The Pacific Rim Collection

by Don Brown

  “Or vice versa, sir,” Roddick said.

  “Ya got that right, Bobby.”

  “Sir, we have a TOP SECRET FLASH message from Seventh Fleet.”

  Roddick turned around. Lieutenant Bill Rogers, communications officer for the Emory S. Land, had just stepped onto the bridge with an envelope in his hand. He walked over to Captain Wilson and handed him the envelope.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  Commander Roddick watched Captain Wilson unfold the message and read it.

  “Unbelievable,” the skipper muttered, shaking his head in a disapproving manner. He handed the message to Roddick. “The money they waste for one naval officer.”

  Roddick read the message and handed it back to the skipper. “She’s not going to like this.”

  “No, she isn’t,” the skipper said. He gave the message back to the communications officer. “Log the message in and lock it in the safe. You’re dismissed.”

  “Aye, captain,” the communications officer said.

  The skipper turned back to the XO. “Do you want to tell her?”

  “Up to you, Skipper. You’re the boss.”

  The captain looked out to sea. “Well, Bobby, she seems to have taken a liking to you. Your last pep talk worked. Sounds like XO-type of duty to me. Maybe she’ll think this was your idea and report you to her daddy instead of me.” The skipper looked back at the XO and chuckled.

  “Aye, sir. I’ll break the news.”

  “Appreciate it, Bobby. Let me know how it goes.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  USS Emory S. Land

  Fantail

  South China Sea

  10:30 a.m.

  The M2 “Browning” .50-caliber machine gun, a workhorse weapon that was developed prior to World War II and put to extensive use by all five US armed forces in every war since then, was mounted on a movable post on the aft deck of the ship.

  Stephanie had fired the weapon once before—during her last midshipmen’s cruise off San Diego a couple of years before.

  The USS Stockdale, the host ship for the cruise, had been operating in the Pacific, in international waters twenty-six miles southwest of San Diego, just off Mexico’s Coronado Islands. A friendly, private competition erupted that day between Stephanie and her roommate at the academy, Ensign Julianne McCall of Colorado. Stephanie would fire a few rounds at the practice disks, and Julianne would fire right behind her.

  Both midshipmen shot well, bursting the circular airborne targets being flung into the air by a chief petty officer.

  Soon a group of junior officers had gathered on deck in a semicircle around the midshipmen, wagering on which of the two would win the shoot-out. Each burst of machine-gun fire had caused another round of whooping and hollering from the JOs, that is, until the XO came along and ordered everyone back to their stations.

  Before the XO rained on the party, Stephanie had busted three more targets than Julianne, which meant that Julianne had to buy drinks at the Hotel Del Coronado when the ship returned to San Diego and the Thirty-Second Street naval station.

  A handful of the junior officers who had been making bets accompanied the women to the Coronado later that day and bought them both several rounds inside the perimeter of Secret Service agents, who had cordoned off half the bar so the officers and women could have their fun.

  That was then.

  Today was anything but fun. Stephanie didn’t know what she would face, but the adrenaline had kicked in. This was real, and her performance might make the difference between life and death.

  “Pull!”

  Whish …

  Whish …

  Whish …

  Three Frisbee-sized clay disks whirled out in perfect symmetry, arcing in formation out over the South China Sea.

  “Fire at will, Ensign,” said the venerable senior chief petty officer, who stood behind her shoulder.

  Stephanie swung the gun from left to the right, aiming it at the sky, leading the movement of the three flying disks.

  She pulled the trigger. A powerful blast from the .50-cal.

  Chug-chug-chug-chug-chug-chug …

  The disks exploded in the morning sunshine. Stephanie exhaled.

  “That’s some pretty impressive shooting there, Ensign Surber.”

  She looked around, recognizing the XO’s voice.

  “Thank you, sir. I didn’t see you standing there. I got some practice with the .50-cal a couple of summers ago on a midshipmen’s cruise.”

