The Pacific Rim Collection

by Don Brown

  “Dear Jesus, help me.”

  He reached down to feel for the activation button, found it, and pressed it. Nothing. Again. Still nothing. One more time. Silence.

  Gunner cursed, then cursed again.

  How hypocritical, he thought. Asking Jesus to help in one breath and cursing in the next.

  “Forgive me, Lord. Stay focused. One step at a time.”

  He reached down again, unbuckled his trousers, and unzipped his zipper. Pulling his knees up against his chest, he slipped off his trousers, pulled them up out of the water, and draped them over his head. The cool, wet pants felt soothing to his head, neck, and face.

  But now that his homing device had failed, he truly was lost at sea, with no chance of communicating with anyone—except God.

  Bridge

  USS Emory S. Land

  South China Sea

  Captain, we’ve lost the signal!”

  Commander Bobby Roddick watched as Captain Wilson rushed over to the radio officer’s workstation and looked over the officer’s shoulder. “You sure it’s not just a computer glitch?” the captain asked. “Try shutting it down and re-booting.”

  “Already tried that, sir,” the radio officer said. “Nothing. We’re picking up other stuff out there, so our radio’s working. Frequency sensors are working. There’s no equipment malfunction on our side.” The radio officer spun around in his chair and looked at Wilson and Roddick. “I’m convinced that the unit is no longer broadcasting.”

  “Not good,” Captain Wilson said.

  “No, sir, it isn’t,” Roddick agreed.

  “We maintain course to the last reported broadcast point,” the captain said, “but without that homing beacon, we’re looking for a needle in a haystack. And our chances of finding anyone just took a huge hit.”

  Roddick nodded. “I’m afraid you’re right, sir.” His thoughts turned to Stephanie. How would she take this?

  The best approach, he decided, unless the captain ordered him to do otherwise, was to refrain from telling her that they had lost touch with the beacon. At least not yet.

  There was another problem. He sensed a mutual attraction. He had seen the look in her eye. He knew that look. It was the star-struck look of a butter bar ensign enamored with her executive officer. Of course, in this case the butter bar just happened to be the daughter of the president of the United States—the very attractive daughter of the president. But he would never, ever take advantage of that. His duty was first to his country and then to the Navy.

  “Did you hear that, XO?” the captain said.

  “I’m sorry, Captain, I missed what you said.”

  “Let’s get a FLASH message out to Seventh Fleet. Notify them that we’ve lost the homing signal. Will continue to search the area looking for any visual ID of wreckage until instructed otherwise.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Main deck

  M/V Shemnong

  South China Sea

  between Da Nang, Vietnam, and the Paracel Islands

  course 180 degrees

  With two armed Taiwanese Marines jamming their rifles into his back, and with Lieutenant Ho walking beside him to his left pointing a pistol at his head, First Officer Kenny Chan, sporting sunglasses, stepped out onto the bright sunlit main deck of the Shemnong.

  “The main cargo deck is this way.” Chan pointed to the left. The quartet turned and walked along the edge of the ship.

  At least eight Taiwanese Marines with M-16 rifles were posted along the deck. As he walked past, one of the guards glared at him. Chan looked down at the water. Better to drown than be shot.

  Would they shoot him for the military equipment on deck or for the atrocious cargo in the bay below? If they didn’t shoot him for one, they would shoot him for the other. He looked over the side, only a couple of feet to his right.

  Just make a break for it, leap over the side.

  “Daddy, come home.”

  His son’s voice, the image of the boy’s face, stopped him. He had to live.

  “This way.” Chan motioned toward the center of the ship, where some of the weapons destined for Itu Aba, including mobile missile launchers, were chained down to the deck. Other weapons were covered with canvas.

  “Do you always transport howitzers on the deck of your ship, Mr. Chan?”

  “We transport whatever we are paid to transport,” Chan replied.

  “Mr. Chan, this will be easier if you cooperate. You did not answer my question!” the Marine snapped. “Do you always transport howitzers on the deck of your ship?”

