by Robert Lance
Mischief Island
Robert Lance
Copyright © 2017 Robert Lance
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1546331727
ISBN 13: 9781546331728
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017907016
CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
North Charleston, South Carolina
Dedication
Dedicated to all SEALs, past, present, and future, who wear the Budweiser Trident.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This novel began with a “what if” scenario that quickly accelerated to loose components. I would be remiss to say that there was a dare and a challenge involved with the culprits who inspired me to write Mischief Island. The subject matter is a daunting prospect and one that is looming on the horizon. We started with the end game and walked it backwards as though we were actually preventing World War Three.
I was merely bringing the elements to the page that others dumped in my lap. The structure was there and it was a simple matter of arranging the moving pieces. I had a think tank of knowledgeable experts to draw upon. I thank them for their support and enthusiasm for this project.
Ted Perrote, a charismatic and intelligent wise man/guy, tossed up the challenge after a lengthy discussion of the overall subject. Without his inspiration and goading, I would never have gotten past chapter two.
Senior Chief petty Officer, Robert Gavin, (retired Navy SEAL), provided exceptional glimpses of SEAL life.
Charlie Gregory, the plot doctor, kept me from meandering far afield. Chapter by chapter, Charlie kept the plot streamlined and suggested the direction of chapters to follow. Thanks Charlie, you didn’t cut me any slack.
Colonel Bill Wise (retired USA) provided disciplined insight into intelligence mission planning.
Now to my editor, Colonel Jim Bogenrief, (USAF, retired) There isn’t an editor on the planet that can bluff their way through the interlocking technical jargon, acronyms, DOD structure and connect it all in a logical flow. Jim jumped all over it before the draft was completed. Jim did a thorough edit, one word at a time, the old school way. I owe him a box of yellow markers because he didn’t miss one comma. Thanks Jim.
Finally, Brooke Lance, (semi retired boss of me) spent hours churning pages and offering much needed advice to construct the psyche of the female characters, which I’ve never grasped. I have a tendency to marginalize the will power and skill sets of the opposite sex, so I had many rewrites and hand slaps to get it right. Thanks Brooke for your diligent support and the education.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Author Biography
Chapter One
The International Geological Research Institute exploration team arrived at the Sheridan resort spa on Palawan Island, Philippines. Ostensibly, they were there to study and survey the underground river located in a protected park a few miles from the resort. It was a classy cover legend for a SEAL team deployed under secret orders to mess with the Chinese who were occupying the Spratly Islands in the South China Sea.
Master Chief Petty Officer Ted Perrotte had checked in and could not believe the view from his suite. It was a cabana style villa with a patio and central courtyard, a stone’s throw from the beach. Four exotic suites connected to the courtyard. The grounds were gated and walled, so the fabulously rich could vacation in privacy.
In his nineteen years of service, he had never deployed to a four-star resort. His field deployments had always been to shit holes with sand bags and a tin roof at best. More often than not, his nights were spent under a jungle canopy dripping with rain, sweltering heat, and mosquitoes the size of Canadian geese. Ted could not believe his good fortune to be taking a working vacation at a resort, courtesy of the United States Navy. He stood in an open bay window taking in a cool breeze coming off the beach.
He walked into the courtyard to check on his annoying room buddies. He heard the rustling of bed sheets behind him. Senior Chief Petty Officer Nathan Gates had torn down the bedding. “No bed bugs,” he declared. “How sweet is this?”
David Fitzgerald, another senior Chief petty officer, snapped at Gates. “You’re a bed bug carrier, Nathan, and don’t even think about sitting on my bunk.”
Gates said, “What’s with you, snow flake, you establishing a sissy safe space? Did you bring crayons and cartoons?”
David Fitzgerald collected nicknames, Fitz being the kindest of them. He was the weapons specialist on the team and the target of teasing because of his obsessive neatness. “Gates, you’re working your way to a cot in a banana grove and a gang fuck by rabid monkeys. For once, could you just stand upright without leaning on your knuckles?”
“I’m fine, but somebody explain something to me. There I was getting to the wet part of a good dream, when the phone rings. Next thing I know, I’m on an all-nighter to Manila without so much as a briefing or a kiss good bye. No pre-mission work-up, no hubba-hubba, not even a picture post card. Then I get special handling and shipped over to Puerto Princesa where I find myself in a paradise, turned upside down, by the presence of the most dangerous night stalkers known to man.”
Three men in the room were looking at Perrotte. He knew more than he was willing to share and said, “Same thing here. I was on leave visiting the kids and watching the tail end of Hannity. I caught a news alert—.”
“You mean one of those terrifying alerts that aren’t an alert? Like the first lady got a run in her hose, type alerts”
“Yeah. What I got out of it was the Chinese sank a Filipino cruiser in the South China Sea. I got a knock on the door and had to send the kids home in a fucking taxi. My guess is we’re about six feet in front of the tip of the spear.
