The Shark Mutiny

by Patrick Robinson

  “I guess it was pretty impressive how he got onto the Chinese involvement?”

  “Sure was. He was a couple of jumps ahead of me, and we were running on the same track. I’m not real used to that.”

  “Do you feel a little resentful…someone that young?”

  “Hell, no. I was pleased. Saved me a lot of thinking time. That boy just laid it right out…almost.”

  “What d’you mean, ‘almost’?”

  The Admiral leaned back in his chair, and took a deep sip of Meursault. “Kathy,” he said, “there’s something real strange about this whole damned thing. Lemme ask you a question. What’s the first thing any halfway decent detective wants to know about a murder?”

  “Whodunit?”

  The Admiral chuckled, leaned over, took her hand and told her he loved her. Then he stopped smiling and said, “Motive, Mrs. O’Brien. Motive. Why was this crime committed?”

  “Okay, Sherlock, go for it.”

  “Kathy, I cannot go for it. Because I cannot for the life of me see one motive the Chinese may have had for getting heavily involved in a blocklade of the Gulf of Iran. I have wracked my brains, and every time we make a big move to protect the mine clearance, I get a damned funny feeling about the entire scenario.”

  “You do?”

  “Well, we got a Navy that has to protect the Indians’ ships. But right now we got battle groups standing by to relieve battle groups. We’ve even got battle groups coming out of the Med in order to get into the Arabian Sea.

  “Kathy, do you know how many ships that is—in the five U.S. battle groups?”

  “What are they, a dozen each? So I guess around sixty?”

  “Kathy, that’s enough Naval hardware to conquer the world about three times over. That’s more U.S. warships grouped together than there’ve been since World War Two. So what the hell’s going on? There’s no hostile threat. The mines that blew three tankers are essentially passive, just sitting there in the water, and the Pondicherrys are quite steadily getting rid of them.

  “Neither China, nor Iran, has opened fire on anyone. Christ, we just banged a hole in China’s most important destroyer and they never even fired back, never even protested.

  “I just got an awkward feeling I might be missing the big picture right here. Seems to me we got too much Naval hardware in one place. And I know that’s because we’ve also got a President whose only real concern is the price of gasoline at the American pumps.

  “And I’m wondering if we’re overreacting to the oil threat to civilization. Could someone be very seriously yanking our chain?”

  1700. Monday, May 7.

  Headquarters, Eastern Fleet.

  Ningbo, Zhejiang Province.

  The streets were always crowded at this time in the ancient harbor town that lies 120 miles due south of Shanghai across the great Bay of Hangzhou. Ningbo traces its roots back to the Tang Dynasty, through more than a thousand years of trading, and every day in the early evening a commercial stampede seems to break out, as if the entire population was racing, to sail before the tide.

  Throngs surged across the old Xinjiang Bridge in the main port area. Traders bought and sold all along the old central throughway of Zhongshan Lu. And yet, it was a curious place to see a senior Naval Officer, in uniform, hurrying through one of the oldest parts of town, along Changchun Lu.

  Nonetheless, moving swiftly between the merchant houses along the crowded sidewalks was the tall, lean, still-upright figure of the Commander-in-Chief of the Peoples’ Liberation Navy, Admiral Zu Jicai. He was no stranger to this city. He had been born here more than 60 years ago, and his Naval career had begun in the dockyards of Zhejiang Province and ultimately, before he was thirty years old, in Shanghai.

  Following him closely among the shoppers were four uniformed Navy guards, with sidearms. Even for a mission as unorthodox as this, Admiral Zu was not permitted to travel so far from the dockyard without protection.

  He reached a building on the left-hand side of the street, and paused briefly to confer with his guards, instructing them to wait outside, and to have a staff car ready in 45 minutes.

  Then he walked up the steps, and entered through one of the wide, folded wooden screen doors of the Tianyige, the oldest private library in all of China, dating back to the sixteenth century, at the height of Ningbo’s prosperity during the Ming Dynasty. A member of the family bowed formally to him, and the Admiral returned the courtesy, before he was led through the book-filled, paneled main room into a smaller inner sanctum, dimly lit and plainly designed for thought and as a home for reference books.

