Mischief Island

by Robert Lance

  Fitzgerald said, “Perry’s a dick sucking weasel. He likes lobster, and guess what Ramon is cooking for dinner? Why don’t you stay?”

  The temptation to eat something she recognized was overwhelming, but she stalled.

  Ted said, “I’m buying.”

  It was the slim invitation she was looking for, and she humbly accepted.

  Lobster was a delicacy too expensive for Filipinos to have on menus. Ramon could not resist the temptation to screw it up with additives of a variety of sauces. The tiger lobsters, smothered in a butter-lemon-garlic sauce, disappeared quickly. The SEALs were enjoying an exceptional meal. Perry’s fork worked fast, and he went back for seconds. “Caramelize Lobster, never had anything like it,” Perry said as he returned to the table. He plopped his plate on the table and flopped into his chair. “Normally, we’re lucky to get fried crickets when we’re deployed.”

  Fitzgerald corrected him. “Perry wouldn’t know the difference between lobster and cockroaches. LT, why don’t you move down here with us sweats? Judging by the looks of the place, the food has to be god awful at the Blue Moon.”

  “It’s surprisingly good. What I miss is air conditioning.”

  Fitzgerald made an exaggerated shrug as if the problem was solved.

  She said, “I didn’t make the housing arrangements. We could be living in tent city, so I’m not complaining.” She and Ted exchanged knowing glances. She wasn’t about to mention she’d spent her honeymoon and two subsequent anniversaries at the Blue Moon.

  Gates said, “You should take that up with the dwarf. When did officers ever draw the shit end of the stick? We’re living large, and you’re living squalor.”

  It was her turn to shrug. “Living near the grotto isn’t as much a luxury as it is an operational necessity.”

  “Still, it’s not right,” Gates said. He scooted his chair back, and patted his stomach. “I think I’ll see how far I can stretch Alamo’s bar tab before he gets here.”

  Fitzgerald said, “I think you’ll need a character witness when you face the Captain’s Mast. I’ll tag along. You coming Perry?”

  Perry had a mouth full of lobster, and he choked it down like an anaconda swallowing a pig. “Nah, I’m going back for more.”

  Gates lowered the tone of his voice. “Perry, you are coming with us.”

  Heather could barely wait for Ted’s mates to leave before whispering. “What happened to you last night? I stayed awake as long as I could.”

  Ted whispered back. “The dwarf has one of his wannabe skin heads on over-watch at the Blue Moon. I didn’t want to risk it. By the way, I think Domino is on to us. She sent a bad vibe warning to me.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She insinuated that you’re the personal property of Alamo Jones.”

  Her hand went across the table to grab Ted’s. She remembered where they were and quickly withdrew it. “Ted, I explained that to you.” His eyebrows raised an inch as if he was expecting more from her. She said, “We were both enrolled at the language school in San Diego a few years ago. He made it clear to the class that he and I were an item. I couldn’t go anywhere without him showing up, pawing me. The male class mates got the message.”

  “Was Domino attending the school?”

  She nodded.

  “Did you have an affair with him?”

  “It’s not what you think. I was lonely and horny. He forced himself on me, and we had sex…one time…and we argued about it.”

  Ted purposefully turned in his chair to stare off into the dark. His jaw was clamped with anger.

  “It was a revenge fuck. I wanted to do to Beth what she had done to me. Please, Ted. I could lie to you but I won’t… because I love you.”

  Her tale was offensive to Ted. He was a champion revenge fucker who screwed his ex-wife any chance he got for the same reason. It was therapeutic episodes to sooth the anger in him. He had an exchange with the new husband that earned him everlasting hatred by his ex. He had said to the bastard, “You think I’m paying you child support to raise my kids don’t you? Actually, I see it as payment for the sloppy fucks that she begs me for every time she drops the kids off.” It cost him any meaningful relationship he’d have with his children. He would not share that information with Heather and wished she had lied about her episode, but it was out there.

  She misinterpreted his mood, and said, “I know you’re angry with me, but you have to know Alamo is obsessed with this place and I have a bad feeling he’s not done with me.”

  Ted’s next words were harsh. “The question I have is if you’re done with him.”

