by Don Brown
“Pinpointing right here.” The radio officer marked the position on the sweeping amber radar screen.
“Yes!” Roddick pumped his fist. “Dead ahead! Sounds like somebody’s alive out there.” He hoped that saying it would make it so. “Notify the captain. He’s on the fantail.”
“Yes, sir,” the radio officer said.
“Also, have Ensign Surber report to the bridge.”
CHAPTER 7
Headquarters
United States Seventh Fleet
Yokosuka, Japan
Office of the Commanding Admiral
Commander Wes Walls picked up the FLASH message from USS Emory S. Land and stepped out of his office into the hallway.
“Hang on, Dave!” Walls stopped Draxler just as he was approaching the admiral’s office.
“Wes, I told you I’ve got to do this,” Draxler said. “That’s final.”
“Wait a minute, Captain. We just got another FLASH message from Emory S. Land. They’ve received a homing signal in the water in the approximate location where the chopper transmitted the last distress signal. She’s steaming to that position right now.”
Walls handed the message to Draxler. “Thought you might need this for your meeting.”
“Thanks, Wes,” Draxler said.
The admiral’s office was down the hall to the left, guarded by two United States Marines standing on each side of the entryway.
“Good afternoon, sir,” the senior Marine guard said as Draxler approached, then walked by the guards into the ornate waiting area. The admiral’s American secretary, a sixty-year-old widow named Maddie Hite, sat at one desk. She greeted Draxler with a smile. At the other desk, the admiral’s flag aide, Lieutenant Commander Marcus Weatherman, in his summer white uniform with a gold cord draped around his shoulder, rose to his feet.
“Afternoon, Captain.”
“Marcus, I need to see the admiral.”
“Yes, sir.” The flag aide picked up his phone. “Admiral, Cap’n Draxler’s here to see you, sir.” A short pause. “Yes, sir.” Weatherman stepped from around his desk. “He’ll see you now, sir. Right this way.”
The aide opened the door, revealing a large, yet simple office, considering that this was the office of a vice admiral. Photos of the ships Wesson had served on over the years hung on the walls. On the large wooden desk was a model of the USS Nimitz, the supercarrier that Wesson commanded just before ascending to vice admiral.
“Admiral, Captain Draxler,” the flag aide announced, prompting the admiral, who was seated behind his desk with his face buried in the Navy Times, to look up from the newspaper.
“Dave, have a seat.” Wesson laid the paper down on his desk.
“Coffee?”
“No, sir.”
“Suit yourself.” Wesson took a sip from a navy blue mug with three white stars emblazoned on it. “What’s up?”
Draxler sat in one of the two chairs just in front of the boss’s desk. “Admiral, it appears we’ve got a chopper down.”
“What?” The admiral raised an eyebrow. “What chopper? Where?”
“Seahawk, sir. South China Sea. En route between Vicksburg and Emory S. Land.”
Wesson removed his reading glasses. “Why would we have a Seahawk flying a route between Vicksburg and Emory S. Land.?”
“Sir, I have to apologize to you. I authorized it.”
“What?”
“Sir, Ensign Stephanie Surber is on board Emory Land. I sent the chopper out to pick her up to get her out of the potential line of fire. I should have told you, sir. I apologize.”
Admiral Wesson rose to his feet. “Captain, are you telling me we’ve lost a chopper with the president’s daughter on board?”
“No, sir. The chopper had not arrived at Emory Land. Ensign Surber is still on the ship. We just received a FLASH message from Emory Land that they picked up a signal from an emergency homing beacon in the area where the chopper is believed to have gone down.”
Wesson’s gray eyes seemed to bore a hole through Draxler.
“Explain to me, Captain, why you used the authority of my office to make this decision and why you did not tell me about … excuse me”—he held up his right hand as if about to initiate a karate chop—”tell is not the right word. Ask … that’s the right word. Explain why you did not ask me about it first.”
“I apologize, sir. I made the decision in part to protect you from having to make it, because I felt that it was a no-win decision for you, sir.”
“To protect me? Or were you trying to curry favor with the secretary of the Navy or possibly even the president himself?”
“Well, sir, I had cut orders for her to fly to the carrier to receive some remedial training in the ship’s weapons systems. I left open the possibility of flying her back to the ship in case anybody asked. Sir, I was trying to protect you. I was concerned that if something happened to Ensign Surber, you would take the fall because the tender is out there exposed with no cover. You know how it works, Admiral. They’re always looking for someone to blame. But I have no excuse for not telling you, sir.”
Wesson crossed his arms. “Captain, if this hits the press, the Navy will be accused … and I will be accused … of giving special treatment to an officer because of who she is. Do you think that’s fair to all the other sailors and Marines who put their lives on the line every day?”
Draxler did not answer.
“And do you know what the president’s political opponents would do with this if they found out that the Navy was attempting to protect Stephanie Surber?”
“I understand, sir.”
