by Don Brown
The president exhaled and rested his hands on the back of his large leather swivel chair.
“Here are my instructions. Minister Sheng, Admiral Wong, the Kee Lung’s rules of engagement shall give the captain authority to defend his ship against all warships, including United States warships. The captain shall have authority to fire upon the USS Vicksburg and to sink and destroy that ship at will. If the captain in his judgment senses even the slightest danger to his ship, he may fire upon the Vicksburg and sink her.” A sick feeling blanketed the president’s stomach. “Do you understand my instructions?”
“Yes, Mister President.”
“Foreign Minister Huang.”
“Yes, sir, Mister President.”
“Contact the director of the American Institute here. See if an acceptable diplomatic solution can be reached which would guarantee that the weapons aboard Shemnong do not fall into Communist hands. But hurry. If we cannot resolve this in very short order, we have no other choice but to sink the Vicksburg and blame the sinking on the PRC. This goes against my conscience, but as of this moment, it is the Republic of China against the rest of the world. Are my instructions clear?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
Bridge
ROCS Kee Lung
South China Sea
approaching midnight
Captain Won Lee, the commanding officer of ROCS Kee Lung, stood on the bridge and, peering through his high-powered binoculars, gazed out over the dark waters of the South China Sea.
The three ships swirling at the heart of this military-diplomatic standoff, two warships and a freighter, were all positioned in a floating triangle, all spaced a thousand yards apart.
From his position in the middle of the bridge, at an angle of ten o’clock, he saw the lights of the American warship, the USS Vicksburg. Then shifting his view to an angle of two o’clock, and just as visible against the black of the star-filled night, were the lights of the PRC freighter M/V Shemnong.
He swept the binoculars back from right to left, from two o’clock to ten o’clock, again studying the navigational lights of the powerful guided-missile cruiser Vicksburg. Somewhere on the bridge of the ship, the American captain, sitting on enough firepower to single-handedly wipe out any city on the planet, was staring right back at him.
“Captain! FLASH message in from Taipei, sir! It is urgent.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Captain Won Lee took the communiqué from the officer and read it. “Oh, dear!” He folded the message and stuffed it into his pocket.
“Weapons officer!”
“Yes, Captain!”
“Target USS Vicksburg. Aim all weapons and missiles at the American warship. Prepare to fire on my orders!”
The weapons officer looked around with a perplexed look on his face.
“You did not understand my orders, Lieutenant?”
“Understand, Captain,” the weapons officer barked. “Targeting all weapons on new target—USS Vicksburg—preparing to fire on your orders, sir.”
“XO!”
“Aye, Captain.”
“Take the Kee Lung to General Quarters. All hands to Battle Stations!”
“Aye, Captain. Take Kee Lung to General Quarters. All hands to Battle Stations!”
Presidential Palace
Zhongnanhai Compound
Beijing, People’s Republic of China
The ornamental sound of plucked musical strings flooded the dark of the presidential bedroom, and the tranquil and hypnotic chords of the great Chinese classical masterpiece “Return of the Fishing Boat” filled every corner of the room.
Each night, whether he was in bed alone or with any number of a half dozen mistresses who had been pleased to entertain him at various times over the last year, the ambitious new president of the People’s Republic closed his day, in the dark of his bedroom, with the same music.
Tonight, he was alone by design. Only the peaceful harp-like strains of “Return of the Fishing Boat” could minister to his soul. The melody evoked images of one man, alone on a single skiff on the Yangtze River, returning home with a great harvest of fish to a single pier at the end of the day, to a dock where there was no one.
Tonight, even in the wake of today’s glorious events and before tomorrow would bring more basking in the glory of the Chinese sun, a tomorrow in which the glory would be spread among many, tonight was about one man. And he was that man. For the events of today, and the events of tomorrow, were about him and him alone.
Tang lay in bed, smiling, absorbing the placid sounds of the solo harpsichord, his eyes closed … imagining the wide-flowing river … the reeds along the way …
The electric buzzing from the hotline beside his bed aroused a short barrage of Chinese profanity. His meditative state had been ruined. He reached over, flipped on the lamp, and picked up the phone.
“What is it?” he blurted out.
“I am sorry to bother you, Mister President.” Tang recognized the gruff voice of his minister of defense, General Shang. “But we have a situation about which you may wish to be briefed.”
Tang raised up in the bed. “Has Taiwan counterattacked against our forces on the island?”
“Not yet, Mister President,” the defense minister said. “This situation involves one of our ships in the area.”
“One of our ships?” The thought sent the president’s heart pounding. “Dear God,” he said, then remembered the state’s official position that there was no God. His mind raced. Had an enemy submarine gotten through to his flag warship? “Please do not tell me, General, that anything has happened to the Shi Lang!”
“No, Mister President,” the general answered. “The Shi Lang remains on station in the South China Sea, north of Itu Aba, prepared and ready to intercept the anticipated Taiwanese counterattack.”
“Then which ship?” the president demanded. “One of our frigates or destroyers?”
“Not a Navy warship, sir. It involves the civilian freighter Shemnong.”
