Dangerous Grounds

by Don Keith

  The low, flat finger of the Changi Naval Base rose out of the sea ahead of them. The Singapore government had spent billions to build a landfill out into the strait and then to construct on it the largest and most modern naval base in Southeast Asia. The long piers were large enough to host an American carrier battle group but today they would serve as a temporary home for the Higgins.

  It would be good to be back on dry land for a bit, Wilson thought, and even better to be done with these damned anti- pirate operations. What an exercise in frustration. For all the miles they steamed and all the ships they visited, the only thing that Wilson could say that they had accomplished was running up on a succession of drifting, lifeless hulks; the remnants left by pirates after their thievery was done. The last one, the Medong Sui, was the bloodiest of the bunch by far. It might all be worth it if they could get a chance for once to find the pirates and bring Higgins' guns to bear. Then maybe they could do some good for a change.

  "Skipper," Lieutenant Brian Simonson called from the pilothouse. "Request permission to bring the tug alongside."

  The roof of the tugboat's white pilothouse barely came up even with Higgins' bridge. The Singapore harbor pilot stood on the deck, ready to jump across as soon as the powerful little tugboat was tied up alongside the destroyer. Again, Petranko kept a suspicious eye on the boat, even though it had been cleared by their escorts to approach the American ship.

  The pilot leaped across just as the heavy hawsers from the tug’s bow were being snugged down to cleats on the destroyer's main deck. He made his way across the deck toward the ladder to the bridge.

  Paul Wilson relaxed a bit. Maybe he could concentrate on the first chore ahead of him once they were safely berthed at Changi. He didn't look forward to the meeting at Logistics Group, Western Pacific, the U. S. Navy's only facility in Singapore. The Logistics Group was founded to feed repair parts and supplies to the Navy’s fleet as it steamed about in the Indian Ocean, far from home. Over the years, and with a wink and a nod from the Singapore government, it had morphed into much more than that. The war on terrorism, and especially in Afghanistan, demanded a U. S. military presence in Southeast Asia, but the diplomatic climate in that part of the world did not permit overtly building a large base in the area. The pier at Changi presented a neat solution to the dilemma.

  Captain Mick Donohue, a gruff old salt, was ostensibly and by title the Chief of Staff, Logistics Operations. The truth was that the title was about as close as he ever got to the Navy supply system. He actually coordinated all the Navy's operations over this vast and vital part of the world's maritime geography.

  Donohue was not pleased with recent events in his section of the ocean. He had made that fact clear to Paul Wilson during their early morning conference call. The pirate raids had already been getting a lot of play in the press lately. Enough visibility to generate heat from halfway around the world in Washington. Mick Donohue didn't like political heat. It was best that he and his command here keep the lowest of profiles.

  The latest discovery by the Higgins didn't do anything to improve his temper. A freighter with a hold full of dead people turned up the thermostat back in the States even higher, and it had not even hit CNN yet.

  As Paul Wilson greeted the harbor pilot, his mind was already occupied by the impending meeting. The sun beaming down on the Strait of Malacca was still bright, unclouded, but the skipper of the Higgins knew he needed to be bracing himself for one heavy storm.

  Manju Shehab led his men down the narrow trail from his master’s mountaintop hideout, this time heading in the opposite direction from the way they had come up from Isabella before. Halfway down, they took a left hand fork and followed the trail as it wound along the flank of the ridges. The little fishing village of Mangal was another mile farther along. From there, they would take a motorboat that would be waiting for them, then go island hopping down the Sulu Archipelago, around the northern tip of Borneo, and on to Sarawak. The two hundred mile journey, a two-hour plane ride, would, in reality, take them three days by speedboat. With the NBI hot on their trail, it was far safer than trying to catch a flight from Isabella. At least this way no one would scan them with a metal detector. If they did, they would find the stockpile of arms they were bearing.

  The Tumalabong River was little more than an over-rated creek as it meandered alongside the trail, showing them the way to Mangal. Its green-brown water moved slowly, as if reluctant to leave its jungle home to join the Celebes Sea not far away.

  The going had not gotten any easier for Shehab and his men as they eased down from the mountains to flatter ground. Heavy vegetation hung over the little used trail. It slapped them with wet, stinging tendrils as they pushed by. The relentless sun turned the jungle into a steam kettle, sapping the men of all energy. Sweat poured off of them as they labored on. It stung their eyes and chaffed the skin under the straps of their heavy packs. The thick, sticky, red mud clung to the soles of their boots, caking up into huge, heavy lumps.

  Shehab rounded a bend in the trail and led them out of the thick jungle and to the edge of a rice paddy. All they had to do now was make their way the few yards across the paddy and the men would blend into the morning foot traffic as they walked on the main road into Mangal. The town was a few hundred yards ahead.

  One of his men eased up alongside Shehab.

  "I will be glad to drop this bag of rocks I'm carrying,” he groaned. “I hope that boat has an ice chest full of cold beer and a comfortable place to lie down and rest."

  Shehab peered down with a scowl at the sweating terrorist.

  "Is that any way for one of the faithful to talk? Wanting beer? You had better be glad you are talking to me and not Nurizam."

