by Robert Gandt
The President of the United States chatted for another half minute on the phone before he got to the point.
“There’s been a breakthrough out there,” said Benjamin.
They were on a secure line, but no embassy phone line was considered secure enough for ultra-sensitive communications.
Ferrone said, “Ah, have you heard something from Panda?” “Panda” was their code name for the leadership of the Peoples Republic of China.
“Affirmative. About half an hour ago. Panda is suddenly very worried about the escalation of hostilities with Vietnam.”
“Imagine that. Something finally got Panda’s attention.” Something like a show of force by submarines and stealth jets.
“He seemed quite agitated. He rambled on for ten minutes about reckless interference and dangerous provocations. Then he surprised the hell out of me. Listen to this, Skipper. He proposed that each side back off and demonstrate good faith by taking no further offensive actions. No more provocations.”
“Interesting, particularly since it was he who initiated the provocations. Do you trust him?”
“As much as I trust anything Panda tells us.”
“Which means yes, we trust him, but we don’t put down our weapons.”
“You get the picture.”
Ferrone’s mind was racing. No offensive actions. It meant that the recent Vietnamese repossession of Swallow Reef would remain, at least for the time being, a fait accompli.
“Where do we go from here?” said Ferrone.
“To the table.”
“Table? Where? Who will be the—”
“You. You’re going to meet the PRC Foreign Minister in Hong Kong.”
Ferrone felt something very much like panic ignite in him. “Ah, Mr. President, I’m very flattered by your confidence in me. But don’t you think that a mission like this ought to be handled by the Secretary of State. Or at least a very senior diplomat.”
“Negative, Skipper. No publicity, no announcements, no high profile officials. Your mission will be carried out in absolute secrecy. Remember, we’re not—and never were—involved in the Spratly Island dispute.”
“What about the Vietnamese? They have to come to the table too.”
“They do, and they will. You’re going to persuade your new friend, the Vietnamese President, to accompany you and participate in the negotiations.”
Ferrone was temporarily speechless. The President had just given him an assignment of enormous responsibility. There was no way he could decline. Anyway, he was the U.S. ambassador to Vietnam. This was his job. And beyond that, damn it, he was a retired vice admiral in the United States Navy who knew as much about the implications of war in the South China Sea as any man alive. Bringing an honorable end to the conflict would be the crowning achievement of his career.
“Yes, sir,” said Ferrone. “I will carry out your instructions to the best of my ability.”
“I know you will, Skipper. I’m counting on you.”
Ferrone heard the familiar change in background noise as the satellite connection was severed. For several more minutes he remained in the empty office thinking.
He went back out to the rotunda. The guests were still clustered around the bar. The bartender was making drinks again, pleased that he’d gotten his job back. Kim was still talking to Van Duc Chien, the Vietnamese president, who wore the same enchanted expression on his face.
“Ah, Joe is back,” said the President, switching from Vietnamese to English. “No bad news, I hope.”
Ferrone smiled. Joe. Since their initial meeting at the Presidential Palace, Ferrone and the President had become more than diplomatic acquaintances. They were on a first name basis.
“Not at all. In fact, if you will come with me to my office, I have some very interesting news.”
Chapter 26 — Requiem
USS Ronald Reagan
South China Sea
1725 Thursday, 3 May
“It works,” announced Dana Boudroux. She held the object up in her hands, displaying it like a trophy.
Maxwell recognized the device. It had the snout-like appearance of night vision goggles, and it worked on a similar principle of optical physics. But the CFD—chromatic frequency detecting—goggles, he also knew, were a thousand times more sensitive to tiny increments of light wave variations.
Dana looked tired, but she wore a self-satisfied look. Her hair was pulled back in a pony tail. She had a smudge of what appeared to be grease on her cheek. She’d been working on the CFD device for nearly twenty-four hours straight.
She had summoned Maxwell and Boyce to her makeshift lab off the hangar deck. Adjacent to her lab was the maintenance space for the Black Stars, which numbered three again. During the night, the two replacement stealth jets had been delivered to the Reagan, after having been flown by C-5 to Cam Ranh Bay and loaded aboard a U.S. Navy freighter.