  Chan hesitated. “No, sir. We do not normally transport howitzers.”

  “And what is the destination of these weapons?”

  Perhaps he should blame the captain. He could claim that only the dead captain knew the destination for the weapons, that the destination had not yet been revealed to the crew.

  “I asked you a question, First Officer!”

  Just lie.

  “Sergeant, shoot him in the head.”

  “Wait!” Kenny held up his hand, prompting the lieutenant to make a hand gesture, halting the execution.

  “You will answer my question now?” Lieutenant Ho snapped.

  “Yes. The captain knew the destination of the weaponry. He was going to reveal the destination to the crew just before we unloaded the weapons.”

  “Mr. Chan, you did not answer my question. My question was, and is, do you know the destination of these weapons? If I discover you are lying, I will have you shot and thrown overboard to the sharks!”

  Chan hesitated again. His name wasn’t on any of the manifest documents. The captain had signed all those. How would they prove or disprove what he knew? Still, if they found out. His mother’s words: “The truth shall set you free.”

  “At the request of the Chinese government in Beijing, Shemnong is under contract to deliver weapons to Itu Aba Island. To maintain our license and to fly under the flag of the PRC, Shemnong and the shipping company had no choice but to execute that contract as directed by the government.”

  The lieutenant re-holstered his pistol. “What weapons are you carrying?”

  “The manifest is on the bridge,” Chan said. “We are carrying mobile antiaircraft missiles, anti-ship missiles, torpedoes, machine guns, light arms, ammunition, grenades, radar and sonar equipment, rifles, pistols.”

  Ho looked at him. “So you are carrying weapons for Communist forces on the island to kill my countrymen from the Republic of China.”

  “Lieutenant,” Chan said, “you are a military man and know the purpose of weapons. I am but a sailor. I have no control over how the Chinese Army would put these to use.”

  Ho barked instructions. Several Marines rushed over and began removing canvas tarps. They began arranging an assortment of weapons and ammunition out on the deck. Ho, his face flashing anger, glared at Chan. “Do you have more weapons in the cargo bay?”

  A lump hit Chan’s throat. “No. There are no weapons in the cargo bay.”

  “No? Then what’s down there?”

  Chan looked away, avoiding Ho’s eyes. “Medical materials for a customer in Bangkok.”

  Ho raised an eyebrow. “Medical materials? Do you mean biological weapons?”

  “The cargo is designated as medical materials.”

  “Very well,” Ho said. “Then take me down there. For your own sake, you better be telling me the truth.”

  “Yes, Lieutenant.” Chan’s heart thumped as he thought about what was next. “The medical materials are in crates, boarded up with plywood, and some of the plywood will have to be removed for you to examine the cargo.”

  Ho eyed Chan for a moment. “Sergeant! Corporal!”

  Two Taiwanese Marines looked over at Kenny Chan and Lieutenant Ho.

  “Come with Mr. Chan and me.”

  “Yes, sir,” one said. They picked up their rifles off the deck and strapped them over their shoulders.

  “This way,” Chan said a
s he led the band of armed Taiwanese through the door, into the first deck utility space, then down the ladder leading to the entrance to the cargo bay.

  He opened the hatch and stepped into the refrigerated space. He stood there, again feeling sick as the others joined him in the cargo bay. “As you can see,” he said, “these crates are marked by the shipper as containing medical supplies. You will need a screwdriver to remove the plywood and examine the contents. There are power screwdrivers in the toolbox attached to the bulkhead.”

  The two Marines opened the toolbox, and each took out a power screwdriver.

  They held the power drivers in front of them, up against the overhead light, eyed them for a second, pushed on the switch, watched them twirl, then flipped them off.

  “I will take this one. You take that one,” the sergeant said to the corporal.

  The Marines inserted their screwdrivers into the Phillips-head screws on one crate. With a high-pitched whine, the screwdrivers spun the screws counterclockwise. The first two screws dropped to the deck.

