Flash Point

by Kenneth Andrus

  Lynne recalled that particular quote. Well, gentlemen, at the moment nobody appears to be talking; bilateral or otherwise. Unless something happens real soon to turn things around out here, we’re headed for serious trouble.

  With those concerns, Lynne opened a new file and began to compose her story.

  “Tensions heightened this week between the Philippines and China over territorial rights in the strategic Spratly Islands following the destruction of maritime marker buoys by units of the Philippine Navy. The center of controversy between these two Asian countries lies in an unlikely scattering of barren coral atolls in the South China Sea that stand over suspected reserves of oil and natural gas. This is not the first time armed confrontations have occurred in this region...”

  Her fingers froze on the keyboard, her mind wrestling with the wording of the next paragraph. She closed her laptop.

  * * *

  PAGASA ATOLL

  11:23 SATURDAY 8 FEBRUARY

  Any thoughts Lynne had entertained of Pagasa Atoll being a tropical paradise were driven from her mind when the patrol boat tied up alongside the small stone jetty. She adjusted her floppy hat to cut down the glare and stepped out the shade of the ship’s superstructure. She was slapped by a wave of heat supercharged by humidity.

  The heat intensified as she walked down the prow onto the quay. The sun’s rays blasting off the bleached coral of the adjacent runway pounded against her body. She glanced at her watch. Not even noon.

  A C-130 Hercules cargo plane was parked in front of her. Several men were taking refuge from the torrid heat in the slip of shade beneath its wing. Behind the plane, sat an army Huey helicopter. Adjacent to the runway stood a whitewashed concrete structure with a corroded tin roof. In front of the building, the Philippine flag hung lifeless from a short flagpole. Several yards away, a rusted ladder led up to an open observation tower topped by a thatch of palm fronds. Hidden by coarse grass and patches of scraggly bushes were several empty gun emplacements and a scattering of battered fifty-five-gallon oil drums.

  Lynne turned back to the cargo plane stunned by the thought this desolate atoll could be the site of Armageddon. Two officers in sunglasses and flight suits emerged from the C-130’s cargo ramp. They looked in her direction, spoke a few words to each other, and sauntered over.

  “Good morning,” the taller of the two said. “You must be, Ms. Lynne, the correspondent. We were told to expect you.”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “I am Major Villanueva, the aircraft commander of the Hercules. You will be riding my aircraft back to Manila. This is Captain Baptiste, pilot of the Huey. He has been directed to fly you over several of the disputed islands to observe the Chinese activity. Captain Reyes has urgent matters to attend to and declined our invitation.”

  The real truth behind the latter statement was Reyes didn’t trust the airworthiness of the Huey. The assurances given him by Captain Baptiste, who remarked with a straight face that all of the unsafe helicopters had already crashed, had done little to change his opinion.

  Captain Reyes did have work to do, though. He had received a report from his superiors at the Western Military Headquarters. The PLAN was preparing several of their destroyers to get underway for the Spratlys. He was to locate and free the missing fishermen before the Chinese could intervene.

  Lynne’s tour of the atoll’s primitive facilities took little time and she was soon airborne in the Huey. Afforded a bird’s eye view of the island, she noted its shape reminded her of a very large snail. The bulk of the island comprised the shell while the runway extending over the shoreline on either side of its base represented the head and foot. A concrete barrier at the far end of runway, stuck forth like the creature’s antennae. She doubted the small garrison could hold off a determined foe.

  The atoll soon disappeared over the horizon and Lynne leaned forward in her canvas seat. All she could see was an empty sea. Their destination, Subi Reef, was twenty-six nautical miles to the north.

  A slowing of their airspeed signaled their arrival fifteen minutes later. She studied the facility in the distance as Baptiste hovered at a safe distance to avoid antagonizing the Chinese.

  A three-story concrete structure topped with a large communications dish perched on the small island. A narrow causeway jutted out from the main structure connecting to a helipad.

  “There’s no sign of our missing fishing boat and the place looked pretty quiet until we showed up. There’s nothing we can accomplish here but invite trouble. We’re going to proceed northeast and check out several other islands before heading back.”

