“Asked his entire cabinet to follow suit.”
“Resign?”
Payne waved his pen in the air. “For what it’s worth, sixty percent of the respondents in a public opinion poll released in yesterday’s Manila Bulletin said he should quit. Montalvo didn’t help himself by saying the Philippine political system was so corrupt it was impossible to be a politician and avoid being tainted.”
Brown appeared to reconsider what he was about to say, then uttered, “He really said that?”
“Sounds a lot like Louisiana.”
Stuart ignored Valardi’s remark. “What is the AFP’s stance?”
“They’re not happy,” Payne responded. “Publicly they’ve indicated they’re willing to support the constitutional process.”
“Rather a nuanced response, don’t you think?” Gilmore added.
Brown rubbed his chin, pondering the implications. “And Montalvo’s position on Taiwan?”
“He’s got enough problems at home.”
“I agree with Richard,” Gilmore said. “We should write him off.”
Valardi couldn’t let that pass. “I didn’t say that. We can’t afford to abandon an elected Head of State.”
“Sure we can.”
Stuart wrapped the side of his water glass with his pen. “Gentlemen, we are not going there. What’s being said in private?”
Gilmore peered at Valardi. “Depends on who you ask.”
“Montalvo’s new Foreign Minister said the government of the Philippines would prefer peaceful dialog to confrontation in the South China Sea.”
Payne staked out his position. “The AFP Chief of Staff’s not following that line. He’s made an open break with the Foreign Ministry and released reconnaissance photos. These refute the Secretary’s acceptance of Beijing’s claim that installation on Mischief Reef is a fishermen’s shelter. The photos were accompanied by a statement saying the AFP will increase its air and naval presence in the Spratlys to discourage Chinese fishing boats from violating Philippine territorial waters.”
“A disconnect in Manila’s senior leadership,” Brown concluded.
“Find out who we can deal with,” Stuart demanded.
“I have a sidebar from their Ministry that pertains,” Valardi said. “A recent editorial in the Manila Bulletin pointed out that under the Mutual Defense Treaty of 1951, the Philippines is obligated to come to the rescue of the United States if our forces are attacked. The treaty covered both Taiwan and the Spratlys. A point we differ on.”
Payne choked back a laugh. “Are you kidding me? What a great twist. ‘The Mouse That Roared.’”
Stuart’s face hardened. “We can all appreciate the irony, Sheldon, but let’s keep focused, shall we? Bryce, you have anything on the PRC’s proposal to explore for oil in the Spratlys in a partnership with Manila?”
“China Oilfield Services announced a contract to conduct joint seismic studies with Philippine National Oil and Petroleum. The Chinese will furnish the research vessel and the PNOC will provide boat guides and staff.”
Stuart tapped his pen on the table. “Is there a direct impact?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you concur, Justin?”
“Only for the short term. I’d be inclined to view this venture as a positive development if it weren’t for the immediate crisis. My distrust of the PRC’s ultimate goals remains.”
“It does fit.”
“How’s that?”
“Implementing the provisions of the Declaration of Conduct of Parties in the South China Sea. Malacanang is playing this announcement for all its worth to deflect attention away from Montalvo.”
“And Hanoi?”
“They’ve been more circumspect,” Valardi answered. “This deal impacts their demarcation negotiations with Beijing to establish fixed borders.”
“My understanding is these don’t include maritime boundaries.”
“Correct,” Brown said. “The PRC has said it may be willing to consider that issue in the future.”
“Where does that leave us?” Stuart asked.
“We’re pursuing a number of initiatives to balance those Beijing has put forth. Hanoi’s distrust of Beijing’s ulterior motives will work in our favor.”
Another thought crossed Stuart’s mind. “Bryce, have we shut down Beijing’s attacks on our computer networks?”
“Cyber-Security has them blocked. They’ve also implemented a disinformation program to feed the Chinese false information pertaining to our negotiations with Hanoi.”
“Could backfire,” Payne said.
“It won’t hurt to have that rig from Horizon Offshore Exploration sitting right at the edge of the disputed fields,” Breckenridge said missing both Payne’s comment and the oblique look from Gilmore.
“PetroVietnam’s cooperation with HOE has opened a number of doors for us. We’ve been able to expand our network with the Vietnamese-U.S. Friendship Association.”
“Bryce?”
“Mr. President?”
“Is anything wrong?”
“Ah, no, sir.”
Stuart turned his attention back to Breckenridge. There was no sense in pressing him. “John, are we any closer to establishing Permanent Normal Trade Relations with Hanoi?”
“Yes, sir. And the timing’s good. I’d recommend forwarding the proposal to Congress.”
“Get something over to Dan, will you?”
Jotting a note, Lantis nodded.
“Sheldon, what are we doing to firm up our relationship with Hanoi?”
“We’ve completed negotiations for a port visit to Ho Chi Minh city by the salvage ship, Salvo and the minesweeper, Patriot.”
“I can’t imagine those two ships providing much of a deterrent,” Valardi said.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Stuart responded. “Beijing must take into account the ripple effect of any action they take to counter our presence in the region.”
“The Japanese are watching these developments with considerable interest,” Valardi said.
