Mischief Island

by Robert Lance

  “There are three radar sites; one to direct antiaircraft missiles; a second to direct the fire of the antimissile battery. The third is to detect and target surface ships.” She paused and smiled. “We passed that test as far as we know.”

  She put on a grim face, and said, “Now we come to the Dong Feng 21-D. The launchers are on site, but the missiles aren’t. We looked.”

  She had a plausible theory as to why. The Dong Feng 21-D was a hard launch missile that created a debris field three hundred meters in circumference. Firing even one from the runway would crack the concrete and make the runway unusable. Therefore, the launching pads had to be somewhere else, but where? Somewhere within a six hundred mile circle.

  She pointed to four barges outfitted with heavy cranes. “These are not here to transfer missiles, but quite the opposite. They’re here to transport the launchers to the missiles.” She had done her homework. The barges could transport two launchers side by side, and the yoke structure of the cranes had a lift capacity of 50,000 pounds, within the limits of the missile canisters or the launchers. The Dong Feng 21-D could not be launched from a vessel at sea due to the destructive force of it’s engine. By deduction, it supported her theory that the launchers were delivered to a hard stand and the missiles were delivered to the site.

  But where were the missiles? She had two theories. When the Chinese built the launch pads, they may have installed a lead lined locker to hide the missiles on site. Her other theory was the missiles were in the hulls of innocuous merchant marine ships floating somewhere in the South China Sea. Either possibility was feasible, and perhaps both could be in play.

  She had yet to finish the notch she was carving in her pistol grip. She zoomed in on a container ship moored in the lagoon. She pointed to the bridge structure and said, “There isn’t a launch facility on the island, because it’s right in front of us. Look at the antennae array and the satellite receivers. Military. The fire control and guidance are all in one package. Mid-course correction of the missiles can be uplinked from this container vessel or another like it.”

  She floated questions from a stunned audience. Alamo was pleased. It was his theory all along and proven correct with one small discrepancy. He felt the build out of the islands was to support launching pads on the scale of those in central China and Hainan Island. It never occurred to him that the Chinese only needed a hard surface not much larger than the launcher itself and it could be partially submerged. There were hundreds of possibilities, and his haystack just grew in size.

  “Good job, Sweet Pea,” he said. “Forward your intel analysis. It will give the DIA folks something to scratch their heads about.”

  Carole said, “May I make a recommendation?”

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “The Chinese fucked up. The sound buoys. The sonar ring is a dead give away. Dime to a dollar we’ll find our missiles somewhere inside that protective ring.”

  Alamo blinked. He realized that his whim of anger was ill conceived. Instead of regret, he explored in his head how he could exploit an asset he was unaware of. “You’re brilliant. We’ll plan our next mission predicated on your instincts.” He wasn’t about to let the laurels of discovery belong to Carole, and said. “Uplink the analysis with my approval of a job well done. Do I hear applause? WO-3 French can’t swim for shit, but by God, she just saved us a lot of fin time.”

  He allowed her a moment to bask in his praise before her peers. She did the nod and wink, but she went Calamity Jane on him, daring him to flinch.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The next two missions were probes of the outer sonar defensive ring around Mischief Island. The encirclement varied in distance of five to fifteen miles from the island. Heather saw the pattern develop. The sounding buoy positions were predicated on the water depth. Beyond the buoy ring they tracked four Chinese patrol boats and found the mother ship, a Chinese Frigate randomly roaming the patrol pattern. The defense warning perimeter had enough fire power to engage interlopers or a small scale incursion. Yet the Chinese presence wasn’t overly in depth to attract undue attention. From a SAT perspective Mischief Island was something slightly more than a peaceful outpost.

  The Ghost made two subsequent missions to the island and the surrounding reefs searching for launch sites. The reef chain and the mini reefs provided dozens of hot spots suitable for launch sites. The thermal images couldn’t distinguish whether the hot spots were man-made with coral aggregate cement or natural formed live coral.