  “So I hear.” The XO smiled. “Got into a little shootout wager with your roommate?”

  “You heard about that?”

  “Word gets around.” He smiled. “XOs talk. The XO of the Stockdale is a buddy of mine.”

  “I don’t know what to say, sir.”

  “The XO of the Stockdale said you were a great shot. I see that he’s right.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She fumbled for words, unable to restrain her own smile. “Hopefully I can shoot like that if things heat up out here.”

  The XO winced. “Stephanie, we need to talk.”

  “Yes, sir?” Something wasn’t right.

  “Let’s take a little walk.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Commander Roddick motioned toward the stern. A few sailors meandered about the empty flight deck. Sailors snapped salutes at the XO as they strolled by.

  They walked back as far as anyone could walk on the flight deck, just under the American flag flapping at the stern. The XO stopped at the ship’s steel-cord railing. He gazed down at the white water churning behind the ship with its powerful 20,000-shaft horsepower engines and propellers.

  “Stephanie.” He looked at her. “We got a TOP SECRET FLASH from Seventh Fleet.”

  Her heart pounded. “Seventh Fleet? Are we going into combat?”

  “I can’t say. But if we do, there are some high-ranking officers at Seventh Fleet who apparently don’t want you to be involved.”

  “With respect, sir, may I ask what that means?”

  “First off, neither the captain nor I knew about this, nor do we approve of it. But it’s not our call.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Ensign Surber, they’re sending a helicopter for you.”

  “A helicopter?” She covered her mouth with her hand. Fear flushed her body. “Oh, dear God! Please don’t tell me something’s happened to my dad!”

  “No. No. Nothing like that,” the XO said. “Your father is fine.”

  “Thank God.” Her worst nightmare was the fear of someone assassinating her father.

  “But I think it’s because of your father that the chopper is now en route.”

  “Because of my father?”

  “They don’t want you on the front lines of a naval battle.”

  “Who is ‘they,’ if I may ask, sir?”

  “They,” the XO said, “is Seventh Fleet. I don’t know. Probably the admiral. The message was from the admiral.”

  Stephanie wanted to explode. “And just where are they planning to take me?”

  “Anywhere other than the front lines of a naval war. Probably the carrier. Then to Japan.”

  She crossed her arms and looked out at the white water churning behind the ship. “Sir? Permission to speak freely?”

  “Absolutely. Speak away.”

  “Well, sir, I know as a naval officer, I’m bound to obey orders. But this is the most ridiculous set of orders I could imagine. I’m a US Navy officer. My performance at the academy was upper third in my class. I can’t imagine how much taxpayer money is being wasted to send a helicopter out here to fly me out of harm’s way.” She turned to look at him. “Is there something you can do, XO? Can the captain do or say anything to stop it?”

  “I wish we could. But someone at Seventh Fleet with a lot higher rank than we have thinks it’s too risky to have the president’s daughter in combat.”

  Frozen, she stood in the tropical breeze fuming at the news, yet not wanting to reveal the extent of he
r anger. “That’s the first time you’ve mentioned anything about me being the president’s daughter.”

  “That’s because I see you as a naval officer, Stephanie. And a fine one at that. I don’t view you as Douglas Surber’s daughter. I see you for who you are. Not for who you’re related to.”

  All at once she felt hot and cold. She wasn’t sure why. She was furious that some high-brass admiral had taken it upon himself to protect her, yet she had to control herself.

  “How long before the chopper arrives, sir?”

  “They’re in the air now. They’re due within two hours. They land long enough to grab food, refuel, then fly you out of here before things get hot.”

  “I guess that means there’s no point in me taking any more target practice.”

  He turned and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

  “Look, from what I saw of your shooting back there, even if you were staying aboard, I don’t think you need any more target practice. That was some impressive marksmanship.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You better go pack your sea bags.”

  “But …” The directive saddened her. “But what about my shipmates? I don’t want to let them down. I don’t want to let the skipper down. I don’t want to let you down.”

