Mischief Island

by Robert Lance

  The ambassador finally found words. “China has sovereign rights, and no international court can refute China’s borders. We are peacefully exercising our rights and building an infrastructure that will benefit all who transit the South China Sea.”

  The president thrust out his jaw and nodded his head. “You have a weather station that requires a nine thousand foot runway, bristling with anti-aircraft guns, sophisticated radar, and who the hell knows what, for a weather forecast five hundred miles from your mainland? You claim your citadels of sand are to promote maritime safety when your gun boats and planes harass the fishing fleets of five countries. You call submarine pens research facilities? So false, Mr. Yuan. So untrue. Shame on you.”

  “Mr. President, China is building safe harbors for ships in distress and facilities to protect the maritime traffic that transits through our exclusive economic zone.”

  “Really? How many Philippine sailors did you rescue when you sunk their ship? Where is your apology for doing so? What reparations have you offered the Philippine government and the families of the sailors you killed? It’s nothing less than piracy, let me tell you, and I intend to make that label stick,” the president said with no humor in his voice.

  “We won’t be bullied by the Philippine Navy,” stammered the ambassador.

  The president pretended not to hear the ambassador. “Don’t bother to take a day or two to pack. You’re going back to China. Right now. There’s a limo waiting to take you to the airport.” The president reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and removed an envelope. He handed it to the Ambassador and said, “You’ll find my message inside. You’ll also find your boarding pass. American Airlines, first class. How about that? You can’t accuse me of being inhospitable. I could have arranged a slow boat to China.”

  The Chinese ambassador became completely unhinged. “This is a breach of diplomatic protocol. Are we to interpret this as a cessation of peaceful cooperation and the end of our friendship with America? If so, I will immediately recall our diplomatic delegation and close the embassy.”

  The president chuckled. “No need for that. I’m simply sending you back to have a consultation with your superiors. You’ll get over your stupid antics in the Spratly Islands and we can get back to commerce. We have great deals, I can tell you, great deals that will make China great again. I’ll see you again…very soon, I’m sure.”

  “The president did what?” asked Eddie Matlock.

  “What I just said, He bought a first-class ticket on American Airlines and had the secret service put the Ambassador from China on a one-way trip to Peking.”

  “That’s crazy. That’s more than crazy. When did this happen?”

  “It’s going on right now.”

  “Who’s on the story? You better have a crew at the airport and one at the White House. Pull out all the stumps, Edgar. I want this to be as exclusive as we can make it.”

  Eddie Matlock was the managing producer of a cable news corporation that prided itself with timely and accurate reporting. Matlock wasn’t an ideologue, he was a fierce competitor who elbowed his weight around, and he didn’t care whose ribs he poked. An event was one thing. A news story was just that, a story. He wanted to be first to put the clothes on the dummy in the front window. His favorite dummy was as naked as a jaybird, and Eddie was making an elaborate clown suit to put on it. Once he owned the story, he could spin the narrative into ten different news cycles going in different directions at the same time.

  No sooner than he dropped Edgar off the line, he punched up the entire daytime production crew instructing them to drop what they were doing and to get their asses in his office. He was talking a mile a minute. “Crafton, get over to the State Department, and ambush as many of your people over there as possible. Jerry, leak this to every congressional geek you know, get moving, and Henry you need to get on the phone to every pundit, and do what you do. Make a mudslide out of it. We need a headline banner ten minutes ago. Jane, get your crew working on it. Make ten. I want a live shot from anywhere, any source, right now. Let’s roll people. Go. Go. Go.”

  Five minutes later, the premier news channel broke its regularly programmed spiel with a sensational news alert. A Danny Devito looking news stud was standing at the end of the runway at Dulles explaining what the president had done. The shot widened to show a United 777 roaring down the runway. It didn’t matter that it was the wrong airline, going to the wrong destination, and the ambassador was on a different flight that had already departed. Nonetheless it was a great optic that would get air time over and over.

  The president and his National Security Advisor watched the breaking news from the Oval Office. “This is bad, really bad,” said the president.

  “Mr. President, it’s going to buy us time to get our second carrier group where we need it, and get the evidence we need. The Chinese will play this for what it’s worth. They’ll see it as a weakness and exploit it.”

  “Well, it is weak, but I gotta tell you, I got a lot of pleasure sending that smug bastard on his way with a dirty hand shake. Make sure that gets leaked.”

  The national security advisor asked a deeply curious question. “Did you really piss on your fingers?”

  The president cracked a grin and said, “What do you think?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  The SEAL team had tentatively renamed the two women they’d seen at breakfast, Sister Dracula and Sister Chubs. Ted spilled the beans, telling his mates the women were in fact, intel geeks. That caused a commotion and a decided dislike of the two women. They were flat out ugly, which was an annoyance; women, which was an annoyance; spooks, which was a bigger annoyance; and somehow deployed into their nest, which was a grandiose annoyance. Then he told them that the ranking officer at the moment was none other than Sister Anna, AKA Lieutenant Heather Cummins. That caused an immediate ruckus.

  “Holy shit, Perrotte, she wants your bod…bad. She’d make a blind monk jack off,” Fitz said.