  There was one single table in the room, and it stood beneath a deep, paneled, beamed ceiling, divided into wide squares, each one decorated with intricate inlays of light wood and ivory, each one of an entirely different pattern. Seated at the table, in the shadows beneath this great mosaic of ancient Chinese art, was the powerful figure of Admiral Zhang Yushu, senior Vice Chairman of the PLAN’s Council.

  “Ah, Yushu, you found my childhood hideaway,” said Admiral Zu.

  “Hello, Jicai. You were right. One of the most secretive rooms in China. We can talk here. But we must be swift and careful…and so, quickly, what can you tell me about the destroyer?…”

  “Very little. The Americans warned her away from the area of the minefield, which she ignored, as agreed. And then one of the American ships opened fire and essentially crippled her. Blew both shafts, both props and rudder. There was no way of returning fire, and in any event she could not really see her assailant. Which makes me think they may have hit her from a submarine.”

  “Yes. Precisely. But the loss amounts to very little. Are the Iranians towing her in?”

  “Yessir.”

  “And the tanker at the end of the Malacca Strait?”

  “Our Kilo hit it with a torpedo and vanished. Apparently it was a good choice. Nice and big, and nice and empty.”

  “Excellent. Have the Americans panicked?”

  “I’m not certain, sir. But they just diverted yet another CVBG toward the Indian Ocean. It’s on its way through Suez now.”

  “And the carrier JFK?”

  “Plainly on its way to Diego Garcia, taking a southerly route—a long way south from its normal route up to the Japanese Islands and Taiwan.”

  “Which leaves them where?”

  “With FIVE carrier battle groups either in, or heading for, the Indian Ocean, Diego Garcia or Hormuz.”

  “And the Ronald Reagan Group? Still in San Diego?”

  “Yessir and nonoperational for a good two months yet. My guess is they’ll call the JFK back for Taiwan.”

  “Then we’ll have to deal with her, I suppose. But I don’t think that will be beyond us. Not with our Kilos.”

  “Nossir.”

  It was a very Chinese relationship. Formal to a degree when the subject involved the Navy’s business, Commander-in-Chief to the biggest chief. But when the conversation slipped from report to discussion and opinion, it instantly lapsed into the kind and understanding conversation of two lifelong and beloved friends.

  “And now, Jicai, do we see any improvement in our amphibians’ capacity?”

  “Not really, sir. I think we have to accept eleven thousand.”

  “And are we ready?”

  “Nossir. But we are preparing every day.”

  “Where do you see our critical paths?”

  “Certainly the Kilos, sir. We will have them routinely overhauled and ready. Most other ships are on standby. Airborne troops I understand are training with some success but with more to learn. The infantry commanders have forgotten nothing. Tanks are ready. In the air, I fear, it will be costly.”

  “Do we have a date?”

  “I’m looking at ten days, sir.”

  “A feint to the outer island first?”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  “Are you confident, my friend?”

  “With great reservations, sir.”

  “That’s good, my Jica
i. All commanders must be a little bit afraid.”

  And with that Admiral Zu walked to the door of the little room, and he called softly to his friend, a member of the twentieth generation of the family to own this library.

  And moments later, the librarian returned and handed each of his guests a small porcelain cup, containing sweet, heavy Shaoxing red wine, served warm.

  “A toast, Jicai,” said Admiral Zhang. “To the immortal memory of the ruler of all the seas, Admiral Zheng He.”

  1100 (local). Monday, May 7.

  The White House.

  Arnold Morgan wanted answers. And he wasn’t getting any. At least not from Admiral David Borden. The Acting Director of the NSA was unable to grasp how urgently the Big Man in the White House wanted to know who had hit the tanker in the Malacca, and with what.

  Admiral Borden actually said, “Sir, we do not I believe have any proof the tanker was hit at all.” Which was tantamount to telling Evander Holyfield that nobody had just bitten a hole in his ear.