“I’m concerned where the Japanese will land,” Brown added.
“We’ve made no secret of our intentions to revisit the Joint Declaration of Security,” Payne said. “We’re completing a top to bottom analysis of our relationship.”
Stuart read Brown’s face. “What else?”
“We must remain cognizant of the past and not condone actions taken by Tokyo that appear to be reconstructing history.”
“Your point is not lost, but the way things are shaping up, we’re going to need the Japanese even if they do have to stretch their definition of ‘self-defense.’”
“I’ll second that,” Brown said. “My concern with the whole situation is Beijing may over react and leave the Japanese with few options.”
“Or us, for that matter,” Stuart observed. “We’ll need all of our friends in the neighborhood, which brings me back to the Nationalists. Richard, the Taiwanese must understand they are placing themselves in an untenable position if they continue to pursue a policy of provoking Beijing.”
“The rhetoric being spewed by the Nationalists’ Defense Minister and Mainland Affairs Council about the passage of the PRC’s Anti-Succession Law is not helpful.”
“On a positive note, Beijing’s new law does not stipulate any new conditions on negotiations for reunification.”
“But it does contain language spelling out those requirements the PRC would have to meet before taking military action against Taiwan,” Brown said.
“I’m not convinced that’s such a bad thing. What are the operative paragraphs?”
“The law states that:
‘In order to protect China’s sovereignty and territorial integrity, the Cabinet and Central Military Commission will be authorized to execute non-peaceful means and non-peaceful measures if possibilities for a peaceful reunification should be completely exhausted.’”
“Then get them back to the negotiating table. And Sheldon?”
“Sir?�
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“Make sure we’ve stopped our arms shipments to Taipei. Let them know in no uncertain terms they are not to militarize Itu Aba.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Justin, get with Richard and craft a statement. No, make that a stern warning to all of the various claimants in the Spratlys that the United States will not tolerate any interference with international shipping in the South China Sea. For the Chinese, that means we reject the provisions of their Law of Littoral Imperatives that are counter to international law.”
Valardi twisted his pen top in consternation. “Beijing will not respond if they perceive we’re not approaching them as an equal partner.”
“I understand that, Richard,” Stuart said. “Publicly, we will not take sides in any territorial disputes in the region. Those disagreements should be resolved under the provisions of the Manila Doctrine for the Conduct of Parties in the South China Sea.”
“Beijing won’t like that,” Valardi cautioned.
“Then, what would you suggest? I want those people sitting around a table talking, not dragging us into a God-damned war.”
“Nobody disagrees with you, sir.”
“Quite frankly, Mr. President, the entire Taiwan issue is a Cold War anachronism,” Brown interjected. “We must take the long view and reconsider our position.”
“Go on.”
“If we are to advance your agenda, we must have assurances from Beijing they will respond in kind to overtures from the Nationalists and they will not resort to armed confrontation.”
“The first piece will be tricky,” Valardi said.
“That’s why you get paid the big bucks,” Payne replied.
“If that’s the case, State recommends we reject any further consideration of the sale of those F-18 fighter jets to Taipei. Can the NSC and Pentagon support this?”
Stuart answered for Payne. “Yes.”
“Mr. President, we already have a quid pro quo relationship with the Chinese. They look to us to keep Taipei in check just as we have expectations that they will keep Pyongyang in the box. It’s imperative we pursue the common ground with Beijing.”
“Such as trade,” Brown noted.
“We’ve got some work to do with Congress on the trade piece,” Breckenridge said.
“Yes, we do. So, let’s talk about our friends in the Congress for a moment. What are you doing at Commerce?”
“I’ve got a meeting set up with the chair of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. He’s got to stall in committee the proposed legislation calling for a 27.5 percent tariff on Chinese imports.”
“Is that part of the Currency Exchange Rate Oversight Reform Act?”
“It is now. The good Senator from North Carolina just added it as a rider.”
“A tariff will not be helpful. Dan, place a call to the chair of the Senate Committee on East Asia and Pacific Affairs and set up a meeting of the Congressional Executive Commission on China. Now is not the time for Congress to be stirring the pot.
“On that note, let’s wrap it up,” Stuart said, cutting off any further comment. “Sheldon, Bob, I’d like a few minutes of your time. Justin, you stay too.”
Chapter 39
MORGAN CITY, LOUISIANA
20:36 THURSDAY 17 JULY
The heat of the day grudgingly released its grip on the small harbor as Thuyen Tran emerged from the engine room of his shrimp boat. A freshening breeze from the northeast provided some relief to the oppressive humidity. He arched his spine, stretching the cramped muscles in his back, and swept away the sweat dripping into his eyes. Like him, the vessel and its engine were showing the ravages of time and a hard life.
It had been a rough year for the shrimpers of Morgan City, Louisiana, and he was no exception. The catch from the Gulf of Mexico hadn’t been better in years, but the price per pound was the lowest in decades. Everyone was having trouble paying the bills. The hundreds of pounds of Royal Reds his crew unloaded and iced down from their night of shrimping wouldn’t cover the cost of fuel. He wondered if the President understood their plight.
