by Don Brown
“Aye, Captain,” the XO said.
Captain Won Lee flipped the talk switch to the helicopter.
“Dragon One. This is Kee Lung. I want both choppers to fly a screening pattern between that ship and the Vietnamese coast. Under no circumstances do you let that ship break for land. If she tries to break away, warn her to hold course. If she disregards your warning, then spray her with machine-gun fire. Do you copy?”
A staticky burst. “Kee Lung. Dragon One. Copy. Fly screen to avoid break for land. Warn and fire if necessary to contain.”
“Very well,” Won Lee said. “Execute screening maneuver.”
“Roger that, Captain. We are flying to her starboard now.”
The captain turned to his executive officer. “XO. Bring the ship to General Quarters. Alert boarding parties. Be prepared to board.”
“Aye, Captain.” The XO flipped the switch for the 1MC. Bells rang all over the ship. “General Quarters! General Quarters! All hands to Battle Stations!”
Sailors began running across the deck.
“Boarding parties. Prepare to board Communist freighter believed to be carrying military supplies to Itu Aba. Estimated time to intercept, twenty minutes! General Quarters! General Quarters!”
Chinese freighter M/V Shemnong
South China Sea
between Da Nang, Vietnam, and the Paracel Islands
course 180 degrees
Captain!” First Officer Kenny Chan said. “The choppers are flying from port to starboard!”
“Let’s go,” Captain Fu said.
They cut through the bridge and headed for the starboard flybridge. As they passed through the bridge, Fu yelled, with a nervousness in his voice, “Steady as she goes,” which brought the response, “Steady as she goes. Aye, sir!”
They stepped out onto the starboard flybridge. The choppers, their Taiwanese markings and flag now visible, were flying about two hundred yards off to the starboard. They had slowed their airspeed to parallel the speed of the Shemnong.
“Captain,” Chan raised his voice to speak over the roar of the enemy helicopters, “I think that they do not want us to change our direction.”
The two men exchanged glances.
“What do you think we should do, Mr. Chan?”
The captain’s indecisiveness put Chan in an uncomfortable position. “Captain, I think we should radio the People’s Liberation Navy and alert them of our predicament, and then continue to steam toward our rendezvous point off the Spratlys, as if we have nothing to hide.”
The captain seemed to think about that. “Mr. Chan, you are correct. Let us step back onto the bridge. We are not being productive standing out here in the sun gawking at these traitorous helicopters.”
“Yes, Captain.” Chan, still battling queasiness in his stomach, was pleased to hear a little more confidence in the captain’s voice.
They stepped back onto the bridge, sealing the hatch behind them. This diminished the noise of the helicopter engines buzzing in the sky outside the ship.
“Mr. Wu,” the captain said in an authoritarian tone, “open a channel to the People’s Liberation Navy. Tell me when you have raised them.”
“Yes, Captain,” the radio officer said. “Switching to their hailing frequency now.” He flipped several switches and punched several buttons on the radio control panel. “People’s Liberation Navy. This is the PRC freighter M/V Shemnong. Do you copy?” Static. No response. “Once again, People’s Liberation Navy. This is the PRC freighter M/V Shemnong. Do you copy?”
A puzzled look crossed the radio officer’s face. He re-flipped several of the same switches that he had flipped earlier and tried again. “Once again, People’s Liberation Navy. This is the PRC freighter M/V Shemnong. Please respond.”
More static. No response. The radio officer flipped several more switches.
“Hailing all ships or aircraft in the area. This is the PRC freighter M/V Shemnong. Please respond.”
The radio officer spun around in his chair and looked at Chan and the captain. “Captain. I cannot raise the Navy, nor can I raise anyone even on our open ship-to-ship channel. I am receiving nothing but electronically generated static.”
“What do you mean by ‘electronically generated static’?” the captain asked.
“That means, sir, that someone, or something, is jamming our communication capacity. We cannot reach anyone on ship-to-ship or ship-to-shore radio.”
The mariners looked at one another.
“The Taiwanese,” Captain Fu said.