Also aboard Reagan were the two new Black Star crews, who had undergone an overnight carrier qual program—two quick FCLP sessions and a blessing by the LSO—at Groom Lake. The replacement pilots and wizzos had accompanied the jets aboard the C-5, and all were now catching up on lost sleep.
“How do we know it works?” said Boyce.
“Because I was able to match the CFD sensor to the predicted wave length of the Dong-jin’s skin cloaking.”
“Predicted?” said Boyce. “How can you predict such a thing just from a pile of wreckage?”
Maxwell knew that tone in Boyce’s voice. He was fishing. He wanted to see if she would give him another I-could-explain-but-you-wouldn’t-understand answers. If she did, Boyce was going to cut her off at the knees.
“I determined that the plasma coating in the Dong-jin’s outer skin has a finite consistency, Admiral. And I was also able to reconstruct enough of the skin cloaking generator to establish within a few nanometers what the actual wave length ought to be.”
“I see,” said Boyce, though his expression showed that he didn’t.
She gave him a smile, like that of a school teacher helping a slow student. “If you want proof positive, of course, then we’ll have to test it in combat against a real Dong-jin. The goggles may require a tiny bit more tweaking, but I’m confident that they will penetrate the Dong-jin’s cloaking.”
Boyce pulled out a pair of reading glasses. He turned the goggles over in his hands, examining them closely. “Very impressive, Dr. Boudroux. Congratulations. You’ve performed a valuable service.”
“Thank you, Admiral.” Her voice sounded uncharacteristically modest.
She caught Maxwell watching her. She gave him a wink.
<>
Gia Lam air field, Hanoi
“Stop the car,” said Ferrone.
Trunh Bao looked over his shoulder in surprise, then motioned for the driver to stop. They were at the entrance to Gia Lam, the old air field on the exterior of Hanoi.
“What’s the matter?” said Kim. She was in the back seat with Ferrone.
“Nothing. I just want to have a look.”
The driver stopped. For reasons of secrecy, it had been decided that Ferrone would depart from Gia Lam instead of the Noi Bai International airport. For the same reason, they were in a plain brown Toyota instead of the official embassy limo.
Kim was watching him. “You were here before, weren’t you?”
“Once.”
Ferrone gazed around. The place had changed. No more gun emplacements, no drab paint or camouflage nets. Gia Lam had been on the off limits list until Operation Linebacker. Then it got bombed just like the rest of North Vietnam.
He remembered the day he last saw Gia Lam. It was chilly, the sky overcast, but none of the 112 prisoners marching across the ramp cared. Waiting on the ramp at Gia Lam was a U.S. Air Force C-141. There was a brief ceremony. When Joe Ferrone’s name was read, he saluted the American officers and then boarded the big transport. It was 12 February, 1973, and it was his last day as a prisoner.
Ferrone signaled the driver to go o
n. The green-uniformed sentries were expecting them. After an ID check and a brief chat with the driver, they waved the Toyota through the gate. An Airbus A-319 in the livery of Vietnam Airlines was parked on the ramp.
Kim squeezed Ferrone’s arm. “Have I told you how proud I am of you?”
“Proud of me? For what?”
“For being who you are. You’ve shown everyone in Hanoi that Americans and Vietnamese can put the past behind us. You, of all people. Even the President thinks you’re a hero.”
Ferrone just nodded. It was a paradox. As the U.S. ambassador to Vietnam, he was more popular in Hanoi than he was in Washington. The Vietnamese newspapers ran glowing articles about him, celebrating his transformation from prisoner of war to diplomat, making special note of his marriage to a Vietnamese beauty. Meanwhile, conservative columnists in the U.S. were reviling him as a betrayer of his wartime comrades-in-arms. His old colleague, Thad Wagstaff, had taken to calling him “Hanoi Joe” on the floor of the Senate.
The Toyota stopped on the ramp. An honor guard of Vietnamese soldiers was waiting to escort him to the boarding ladder of the Airbus. Another paradox, he thought. Those were the same green uniforms and red hat bands that they wore on that day in 1973.
