check the cargo bay anyway. It was part of his routine on watch. Besides, the cargo was boarded up, so what could one see? The captain was right. The refrigeration system was running full blast down there. Going down there would feel like stepping from the tropical heat onto a polar ice cap.

  Why bother?

  Why not?

  He bypassed the radio room and crew’s quarters. Stepping through an open hatch, leaving the bright sunlight behind, he entered a windowless space lit by fluorescent lights. He started down the ladder. The cargo bay was one more flight down. He stopped to permit his eyes to readjust from the sunlight, then descended the ladder down one more deck.

  The entrance to the cargo bay consisted of three doors. The middle door was a large metal garage-like door, large enough to drive several forklifts through. It was flanked on each side by two regular-sized door hatches.

  Chan opened the door hatch on the left. Freezing cold air hit him. He stepped into the chill. The grated steel walkway stretched back for a hundred feet from the front doors. On each side of the grated steel walkway, separated by a distance of eight feet, dozens of unpainted plywood crates were stacked up to the ceiling.

  The sides of the crates were screwed together. Painted in red on the outside were the words: MEDICAL SUPPLIES.

  DO NOT OPEN.

  GLASS. FRAGILE.

  Something seemed odd about it all, Chan decided. Glass? Fragile? Inside a wooden crate?

  Chan was all alone in the cargo bay. He stood for a while, looking over the cargo, then walked down the center aisle between the rows of crates, looking up and down.

  Whatever was inside these mysterious wooden crates, these “medical supplies,” as they were labeled, was valuable enough for them to be paid a great deal of money that would change all their lives forever.

  The captain was right. No need to know.

  On the other hand, he could remove about six screws to open one of those crates. He could just take a look.

  Chan stopped. He stared at one of the crates, feeling oddly paralyzed. “Forget it.”

  He started to leave the cargo bay. On his way out, bolted to the bulkhead just to the right of the hatch, the industrial toolbox caught his eye. He stopped and eyed the toolbox. He turned and looked back at the crates.

  Why not?

  He popped open the latch on the toolbox.

  Wrenches, bolt cutters, pliers, soldering guns and irons, electrical testing devices, hammers, and wire cutters filled the toolbox. Three power screwdrivers lay side by side.

  Chan picked up the second one and slid the “screw” button forward. The Phillips head spun like a drill. Instant response. Plenty of charge.

  He laid his clipboard on the toolbox,
took the screwdriver in his hand, and walked back down the steel walkway to the third row of crates. He stared at one of the crates that was stacked about five feet off the deck.

  Eight Phillips-head screws held down the plywood side of the crate. Three along one side, three on the other side, and one on each end.

  The power screwdriver whirled counterclockwise. Two seconds later, the first screw spun out and fell to the deck. Finally, only one screw remained.

  Chan grasped the top edge of the plywood with his left hand to prevent it from falling to the deck. As he gripped the plywood, his knuckles pressed against a cool glassy-feeling surface behind the plywood.

  The power-driver swirled again. The screw slipped out, and Chan removed the plywood and propped it on the deck by his boots.

  “Oh, dear God!”

  Chan gagged and almost vomited.

  He needed air! He dropped the screwdriver in the toolbox and rushed out the door, up the ladder, and back onto the portside deck.

  The rush of warm sunshine on his face relieved some of the queasiness in his stomach. But it was not enough.

  He leaned overboard and puked into the sea.

  CHAPTER 3

  Bridge

  USS Emory S. Land

  South China Sea

  10:15 a.m.

  Much better job getting the Boise replenished this morning,” Captain Auclair Wilson said. “I don’t know what you did, XO. But we got her replenished and under way with ten minutes to spare.”

  “Thank you, Skipper.” Bobby Roddick breathed a sigh of relief that his commanding officer was pleased. “I just gave Ensign Surber a little pep talk.”

  “You’re amazing, XO. When you retire from the Navy, you should write a book called My Pep Talks with the President’s Daughter.”

  Roddick chuckled. “Catchy title, Captain. But I wouldn’t feel right writing that book alone. I’d want to coauthor that with you, sir.”

  “Now that’s funny, XO. When I retire, I’ll be too busy elk hunting to worry about even writing a check, let alone a book. But right now, I’ve got to worry about the Chinese hunting the Taiwanese.”