“Agreed,” Chan said. It hit him that the Shemnong was about to get caught up in the burgeoning naval war. He thought about his five-year-old son, Kenny Chan II, and his wife, Won-Hu. Both lived in their government-issued flat back in Harbin in the heavily industrial sector of northeastern China. He continued to sail the seas at Won-Hu’s insistence because, despite the long periods apart, the shipping job paid far more than most jobs in the People’s Republic. This allowed them to build for the future. When he left home three weeks ago to begin this voyage, the boy had cried in his arms and begged him not to go.
He promised his son to come back with toys from Bangkok. But now, the terrifying thought entered Kenny Chan’s mind that he might never see his boy again.
“Now what?” The tone of uncertainty had returned to the captain’s voice.
“Captain,” Chan said, “we have a mission. And that mission is to deliver cargo to the Spratlys. We are not a military vessel. But we have been ordered by the government in Beijing to deliver this cargo, and we are being paid to deliver it. And we are dependent upon the government for our license to operate.”
The captain paced four steps to his left, folded his hands behind his back, pivoted, and paced four steps to his right. He stopped and looked at Chan.
“My problem with that, Mr. Chan, is that the weapons on board make us a military target. Some of the military equipment is sitting on deck in broad daylight, and I am sure that they have spotted it.”
The captain’s point was hard to argue with. Chan decided to play devil’s advocate. “But Captain, the fact remains that we are not a warship. We are a civilian freighter. I would hope that Taiwan would be deterred from firing on a freighter by the prospect of UN sanctions. They are already sensitive about their lack of recognition in the UN.” Kenny Chan was not even convincing himself with his words.
“Mr. Chan, you are speaking about a group of people who are traitors to the People’s Republic. And you speak as if they are civilized, as if they will play by rules of civilized behavior and would allow a freighter with military supplies to pass those supplies along to their enemy.”
“Captain!” the officer of the deck yelled. “Warship on the horizon!”
“Where?”
“There, sir! Off the port bow!”
Chan and Captain Fu stepped over to the left side of the bridge. They both saw the outline of a sleek gray warship.
Chan, looking through binoculars, said, “Looks like an American Kidd-class destroyer, Captain. Which means if she belongs to Taiwan, she’s probably the Kee Lung or one of her sister ships. They have four ships in that class, as I recall, that are helicopter capable.”
“I agree, Mr. Chan,” Captain Fu said. “And it looks like she’s steering an intercept course with us. At that angle, I would estimate the intercept to be … what … maybe three miles if she stays on that course.”
Chan studied the broadside of the ship in his binoculars. “Captain, from this angle I cannot determine if she is on an intercept course or paralleling us. It looks more like she is paralleling us.”
Captain Fu watched the ship for a few more seconds. “Even if you are right, Mr. Chan, even if they are on a parallel course, I do not like it. I am going to order a course change. New destination: Da Nang, Vietnam. We will go there, wait, and request a naval escort to complete our mission.”
“But Captain,” Chan lowered his binoculars. “I would remind you, sir, that Vietnam also claims t
he Spratlys. Once they discover that our cargo contains military equipment for PRC forces on Itu Aba, I fear that we would not receive the warmest welcome by the Vietnamese.”
Fu fixed his gaze on the warship. “We have no choice, Mr. Chan. We are a civilian ship and we have no chance against a man-o’-war. I have a feeling that if we continue on this course, we are on a collision course with them.”
“Yes, Captain, but if we turn toward Da Nang, those helicopters off to our starboard might have something to say about it.”
“There is freedom of navigation on the high seas, Mr. Chan,” Fu snorted. “We can sail wherever we like. And right now, I am more concerned about that warship than those helicopters. Now please return to the bridge and instruct the navigator to plot a course to Da Nang.” The captain donned a pair of aviator sunglasses.
“Yes, sir.” Chan’s stomach double-knotted, his mind on Kenny Junior. “I shall pass your order to the navigator.”