  “I’m in the middle of a dream I never thought would come true. No one will ever come between what we have together. Not Alamo. Not the Navy.”

  “Not so fast, Heather. We’re directly in Lieutenant Commander Jones’ chain of command, and he can court martial both of us if he gets wind of our affair. This has to end until the deployment is over. It has to.”

  She sighed heavily. Her body language reeked of disappointment. “Are you breaking up with me?” she asked.

  He forced a smile. “No. I want to take my time getting to know who Heather Cummins is. This is sudden and new, and I’m not going to commit suicide over a woman I just met. When Alamo gets here, we need to back off.”

  “Does that mean I’ll see you tonight? I crave every touch, and I could self destruct right here.”

  “How do you feel about a late night swim in the grotto?” he asked.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Vice Admiral Anthony McClary, Commander of the WESTPAC Fleet, was all Blue Water Navy to the bone. He switched into his starched whites at Annapolis and never wore anything else if he could help it. Three generations of Mclarys wore admiral shoulder boards and not one of them distinguished himself in combat. The admiral saw himself as the sea daddy to the swabs under his command, and they saw him, to the man, as a first class prick. What crews, of the state of the art, mean assed, United States fighting ships, bristling, pumped up, and looking for a scrap, needs sensitivity training? Seaman Sniffles McButtfucker, who wore cologne at his battle station and always had a hard dick and used way too much shampoo in the communal showers, got his teeth knocked out at a social thump therapy session. McClary made every tadpole in the fleet attend a weekly fucking rainbow coalition love-in for six straight weeks.

  Admiral McClary held nothing but contempt for the Brown Water Navy officers who patrolled shorelines, went on excursions to get eyeball to eyeball with the enemy and brought home testicles to fry up for breakfast. They were “boat people,” inferior cutthroats with letters of marque to do whatever the fuck they wanted. No, he was a Clausewitz opportunist looking to get his fleet sunk in some Trafalgar cluster fuck battle.

  In his state room was a Brown Water Lieutenant Commander wearing a blue utility service uniform with five day old odious sweat rings. Alamo stood at rigid attention, his keen grey eagle eyes burning up the naval oil paintings on the wall. Had McClary not had an encrypted, cut-your-wrist-and-bleed-to-death missive from the Secretary of Defense, he would have keel hauled the sailor.

  McClary cleared his throat as if he was having an attack of reflex gurgitation. “We need to clear some things up, Lieutenant Commander. I am aware that you are transporting sensitive cargo on one of my LSD’s and that you have joined the fleet. I have another directive that counters the orders of the Chief of Naval Operations—.”

  “Sir, I have a copy of the same directive. The fucker has presidential letterhead with the abbreviated so forth and so on.”

  “It is conflicting to say the least. My orders are to move the fleet out of harbor and out of the waters of Philippine sovereignty and to await further orders.”

  “Sir, — you just got further orders.”

  “I wouldn’t presume that you have any idea how precarious the situation is out here. We have only one battle group in defense of the entire theatre. That stupid bastard in the White House is flexing muscles we don’t have.”r />
  “Mutinous talk, Admiral. You have the fire power to destroy crops on the Asian continent for a decade. The Chinese Navy is nothing but a fleet of tricked out fishing boats. I’ll remind you that you’re a warrior, a naval officer, unflinching, bringing doom and destruction upon those who oppose the might of America. You do not have the latitude to mitigate your sworn duty.”

  McClary hacked up a wad of phlegm with nowhere to put it. “I’ll be damned if I’ll be lectured by inferiors.” He wiped the glob from his lips and shook it off on the floor, then slicked away the residue nonchalantly on the arm of his empire office chair.

  “Don’t get political with me, Admiral. You’ll find yourself the director of the book of the month club at Fort Leavenworth.”

  “I can’t possibly move the entire WESTPAC fleet into the Sulu Sea without notifying the Chief of Naval Operations. The Chinese might interpret a move into the Sulu Sea as provocative. What I can do is provide you with a cruiser escort.”