  They then moved to the next set of screws.

  Chan could not watch.

  “Corporal,” the sergeant said, “I am nearly done. Hold off for a second and help me remove this.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Chan breathed heavily, his eyes glued to the floor.

  “Oh, my God!”

  Headquarters

  United States Seventh Fleet

  Yokosuka, Japan

  His derrière still chapped from the butt-chewing delivered by the admiral, Captain Draxler looked up and saw Walls rushing toward his desk, holding a document in his hand.

  “Whatcha got, Wes?”

  “FLASH. TOP SECRET. From the Vicksburg.”

  Draxler stood up, took the message, donned his reading glasses, and sat back down.

  FROM: Commanding Officer, USS Vicksburg

  TO: Commander Seventh Fleet

  PRECEDENCE: FLASH

  CLASSIFICATION: TOP SECRET

  1. USS Vicksburg received emergency request for medical assistance from ROCS Kee Lung.

  2. Request for medical assistance on board PRC Freighter Shemnong, South China Sea, en route to Itu Aba.

  3. Shemnong currently under control of ROC Marines.

  4. Shemnong commandeered for carrying weapons to reinforce Communist forces in Spratly Islands.

  5. Commanding Officer ROCS Kee Lung advises medical assistance, at least one physician, urgently needed on board PRC Freighter Shemnong due to injuries to crew members while boarding and to investigate crimes against humanity.

  6. Kee Lung advises that situation aboard Shemnong is urgent.

  Very respectfully,

  LC Kruger, CAPT, USN

  Commanding Officer

  “Crimes against humanity?” Draxler whipped off his glasses. “What’s that about?”

  “Who knows, Captain,” Walls said. “Maybe the Taiwanese Navy shot its way on board this vessel, killed or injured some of her crew members in the process, and found something.” He shrugged.

  “Where’s our nearest Medical Corps officer?”

  “On board USS Vicksburg,” Walls said. “Lieutenant Commander Fred Jeter.”

  “On board the Vicksburg.” Draxler parroted Walls. “Along with one remaining available chopper within flying distance. How convenient.”

  “Ain’t it though, Captain.”

  Draxler stood up. “I gotta get this to the admiral.”

  “Maybe that’ll get his mind off the Stephanie Surber rescue attempt,” Walls said.

  “We’ll see. He’s gonna have to run this up the flagpole to the Pentagon.”

  “Agreed,” Walls said.

  Draxler rushed back to the admiral’s office, having called to announce that there was an urgent matter for which he needed to see Admiral Wesson.

  “What’s urgent, Captain Draxler?” The admiral’s voice reflected more curiosity than any of the sharp anger from earlier in the day.

  “This just in from USS Vicksburg, sir.” He handed the message to Admiral Wesson.

  The admiral read the message. “Crimes against humanity?”

  “Sir, maybe they’ve got some tortured Taiwanese prisoners on board from Itu Aba or something. But that’s just speculation.”

  Wesson looked up at him. “Is there a medical officer on board Vicksburg?”

  “Yes, sir. And one chopper still in Vicksburg’s hangar bay.”

  “Hmph,” Wesson grunted. “If we do this, I’ve gotta bring the other chopper back off that search-and-rescue mission. I can’t leave Vicksburg without one of her choppers for a prolonged period.”

  “Agreed, sir.”

  “But a decision to put one of our officers on a Chinese freighter at the request of Taiwan in a time of hostilities needs to be made in Washington.” He looked up, as if expecting a reply.

  “Agreed, Admiral.”

  “Very well, Captain. Forward this message FLASH to Washington. Include a cover endorsement that I recommend approving the request on humanitarian grounds. If we get an approval, message Vicksburg to call one chopper back to the ship and dispatch the other chopper with the medical officer to the Shemnong.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Residence of the Secretary of Defense

  Arlington, Virginia

  2:00 a.m. local time

  The bedroom of the secretary of defense of the United States of America was located in a modest home that Secretary and Mrs. Irwin Lopez had purchased twenty years ago when he had been an undersecretary in another presidential administration.