  No sooner had these words been uttered than Lynne noted bright flashes twinkling from several corners of the building. She wondered if the garrison was trying to signal them and watched with detached curiosity the graceful flight of red and orange balls reaching out toward her. Curiously, they appeared to get bigger as they approached.

  Baptiste’s reaction was much faster. “We’re getting the hell out of here.”

  “Oh.” Lynne gasped as she collapsed back into her seat. Someone just tried to kill us.

  “Hey, look over there. What in hell are they doing there?”

  Lynne scanned the island in the direction Baptiste indicated. Covered with mangroves and coconut palms, nothing appeared remarkable. Then the open door of the Huey framed a fishing boat riding at anchor in a small cove. Lynne craned her neck, trying to keep the boat and two frantically waving fishermen in sight while the pilot maneuvered the helicopter to get a better view.

  “Those look like PLAN patrol boats by the shore,” Lynne heard Baptiste tell his co-pilot. “Get plenty of shots of them and the fishing boat.”

  Lynne pressed her back into the seat. She had seen all she cared to and prayed Baptiste wouldn’t press his luck. “How are we doing, Captain?”

  “We’ve seen enough. Time to get these pictures back.”

  * * *

  The blades of the Huey hadn’t stopped rotating before Lynne and the digital photos of the three vessels were hustled aboard the C-130. The Hercules lifted off the coral runway and set a course to the northeast.

  “Ms. Lynne,” Villanueva said, “Look out your window. Just forward.”

  Lynne did as she was told. Below her, the ocean was cut with a long white arc scribed by the Kalinga Apoyo.

  “Judging from her course change, the LST has received orders to return to Pagasa. I suspect she will be involved in the rescue effort of our fishermen. You know it was in these same waters in 1944 that Admiral Kurita was defeated in his attempt to destroy the American invasion force during the battle of Leyte Gulf. At the time, your Seventh Fleet was composed of over seven-hundred ships. It’s unfortunate your Seventh Fleet is not so large now.”

  Lynne considered this statement. Villanueva had just pointed out, without a great degree of subtlety, a much smaller Seventh Fleet represented American interests in the region.

  “Smaller doesn’t necessarily translate into weaker, Major. I suspect President Stuart is viewing the security issues in the South China Sea within a much broader context.”

  “So how do you think he will respond to the Chinese threat in the Spratlys, Ms. Lynne?”

  Lynne didn’t have an answer to his provocative question.

  Villanueva spoke to her silence. “Things are different now, aren’t they?”

  Chapter 6

  CAM RANH BAY

  SOCIALIST REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM

  18:20 TUESDAY 11 FEBRUARY

  Commander Nguyen Tran Thang stood at the end of the pier jutting into the protected waters of Cam Ranh Bay. He enjoyed the evening breeze coming off the ocean and often came here to clear his mind. Tonight his executive officer, Lieutenant Ly Tien Doung, stood by his side.

  Nguyen picked up a rusted bolt and rolled it in his hand. “Ly, there is much to ponder in these strange times.”

  “Sir, are you referring to the fishing boat incident?”

  “No, while the incident is another example of
Chinese aggression, that is not our concern. We may become the chosen field of battle for a proxy war between the super-powers. And the irony? Our leaders are turning to the Americans.”

  “Is that bad, sir?”

  “Not necessarily.” Nguyen threw the bolt into the bay. A proponent of the Arab philosophy of ‘An enemy of my enemy is my friend,’ he contemplated the ripples expanding beyond the point of the bolt’s impact. “Playing the Chinese and Americans off each other makes eminent sense if it provides balance to our policy. Of course, this strategy will only be effective to the extent we can maintain this act.”

  Nguyen knew the Chinese could not be trusted even though his government had accepted Beijing’s support during the war with the Americans. The most glaring example of Beijing’s duplicity had occurred in 1979 when China sent its army across their common border. The confrontation with Vietnam’s battle-hardened army proved disastrous for the PLA and they were sent reeling back across the border in defeat.