“The Shemnong?” Tang’s eyes shot to the eight-by-ten photograph of an attractive thirty-eight-year-old Chinese woman, whose smiling face seemed to look back at him from the desk across the room. “What about the Shemnong?”
“We have lost all contact with her.”
“Lost contact? When? How?”
“Earlier today. She disappeared from all ship-to-ship frequencies, all ship-to-shore frequencies. She no longer broadcasts her position to any GPS satellites.”
“That sounds odd.” Tang’s eyes lingered on the photograph of the woman. “It would be understandable if we had lost her on one of those three. But all three going silent raises serious questions.”
“Yes, Mr. President. Either she has had a total power failure, which seems unlikely because she has backup generators, or something else has happened.”
Tang sat up and swung his feet over the side of the bed, resting them on the ornate Oriental rug. He feared this war was about to become personal, but not in a way he had expected. “What was the ship’s last known position?”
“One hundred miles off the coast of Da Nang, in the South China Sea, on a course to Itu Aba.”
“When was that?” the president asked.
“Earlier today, sir.”
“Have we dispatched search planes?”
“Mr. President, it wasn’t until dusk that we discovered the ship was missing. Because of nightfall, our planes have not yet been able to conduct a meaningful search. However, we will have several planes out searching the area at daybreak, sir.”
Tang stood up, put the phone on speaker, and walked across the room to the desk with the photograph. He was gritting his teeth together. “Of course, by morning the ship may no longer be anywhere in the vicinity, that is, assuming that she is steaming at full power and further assuming she is still on the surface.”
“True, Mister President,” the general said. “On the other hand, it is possible that by tomorrow morning she will show up off the coast of Itu
Aba with a reasonable explanation.”
“Somehow, your words are not providing much assurance, Minister.”
“My apologies, Mister President. I wish that I could offer you more. But at the moment, the darkness works against us.”
Tang ran his hands through his hair and looked at the photo. He dismissed the thought of calling her tonight.
“General, are our plans still running smoothly for our National Day of Victory tomorrow?”
“Yes, Mister President. Workers labor around the clock, even at this hour, decorating Tiananmen Square with hundreds of flags and streamers bearing the colors of the People’s Republic. Prior to your speech, the Beijing Symphony will perform military marches for one hour, live, on national television, broadcast on every station in China. School children will be given thousands of red and yellow roses to cast upon the parade route. Lieutenant Wang Ju, our helicopter pilot who led the aerial assault on Itu Aba, is in flight to Beijing from the South China Sea at this very moment.”
The president thought for a moment. “Very well. We must remain focused on the task at hand. There is no point in having the disappearance of the Shemnong detract from the important national celebration of victory that our nation needs.”
“Yes, sir. Of course, Mister President.”
“Very well,” the president said. “Make certain that the situation with the Shemnong is kept under wraps until after tomorrow’s ceremony.”
“Yes, Mister President.”
CHAPTER 17
Bridge
USS Vicksburg
South China Sea
100 miles east of Da Nang, Vietnam
three minutes after midnight
From the skipper’s chair in the middle of the bridge, Captain Kruger peered out at the running lights of the ROCS Kee Lung.
Something wasn’t right. Somehow, he felt danger rolling in as a dark storm cloud across the waters.
He lowered his binoculars, letting them drape around his neck. Kruger glanced up at the clock on the bulkhead. Ten minutes after midnight.
Lennie Kruger was a patient guy. But he’d had enough. Every lapsed second increased the level of danger.
Washington was a long way away. Washington had given its orders, and he would follow those orders.
But out here, half a world away from the Pentagon, all the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. As the captain, he was responsible for the lives of all 400 members of his crew. Should something go wrong, it was he, and only he, who would have to look square into the eyes of grieving relatives and explain why he let their loved ones die.
“Lieutenant,” he snapped at his communications officer. How long since our last communication with the Kee Lung?”
“Thirteen minutes, Captain.”
Kruger cursed under his breath and locked eyes with his XO, Commander Hugh Bennett, who now looked nervous. Not the look of confidence expected from an officer one step removed from command. Kruger would be hard-pressed to recommend Bennett for command, although luckily for Bennett, he still had time to prove himself.
But in fairness to the XO, there was plenty of reason to be nervous. Thirteen minutes of silence from the Kee Lung. More than enough time for the Taiwanese captain to lock his weapons on the Vicksburg. Just as Vicksburg had her guns trained on Kee Lung, Kruger was now certain that Kee Lung was taking point-blank aim of her own.
Enough was enough. “Lieutenant Morrison, prepare to re-open that frequency to the Kee Lung.”
“Aye, Captain,” the lieutenant said. “Frequency open, sir. Ready to broadcast at your discretion, sir.”
Kruger glanced at his weapons officer. “WEPS, be ready with the Mark 45 cannons. Remember. He might have his guns trained on us just like we’ve got our guns trained on him. So it could be that the first to fire stays afloat, and everyone else gets to be shark bait.”
Tension flooded the bridge, as two ships in the middle of the night faced each other in a Mexican standoff, like two hungry, sharp-clawed predators circling the lone juicy kill—a kill without enough meat to feed both dinner. If one captain blinked, ball game over.