Trunh was out of the car, holding the door open for Ferrone.
“Will you call me from wherever you are?” said Kim.
“Sure.” In truth, he had no idea whether he could call or not. It depended on the outcome. If the negotiations failed, no one would know they ever took place.
Kim didn’t know that the President of Vietnam was already aboard the Airbus. Van Duc Chien had come to the airport in his own plain automobile, no escort, no fanfare. They would arrive the same way at the Hong Kong airport, bypassing the immigration and customs gates.
He leaned over and kissed her, then held it for an extra twenty seconds. They were still newly weds. This would be the first time they’d been apart.
It occurred to Ferrone that he had spent most of his adult life saying goodbye and scurrying off on urgent missions. It had never bothered him. He was a loyal servant of his country, and that’s what he did.
Now it bothered him. Since he’d met Kim, there was a good reason to stay home. The thought had even slipped into his consciousness that some day he might just stay home for good. To hell with urgent missions. Let someone else have the glory.
But not yet. Not until the Spratly Island dispute was put to bed.
He opened the door. Trunh Bao was waiting outside. Trunh was Ferrone’s translator and aide. He would be the only staff Ferrone would take to the talks in Hong Kong.
“Watch out for him, Trunh,” said Kim.
“Not to worry, Mrs. Ferrone,” said Trunh, flashing a smile. “I’ll take care of him.”
<>
USS Ronald Reagan
“. . .and so we commend the souls of Major Michael O’Toole, Lieutenant Commander Elwood Wayne, and Capt. Carl Heilbrunner to the bosom of the Almighty, in whom we place. . .”
Maxwell tuned out the rest. Over the years he’d attended too many memorial services, heard too many eulogies. This one was being delivered by Commander Preacher Peebles, the Reagan’s chaplain. Only a week ago Peebles had conducted the service for the crew lost on the E-2C Hawkeye.
A warm breeze wafted through the open hangar deck. Maxwell let his mind wander. Monsoon season was coming. The weather in the South China Sea would turn rainy and overcast. A lousy time for war.
A hundred or so mourners had turned out to say goodbye to the three airmen. They stood at the number three elevator bay, which was now open to the sea. On an inclined ramp lay the casket, covered with an American flag.
Maxwell glanced around. With the exception of the Dragon Flight team and a few senior officers, none of the men and women there had known O’Toole or Wayne or Heilbrunner. The deaths were reported on the ship’s closed circuit television in the vaguest terms—that they had died in “an operational accident.”
Maxwell spotted Boyce across the compartment. He was standing next to his fellow admiral, Jack Hightree. Bullet Alexander had showed up, wearing service whites. Capt. Sticks Stickney, the Reagan’s captain, was there, a head taller than most of those around him.
Dana Boudroux was at Maxwell’s left. Gypsy Palmer stood on his other side, clutching his arm. He heard Gypsy suck in a deep breath, then stifle a sob. That morning Maxwell and Gypsy had sifted through Sharp’s few personal effects in his stateroom. He hadn’t brought much with him to the Reagan—a service dress Charlie uniform, a few paperbacks, the ubiquitous compact hi-fi and stack of CDs that every seagoing officer had in his quarters. There were framed photos of Sharp and Gypsy together on a beach, on a ski slope, grinning from the interior of his Corvette. And an eight-by-ten color shot of the space shuttle lifting from its pad.
“It was like the holy grail,” Gypsy had said, holding the photo up. “The space shuttle was his dream.”
Like most combat aviators, Sharp had left a will. Most of his possessions were to be divided between his parents, siblings, and his fiancée, Gypsy Palmer. He had been specific about the disposition of his remains. If something happened during this deployment, he wanted a burial at sea.
Preacher Peebles droned on for five more minutes, recounting a few details from the lives of the three men. Wayne and O’Toole were graduates of the Naval Academy. All three had graduate degrees and had been trained as test engineers. O’Toole had just been selected to be an astronaut.
Nothing was said about Groom Lake. No mention of the Black Star. No reference to aerial combat over the South China Sea.