“Do you? Well, Captain, if you understand, then are you willing to go to Arlington National Cemetery the next time they’re burying a Marine or a soldier who’s been killed in Afghanistan? Do you want to look that Marine’s mother in the eye and tell her that we would have pulled her boy off the front lines and saved his life if only his daddy had been important enough?”
“Sir, I’ll tender my resignation if you’d like and surrender myself to the master-at-arms, if you wish to refer this to a general court-marital.”
The admiral stood up, turned his back on Draxler, and walked over to look out his window at the Japanese flower garden just outside.
“If I court-martial you, then it comes to light what you’ve done. If I fire you, same thing.” He pivoted around. “All that would hurt the president. All that would undermine the integrity of the armed forces. You technically haven’t committed an offense for which I could court-martial you. But you have exercised poor judgment, and that, Captain, will be reflected in your fitness report. You’ll never advance to admiral because of this.”
“I apologize, sir.”
“Do we have any choppers in the area searching for that homing beacon?”
“We have two choppers on the Vicksburg, sir. One needs to stay with the ship for defensive purposes. We could send the other out.”
“Okay.” Wesson turned and faced Draxler. “Get that chopper up. Let me know if we find anything.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Captain.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You betray my trust again, you won’t have to worry about resigning or facing a court-martial. And I won’t have to worry about you talking.” Wesson’s eyes flashed glaring anger. “You understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Get that chopper up. Now!”
“Yes, Admiral.”
Officers Quarters
USS Emory S. Land
South China Sea
Lying alone on her rack in her stateroom, Stephanie twisted, then turned, then twisted again. She could not shake the images—real or imagined—of those officers on board that chopper who had gone down on her account. The fear that must’ve gripped them in the seconds before the chopper plunged into the water. The faces of their wives, of their girlfriends, of their children, of their mothers and fathers.
She saw them. Surrounding her in a circle l
ike an accusing mob. They pointed their fingers inward, like angry wheel spokes converging on an evil axle.
“Is your life more important than his?” screamed one.
“He was my son! My only son!” a mother sobbed.
“Why should you get special treatment!” a man yelled. “Their blood is on your hands.”
“Dear Jesus, why?” She popped up on the rack.
Thank goodness her roommate, Ensign Elizabeth Ward, had been reassigned to another stateroom closer to the engineering department. Stephanie needed to be alone. That chopper had gone down because of her. She could use a glass of red wine. A liter of pinot noir might just help.
A whistling from the 1MC. “Now hear this. Ensign Surber, report to the bridge. Immediately.”
What could that be about? To tell her that another chopper was on its way for her?
Whatever.
She stepped out of her stateroom and, a few minutes later, stepped onto the bridge. The captain, Commander Roddick, several other officers, and a few enlisted men were hovering around instruments on the ship’s navigational guidance panel. “Ensign Surber reporting to the bridge as ordered, sir.”
Both senior officers turned around.
“Stephanie, I want to talk to you for a second,” the XO said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Step over here, will you?”
“Of course.”
He led her over to one side of the bridge, away from the beeping sweep of radars on the control panel. They stood in a corner by themselves, out of earshot of the other officers.
In a low voice, he offered a reassuring tone. “Stephanie, I know you’re taking this hard, but this is not your fault.”
She looked up into his eyes and, suddenly embarrassed, her eyes began to water.
“It’s okay.” He put his hand on her back and turned her away from the other officers on the bridge.
“Of course it was my fault, XO.” Her index finger flipped a tear off her cheek and onto the deck. “They’d still be alive if it weren’t for me.”
“First off, we don’t know that they aren’t alive.” He spoke with measured confidence. “And even if they aren’t, it’s false to say that the crash, if that’s what happened, was because of you.”
She saw the confident look on his face. “What do you mean, sir?”
“The last distress calls we received from the chopper said that it was having fuel-line problems. Who knows what caused that? Maybe air bubbles in the fuel line. Maybe something the aviation mechanics missed. I don’t know. But that chopper, Stephanie, was going to go down no matter what the next time it flew. If it had launched off the Vicksburg and flown straight back to the carrier, it still would have gone down. Nothing to do with you.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t entertain any thoughts of guilt over this.”
His words soothed her.
“And there’s one other thing I want you to know. Possibly good news.”
“Good news, sir?”
“Maybe. Hard to tell. But we’ve picked up a signal from a homing beacon in the area where the chopper went down. We’re steaming straight there at full power. I take this as a positive sign that someone is alive out there.”
“Thank God,” Stephanie said. “How long until we reach the transmission area?”
“At this rate, maybe two hours.”
Stephanie thought for a second. “Sir, could I ask a question?”
“Of course,” Roddick said.
“They aren’t going to send another chopper for me, are they?”
“I have no clue. I imagine they’ll dispatch at least one chopper to the area for search-and-rescue ops. But whether they send it to pick you up is beyond me.”
“One other thing?”
“Of course.”
“Request permission to complete my target practice on the .50-cal and then assume the forward watch. I’d like to be on the lookout for whatever is in the water out there as we approach the ditching site.”
Roddick smiled.
“The first part of the request is denied,” he said.
“Sir?”