ROCS Kee Lung
South China Sea
Captain!” the radio officer said. “Our choppers report the freighter is executing a course change.”
“Let me guess,” Captain Won Lee said. “They are turning toward the Vietnamese coast.” He picked up his binoculars and peered off to starboard. The turn was visible, even at a distance of three miles. “Put Dragon One back on the loudspeaker!”
“Aye, Captain.”
Won Lee said, “Dragon One. Kee Lung. What is going on out there?”
The muffled sound of helicopter engines preceded the pilot’s voice. “Sir, the freighter is executing a turn to two-seven-zero degrees.”
“Due west,” Won Lee said. “Why am I not surprised.” No response from the pilot. “Lieutenant, patch me through to your chopper’s loudspeaker system. Then I want you to fly a holding pattern right over the bridge of the freighter at an altitude of two hundred feet. I will order them to turn back to their original course.
“If they do not comply, you are instructed, upon my command, to open machine-gun fire into the ship’s bridge.” Officers and sailors on the bridge of the Kee Lung exchanged nervous glances. “Do you understand my orders, Lieutenant?”
More roaring spilled from the loudspeakers. “Copy your orders, Captain. We are maneuvering into position over the freighter.”
Bridge
Chinese freighter M/V Shemnong
South China Sea
between Da Nang, Vietnam, and the Paracel Islands course 270 degrees
Captain!” Kenny Chan tipped his head back and looked skyward. “One of the choppers is flying right over us!”
Captain Fu rushed to the front windshield of the bridge and looked up.
The chopper hovered over them like a giant dragonfly, blocking the sun and casting an ominous shadow over the bridge.
“What are they doing?” Fu shouted.
“Perhaps they are preparing to drop troops on board,” Chan said.
“Perhaps we should get the rifles from the arms locker!” Captain Fu blurted out.
“Now hear this! To the Freighter Shemnong! Now hear this!”
Chan and Fu looked at each other. “That’s coming from the chopper!” Fu said.
“To the captain of the freighter Shemnong! This is the captain of the ROCS Kee Lung. I am speaking to you from the bridge of my ship, which is three miles to your stern. Now hear this! You are suspected of transporting illegal arms to aid the war effort in support of the illegal invasion by Communist forces against sovereign ROC territory on Itu Aba Island.”
Captain Fu blurted out, “That is not sovereign ROC territory!”
The voice from the helicopter continued. “Your communications ability has been electronically disabled. You are unable to communicate with anyone.
“Now hear this! Moments ago you changed course from one-eight-zero degrees to two-seven-zero degrees. This is unacceptable. You are ordered to steer your course back to one-eight-zero degrees.”
“What did he say?” Fu asked.
“Repeat. You are ordered to steer course back to one-eight-zero degrees. Should you fail to comply, you will be fired upon. This is the captain of the ROCS Kee Lung.”
The helicopter’s PA system fell silent. Captain Fu began pacing around the bridge again. “I will not be blackmailed,” he said. “I will not be threatened!” He looked at Chan. “Mr. Chan, order the master-at-arms to post armed sentries forward, aft, and amidships. Order sentries to fire on any intruder attempting to board. Bring all remaining firearms to the bridge! We are going to shoot those choppers out of the air!”
“But Captain,” Chan said, “we are going to fire at the helicopters with small arms? Even if we got lucky and brought one of them down, I remind you, sir, that the Kee Lung is three miles away. And she is armed with Harpoon missiles, Mark-46 torpedoes, and five-inch cannons. I am concerned that firing on those helicopters would be the functional equivalent of suicide.”
“Carry out my orders, Mr. Chan!” the captain snapped. “If you cannot carry out my orders, I will replace you with someone who can, and I will cut you out of the bonus that we are to be paid from this mission!”
All eyes on the bridge were on Chan and Fu.
Chan hesitated. “Yes, Captain. I will carry out your orders. My apologies, sir, if my question signaled any intent to the contrary. That wasn’t my intention.”
“Very well,” the captain said.
Chan picked up one of the bridge telephones and punched the number for the ship’s master-at-arms. A voice answered.