Petty Officer Jack Perry, the fourth man on the team, spoke. “I was on Korean Air, and guess who I saw in first class? Alamo Jones. How does a broke down navy lieutenant commander rate posh travel? He sure as hell isn’t using bonus miles on Navy time.”
Gates asked, “Are you sure it was Alamo? That guy is creepy wicked.”
Perry shrugged. “Yeah. That man has had his face in mine so many times I have nightmares about his bad breath. Anyway, he peeled off in Manila, and I didn’t see him
on the plane over.”
Perrotte said, “That explains it. Lieutenant Commander Jones is crazy rich and short a few marbles. My guess is he’s put this show together, so if there’s an ounce of party in you, you better get it over before he shows up.”
Perrotte had a quick ‘one-on-one’ with Jones when he got off the plane at Manila. He knew Jones was going to Zamboanga where the center for Navy Special Operations was located. The United States had a minimal Navy presence in the Philippines at Subic Bay north of Manila, but the base had been decommissioned due to anti-American hostilities. Navy Special Ops had moved to Zamboanga in the distant south islands of the nation, out of sight and out of mind. The presence of a Navy SEAL team would raise eyebrows, which accounted for their deployment to Palawan, one hundred thirty miles east of where the Chinese were raising hell.
A SEAL team staging out of a remote resort was unheard of, and Perrotte felt a cold shiver run up his spine. Whatever Jones was up to would be spectacular, quick, lethal, and above all, secret. SEAL teams were not storm troopers used at a whim. Their operations required depth in intelligence and preparation. They slept in the house of their targets, learning every detail, down to their bowel movements. Perrotte had been on a few quick reaction deployments, and none of them went well. He had a foreboding that this deployment was a knee jerk reaction to the Chinese incident that he paid little attention.
He looked at the three men and saw the same stream of thought. He said, “Anybody up for a polish luau?”
Perry hopped up and headed for the door. “I’ll scrounge for Ice,” he said as he went out the door.
Fitzgerald was right behind him, and said, “Who’s buying the beer?”
Perrotte shrugged and said, “Put it on room service. Alamo can spring for it when he gets here.”
“What are the chances they have Miller Lite on hand?”
Perrotte scoffed. “Does the pope drink Guinness? Who the fuck knows?” He waved Fitzgerald out the door. “Get some local swill, and meet us at the beach. Gates, go with him.”
Chapter Two
Four men lay on beach towels, like lizards. A mountain of ice was piled in the shape of a volcano. The tops of beer bottles sweated in the ice, enticing the men to wet their whistles.
Gates spoke in a speculative tone as he inspected his bottle of San Miguel for flaws. “Light across the tongue with a bitter hit at the end. It’s hoppy, but not displeasing.” He studied his bottle. “Not filling, but it has a full-bodied flavor.”
Fitzgerald said, “Who made you the cicerone? That’s what I like about you, Gates. I’m sure you’ll have an opinion on the local swamp water.”
Gates wiggled his eyebrows and smiled slightly. His concentration was on his beer. “When Alamo gets here,we’ll all get our fill of swamp water.”
Perry was “the new guy” to the team even though he’d been with them for four years. He knew the reputation of Alamo Jones was legendary. Alamo Jones was a West Texas cattle baron with the tough rawhide attitude to go with it. Alamo could sniff the air and smell trouble. He could put his finger in the breeze and tell you where the trouble was coming from. When boots were in the field, his were either up your ass or pushing you forward into the jaws of danger. There was no such thing as not getting the job done. Alamo Jones was not an officer built around the classic model that relied on the enlisted troops to carry his baggage. When the fight was over, Alamo was the cleanup batter, clearing enemy dugouts. Still, Perry was curious how Alamo got his nickname. He rolled over on his towel and asked.
Perrotte guffawed and said. “It’s his real name. No shit, Perry. His mom named him Alamo. Who names their kid after a military disaster?”
Gates said, “There’s a soldier over in B Company named George Armstrong Custer Lane. He’s Indian, so I guess it’s not the same.”
Perrote smirked. “If Jones had been at the Alamo, the Mexican Army would’ve lost the battle. The man is a tactical genius.”
“Which begs the question, Lord Tennyson. ‘Not to reason why, but to do or die.’ I’ve got a bad feeling. Any ideas?” asked Fitzgerald.
Gates spoke. “I did a little snooping. Sabang is a Chinese tourist attraction. It’s all about the underground river, a stone’s throw from here. It’s why there is a resort here. Anyway, government troops came through here, rounded up all the Chinese, and sent them back to China. I think it has to do with the sinking of one of their ships. Anyway, I’m checking my bed again for Chinese cooties.”
“Now that you mention it, the resort seems to be empty.” Fitzgerald said.