  “You’re not letting us down, Stephanie. Hang in there. Stick with the Navy. I’ve got a feeling we’ll all be together again soon.”

  “Is that a promise, sir?” Oh, what a stupid thing to say, she thought.

  He looked at her and smiled. “Yes, I promise, Ensign Surber.” A more formal tone. Referring to her again as Ensign instead of Stephanie. Distancing himself from over-familiarity. “You don’t hide your anger well. Let’s take this one day at a time. Now go to your quarters and get packed.”

  “Aye, sir.” She shot him a salute, gritted her teeth, turned, and headed to her quarters.

  The Chinese freighter M/V Shemnong

  South China Sea

  between Da Nang, Vietnam, and the Paracel Islands

  course 180 degrees

  In a small one-man lavatory-head, Kenny Chan bent over the stainless steel commode and heaved for the fourth time in the last fifteen minutes. More yellow spew. More cursing. His stomach kept heaving, and it had worsened when he returned to the cargo bay to screw the plywood sheet back onto the side of the crate.

  He had tried looking away from the sight behind the glass. But unable to resist, his eyes locked into a tractor-beam stare. Then he had slammed the plywood back on, drilled the screws back in, and rushed out of the cargo bay. He should’ve heeded the captain’s advice. He should have left this matter alone.

  There.

  That felt better.

  He hit the flush button, then splashed his face with cold water from the small sink. Now maybe that was that. Fortunately, none of his men had seen him vomiting. Rumors would have spread, to the chuckles of the crew, that the first officer was suffering from seasickness, the ultimate symbol of wimpish femininity on a ship.

  He splashed more water on his face, blew air from his mouth, and stepped out of the head. The warmth of the sunshine provided a temporary antidote, and he caught his breath.

  To tell the captain or not …

  The ethical tug-of-war wrenched his conscience. In fact, Kenny Chan had for years forgotten that he had a conscience. But somehow, what he saw in the cargo bay had awakened him from a slumber of sorts that spanned four decades.

  But why?

  Why was he now thinking about his childhood? Did his childhood somehow hold the key to the answer? Feeling like a hapless baby looking for a pacifier to suck, Chan thought of his mother. He closed his eyes. The image of her sweet, smiling face helped counterbalance the horrific sight.

  She was a gentle, caring woman despite what he considered her philosophical shortcomings and her activity in one of those underground home churches, always speaking of her love for “Jesus the Nazarene,” as she called him. She believed that a man who had been dead for two thousand years was still alive. Or so she claimed. In fact, all the members of the secret, illegal church swore with a straight face that he was alive, that they talked to him.

  What nuts, he thought.

  Betty Chan had named her only son after his great-great grandfather, an American who was a Christian missionary to China. And Betty was named for his great-grandmother. So he was American in his blood and even bore an American first name, although no one would know by his strong Asian facial features.

  His mother took him with her to those illegal underground church meetings. She had tried to indoctrinate him to have a relationship with this imaginary Jesus the Nazarene. About the age of thirteen, he once considered it.

  Now, at this moment, he had a feeling he could not explain. He felt within his heart almost like the time that they nearly brainwashed him into “accepting,” as they called it, Jesus the Nazarene. It was as if what he had seen in the cargo bay had somehow rushed him back to that moment in time.

  His mother had passed away long ago. Fortunately, he thought, his teachers at the government schools in Hanin taught him that religion was merely the opiate of the people. Only the state should be worshiped.

  In keeping with his worship of the mighty state, he had applied for and been accepted into membership by the Communist Party and he swore allegiance to the immortal chairman of the Chinese Communist Party, Mao Zedong. That was the happiest day of Chan’s life. The local party officials never discovered his mother’s “subversive” activities.

  But now he did not feel good even about his party membership. Standing on deck, he couldn’t shake the hallucination that his soul was being ripped in opposite directions by two dead people: Chairman Mao and the state Communists on the left, his mother and her philosophy of Jesus the Nazarene on the right.

