Shanghai Mission

by Jamie Fredric

  The six other men, straddling the gunnel, focused on the dark sea around them. Their breathing remained steady, their arm strokes powerful. Paddles broke the surface of the water with precision, in unison, and almost in total silence. The boat remained on an exact course.

  Beneath the tarp, Peng Zhu’s body trembled, part from fear, part from the motion of the water. The two-foot swells were small compared to some days in this sea, but Zhu had never been aboard a craft such as this. He never dreamed one day he would be--and never with Americans. But somehow, they were trying to get him out of China, these seven men who were risking their lives for him.

  They were in dangerous waters, still within Chinese jurisdiction. They had miles to go before reaching international waters where a chopper would be waiting.

  With lights from the mainland no longer visible, the coxswain shouted, “Hang on!” The engine roared to life. The bow of the Zodiac suddenly rose in the air before settling back down as the boat picked up speed, bouncing over the swells.

  The men laid the oars in the bottom of the boat on either side of the passenger, then leaned as far forward as possible, resting their chests on the gunnel. Their eyes continued searching the surroundings.

  “Twelve o’clock!” the coxswain shouted.

  The other men looked ahead, seeing a faint light in the distance. The chopper.

  “Bùjiǔ,” one of the men said in Chinese, laying a reassuring hand on the man’s shoulder. “Soon,” he repeated, as he leaned toward Zhu.

  Then suddenly, their pulses quickened. A sound of jet engines, approaching from their six. Two J-6s were coming in low, the engines screaming as the jets streaked over the Zodiac. The Chinese-built jets were a version of the Soviet MiG-19 fighter aircraft.

  If nothing else, the J-6s were there as a show of force, specifically for the American fleet in the distance. But why now? And at this hour.

  Even though the Zodiac was too small to be seen from the altitude and speed the planes were flying, the men in the boat kept low profiles.

  The danger was growing dramatically when another thundering noise got their attention--a deep rumble of engines. They snapped their heads around. A bright spotlight moved side to side, as a Chinese gunboat plowed through the water.

  The Shanghai I class displaced 125 tons, was one hundred eighteen feet in length, powered by two 1,200 hp Soviet M50F-4 diesel engines, capable of speeds of twenty-eight knots. Mounted forward was a twin Type 66 57 mm 2.2” gun. She also carried four type 61 25 mm (0.98”) guns capable of firing eight hundred rounds a minute; and eight depth charges.

  The vessel came out of nowhere, closing in on the Zodiac faster than hell, coming from its eight o’clock. There wasn’t any indication the gunboat was about to stop--or alter course--with the Zodiac about to come into range of the spotlight.

  The Zodiac’s coxswain had the engine open to full throttle. He skillfully maneuvered the rubber boat, trying to keep it out of the menacing light. The other men slid off the gunnel, taking up defensive positions in the bottom of the boat. Gripping their weapons, they aimed them toward the gunboat. As long as the Chinese didn’t fire, they’d hold back. They couldn’t risk having their passenger injured or killed.

  But there was no way in hell they could outrun the gunboat. It didn’t take long for the seven men to realize they had to make a critical decision. If they didn’t, none of them were going to make it. It might be the only way for at least some of them to avoid capture, to survive.

  The coxswain slowed the Zodiac for a mere few seconds. Two of the men rolled off the gunnel, then swam away. As soon as they were clear, the coxswain gunned the engine, keeping the boat on course, heading for the chopper.

  A sound of gunfire erupted. Automatic weapons. The spotlight on the gunboat shattered. The men aboard scrambled, ducking for cover. The Chinese coxswain spun the wheel to port, sending a huge plume of water up and away from the boat, washing over the two men in the water.

  Responding to an order shouted by the OIC (Officer in Charge), the gunboat coxswain backed down the engine to all slow.

  The escaping Zodiac was almost out of range, heading for international waters. The men aboard the gunboat refocused their attention. As the boat circled around, they aimed their weapons and fired haphazardly into the water.