Tran shrugged, dismissing the disturbing thought. He had learned long ago to accept the uncertainties of life. For now, he needed to secure his boat so he could join his family for a rare dinner together.
He paused and listened to the gentle sound of water lapping against the hull before surveying his vessel. The long booms of the shrimping rigs resembled the spires of a cathedral, the nets extending from their peaks like flying buttresses. The sight never failed to lift his spirits and he said a brief prayer to thank God for his bounty. He finished securing his vessel, leapt to the pier, and walked to his truck.
He quickened his pace. There was a letter from his lost son, Minh Le, lying on the cracked vinyl seat. For so many years he had not known the fate of his youngest child, and he was struggling with a flood of conflicting emotions.
He started the pickup’s engine and pulled onto the lane leading to the highway. He reached out to touch the letter. Once again, he felt the burden of those chaotic days in May of 1975. Tears appeared, blurring his vision. He passed the old warehouse that served the marina. He didn’t see the stranger watching from the shadows.
The questions he could never answer continued to torment him. He would never be able to blot out the memories of his family’s flight from South Vietnam. A minor functionary in his fishing village, he was none the less terrified of being taken prisoner and interrogated by the vengeful Viet Cong cadre he knew would appear any moment.
The memories swept him back to that time of fear and uncertainty.
* * *
Tran suppressed his growing panic. He’d left his wife to gather up their three children and ran to their fishing boat to prepare it. Prepare it for what, exactly, didn’t cross his mind. They just had to escape. He unscrewed the rusty cap of the fuel tank and plunged a stick into the opening. He pulled it out, scrutinizing the stain. Half-full.
The loud clumping of feet on the wooden pier interrupted his preparations. His wife, with two of their children, ran toward him.
“Where’s Minh Le?”
“I couldn’t find him anywhere. The soldiers said the village is going to fall. We must go.”
He looked past his wife toward the shore. A group of soldiers burst out of the village, stripping off their gear, intent on commandeering a neighboring boat.
“But, our son?”
“God will protect him.”
* * *
Tran’s thoughts returned to the present. He couldn’t believe God had answered his prayers. The letter represented such deep joy and healing: “Dearest father and family...”
His lost son worked as an engineer for a joint Vietnamese and American project to develop the Con Song oil basin. The employees could take leave each month in the resort town of Vung Tau and he’d met a wonderful girl from the northern provinces. She helped him trace his family’s long journey to Louisiana.
He pumped his brakes as he neared the narrow bridge crossing the bayou. He smiled. The joy of meeting this young woman who brought his family together. How strange fate could be.
What?
Blinding light paralyzed his brain. He slammed on the brakes. The truck fishtailed out of control and careened into the wooden guardrail. With a splintering crash, it gave way. The old Ford pickup toppled into the water.
Silence enveloped the night. A darkened car approached, its tires crunching softly on the gravel road. A man got out and walked to the shattered railing. He peered at the black waters below, then switched on his flashlight to sweep the crash site.
A faint haze of white dust illuminated the narrow beam of light focused on the truck. It was upside-down, cab submerged, the rear wheels rotating. The night air hung still as death.
* * *
VUNG TAU, VIETNAM
19:12 FRIDAY 18 JULY
A sense of foreboding swept over Minh Le for reasons he could not explain. The evening had not begun well, and Yamei just picked at her rice. She had said
very little during dinner and when she did, her voice had an unusual edge.
Perhaps she had read his thoughts? She seemed to care for him. At least in the beginning, he reminded himself. But something had changed during the past several months and she’d become angry when he said none of the Americans on the rig was the least bit interested in meeting her friend.
He sighed and rehearsed the words he would say.
Yamei heard the sigh, and fixed her eyes on his. “Minh Le, it is time to dispense with pretense. I have grown impatient with your foolishness. Tell me what the Americans are doing on Platform Ten.”
The steel in her voice took him aback. “I’m sorry, what do you mean?”
“You will tell me what the Americans are doing.”
“But they are oil workers.”
“Do not play the fool with me.”
“I don’t––”
“Do you not understand a simple question? You know much more about that nest of spies than you are letting on.”
His jaw dropped. “Spies?”
“We have been watching you.”
Minh Le swiveled his head around looking at the other patrons. “We? Who are you?”
“Is it possible you can be so naive? Don’t you realize we know why you are there? Perhaps you will understand this.”
“Understand what?”
“Shut up and listen. Your father —”
“My father? What are you saying? Yamei, you are confusing me.”
“Your father is dead. He has met with an unfortunate accident.”
Her words hammered at his brain. “Accident?”
“Yes. And if you do not wish any further misfortune to befall your family in America, you will cooperate.”
Chapter 40
REED BANK, THE WEST PHILIPPINE SEA
07:40 FRIDAY 18 JULY
The Philippine Navy Ship Emilio Jacinto’s bow surged upward, driving against the swells of the approaching storm. The Emilio plowed into the leading edge of a squall.
Reyes couldn’t see anything through the sheets of rain pelting the bridge windows. The ship corkscrewed to port and dropped with a nauseating lurch into a trough. He cursed under his breath.
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