  Gates said, “Told you so.”

  Perry said, “You shoulda jumped her bones and asked questions later. Now you’re fucked.”

  “No he isn’t.” someone said.

  Gates said, “I think we should invoke DEPLOYMENT RULES in this instance.”

  “Deployment rules” was a brotherly pact that when one of them did something that might cause the admiralty to cross their eyes, or a minor scandal that would land them in the brig. Invoking deployment rules was a big deal with serious ceremony. At the end of the day nobody saw, smelled, or heard nothin.’

  Perrotte said, “She’s already covered that ground and I told her no.”

  Perry popped his head. “You didn’t! Dude, even Alamo would sprinkle holy water over you. That guy’s known to exercise a few rules of his own, if you know what I mean.”

  Fitz said, “That guy’s dick has 4X night optic vision. He’ll be climbing up the lieutenant’s railroad tracks the minute he sees her. Trust me.”

  Gates said, “You’ve got a problem, Perrotte. Mata Hari needs to be wearing a burka when she’s around you. She’s trouble…for you and for herself.”

  Perrotte said, “I know that. All I’m asking is this never happened. Alamo doesn’t hear about it, okay?”

  “We all swear on Mata Hari’s tits, Alamo won’t have a clue, right?” Fitz said.

  “Done and over,” they all said in unison.

  “There’s one other matter,” Ted said. “We need to make nice with the sisters.”

  Ramon had prepared a sumptuous buffet, served curb side by the pool. He was proud of the “American feast” The hot-line had a variety of items and not one of them could be identified on the other side of the International Date Line. Everything came with puto, a rice cake glob. Fitzgerald did a walk through behind Chubs. She seemed to know what was in front of her so he decided to break the ice. “Miss, I’m having a little trouble here. What is this stuff?”

  She warily sized him up and said, “You look like a meat and potatoes kind of g
uy.”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “You haven’t been in the Philippines very long have you?”

  “Just got here.”

  She offered him a clipped smile and said, “Start with the lumpia, its made with tiny bits of pork, mixed vegetables and rolled into something that looks like a spring roll and deep fried. You put a small amount of banana ketchup on it or the hot pepper sweet sauce, if you like hot.”

  “I’ll pass. That looks good,” he said as he pointed to a dark stew.

  “It isn’t. That’s Dinuguan. In the Philippines they usually have a pig roast on Saturdays. What they don’t eat on Saturday, they use during the rest of the week. Dinuguan is literally the tail end Friday meal. Today is Friday. It’s stewed ears, snout, lungs, you name it.” She pointed at medallions of thinly sliced white meat. “You should try this. It’s very tender and tasty.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m not telling you. Just try it.”

  Ramon, overheard the conversation and volunteered his knowledge. “It’s a delicacy that you call ring meat.” He grinned widely and winked. “It is the very best part of the pig.”

  Fitzgerald allowed Chubs to fill his plate as they strolled along the buffet line. At the end, there was an awkward pause, and he knew he was supposed to be nice, so he offered her an invitation to join his table. She jumped at the chance, but had a caveat. “Only if my friend Dominica joins us.”

  It didn’t take long for the team to march through the buffet line and gather at two tables, pool side. Nor did it take long for them to sort out that they were navy personnel thrown together on an exercise none of them could fathom. Dracula lady formally introduced herself. “I’m Senior Warrant Officer Dominica Diamato.” She rolled her dark almond eyes. “Most people call me Domino because I’m tall, thin, and black. Daddy came up with that name when he realized I was going to be taller than him, which is pretty damned tall.” Her laugh was deep and infectious. She said, “Officers go butt monkey crazy when I introduce myself. They try to find ways to call me anything but Domino.”

  Chubs introduced herself as Chief Warrant Officer Carole French. She said, “This is my last fleet assignment. It’s tough on family, so my husband quit his job at General Electric and moved out here with our three children. He has a start-up IT company in Manila and we’ll retire here.”

  “That explains why you know so much about the food.” said Fitzgerald.

  “It takes getting used to. The thought of bland meat and potatoes is not something I look forward to anymore.”

  WO’s were a different breed of cat. The women were former enlisted personnel with at least twelve years service and highly qualified in their fields with leadership skills. Both women had a series of ratings in crypto intel, analysis, electronic information services, and integrated system technology. They were the unseen backbone of Navy Special Ops and that put the women into a different category.

  Domino said, “We monitor you guys all the time, but seldom see you face to face. It’s nerve racking and exciting tracking missions. All of us have our favorite gladiators and you have no idea about the gossip that goes on behind your backs. It’s probably a good thing we aren’t integrated.”

  She had said something that explained a lot. None of the men said a word.

  Carole said, “You’re our super heroes and we don’t talk about you to our better halves. I knew what you’re all about the minute I saw you. Didn’t I tell you, Domino?”

  “Yes. We feel privileged to get the chance to work with you, but it’s highly off the planet. We’ve never seen Ops and Command and Control working in the same conflict zone, let alone the same facility, and a four-star resort no less.”

  Ted said, “Us either. What’s your best guess?”