  “Admiral, it is imperative to mask our intentions. A cruiser escort amplifies we’re up to something. It’s a fucking greeting card. We’ll suffuse our intentions under the mask of the fleet deploying to the Java straits, via the Sulu Sea.”

  “What are you up to?”

  “Stay tuned Admiral. CNN will bring it live when we’re done and in another hemisphere.”

  “Lieutenant Commander Jones…I’m moving thirty plus capital ships of the line on the orders of a Lieutenant Commander. It’ preposterous.”

  “Pearl Harbor was preposterous and look what that got us. The president wishes to inconvenience you and borrow his fleet for a couple of days.”

  “That doesn’t explain what you’re up to. I’m always informed of operations that occur in my theatre. It would be a courtesy for the president to do so.”

  “Being courteous toward the Chinese is how we got into this game of chicken. If you’d been paying attention to collecting intelligence instead of sitting in Subic sampling the fine local cuisine, you’d be scared shitless. Let’s be honest. What you don’t know is what you went to lengths to not know, and now you want in on the action? Not happening.”

  “Your insubordinate tone is duly noted.”

  “You’ll get over it. You back-stabbing blue water brats have nothing better to do than chop the legs out from under us when we’re not looking. You’ll referee, debate, and modify my operation to suit your taste. You’ll waste time, and in the process waste my men. You and I have covered this ground before, Admiral.”

  Indeed they had a history. Two years prior, a sixteen man insert team led by Alamo had been stranded on the island of Mindanao for ten days. It was supposed to be a quick snatch and grab of Abu Sayyaf, the militant commander of ISIS on Mindanao. A SEAL Team Four raider squad had previously captured Ilo Ingoyo, an American born Philippine gun smuggler to ISIS fighters. They sat on Ingoyo, waiting for the opportunity to use him as bait to draw Sayyaf out in the open. They constructed a sting to sell Sayyaf a shit load of small arms. Intelligence put Sayyaf at an ISIS training camp at the south end of Mindanao Island, and that was supposed to be the transfer point of the sting.

  Admiral McClary got wind of the sting and pulled a fast one that kinked the sting operation. He refused to release Ingoyo, a US citizen, to possibly stand in harms way in a military operation. What did Alamo do when the leading man of the show, the tethered goat, the live bait, had immunity, three squares, and better quarters than his snake eaters had? He busted Ingoyo out of the Navy brig, put him on a fast boat, and sent the son of bitch to a SEAL brig, which was a hole in the dirt surrounded by Claymore mines.

  The sting went off as planned. Alamo Jones and his raiders were ambushed. Two SEALs were killed in the fire fight. Ingoyo got chopped into small pieces, and it was clear Sayyaf had been handed the intelligence that the team depended on. It was a goat fuck, ten yards deep. Alamo’s team retreated to their zodiacs and made it to the rendezvous extraction point an hour later than planned. The fast boat pickup never materialized, leaving Alamo stranded in dangerous waters controlled by Sayyaf’s pirate navy. Alamo and his team hid out and were rescued by Admiral Salinas’ Filipino marines ten days later.

  At the inquest, McClary brought wrongful death charges against Lieutenant Commander Jones, backed up with a dozen court martial offenses including violations of the Geneva Convention. Jones countered with his own accusations.

  “We’re not at war with the Swiss. Ingoyo wasn’t caught in Geneva, and the fucker was caught wearing civvies in an active combat zone and should have been summarily executed on the spot. Read the Geneva convention.”

  The inquest turned into a rope-a-dope brouhaha, and it was spinning out of control. The Chief of Naval Operations intervened, threw a towel over the mess, and sent the litigants to their corners. He’d make either party stand mast, and he would personally cut their buttons and strip them of their rank before a firing squad, should a word of the incident find the light of day. The matter was closed.

  McClary, clearly soured by Alamo’s insinuation, puffed up. “This directive from the Secretary of Defense does not comply with the chain of command. Furthermore, the Indonesian government has not given permission for us to occupy their territorial waters. The Secretary’s directive needs further clarification before I raise a single anchor. You’re dismissed Jones.”