  Chan wasn’t sure he should tell the captain.

  But he did resolve one thing. He wanted no part of the bonus money being offered for this voyage.

  “First Officer Chan to the bridge!”

  The ship’s loudspeaker system broke into his thoughts. The urgency in the captain’s voice signaled trouble. Chan hurried along the side deck to the ladder and headed up three levels to the bridge. When he came onto the bridge, the captain, the navigator, the helmsman, and the radar officer were huddled around the radar screen.

  The captain turned around. “We have a problem, Mr. Chan.”

  “What is it, Captain?”

  “Radar has spotted an unidentified surface contact. Twenty miles to the northeast. Electronic feedback looks like the signature of a warship. Possibly Taiwanese. Appears to be headed in this direction at full speed.”

  ROCS Kee Lung (DDG-1801)

  South China Sea

  course 225 degrees

  The destroyer ROCS Kee Lung—the letters standing for “Republic of China Ship”—was in an earlier life known as the USS Scott, which was decommissioned by the United States Navy in 1998.

  For seven years, the Scott sat in America’s decommissioned fleet, a warship without a home or a mission, destined for the Navy’s mothball fleet in Philadelphia, to be lost on the scrap heap of naval history.

  But at the end of 2005, the Scott and three other Kidd-class destroyers were purchased from the United States by the Republic of China—known to most of the world as Taiwan.

  And with the change-of-name ceremony, ROCS Kee Lung became the lead ship in a class of warships that was the largest and most powerful in the Taiwanese Navy. The Kee Lung and her three sister ships, all guided-missile destroyers, carried antisubmarine helicopters and enough firepower to send any Communist Chinese warship to the bottom of the sea.

  Only the crème de la crème of Taiwan’s Navy was selected for command of and service on the former Kidd-class destroyers. On the bridge of the 563-foot Kee Lung, Captain Won Lee, surrounded by his staff, studied the blip on the SPS-55 surface search radar screen.

  Still some twenty miles to his southwest, the blip, reflecting the presence of
an unidentified vessel in the sector, generated a bit of concern.

  “What do you make of it, Mr. Chen?” he said, directing his question to his radar officer, who sat right in front of the radar screen.

  “Too big for a warship, Captain,” the radar officer said. “Resembles a cargo ship. Perhaps bringing ammunition to the Spratlys. We need a visual to know for sure.”

  “XO?”

  “Sir, I recommend we launch one of the choppers for a better look. Recommend we send along a Marine boarding party in case there is a need to board the freighter.”

  “Very well,” Won Lee said. “Navigator, set intercept course with unidentified vessel. All ahead full. Aviation officer, launch the S-70s and get boarding parties on those choppers just in case. I want a closer look and a report back on that ship. Sound the alarm. General Quarters. All hands to Battle Stations.”

  “Aye, Captain. All ahead full! Sounding General Quarters! All hands to Battle Stations!”

  US Navy SH-60R Seahawk helicopter

  en route between USS Vicksburg and USS Emory S. Land

  over the South China Sea

  Flying southwest across the tropical morning skies above the South China Sea, the chopper’s engines roared in an almost hypnotic drone that made for a good sleeping aid.

  Gunner, strapped into the jump seat in the cargo bay of the chopper, had closed his eyes and become immersed in the constant drone, knowing that sleep for a naval officer often working sixteen-hour days had to be taken whenever and wherever possible.

  But he couldn’t sleep. Maybe that was because this flight was a stupid waste of taxpayer money. Even the British had left Prince Harry on the front lines to face combat in Afghanistan.

  Maybe they were doing this because the First Daughter was a girl. If so, what an insult to women! Gunner didn’t know Stephanie Surber from Adam. Or, in this case, from Eve.

  All he knew was what he’d seen on TV and in the papers. She was attractive, photogenic, and well thought of by the public. And from what he had heard, she had done fine at the academy and had the potential to be a fine naval officer, to the extent that an ensign—a butter bar—can be evaluated this early in her career.