Kruger picked up the microphone and depressed the broadcast button. “To the ROCS Kee Lung. This is the USS Vicksburg. It has been fifteen minutes since your last broadcast. As you know, we are under orders to seize the freighter Shemnong and escort it out of the area. I have been ordered by the president of the United States to carry out those orders, either with your cooperation or without it. Because of the longstanding history of goodwill between the United States and the Republic of China, and because of longstanding American support of the Republic of China on the Island of Taiwan, we seek your cooperation. However, we intend to take that ship whether you cooperate or not. Please respond.”
Kruger waited. He wasn’t accustomed to playing diplomat, and the diplomatic mumbo-jumbo he’d just spewed over the airways reminded him of some of the State Department and United Nations beanie-heads he had been around, occasionally, over the years. That made him want to puke.
Every eye on the bridge bore into the ship-to-ship speakers, like Cardinals’ fans from the forties, hanging over the radio, awaiting the next word from the legendary broadcaster Harry Carey that would bring news of a strikeout or a home run.
Nothing.
Enough was enough.
“WEPS officer. Prepare to fire. On my command.”
“Aye, Captain, fire on command.” The WEPS officer punched several buttons. A second later, an infrared live television view of the Kee Lung appeared on the screens, with target markings on her bridge and magazine rack.
Bridge
ROCS Kee Lung
South China Sea
five minutes past midnight
Although the ship’s air-conditioning had not malfunctioned, the bridge of the Kee Lung felt like an oven. From Won Lee’s brow, sweat slid down to the tip of his nose, then splatted on the deck.
“Are you going to answer the American captain, sir?”
Captain Won Lee wiped his forehead. He heard his executive officer’s voice. Yet, it was as if he did not hear him at all.
“Captain! Sir!” the XO persisted. “Will you answer the American captain?”
“No, XO,” he said. “There is nothing left to say. The moment calls for action. Weapons officer.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Enter firing coordinates for two Harpoon anti-ship missiles. Target … the American warship USS Vicksburg. Target ship’s superstructure just under the bridge and target amidships.”
“Aye, Captain. Entering firing coordinates.” The weapons officer began punching numbers into the fire-control computer. Digital numbers whirled on the screen in front of the weapons officer, rolling and flashing so fast that the eye could not follow.
The numbers stopped, reflecting precise lat-lon coordinates. “Firing coordinates entered, Captain. Two Harpoon missiles locked on the American warship USS Vicksburg.”
“Very well. Arm missiles.”
“Arming missiles. Aye, Captain.” The weapons officer punched several other buttons. More numbers whirled across the screen, then stopped. “Harpoon missiles locked on target and armed, Captain. Ready to fire on your order.”
Captain Won Lee glanced at his watch.
“On my mark. Prepare to fire in thirty seconds.”
“Aye, Captain. Preparing to fire on your order.”
“Start countdown. Alert the crew.”
“Aye, sir.”
Won Lee eyed the digital clock countdown from thirty seconds. Then twenty. Then ten seconds. “Five … four … three … two …”
“Captain! FLASH message from Taipei. Hold fire!”
Bridge
USS Vicksburg
South China Sea
100 miles east of Da Nang, Vietnam
seven minutes after midnight
Weapons officer. Prepare to fire!” Kruger ordered.
“Aye, Captain. Ready to fire on your command!” The weapons officer, Lieutenant John
Klifton, announced.
“Four … three … two …”
“To the captain of the USS Vicksburg!”
“Hold fire!” Kruger threw his hand up.
“This is the captain of the ROCS Kee Lung!”
Kruger’s heart was a jackhammer pounding inside his chest. He glanced at his men. Their eyes screamed for his leadership. Their lives depended on him making the correct decision.
“WEPS, remain on standby to fire at my command.”
“Aye, Skipper.”
Kruger wasn’t much of a praying man. But he uttered a quick prayer under his breath, then depressed the transmit button on the ship-to-ship circuit.
“This is the captain of the USS Vicksburg. It’s been a while since we’ve heard from you. What can I do for you, Captain?”
No response. Static on the loudspeakers.
Was this a trick?
More static. More posturing by the Taiwanese? Perhaps a delay tactic to buy time to fire their weapons.
No more game-playing.
“Weapons officer. Prepare to fire.”
Loud static blasted over the loudspeaker. “Captain Kruger!” The Taiwanese captain had spoken Kruger’s name, which took him aback.
“This is Captain Kruger.”
“Forgive me, Captain. I obtained your name from your ship’s official website.”
“Captain, over half an hour ago, I told you my orders regarding the freighter Shemnong. With all due respect, I can wait no longer. What is your answer?”
“It appears that our respective governments have reached a solution to solve this dilemma concerning the PRC freighter that is captivating our mutual interests.”
Kruger looked around at the officers on the bridge. Some shook their heads. Others nodded. Still others looked blank.
“I think he’s blowing smoke, Skipper,” the weapons officer said. “Ready to fire on your command, sir.”