  The Ghost was a floating science lab, and the data was forwarded to Fort Meade. The experts scrambled to determine the foot pound endurance of coral concrete and live coral compression data. The results were inconclusive. It would take a team of geologists to take samples of sites and measure the density of the geological base. The other alternative was to position a SATRADAR satellite over the area to record the density of the reef formations.

  The problem was uplinked through channels to the president. He was frustrated by the slow progress of the special project ongoing on Palawan. He didn’t have the depth of knowledge to understand the complicated arguments being promoted by the experts. Three weeks had passed since the sinking of the Filipino cruiser, and they were no closer to exposing the Chinese intent in the South China Sea. That event had exhausted its news cycle and the media was depicting the president as stubborn nincompoop whining when things don’t go his way. He sat, drumming his fingers on his desk top. He had a glare of confusion as he listened to his NSA Director drone on about options and reactions to options.

  He stopped drumming and slapped his desktop with both hands. “For the last twenty years we have a deal with the Chinese. A very bad deal. We remain neutral over their claim to the islands, call off our dogs; and in return they have three hundred littoral patrol boats harassing fishing fleets of five nations who also have claims in the South China Sea. What kind of deal is that? What idiot allows them to strong arm commerce? We do not need their permission, and neutrality is not an option regardless if the Philippines cave in. Not Happening.”

  “Mr. president, until we can neutralize the nuke threat, our hands are tied,” Pete Boland said.

  “Yours are, mine aren’t. We have billions of dollars invested in spy satellites. Can’t you see your way to put one of them over that Island?”

  Bolin said, “It’s risky and there’s nothing to be gained. The SAT may not tell us any more than we already know. We have to assume the Chinese can move their missiles to dozens of launch sites.”

  “Are you saying our SATs can’t spot nuclear bombs?”

  “The nukes, if that’s what they’re hiding, are shielded and impervious to RADAR SAT. Chances are we won’t find them until they deploy them. It’s their move.”

  “In the meantime, the sons of bitches are thumbing their noses at us. Time is on their side. I’m losing support on this. Even Fox News is making sport of me. Nobody likes me in Hawaii. We should give them Hawaii.”

  The president’s sarcasm caused a few eyes to roll. He was taking the Chinese debacle personally. The media pitched the impasse as if it was a geographic goof. Who should have sovereignty over the South China Sea but China? The depth of the argument went no deeper than that.

  The president said, “The Chinese have belly bumped us to the curb. This is the last chance to bump back. I will not tolerate nuclear proliferation in the South China Sea.”

  Peter Bolin said, “We can’t tip our hand without starting World War Three, but there is a way to make the Chinese tip theirs.”

  “What do you have in mind, Peter?”

  “We exercise the ‘Alamo Option.”

  “How?”

  “Sir, there are many avenues, but you don’t need to know the details.” Peter’s eyes faltered, warning the president to not ask.

  Heather met Alamo dockside. She seemed to bristle beneath an attempt to appear calm. Without a word, she handed an encrypted memo to Alamo. He looked up several times as he scanned the memo. Her at
titude irked him. He finished and said, “Is this something we need to talk about, Heather?”

  “I’ve declined to log the message received until we do.”

  He stepped from the stern to the dock and walked out of earshot of the crew and the techs. Heather followed.

  He crossed his arms and struck a self-righteous pose. “How many times have we discussed this?” He asked.

  “Apparently, not enough.”

  “For once we have a Commander-In-Chief that understands the situation out here. Face it, Heather, it’s inevitable. We execute the plan to avoid a world war.”

  “But it will start a war. We have the technological advantage. Let us use it before we go down that road.”

  “Your objection is duly noted.” He looked at the memo again and said, “You’re a smart girl. Do not log the message. We never got it, understood?” He wadded the paper into a tiny ball and tossed it into the grotto.

  She said, “Alamo, this could back fire, and if it does, you’ll own it.”

  “Like you said, darling, we have the technological edge.”