“Master-at-Arms, this is the first officer. By order of the captain, post armed sentries at the forward, aft, and starboard, and on both gunwales. Until further order of the captain, sentries are to shoot any intruder attempting to board the Shemnong. Bring all remaining small arms to the bridge. Immediately! This by order of the captain.”
The captain looked at Chan with a scowling nod of approval. He barked another order. “Helmsman. Maintain course two-seven-zero degrees to Da Nang. All ahead full!”
ROCS Kee Lung
South China Sea
Kee Lung! Dragon One!” the pilot’s voice boomed over the bridge’s loudspeaker. “The freighter has increased speed. Still maintaining course two-seven-zero! No sign of course change as you ordered, sir.”
Captain Won Lee cursed under his breath and glanced at the sweeping second hand on the clock on the bridge bulkhead. “She’s got one minute, Lieutenant. Stay out in front of her and let me know if she starts a course correction.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Won Lee kept his eyes on the second hand. Several junior officers watched the show through their binoculars.
“Captain!” The helo pilot on the loudspeaker again. “They are coming out onto the flybridge with weapons. Small arms. Rifles. Perceived hostile intent!”
Won Lee could wait no longer. “Open fire, Lieutenant! Now!”
ROC Sikorsky SH-60 Seahawk
altitude 250 feet
above the Chinese freighter M/V Shemnong
The chopper turned broadside to the ship below it, and a petty officer slid open the cargo bay door. Morning sunlight brightened the cargo bay. At the edge of the door, the copilot slid behind the door-mounted M60D machine gun, his finger resting on the trigger, his eyes glued on the four men standing below on the ship’s starboard flybridge, rifles in hand.
As the man on the right brought his rifle skyward, the copilot pulled the trigger.
Like a powerful jackhammer, the American-built M60D shook as it fired, spraying a burst of lead bullets at the rate of 550 rounds per minute.
The copilot kept firing on the four men, squeezing the trigger against the gun’s powerful vibrations. The men’s heads and chests exploded in multiple red geysers of blood. Only after their bodies fell lifeless on the sun-drenched steel flybridge did he let up on the trigger.
Lowering the angle of his aim brought his crosshairs down to the bridge itself.
He again squeezed the trigger. Shards of glass burst in a spect
acular spray from the windshield of the bridge.
If anyone survived inside the bridge, it was by the grace of God.
CHAPTER 4
South China Sea
somewhere between USS Vicksburg and USS Emory Land
The sun had climbed high into the sky, its rays beating down with a pulsating heat. The warm tropical water felt like bathwater. The morning had passed to what was probably high noon. The wind had subsided, and calmer winds brought calmer seas.
Still, there was no sign of anything except water in every direction. The orange pup tent on the life raft had vanished. Perhaps it had sunk, or had been carried away by the wind or an ocean current.
Questions kept flashing through his mind. How long could he survive? A day? Two? Three?
The problem, inevitably, would be thirst and sunburn.
A silver flash broke the surface of the water ten or so feet in front of him!
Were his eyes playing tricks?
He squinted.
Nothing.
There! Again!
“Dear God, no.” The triangular fin was coming at him! Fifteen feet. Ten feet. Five feet. Then, gone.
His heart pounded like a machine gun. He reached for a sidearm. It was gone. Why hadn’t he strapped on a pistol before he jumped?
A bump against his leg from the back!
“Dear Jesus!”
The fin resurfaced in front of him, cutting through the water, swimming away, then swirling in a wide circular motion, then disappearing again.
Did the fin have a white tip? “Dear God, no! I think I saw a white tip! Stay calm, Gunner.”
He tried breathing slowly to slow down his pulse. But he couldn’t shake the memories of the crew of the USS Indianapolis, the Navy cruiser that delivered parts of the atomic bomb to Tinian Island for the attack on Hiroshima. The cruiser was torpedoed by the Japanese at almost this same latitude in the nearby Philippine Sea. She had sunk in twelve minutes and wasn’t discovered missing for four days!