On a linen-covered table was a collage of personal items—Sharp’s Naval Flight Officer’s wings, a brass Marine Corps emblem, Duke Wayne’s officer’s sword, Plug Heilbrunner’s captain’s bars. There was a framed photograph of each man. In his photo, Sharp O’Toole was flashing his toothy, trademark Irish grin.
“The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away,” intoned Peebles. He concluded the service with a prayer.
The Marine honor guard took over. A burly sergeant bellowed, “Firing party, pree-sent arms!”
Two rows of Marine casket bearers tilted the casket toward the deck edge. There was only one casket. The bodies of Wayne and Heilbrunner had not been recovered.
Sharp O’Toole’s silver casket glided from beneath the flag and arced downward toward the sea. It disappeared from view beyond the deck edge.
“Ready. . .aim. . .fire!”
The carbines crackled once, twice, three times. Maxwell felt Gypsy flinch with each volley. Then the melancholy notes of Taps resonated through the steel bulkheads of the hangar deck. Each mournful note hovered in the air, then seemed to melt away in the open sea.
The ceremony concluded. The Marine casket bearers folded the flag and handed it to Admiral Boyce, who walked across the deck and presented it to Gypsy Palmer.
The crowd dispersed. Dana nodded to Maxwell, then walked back across the hangar deck. Gypsy remained at the deck edge, clutching the folded flag, peering out at the shallow white caps where Sharp O’Toole’s casket had disappeared. Maxwell stood with her, saying nothing. They were alone.
Finally she turned away from the sea. Her eyes were clear and dry. Her face had a calm, resolute look.
“It’s over,” she said. She looked at her watch. “I’m ready to fly.”
<>
Hong Kong, People’s Republic of China
Ferrone was sick to death of Chinese tea.
They kept bringing the stuff by the pot. It was green, sticky, and sweet. Whenever his cup was half empty, a white-coated waiter would rush to refill it.
And dim sum. Chinese finger food, except that you were supposed to pluck each morsel with your chopsticks. The waiters brought unending trays laden with dumplings and rolls and balls of rice with globs of fish and shrimp inside. Ferrone was sick to death of dim sum too.
The Chinese Foreign Ministry had chosen the top floor of the Bank of China building in the downtown area of
Victoria Island for the meeting. No announcements were made, no members of the press invited. The conference room was vast, occupying the entire top floor. Thick carpets lay on a gleaming parquet floor. Chinese art and pottery were displayed on three walls, while the fourth contained a massive tinted window with a view of the harbor and the New Territories to the north.
Ferrone and Trunh arrived from the airport in an unmarked Lexus. Likewise, Van Duc Chien and his three staffers traveled from Chek Lap Kok airport by private auto. All had escaped notice from the press or from curious government officials.
They were in the third hour of talk. And that was all it amounted to, thought Ferrone. Talk. An endless loop of recriminations about each other’s ships and aircraft and oil drilling facilities. Negotiating with the Chinese was like replaying a old chess games. Each side knew the other’s moves, but they still had to go through the motions.
The participants in the talks had arranged themselves around a long teak table. Van Duc Chien and his team were on one side, with the Chinese Foreign Minister and his staff of six facing them from the other side. Ferrone sat several feet distant from Van, befitting his role as mediator and non-combatant.
Except that the Chinese minister wasn’t buying it. He was shaking his finger at Ferrone.
“. . .and your submarines have torpedoed five unarmed vessels of the Peoples Republic,” he said in a strident voice. “Is this not an act of war against our country?” It was the fourth time in the last hour the foreign minister had brought up the matter of submarines and lost ships. Each side was delicately avoiding the subject of stealth jets.
“Vessels and aircraft from each side in this conflict have been attacked,” said Ferrone. “I suggest, Mr. Foreign Minister, that we move this discussion forward. Instead of dwelling on what has already occurred, we should seek a resolution to the dispute.”
While he waited for the translator to convey his reply, he took another sip of green tea. He tried not to make a face. Damn. The stuff tasted like warm owl piss.