  *

  USS Coral Sea (CV-43)

  0425 Hours

  The Midway-class carrier, USS Coral Sea, along with her strike force, steamed on a preset course fourteen nautical miles off the coast of China. One Sea King helicopter was in the air, hovering near the carrier and ready for a possible search and rescue. The second waited just inside international waters.

  All other aircraft were aboard the carrier, except for an F-4 Phantom and an A-6 Intruder, protecting the strike force. Along with the two jets, an E-2B Hawkeye, a high-wing airplane, with one turboprop engine in each wing, was equipped with long range surveillance radar. The Hawkeye provided command and control capabilities for the carrier’s battle group.

  Waiting out on “vulture’s row,” Captain Nathan Gregson tapped a finger against his lips, as his gray eyes scanned the darkened sea. The message that came in from the chopper was not what he expected. Not what he had hoped for. As in every operation, risk was involved--high risk for this particular op. But the fleet had its standard orders: Do not fire unless fired upon. And remain in international waters. With all the airpower and firepower aboard the carrier, there wasn’t a damn thing Gregson could have done.

  Commander Jess Phelps, CAG (Commander Air Group) stood on Gregson’s left side, with Commander Tom Hoffman, Air Boss, standing to his right. Black letters “CAG” and “AIR BOSS” were printed on each of their respective yellow pullover jerseys.

  Phelps pushed up his sleeves, as he leaned forward, looking aft. Then he let his eyes continue searching for any sign of the chopper beyond the carrier’s stern. “We should spot it any minute now, Captain.”

  Gregson shoved his hands into the pockets of his service khaki pants. “Christ! What the hell happened out there? Are you sure he said ‘two’?”

  “Yes, sir,” Phelps responded.

  Gregson had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He shook his head, unbelieving. “Goddamn it!”

  Air Boss Hoffman pointed into the blackness, toward the Sea King’s landing lights. “We’ll get our answer soon enough, Captain! There’s the chopper--seven o’clock!”

  All eyes were on the Sea King as it approached the carrier’s fantail. With its nose raised slightly, without any deviation from its course, it flew over the flight deck, then hovered above the angle deck.

  Taking direction from flight deck personnel, the pilot brought it down on a designated spot on the angle deck. Deck crew members, wearing blue jerseys, immediately rushed toward it, sliding heavy wheel chocks in place, then they secured the tie-downs.

  The rotors were still winding down as five wetsuited passengers jumped out of the cargo bay. They turned their attention to Lieutenant General Peng Zhu.

  The Chinese officer stood in the doorway. He was not in military uniform, but wearing plain, everyday clothes that Chinese civilians wore: a loose-fitting, black long-sleeve jacket with black pants. He was no taller than 5’6” and had very short black hair. His few personal items were stored in a small drawstring burlap sack. Sewn inside his jacket were the final documents he was able to “procure” from the shipyard. This classified material, that he was about to handover, had brought him to this point in time.

  Swiveling his head, he seemed overwhelmed by what he was now seeing. Even more so, he was completely bewildered. His home of forty-two years was now a thing of the past. He’d become a traitor. He was about to step aboard the sovereign territory of the United States of America.

  Perhaps one day, if his government’s mindset changed, he would be allowed to return. He realized that was wishful thinking. As a traitor he’d never again set foot in China. But no matter what the future held, his heart would always remain with his coun
try of birth.

  *

  In 1958, the Chinese nuclear weapons program began under the direction of Mao Zedong. Mao never expected the Chinese arsenal to match America’s, but he believed just a few bombs would increase China’s diplomatic credibility.

  The country began the construction of two uranium enrichment plants: one in Baotou and one in Lanzhou. By 1960, construction was started on a plutonium facility in Jiuquan, and then a nuclear test site, Lop Nur.

  During the early part of the program, the Soviets provided advisers to help in the facilities devoted to fissile material production. Their initial promise was to provide a prototype bomb.

  However, differences between the two countries began to widen. The Communist Party of China denounced the Soviet doctrine of Communism, calling the Soviets “Revisionist Traitors.” The USSR at the time was headed by Nikita Khrushchev.