  Alamo went directly to the comm center and sent a rather lengthy missive to the SECDEF. He finished and went to the officers’ mess to enjoy a leisure meal. He was in no hurry. An hour passed and then a second passed. Was that a good sign or a bad sign? He’d find out soon enough as a loud speaker in the mess directed Lieutenant Commander Jones to report to the Admiral’s Bridge. He was met by Admiral McClary’s aide de camp, who looked like he’d just had a lap dance with Angelina Jolie. “Admiral Singleton has instructed me to take you to the intel center.”

  “You better straighten your face, sailor, and wipe that grin off. Who is Admiral Singleton?”

  “The new fleet commander.”

  Alamo was surprised, but not. Surely a vice admiral had enough finesse to avoid a minor misunderstanding of his orders. He shrugged and nodded to the aide to lead the way.

  Admiral Singleton was the XO of the fleet. He was a former fighter pilot that worked his way through to the upper ranks. If he were not wearing a uniform, Singleton wouldn’t command a second glance. He was average round, like so many desk pukes pushing a career to the limits of paper work. He had a single lock of blonde hair hanging from a creased forehead, dull eyes and thin lips. Average bland. His double chin hid his Adam’s apple. Singleton’s appearance was anything but an alpha dog, bullet spitting, man-killer warrior. How did he earn three admiral stripes? Alamo was about to find out as he saluted.

  “Have a seat Commander.” He waved a hand to a conference room chair.

  “Sir?”

  “Sit. You and I just got a promotion. Confirmation will come later, but I think you might cut through the bullshit.”

  “What happened to Admiral McClary?”

  “McClary? The dumb bastard exceeded his authority and notified the CNO of your secret mission. He contested the direct order to move the fleet. The President of the United States fired him on the spot.” He spread his hands in supplication. “That leaves you and me looking goofy at each other. Bring me up to speed as best you can.”

  It worked out the way Alamo planned it. He didn’t want McClary on his back and short-changing his operation. Alamo simply let McClary slit his own wrists. What he was about to tell Singleton was information he could have told McClary…and didn’t. “The Philippine president will demand us to leave, considering what’s going on in Manila. It’s imperative to move the fleet out of Chinese spy satellite coverage—”

  Singleton said, “They’ll simply adjust and send their birds to a new orbit to keep tabs on the Fleet.”

  “Yes, and when they do, they’ll lose coverage of the South China Sea, which is the zone of my operations. From the Java Sea you can su
pport the mission via Zamboanga.”

  “It’s gonna look like the president has tucked tail and surrendered the Spratly’s to China.”

  “Exactly. WESTPAC is on its heels out here and the president is stalling until we can find a away to checkmate the Chinese without starting a full blown war.” Alamo paused for effect then continued. “Admiral, we believe the Chinese sank the Philippine cruiser because they were about to interdict a cargo ship loaded with Dong Feng 21-D missiles.”

  Singleton’s eyes bulged. He whistled a shrill note and shook his head. Alamo let him process all the alarm bells. Singleton said, “My God, that’s a WWIII scenario. I read a position paper about it years ago…wait…I know who you are now. You wrote that paper, didn’t you?”

  Alamo nodded. “The Chinese building a carrier fleet and transforming the Spratly Islands into a land based fortress aren’t two separate events. They can’t defend their move in a conventional confrontation without putting up a nuclear umbrella. Once they do, as we suspect they have, it will be too costly to dislodge them from their expansionist goal to control all of the South China Sea. We have a plan to cut the legs underneath the Chines can stand on them. That’s all I can tell you.”

  Singleton, still shaking his head asked, “May I ask how solid our intelligence is?”

  “That’s the problem. We don’t have reliable intelligence, which is why I’m here. We don’t have any up to date satellite images, but the French sent us images that suggests the Chinese have an infrastructure to support a nuke arsenal.”

  “Why don’t we redirect our satellites?”

  “It’s too late for that. Besides, we don’t want to tip our hand for what comes next.”

  “Can you share what that means?”

  “No, not at this time. Trust me, you’ll be the first to know. How soon do you think we’ll get under way?”

  Singleton gave Alamo a lame smile. “That order was given an hour ago. The president made it abundantly clear I’m to give you anything within my power without hesitation. You’ll have it Commander.”