  And Admiral Morgan was furious. He banged down the phone, just as news came in that Brent Crude had gone to $78 a barrel in London, on rumors of a worldwide strike by the masters of the big tankers. Right now America was looking at $5 for a gallon of gasoline at the pumps. Worse yet, if things did not shake loose very quickly, there could be shutdowns at some of the nation’s major electricity generators, which ran on fuel oil, or natural gas.

  “KATHY!!”

  She came in through the open door, closing it hastily in case someone else heard the anger of the President’s top military adviser.

  “Get George Morris on the phone right now.”

  “Arnold, he had surgery early this morning. You know that. He must be asleep.”

  “Well, wake him up.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. We can’t wake him up. He’s very sick.”

  “He’ll be a whole lot sicker if the goddamned lights go out and his iron lung shuts down.”

  “Arnold, they do not use iron lungs in modern surgery anymore.”

  “Try not to bore me with this high-tech crap. Electricity is the lifeblood of all hospitals, including George’s. Okay…okay…don’t wake him up till later, but tell him to get into Fort Meade tomorrow and kick that asshole Borden out of his office.”

  “Arnold, I guess you could arrange to bomb Shanghai, but you cannot instruct the head of surgery at the Naval Hospital in Bethesda to discharge probably his most important patient.”

  “Kathy, forget all that I’ve just said. But please ensure I speak to George the moment he regains his senses. Because this clown in Fort Meade is unlikely ever to regain his.”

  “Yessir. Meanwhile, anything I can do right now?”

  “Yes. Get that good boy, Jimmy Ramshawe, on my private secure line. And hop to it—don’t tell me he’s asleep or anything.”

  “Of course I may murder you one day, my darling,” she said, stalking out of the room, head high, trying not to laugh.

  National Security Agency.

  Fort Meade, Maryland.

  Lieutenant Ramshawe’s phone rang angrily, reflecting precisely the general demeanor of the caller.

  “Hello, sir. Yup, this is Jimmy…Sir, I’ve been on it since I got here at three this morning. You want my opinion?

  “I think the Chinese fired a torpedo into that tanker from one of those Kilo-Class submarines.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “Sir, I’ve had full coverage of those coastal waters, all the way down from the Rangoon Delta to the northern headland of Sumatra, right down from the Nicobar islands. And I’m here to tell you there’s not been a warship in sight in those waters all through the weekend, and then suddenly…BAM! Another tanker goes up at six-thirty local time. And where does it go up? I have it at six-ten-north, ninety-four-fifty-east. That’s six miles southeast of Point Pygmalion, the southern headland of Great Nicobar.

  “It’s also six hundred miles south of the Chinese Navy base in the Bassein River—I’d say less than three days running for a Kilo moving at twelve knots through waters without a serious Naval presence. At least nothing that’s looking for them. They don’t even have to be careful.

  “Anyway, sir. That’s not all.”

  “Go on.”

  “Sir, I got two satellite shots right here showing a Russian-built Kilo on the surface, heading right for the Mergui Archipelago…that’s right off the Burmese coast….”

  “I know where the hell the goddamned Merguis are, for Christ’s sake…. Keep going….”

  “Yessir.”

  Arnold Morgan smiled to himself.

  “She’s about one hundred eighty miles from the burning tanker, and that’s fifteen hours from the hit. So she could have done it, but they don’t seem to care too much who knows.”

  “Very strange, Jimmy. What do you make of it?”

  “Not a great deal, sir. I can’t see the point of it, except to cause chaos. All I know is, this does not look like casual maritime vandalism.”

  “Keep thinking, Jimmy. Write your reports, and keep me right in the game.”

  Ten minutes later, Admiral Morgan was standing in the Oval Office informing the President of the United States that the Chinese had, without question, been responsible for yet another tanker explosion, the fourth. And as far as he could tell, there was no reasonable motive for harming any of them. Except to cause a massive hike in world oil prices, which would damn nearly bankrupt Japan and knock the hell out of the USA’s burgeoning economy.