“You heard me. Flat out denied. I’ve seen enough of your shooting to know that you don’t need any more practice. We need to save on the ammo. The second part of your request is granted. Assume the forward watch. Keep your eyes peeled, and let me know if you see anything.”
“Yes, sir.”
He started to turn away, then caught himself and turned back.
“Stephanie?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Just for the record”—a twitch from the corner of his mouth—”I hope they let you stay right here.”
“Thank you, sir.”
This time he pivoted, turned his back to her, and walked away.
CHAPTER 8
Bridge
M/V Shemnong
South China Sea
between Da Nang, Vietnam, and the Paracel Islands
course 180 degrees
First Officer Kenny Chan had stepped back from the wheel and was watching one of the medics insert a needle into the arm of one of the bleeding crew members, who was lying unconscious on a portable cot.
With half a dozen shot-up men on cots, attended to by two medics, Shemnong’s bridge was more of a triage station, it seemed, than the command center of a major oceangoing freighter.
“To the commanding officer of the M/V Shemnong!”
Chan looked up through the shot-out windshield at the hovering helicopter. He stepped to the front of the bridge and fixed his eyes on the enemy chopper.
“This is the commanding officer of the ROCS Kee Lung! Marines of the Republic of China are now boarding your ship.”
Chan looked around. Nothing. “They must be boarding from the chopper flying over the stern,” he said.
“These Marines will make their way to the bridge, where they will take control of your ship. If you resist them, you will be shot, and your ship will be sunk.”
A loud thud from behind. “Freeze! Hands up!”
Chan turned around. Two angry-looking intruders, clad in camouflage and helmets, aimed American M-16 automatic rifles at him. Taiwanese. Two more came in. Then two more.
“Who is the captain?” the first one demanded in fluent Mandarin Chinese.
“The captain is dead.” Chan held his hands up over his head. “He was killed by the machine-gun fire from your helicopter.”
“The same kind of machine-gun fire that your naval forces unleashed on ROC personnel in your murderous assault at Itu Aba.”
“I am a civilian sailor. We are not members of the military.”
“But you are carrying weapons to support Communist Chinese forces on Itu Aba. Are you not?”
“We are under contract with both governmental entities and private entities to supply materials to several ports of call,” Chan said.
“Who is in charge of this ship?” the man demanded.
“I am the first officer. I am now in command.”
“We are Marines of the Republic of China. I am Lieutenant Ho. Others are boarding right now. You will order your crew to cooperate and not resist.”
“I’ve already told them that,” Chan said.
“Do it again!” The leader jabbed his rifle at Chan.
“Very well,” Chan said. He stepped over to the 1MC. “Now hear this. This is the first officer. We have been boarded by Taiwanese Marines.”
“Republic of China!” the leader growled, again jabbing his rifle in Chan’s direction.
“Excuse me?” Chan said.
“Not Taiwanese Marines. Tell them Republic of China Marines!”
Chan wasn’t going to argue with an enemy soldier who was pointing a gun at him nor would he express his true feelings about the so-called Republic of China.
“All hands. Check that. We have been boarded by Marines of the Republic of China.” He looked at the leader. “We will cooperate with these Marines while they are on board. We will not resist them in any way. This is the f
irst officer.” He looked back at the lieutenant. “Is that satisfactory, Lieutenant Ho?”
“We want to see your cargo. You! Take me to your cargo, both on deck and in your cargo bay! Now!”
“By all means.” Chan was certain that when he showed them what was in the cargo bay, he would be shot.
South China Sea
somewhere between USS Vicksburg and USS Emory S. Land
The dolphins had disappeared, their chattering and playful splattering now gone. The only sounds were of the ocean—the wind, the waves—and the beep … beep … beep of the homing device strapped around his waist.
The dolphins’ disappearance had left a feeling of loneliness, as if he now had been abandoned and had no one.
But even if the chattering flippers had hung around to keep him company and stand guard against killer sharks, they could not shade him from the tropical sun, blazing so high overhead and sending down angry waves of heat. Even if the sharks stayed away, the sun and the heat soon would threaten his survival.
Gunner’s mind raced through his survival training in the event of a seaborne crash or sinking.
Naval officers lost at sea were taught that their uniforms could be used as a flotation device. By blowing down into the front of his shirt, the shirt would inflate to help keep the officer afloat. But this process was a stopgap measure and had to be repeated over and over again, an exhausting process. He thanked God that wasn’t necessary. The life vest was still doing its job.
He could use the second value of the uniform that had been explained. In tropical waters, the uniform pants could be used for cooling and to combat sunburn. Officers were taught to remove their trousers and to wrap them around their neck and head, leaving enough room to breathe, to block the skin from direct exposure to sunlight.
But he had to be careful not to lose the homing device strapped around his waist when he removed his trousers.
He reached down to feel for his belt buckle. As he pulled with his fingers against his belt to unbuckle it, his forearm brushed against the homing device, which was strapped just below his life preserver, just above his belt.
The beeping stopped. Now all he heard was the sound of wind and waves.