Gates said, “The barman said that parts of the underground river have been closed because of bat bites. The river runs fifteen miles with caverns the size of the Vatican. It’s one of the Seven Wonders of the World.” He shrugged. “It’s closed to the public, and the barman thinks we’re here to get rid of biting bats.”
Perry rose on an elbow, grabbed another beer, and said, “This is way off our brand. When do SEALs go into the conflict zone wearing Barong flowery shirts and flip flops?”
Gates added. “We’re not trained for the circus, and I feel like a laughing clown with a red nose and no flak jacket, no gun, and naked as shit. We work for the Department of Defense, not the CIA.”
Perrotte had a skittish crew on his hands. He said, “That’s the point, Gates. The Philippine civil government is openly hostile to our government, but the Filipino Military is not. The Chinese were removed by the military, not the police. Obviously, we’re here without any official cover.”
Fitz scoffed. “Reminds me of working with the Pakistani shits. Drink your beer, sunshine, and stay on script.”
Perry asked, “How do I pass myself off as a green peace activist in love with eco-harmony and all that friendship with the planet shit?”
“Act goofy. That’s not hard for you to do, now is it?”
Perry laughed, and said, “Maybe we should kill some bats and earn our keep?”
Perrotte chuckled. “No. We’re supposed to capture the bats and transport them to a less harmful environment away from human contamination. Look, we should just lay low and stay off the grid until Alamo shows up.”
Gates said, “Speaking of biting bats.” He nodded up the beach where a female wearing a floppy hat and a dental floss bikini was taking photographs, and the camera was pointed at them. She was attempting to be casual in her stroll towards them, but it was abundantly clear she was on a mission.
From under the hat a stream of golden hair danced on a steady wave of the brisk breeze. As she got closer, Perrotte could see she was like any other woman who had mouse brown hair. Strands of it were either sun bleached or bottle bleached. She had a nice build. Stunning, actually. Her skin glowed, wet with sweat and sea spray. The woman was baked golden, except for the thin tan lines peeking from the skimpy swimsuit. She slowed her pace as if she had just then become aware of them. Perrotte saw the features of her face once he got past examining her gorgeous melons. She was squinting, but that didn’t hide the green emerald eyes. The eyes were studying him.
His thoughts ran the full distance of intimidation to infatuation. Then she smiled and spoke. “Are you gentlemen guests here?” Done and over.
Not one of the four could respond to her question. It was as if they were junior high boys caught with their flies down. She looked at each of them, then frowned. “I tried to reserve a room here and was told the resort was closed due to mold infestation. The only accommodation I could find is the Blue Moon.” She jerked her hand behind her. “It’s a couple miles back that way.”
Budding horns were popping out all over as she was surrounded in a densely testosterone enriched atmosphere. She had a full understanding of her effect on men, and she smiled at them and said, “I walked all this way in hopes of finding myself among people. I’ve been warned not to be on the beach alone. Do you mind if I share this part of the beach with you?”
SEALS recover from shock easily and are quick to exploit a shifting paradigm in an inst
ant. Perrote was on his feet at once, Fitzgerald forfeited his towel for her to sit on, and Perry handed her a cold San Miguel. It was almost a military drill carried out with precision.
Gates, being the cynical exception, introduced himself, and asked, “What brings you to this end of the beach? I mean, you knew this resort was closed, so why did you come this way to be around people?”
She was quick with an answer. “I think the staff lied. If there is any resort that needs to be closed for mold remediation, it would be the Blue Moon.” She removed the beer bottle from Perry and took a dainty sip. She introduced herself and caught four hard dicks off guard.
“My name is Sister Anna Marie Benton. It’s my good fortune to meet you, thank you for the beer.
Heads were turning faster than bicycle spokes. “Sister—as in nun?” Gates asked.
“Yes, I’m on sabbatical. I enjoy remoteness and a place where I can let my hair down. Once a year I allow myself the freedom to be a woman of my choosing. I’ve been to all the wonders of the world that God has created for our enjoyment. So here I am.”
Gates was more than a cynic. He was also a smart ass. “I don’t suppose you have identification on you. Let me ask you a question that’s maybe not appropriate. Are Catholics allowed confessional redemption while busy sinning in their minds?”
She struck an odd face with a Madonna smile. She seemed to be gazing on Perrotte. “I am here to contemplate redemption, but the sins in my mind are getting in the way.”
Perrotte heard her unabashed admission, and he looked to see if any of his mates caught on. Three jaws were dropped. There is no such thing as a hot nun, wearing a string bikini, begging for a casual sex encounter. It had to be the Eight Wonder of the World. Had to be.
Anna sat on the bath towel, striking an alluring pose. She crossed her long legs and could have broken necks with the slightest twist of her luscious body. She asked the obvious as she sipped her beer. “What brings you to Palawan? Surely it’s not God calling, or leisure desires.”
Gates was quick. “Biting bats in the park.”