  She took two steps sideways to allow him to pass.

  He yelled at one of the techs. “How long will it take you to turn this baby around?”

  The tech immediately responded, “Three hours, tops.”

  “Good. Make sure she’s armed to the teeth.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The Ghost cruised at its extend range speed of twenty-six knots. Alamo stripped the crew to a minimum. He replaced Domino with Heather. Their destination was Fiery Cross Reef, the major build out of China’s Great Wall of Sand. Eight hours later, they made Johnson reef and began to pick up traffic. Drilling platforms started to show up.

  Over decades, American companies allied with other multinationals had their own build-out going in the Spratly Islands. They had a dozen or more little match box rigs drilling between Johnson reef and Fiery Cross. Unlike rigs in the Gulf of Mexico, these rigs were armed to ward off pirates and interlopers

  China treated that part of the Spratly’s like a scatter-brained debutante. In the eighties they engaged the Vietnamese over ownership and soundly thumped them twice. Later, when the UN ruled against the Chinese claim, China did an about face, acknowledging Vietnam’s claim with the provision they benefited from the export of oil revenues. Vietnam used the oil as domestic energy and didn’t export a pint of oil. China reversed their claim again in 2001. Rather than contest Vietnam, they brought in their own multinationals to harvest oil and gas. The warm water war began again. Ever since, the two belligerents pecked at each other in the kiddy pool, creating a mini arms race to see who could build artificial islands the quickest.

  Since the Philippine incident, China refused to allow any military ships to transit into the Nine Dash Line claim without permission. Permission was harassment. Vietnam was under contract to provide escort for supply tenders and personnel ferries to relieve workers on the oil platforms. Under the laughable guise of security, the Chinese demanded to have an equal escort in the name of international security and cooperation. Consequently, the delays were a belligerent interruption to Vietnam’s toe hold in the South China Sea.

  It was against this volatile environment that Alamo sailed to. He was on the hunt. The Ghost shadowed a Vietnamese convoy of merchant ships en route to resupply a fixed oil platform a few miles south of Fiery Cross Island. The convoy consisted of a container ship, a tug pushing a crane barge, and a ferry loaded with work crews. Three Vietnamese gun boats escorted the convoy.

  It was only a matter of time before the Chinese Navy showed up. The Vietnamese were going about their routine when Beetle spotted Chinese Coastguard vessels. “I have two fast attack vessels flying Chinese colors…wait…there is also a type 56 corvette coming on screen. Speed sixteen knots, headed directly toward the Vietnamese oil rig. Holy Shit, Alamo, game on.”

  The two Chinese fast boats engaged in reckless maneuvers, nearly swamping the tug. The Vietnamese countered by ramming the fast boats. In turn, the Chinese fired water cannons upon the patrol boats. It was a bumper car melee on the high seas. It was typical of Chinese harassment. One side or the other would disengage, and it looked like the Chinese were getting the worst of it.

  Wayne said, “I could watch these stupid bastards play grab ass all day.”

  Alamo said, “When the corvette moves, get in a firing position directly astern of it.”

  “Are we joining the party?” Beetle asked.

  “Yes, but not the way you think. Arm the Griffin missile, and target the oil platform.”

  “Did I hear you correctly? Did you say target the oil platform?”

  “If there is going to be a shooting war out here, we need it to be between Vietnam and China. It’s gotta be done, Beetle. Think of it as saving 30,000 American Seamen.”

  Wayne said, “That rig has at least sixty non-combatants living on it. We’d be guilty of war crimes.”

  “Most of the workers are Russian engineers and technicians. It was Russian engineers and technicians shooting down our pilots the last time we were here. What goes around, comes around.”

  Heather’s small voice could be heard over the intercom. “Don’t do it, Alamo.”

  Wayne said, “We could attack the corvette and maybe sink it.”

  “Thought about it, but this has to have the appearance of Chinese aggression. There’s no debate. The order comes directly from the SECDEF.”