  The Sino-Soviet split caused the Soviets to pull all its technicians from the program, ending any further assistance.

  Both John F. Kennedy and Lyndon Johnson were concerned about the Chinese nuclear program and studied ways to sabotage or attack it, neither of which came to fruition. In October 1964, the first Chinese nuclear test occurred.

  Construction of the first missile submarine began in September 1970 at Huludao Shipyard in Liaoning Province. Due to its tremendous technical complexity and difficulty, the project had been prone to problems. It was further delayed by the impact of the Culture Revolution.

  Within the Chinese government and military, there were those who felt China should become closer to the United States in order to mediate the threat posed by the Soviet Union. One of those was General Lin Biao.

  Biao at one time was considered to be Mao’s successor. A rift between the two men developed in 1971. It was thought that Biao was planning a military coup or an assassination of Mao. Fearing that he would be arrested, Biao tried fleeing from China. He and his family died in a mysterious plane crash close to the Soviet border.

  Biao was eventually labeled as one of the major “counter-revolutionary forces” during China’s Cultural Revolution.

  Lieutenant General Peng Zhu, who had served with Biao, carried the same beliefs. But unlike Biao, Zhu remained silent. He never voiced his opinions, or gave any indication he desired to go beyond his current status. He would not be declared a “counter-revolutionary.”

  Nearing the end of chaos from the Cultural Revolution, Zhu was assigned as second in command of security at the Huludao Shipyard. After several months at the shipyard, three of his former subordinates contacted him. They revealed their intention to escape from China and flee to the U.S.

  Peng Zhu no longer had a family to worry about. His wife died in childbirth in 1970. So he declined the three mens’ request, and instead made a decision to remain in China for reasons that could mean death should he be discovered. But if he succeeded it would mean freedom. And that was worth the risk. He would stay at the facility with the intent to gather as many secret and classified documents as he could on China’s nuclear submarine program.

  Little by little, in sections, in no particular order, he managed to have documents smuggled out of China. His former subordinates would act as his contacts in the U.S. He only hoped, with all he was doing, the U.S. would eventually help him escape, and grant him asylum.

  Then, in July, after many months of waiting, Zhu received a sealed, “official” Chinese military document. The document ordered him to report for a special temporary assignment to a garrison based in Shanghai. A specific date, time, and place were given. But the message wasn’t from the PRC (Peoples Republic of China) military command.

  Created by a CIA operative, one coded sentence within the document told Peng Zhu the message was authentic. Stated within was an old Chinese proverb: “Make happy those who are near, and those who are far will come.”

  The wheels were about to be set in motion. With what he was “bringing to the table,” the U.S. would help Zhu escape from China.

  *

  Rushing to the chopper, Lieutenant Bill Ellis, an interpreter, greeted Shu. “Xiānshēng, qǐng ní.” He offered a hand to Zhu to assist him out of the aircraft, repeating in English, “Please, sir.”

  Zhu nodded at the offer, but declined. He sat on the edge of the doorway, then slid off. His legs felt weak, and he held onto the edge of the doorframe. Regaining his balance, he faced the five men who made his escape possible, and gave a slight bow of his head. “Duo xiè.” (Many thanks.) Ellis translated.

  Motioning with an arm, Ellis directed Zhu toward the “island.” The superstructure is referred to as the “island” and is the command center for not only flight ops but for the entire carrier.

  Captain Gregson’s eyes settled on the wetsuited figures as they crossed the deck. Each one of them had to have questions, regrets, worries. And all pertained to their two missing men.

  As the five team members got closer to the island, they looked up at Gregson before disappearing from view. Gregson took a deep breath then exhaled between tight lips. He went back to the bridge with Phelps and Hoffman following.

  Executive Officer Steve Dunham stood next to Gregson. “What do you think, sir?”

  Gregson turned to look at the water around them. “I think there are two men out there somewhere, and there’s not a goddamn thing we can do about looking for them, or helping them, XO.