  The secretary’s bedroom was also modest, not all that large, considering the power, prestige, and influence of the man who slept in it on nights that he wasn’t either traveling or working all night at the Pentagon or the White House.

  Three telephones sat on two tables on each side of the king-sized bed, all hotlines to various posts that the secretary of defense could communicate with instantly, in the event of a national emergency. The phones rarely rang. The secured hotlines were for national emergencies or in cases where an urgent military decision was pressing.

  Although none of the phones had rung in months, the brewing situation in the South China Sea had kept the secretary of defense on edge. Lopez lay in bed, blinking his eyes in the dark, trying to focus on the red lights of the digital clock beside the bed.

  The Pentagon hotline buzzed, igniting a red flashing light.

  “I knew it,” he mumbled.

  “What is it, Irwin?” his wife asked.

  “Go back to sleep, baby.” Lopez flipped on the bedside lamp and picked up the phone from the Pentagon Communications Center. “Secretary Lopez here.”

  “Mister Secretary. General McDaniel here. We have an urgent request from the Taiwanese Navy.”

  “What sort of request?”

  “They’re requesting a US Navy doctor aboard a PRC freighter that they’ve commandeered in the South China Sea. They claim they have evidence of crimes against humanity aboard.”

  “What?” Lopez squinted his eyes. “Let me get this straight. The Taiwanese want a Navy doctor? … to board a shot-up Chinese freighter?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What crimes against humanity?”

  “They didn’t say, sir.”

  Lopez checked his watch. “Okay, email me that message.”

  “Everything okay, honey?”

  “Fine, hon. Go back to sleep.” Then, speaking back into the phone, “Hang on a sec.” He stepped out of the bedroom, walked a few feet down the hall and turned left into his home office, phone still in hand. Lopez sat down in the chair. He had left the computer on. He typed in his password, moved the mouse to position the arrow over the secure email link, and clicked.

  The downloaded message appeared on the screen. After reading it, Lopez asked the duty officer, “Our nearest Navy doc?”

  “USS Vicksburg, sir.”

  “What other ships are in the area?”

&n
bsp; “Emory S. Land, sir.”

  “Not much firepower on that rust bucket.”

  “No, sir.”

  Lopez thought about the situation. “Okay … I’ve gotta wake up the president on this one. Stand by. I’ll call you back.”

  The Lincoln Bedroom

  the White House

  2:05 a.m. local time

  Knock … knock … knock …

  “Mr. President?”

  The president of the United States removed his arms from around the First Lady, pushed himself up in the bed, and squinted his eyes.

  “That you, Arnie?” President Douglas Surber thought he had heard the voice of Arnold Brubaker, who had been President Mack Williams’ longtime chief of staff and who, along with almost every member of Williams’ old national security team, had been retained by Surber when he ascended from the vice presidency to the presidency. Arnie Brubaker was the only man Douglas Surber had ever met who somehow seemed to operate on no sleep.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. President,” Brubaker said from behind the closed door. “I’ve got the secretary of defense on the line for you, sir.”

  “Just a second.” Surber reached over and flipped on a night-light, which cast a low subdued light, grabbed the navy bathrobe with the presidential seal embroidered on it and put it on.

  When he opened the door, Arnie stood there, disgustingly decked out in a navy pinstripe suit with a white shirt and red tie.

  “What time is it?”

  “Two in the morning, sir.”

  “They never woke me up in the middle of the night like this when I was vice president.”

  “No, sir,” Brubaker said.

  “SECDEF wants to chat?”

  “Got him on the phone right here, sir.” He handed the phone to the president.

  “Joe, pull that door closed, will you?” Surber nodded at one of the two Secret Service agents, signaling to close the door to the bedroom.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Irwin. Whatcha got?”

  “Mr. President, Taiwan has boarded a PRC freighter in the South China Sea. They claim it was headed to Itu Aba Island and contains evidence of crimes against humanity on board.”