  “As for Europe, with their North Sea Oil beginning to run out, sitting there with virtually no resources except a lot of damned expensive people, and welfare programs big enough to stop the Earth on its axis, well, hell, God knows what’s going to happen to them without Arab oil.”

  “Arnold, I have to make a move. I have to do something. I cannot let this all go unremarked on by the United States. Do we have the gulf under control?”

  “It’s under control but not yet safe. We got enough forces in there to conquer anything up to World War Three, including the sun, the moon and the planet of the fucking apes.”

  The President laughed, but his concern overrode any humor there may have been in his mood. “Arnold,” he said, “we gotta show a major presence. We gotta frighten everyone to death, show ’em we mean what we say.”

  “Sir, we could show ’em we mean what we say with one CVBG. Christ, they carry eighty fighter aircraft and right now we don’t have a damn thing to shoot at. And we’ve got five carriers either in or on their way in. If the oil starts flowing again, those warships could almost suck the place dry.”

  “Arnold, there has to be something very odd about this Sino-Iranian pact. I just cannot tell what they’re up to. I only know we cannot drop our guard.”

  “Maybe. But I have a feeling there’s a goddamned hidden agenda right here that we are not tuned in to. There simply is no obvious motive for this action by the Chinese. But I do still think there is one thing we must do: lock ’em right out of the Indian Ocean.”

  “You mean what we discussed before?”

  “Yessir. We’ve gotta get rid of that oil refinery they just built. And then get rid of that Navy base on the Bassein River. Send the little bastards home, right back to the South China Sea.”

  “Arnold, I think to do that, we will need the support of at least one ally, and I don’t know where that might come from.”

  “Jesus, that’s an easy one. We don’t even need to frown over that.”

  “We don’t?”

  “Nossir. The Indian Navy would give their eyeteeth to get China out of the Bay of Bengal and all points west of there. Remember that old animosity is as ingrained as that between Iraq and Iran. The Indians do not want the Chinese Navy prowling around in their backyard…. Remember, too, India is very nearly bigger than China in terms of population, and richer. I have thought for years they should be our best friends in the East.”

  “Hmmmmm. You think they’ll support us kicking some Chin
ese ass?”

  “Basically I think we tell no one what we’re about to do, except to tip off Admiral Kumar about our approximate plans. He’s gonna love it. So’s his Prime Minister.”

  “You still favor the actions of your favorite troops, the cutthroats of the Navy SEALs using their world-famous techniques of solving all problems with high explosives.”

  “Those are my methods of choice, sir. Mainly because no one quite knows what’s happened. And yet they can’t fail to know it must have been us.”

  “Well, Arnold, since I’ve been in this chair, I’ve allowed you to unleash these guys on several targets, and I’m obliged to say they always bring home the bacon, some of it nicely fried.”

  “This time it’s gonna be stir-fried. I’m sick to death of this Chinese crap.”

  “Okay, Arnold, do your duty as you see it. Send ’em in, the silent destroyers.”

  “That’s the way, sir. Maximum effect, minimum blame. We’ll give ’em seventy-eight bucks a barrel. Crazy pricks.”

  He turned away from the Chief Executive and walked slowly out of the Oval Office. And his thoughts cascaded in on him, as his rich imagination took him into the hot, dark recesses of the sprawling refinery on the Strait of Hormuz.

  And he thought of the guys, coming in hard and silent, out of the sea, moving across the sand, watching for armed sentries. And in his mind he felt their fear, and their strength, and their patriotism.

  And he walked right by Kathy O’Brien’s desk without stopping, snapping out briskly just one command as he opened his office door:

  “Get me Admiral John Bergstrom on the line. SPECWARCOM, Coronado Beach. Secure line. Encrypted. We’re talking Black Ops, Kathy. Usual procedures.”

  5

  1330. Monday. May 7.

  The White House.

  Admiral Morgan’s call to SPECWARCOM was essentially a request to Admiral John Bergstrom to put two teams of Navy SEALs on 24-hour notice in Coronado, prepared to embark immediately for Diego Garcia. That conversation took less than four minutes.