  “Look, see that those men are taken care of, then I want to meet with them ASAP. I need answers before I put a call through to Washington.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” responded Dunham. “Shall I have them meet you in the Wardroom?”

  Gregson just nodded, but then changed his mind. “Belay that, XO.”

  “Sir?”

  “Have them meet me in my stateroom instead.”

  “Very well, sir. What about the Chinese officer?”

  “See to it that Doc Varsi checks him over. When he’s finished, take him to my sea cabin. Have Lieutenant Ellis stay with him.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  The sea cabin is located just off the bridge, where a captain sleeps when a ship is underway. It’s usually sparsely equipped, containing a bunk, a desk, and basic toilet facilities.

  “How long before we fly him off the ship, Captain?” Dunham asked.

  “As soon as Washington gives the word, XO. For now, we keep him as comfortable as possible.”

  “Understand, sir.”

  “And, XO...post a Marine outside the cabin.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll see that it’s taken care of.” Dunham left the bridge.

  *

  The White House

  1730 Hours - Local Time

  President Andrew Carr stood behind his desk in the Oval Office, looking out across the perfectly manicured lawn of the White House. Groundskeepers were gathering up tools, pausing to take drinks from thermos bottles. Another hot, steamy day had descended on D.C.

  Carr noticed his own reflection in the glass. He was still only into his first term as President, but he suddenly looked older than his sixty-five years. His gray hair seemed to be thinner, but his 6’4” height had not changed. He stood tall, considering the “weight” he carried on his shoulders.

  Now, a serious situation had caused him deep concern. Not only were two Americans missing, but the defection of a Chinese Army officer could wreak havoc on the proposed upcoming visit to China by the Vice President.

  The U.S. had come to an agreement with China. There was only one China, and Taiwan was part of China. The U.S. transferred diplomatic recognition from Taipei, Taiwan to Beijing. The U.S. and China had formally established diplomatic relations.

  A knock on the Oval Office door caused the President to turn away from the window. “Yes?”

  Red-haired Theresa Randolph opened the door, then took a step into the Oval office. “Mr. President, General Prescott is here.”

  “Have him come in.” Carr sat down in his swivel chair, then immediately said, “Oh, and Theresa, as soon as Director Bancroft arri
ves, send him right in.” Henry “Hank” Bancroft was the current Director of the CIA.

  “Yes, Mr. President,” the secretary answered. She nodded toward Prescott, then closed the door behind him.

  General Trevor Prescott, Director of the NSA, was wearing his Army green service uniform. His cap was tucked under his left arm. “Good afternoon, Mr. President.”

  “Afternoon, Trevor. Have a seat,” Carr said motioning to a chair in front of his desk.

  Prescott hung his cap on a brass clothes tree by the door, then smoothed back his gray hair. Walking toward the President’s desk, he shifted his briefcase to his left hand, as he moved a chair closer to the desk. He sat down then opened the briefcase, removed a folder, then put the briefcase on the floor.

  The President folded his hands on the desk. “I got off the phone just a short while ago with Secretary Daniels (SecDef). General Zhu was brought aboard the carrier at approximately 0430 Pacific time.”

  “I know you’re relieved, Mr. President. What’s the earliest timeframe for him to arrive here?” Prescott inquired.

  “I gave the go ahead for him to be put on a flight to Andrews as soon as possible. Secretary Daniels will notify me when that happens.”

  There was a knock at the door. “Yes?” Carr responded.

  CIA Director Bancroft entered. “Mr. President.”

  “Come on in, Hank.”

  Bancroft closed the door and approached the desk. “Sorry I’m late, sir.” He unbuttoned the jacket of his dark gray suit, then sat down, as he acknowledged Prescott. “General.”

  Carr leaned back, then brought Bancroft up to speed about Zhu being safe aboard the carrier. He rubbed a hand back and forth across his brow, as he said, “Secretary Daniels informed me that two of the men on that operation are missing.”

  “No, Mr. President, they aren’t missing,” Prescott said.