  Carole said, “My guess is this mission is rerouted to navigate around the chain of command. Someone doesn’t want encrypted traffic to bebop around the western Pacific. Whatever the tasking is, it will be between us girls. I have a hunch it’s all going organic and we won’t know what is until it manifests into what it is.”

  Her remark left a lot of still air floating about. Ted said, “So it’s just the two of you? That’s a big chore if you’re right.”

  Domino said, “We assume the rest of the team will filter in…in the next day or two.” She laughed. “We’re casing the joint. The restaurant looks like the best place to set up shop.”

  Gates said, “So we’re going to take our meals out here in the elements? What happens when it rains?”

  “What? Would you prefer we close down the bar?” Domino said.

  Gates said, “That’s the first thing that gets closed down when our boss gets here.”

  “You’ll just have to take your meals in the bar or the reception hall. We have dibs on the restaurant.”

  Carole said, “Speaking of rain, we’re going to get soaked in about ten minutes.”

  Perry asked, “What are you, the wiccan weather witch?”

  “When you live here long enough, you’ll know. The jungle stench seems to get stronger and you can feel the temperature drop. It gets real still and the jungle noise gets quiet. In about five minutes the breeze picks up at the top of the trees. After that, all hell breaks loose. We need to move this conversation to the bar while we can.”

  Chairs scooted and the group made haste to go to the bar where Roberto was leaning on the bar, absorbed with the news on the television. Gates held Ted back to have a quiet speak.

  Gates said, “We gotta a game show. Where is Mata Hari? Why isn’t she in the trenches with her troops? I had the feeling our WO’s aren’t aware that their boss is AWOL.”

  Ted said, “You heard what they said about their fan clubs. Maybe Heather is in a state of mourning. I landed on her pretty hard.”

  “Aw pity that. She’s got a job to do, and she can write her romance novel when we’re done here. Perrotte, go get that fixed right now…and whatever you do, don’t fuck her.”

  “I hear ya. Maybe you should go.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I would fuck her.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Ted geared up for a night recon and set off for the Blue Moon Resort. Just as the wiccan weather witch had predicted, a wall of water poured from the skies. Ten minutes later a sliver of moonlight lit up open spaces on the ground. Besides the wind and rain, he heard eerie sounds all about him. It was the fluttering wings of bats brushing against the jungle canopy. He could see them briefly. The bats dove and darted like fighter jets after a crippled bomber. Hundreds of them. The skies rumbled, and another wave of storms blocked the moon.

  Ted was half way up the narrow road leading to the isolated resort when he sensed the presence of someone on the road with him. He dove into the underbrush to wait for the person to pass by before resuming his trek. The sounds of steps were fast, moving in his direction. With night vision goggles it was easy to see the form approaching him. Lieutenant Heather Cummins was apparently going on a night stroll, maybe walking off a bad mood. He was about to step from hiding to intercept her, but there was something odd about her chosen apparel. She wore a do-rag and had her hair tucked tightly beneath. Her torso was covered by a black pullover, and she wore long spandex pants suited for a gym workout. She wasn’t out for a jog because she wore solid hiking boots and carried a large back-pack. She was also armed. Ted couldn’t tell what particular piece she was packing, but a webbed belt and holster left no doubt that she meant business.

  Whatever was on her mind it wasn’t anything to do with Ted Perrotte. He gave her some distance before he stepped from hiding to follow her. She was not practiced in night stalking as she headed directly for the Sheridan resort. Instead of entering the resort, she walked around the edge of the grounds and entered the walking trail into the dense jungle.

  It became more than just following Heather. He could call it a night and deal with her later, but his spine was up. She was up to something that might inv
olve all of them. It was the kind of thing that pissed him off. People dicking around behind the scenes and keeping him in the dark. The last thing he needed was a surprise in the middle of an ongoing op. What was she up to? Spying on the base camp? If so, why? He had to find out and resumed his stalk of her.

  He had walked a quarter mile into the jungle and lost her. She could have taken any number of side trails and disappeared in the jungle maze. He knew that each trail terminated at some point on the roaring stream. His sense of hearing was useless as the noise of rain and roaring water blocked sounds she might make. If he left the main trail he might miss her returning from wherever she had been. She was too deep in the jungle to set up any kind of surveillance of the resort, which meant she was going to a place.

  Ted made a calculated guess that she was headed upstream on the roaring stream. He back tracked to the side trail that would take him to a dead end. He recalled that a waterfalls from a twenty foot ledge made it impossible to trek further along the stream. It was the same scenic spot where she had stopped to pray earlier in the day. He had not followed her and wished he had. Her destination became more intriguing. The rest stop was deserted. No Heather, and no evidence of her passing. He searched through the fog, mist, and darkness. His assumption played to nothing, and he was about to give up, when he heard a sudden rush of flapping wings. Bats darted everywhere. Something spooked them, but where did they come from? To his left he found a fissure behind a stone pillar fifty feet off the path. It was worth inspecting so he stepped off the path to find that it was a cave opening, and as he looked closer, the gap had been recently widened. It was unfinished work as he spied hand tools laid at the base of the opening. His suspicions peaked, and he knew he was on to something.