  “No, it does not,” Heather protested. “The order allows you to exploit China’s belligerent tactics with force, only if necessary.”

  Slinky spoke for the first time. “I say we splatter all the cocksuckers. My old man died out here, and I’d like to get some pay back.”

  Alamo said, “This might be our only opportunity to back out of World War Three.”

  The atmosphere in the Ghost was filled with tension and silence. Alamo’s argument of “for-the-greater-good” took on a personal meaning that all of them had to reconcile.

  The next sound was Beetle’s shaky voice. “The corvette is making its move. Arming switches hot, target acquired.”

  Wayne steered the Ghost into a firing position, two miles behind the Chinese Corvette. Beetle fired the missile on Alamo’s command. The Griffin missile flew from the launch tube without a wobble and skimmed twenty feet above the water at warp speed. In the blink of an eye, the thirteen pound payload of high explosives impacted the tower on the oil platform. The fireball swept the platform clean of substructures and started more fires. The platform was a giant roman candle.

  The cone of confusion was short lived. The Vietnamese patrol boats opened fire on the Chinese patrol boats, disabling one. In a matter of minutes, torpedoes of both nations were in the water seeking destruction of anything afloat, including the merchant ships. The Vietnamese were out gunned and attempted to retreat.

  The Ghost had submerged as soon as the missile left the launch tube, but they continued to receive the optical image from Kitty. Beetle, whose jaw hung open, said, “If this isn’t World War Three, I don’t know what you’d call it. God—did you see that! The corvette just fired a missile into the platform.”

  They watched the entire structure collapse onto the ferry. Flaming bodies scurried like ants from the stricken ship. Heather’s voice was wracked with pain and anger. “Do something Alamo. Sink the corvette, for the sake of humanity…Those poor men—”

  Slinky said, “Could have been us. You need to check your self-righteous bullshit.” His voice turned hollow. “We did a little damage, but the Chinks made it a massacre. It’s on them and now we now what to expect. Treacherous bastards, LT, fucking treacherous.”

  One of the retreating Vietnamese patrol boats got off a lucky torpedo that hit the corvette’s stern. The ship went dead in the water, but the gun crews continued to fire thirty millimeter rounds into survivors floating around the oil rig. It was a massacre hard to watch. Alamo’s voice was harsh as he tried to vindicate his inaction. “Think what would happen
if these bastards got among our fleet. Take us home Willer.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The president was in his limo on the way to make a speech before the Teamsters Union when he was handed a phone. He sat up, ramrod straight. He listened to Peter Bolin report that the Chinese had attacked a Vietnamese oil rig. The loss of life was heavy, very heavy. The report was short, because there wasn’t much to report. The president said to his driver, “Take me back to the White House…now.”

  He was encircled by an entourage upon arriving home. The news was bad news. The response of the United States to such a dastardly act had to be formulated, and it was up to him to make a declaration. He caught the eye of his National Security Advisor and nodded. He said “Get Bolin over here, and cancel my schedule for the foreseeable future.”

  The door to the Oval Office closed behind him, and he was alone with Derek Fremd. He waved the man to a chair next to his desk, and he sat on his empire chair. “Have you heard?”

  Derek sadly nodded. “Sir, I suggest we wait before making comment.”

  “I need to know what Nguyen Tran is going to do about it. That moon-faced little Himmler is a devious buffoon, and there is no telling what he’s planning. Get him on the phone.”

  “That’s ill advised, Mr. President. We just don’t know enough at this time. You’ll need to convene the National Security Council at some point.”

  He hotly replied.“We don’t need to give away the store. We need to know what we’re dealing with. How much time do we have before this goes public?”

  Fremd said, “Vietnam has asked the United Nations to convene a special session as we speak.”

  “So soon? The sharks will be in the water the minute they do. We should confer with the Director of National Intelligence, and Director of the Defense Intelligence Agency to sort the facts before we send Wendy to the UN.”