  While the Vietnamese army prevailed in their confrontation with the Chinese army, the Navy had not fared so well in a battle for control of the Paracel Islands in the northwest quadrant of the South China Sea. The annexation of these strategic islands by the PLAN was the opening move in a series of calculated actions by Beijing to dominate the region.

  “But sir, the American Seventh Fleet did nothing to stop the Chinese.”

  Nguyen paused before answering. He could understand the Americans’ position, but it was shortsighted and, in the long term, a mistake. “Ly, I suspect the Americans took great pleasure in seeing their former enemies fighting amongst themselves.”

  He considered himself a pragmatic man and his feelings of ill will toward the Americans had long since disappeared. The Americans’ fixation on their loss in the War of Unification meant little to him. “Lieutenant, the Americans are a strange people, honorable and generally well-meaning, but often misguided.”

  “Perhaps they will do better when their interests are threatened.”

  The deep growl of diesel engines interrupted their conversation. A patrol boat was returning from its patrol of the Con Son Basin, site of Vietnam’s major oil exploration and production facilities to the southeast.

  “Sir, it’s the 371.”

  Nguyen grunted his approval and watched the vessel complete its approach. The HQ-371 was the last of four Tarantual-1 missile combatants ordered from the Russians, a powerful addition to Vietnam’s fledgling navy.

  Lost in thought, he lost track of the time. The sun dropped below the horizon sending flashes of red across the wave tops. Nguyen’s subconscious recoiled, as his mind was driven back to a November night in 1988.

  * * *

  CON SONG BASIN

  NOVEMBER 1988

  Nguyen braced his feet to counter the pitch and roll of his vessel scanning the horizon with his binoculars. There. He could just make out the silhouettes of the other two boats of the squadron.

  Eight hundred meters abeam and slightly astern, their presence was betrayed by white water breaking over their bows. Smaller than his ship, the two Komar missile patrol boats mounted Styx anti-ship missile launchers provided the real punch of the squadron. The capability of the two missile boats did nothing to deter his confidence in his own warship. The Dien Phan was a Shanghai II class patrol boat brisling with four 37mm and four 25mm cannons.

  Nguyen gave voice to his feelings and addressed the Officer of the Deck. “It would be foolish for them to challenge us.”

  The OOD answered with a note of caution. “We have not done well predicting their intentions. We must be vigilant and be prepared for the unexpected.”

  “But —”

  The OOD held up his hand. “Captain, the enemy vessels’ bearings remain constant. Distance four point seven kilometers, closing at twenty knots.”

  “Very well. Has there been a response to our hails?”

  The OOD looked to Nguyen for confirmation. “No, sir.”

  “Try again. If there is no response, alert the others to prepare for a course change to two-seven-zero. Our orders are to keep them away from the oil platforms.”

  The OOD keyed his microphone. The clicks resounded like shots in the charged atmosphere. “Unidentified ships, this is the Vietnamese Naval vessel Dien Phan. You are entering restricted waters. Identify yourself and state your intentions.”

  Silence followed. Nguyen glanced at his watch. 21:35.

  The horizon erupted in multiple white flashes illuminating the undersides of the distant clouds. The rumble of thunder followed within seconds. Nguyen’s first thought was it must be a storm.

  The Captain recognized the danger. He spun toward the OOD. “Evasive action. Target the lead ship. Commence firing.”

  The first salvo from the Chinese destroyers bracketed the patrol boat to Nguyen’s left, throwing up huge fountains of water. He saw his sister ship emerge from the cascade, twisting and turning in the eerie light cast by a bursting star shell. The missile boat evaded the salvo while attempting to bring its missile launchers to bear. His own forward cannon began to roar.

  The Dien Phan’s four diesel engines added to the cacophony. Jammed to full throttle, their 4800 horsepower drove the patrol boat to her maximum speed of thirty knots.

  “Nguyen, contact headquarters. Give our bearings and tell them we’re under fire.”

  Nguyen stumbled toward the radio. The muzzle flashes of their cannon had ruined his night vision.

  “Cam Ranh, Cam Ranh. This is the Dien Phan. We are under attack by Chinese destroyers. I repeat, under attack by Chinese destroyers. Our present location is twenty-two kilometers north-north east of the Con Son oil fields. We are returning fire and taking evasive action. Do you copy? Over.”

  A near-miss lifted the port bow out of the water. The patrol boat shuddered in response, lurching to starboard.

  Nguyen saw a streak of white cross his bow. The streak terminated in a thunderous flash just as other shells converged on the Dien Phan. He was thrown off balance when the helm was thrown hard over. He grasped for a bundle of electrical cables. The bridge windows exploded into thousands of shards.

  Someone was down, screaming. Another bent over the chart table, his head centered within an expanding black pool. A sailor still manned the helm amidst the carnage.

  Nguyen’s lightly armed vessel was no match for the radar-controlled heavy guns of the Chinese destroyers. A shell tore through amidships and exploded. The concussive wave and blast of heat from the detonation threw him into the bulkhead. He slid to the deck, stupefied. The bridge filled with dense smoke.

  The Dien Phan pounded over the waves, trying to evade the deluge of shells. Another near miss lifted the patrol boat’s stern out of the water. Nguyen’s horizon tilted with a nauseating spin

  He slammed into the dark outline of the chart table and tumbled to the deck. He braced himself to stand and gasped as pain pierced his shoulder. He rolled to his side, trying to push off with his other arm. He rose to one knee, but fell again as the Dien Phan heeled in a starboard turn.

  Abruptly as it had begun, the assault ended. The Chinese flotilla disengaged and retired to the northeast. Nguyen starred at his watch. His vision cleared. He could just make out the numbers on the dial. 21:52. Seventeen minutes. An eternity.

  He was dazed. His eyes burned. His ears rang. There was a coppery taste in his mouth. His tongue hurt.

  Must have bit it, he concluded. He became aware of his surroundings, the lingering smell of gunpowder, the distinctive acrid odor of burning electrical equipment. He sensed movement.

  He stood and took an unsteady step, then another. He stumbled over the contorted body of the OOD and crashed to the deck, his arms flailing in a futile attempt to break his fall. He stared at the ruin around him in disbelief. There were muffled sounds. Someone speaking to him.

  “Lieutenant, can you hear me?”

  Nguyen nodded.

  The Captain offered his hand and pulled him up. “Good. Check with damage contr
ol. See what they need.”

  Nguyen completed his assessment and reported back. “Captain, there is no immediate danger to the boat. The crew extinguished several small fires in the plotting room.”

  “The engine room?”

  “Fully operational.”

  “Take the con. We haven’t been able to raise the 302. Her last bearing was to the northeast. Use that to set your course.”

  It wasn’t difficult to spot the 302, bow canted in the air, settling by the stern. The glare reflecting from the fires still burning on the destroyed patrol boat illuminated the sky. The flames cast rippling vermilion arms across the waves pulling them to the stricken ship.

  Nguyen couldn’t answer the questions in the unseeing eyes of his dead shipmates. The billowing smoke pouring from the stricken ship compounded his feeling of dread. The smoke carried the spirits of his twenty-two comrades toward the heavens.

  When Nguyen and the Dien Phan’s crew could do no more, they abandoned the hulk of their sister ship and commenced their search for the second patrol boat.

  The Dien Phan was barely making headway when they reached the last known position of the remaining vessel. They drifted through the flotsam as the crew swept their searchlight across the water. The dull rumbling of the patrol boat’s idling engines filled the void in Nguyen’s mind.

  “There. There’s someone in the water. Over there.”

  He responded to the lookout’s cry and peered into the darkness. They were approaching the remnants of their sister ship. Nguyen stared at the wreckage trying to make sense of the carnage strewn across the sea.

  “Lieutenant, Lieutenant. Survivors.”

  Nguyen rushed to the man’s side. Several exhausted men clung to an oil-drenched piece of wreckage. “Throw them a line. I’ll get a boat hook.”

  Together they pulled in the wreckage and heaved the injured men up over the side onto the deck to join their rescued comrades. Some of the injured lay on the deck retching, vomiting from the fuel oil they’d swallowed. Others lay pale in shock from mutilating wounds that curiously had little blood flowing from them. Those without visible injuries stared vacantly into the night.