  The man used the tail of his shirt to wipe the sweat and grime from his forehead and out of his eyes.

  "I am only looking for a little paradise here on earth before I become a martyr," the man responded with a weak grin. "Would our beloved leader deny me such a small pleasure if he knew it might make me fight more fiercely when the time comes?"

  Shehab started to reply but his voice was drowned out by the sudden churning clatter of half a dozen helicopter engines. Before they could even react, the choppers breasted the small hill off to their right and fluttered in toward them, zooming flat out. Nurizam’s terrorist platoon stood there in awe, staring open-mouthed at the green-painted Hueys.

  Shehab was faster. He screeched, “Get down!” and, at the same instant, leaped from the exposed path, diving into the shallow creek bed. There was some measure of cover from the vegetation but he didn’t stay there. He turned and sprinted down the ditch toward town.

  Behind him, he could hear the clatter of machine gun fire, but there was no sound of running feet following him. Then the heavy, rolling roar of the terrorists’ AK-47s meshed with the high-pitched chatter of the American M-60 machine-guns. His men were shooting back, as if they had any chance of bringing down any of the choppers.

  The fools will be martyrs today, Shehab mumbled to himself as he ran a zigzag path, trying to avoid tripping on the tree roots and rocks. There was no way they could be a match for the troops in the helicopters. Not in an open fight. This was not the way they were supposed to die. It was futile. Those men had a far more important job to do. Now it would be up to Shehab to complete the mission alone, if he could somehow get out of this ambush.

  He allowed himself a quick glance over his shoulder as he stepped out of the streambed at the first row of rough houses. The AK-47s had all fallen silent. The M-60 fire was going unanswered.

  It stopped as abruptly as it had begun. He could just make out the bodies of his four compatriots where they lay sprawled in pools of blood at the edge of the rice paddy. The Hueys were settling down near them. Shehab could see the Philippine Air Force diamond-and-wings markings outlined on the side of the green war birds as they eased into the paddy. Dozens of troops were pouring out of the yawning side doorways of the machines and spreading out, some checking for life am
ong their victims, others coming his way, running after him.

  Shehab charged down the dusty street. His only hope to get clear was to make it to the boat before the troops caught up with him. Maybe he could sneak out that way. The town was far too small to hide in.

  He tossed his pack behind the first building he passed and tried to meld in with the crowd of people who had poured out into the heat of the day to see what all the excitement was about. He moved toward the little waterfront, using all his willpower to keep from breaking into a run. The troops would be surrounding the town by now. Trying to sneak out by land would be hopeless.

  Then Shehab saw the pier, the speedboat waiting for them down at the far end. Now he allowed himself to break into a full run. He charged across the rickety wooden decking. There was distant, faint shouting behind him. Someone was yelling, commanding him to stop, to give himself up. The terrorist ignored them. His thoughts were on the boat and safety.

  Someone stood up in the boat's cockpit, waving at Shehab, urging him to run faster.

  Something hard and angry tore out a section of the pier just to his left, sending splinters flying. Another bullet whacked into a piling almost at his elbow. He heard a series of ominous whooshing whistles as still more bullets tore past him.

  He was too good of a target on the pier. Shehab dove over the side into the harbor. It was the only way out.

  The cool blue water enveloped him as he fought for survival. Surely Allah would allow him to survive. Surely he knew Shehab was his servant, that he was on an important mission against the infidels.

  He held his breath, fought to stay beneath the surface and stroked as hard as he could, trying to swim forward. His only chance was to make it to the speedboat and try to race out of range of the bullets.

  He broke the surface beside the boat, reached up, and struggled to pull himself aboard. The boat’s pilot grabbed him under the arms and dragged him onto the deck, then turned, gripped the throttle, and opened it full.

  They raced out of the tiny harbor as the pursuing troops shouted and fired after them. Their bullets sizzled into the water around them, disintegrating sections of the railing and deck and shattering the boat’s windshield.

  "As fast as you can go! We must get out of here!" Shehab shouted breathlessly as he pulled himself erect. "The helicopters will come. We do not have much time."

  “Where are the others?” the pilot asked, his words drowned out by the boat’s throaty engine roar.

  Shehab shook his head.

  The pilot steered his boat out into the open waters of the Tapiantana Channel. Their best chance was to cross the open water as quickly as they could and then hide amongst the tiny islands and mangrove hummocks until the government choppers had given up looking.

  The boat rocketed across the waves at top speed. Shehab was jolted hard with each bone-crunching bounce but he stayed put on the boat’s deck.

  Relative safety was not far away. They were half a mile from Bubuan Island, the first of the long Sulu chain.

  That’s when the Huey caught up with them. It came in low, out of the sun, its guns already chattering wickedly. The first burst of machinegun fire tore through the cockpit, chopping up the padded seats and instruments. The second torrent killed the pilot, almost cutting him in half. He was dead before he fell to the deck.

  The boat roared on across the wave tops with no hand on the helm. It corkscrewed erratically across the water as the chopper’s pilot kept up with it, as its gunmen continued their relentless fusillade.

  Something caught fire on the vessel. Dark black smoke billowed out from the engine compartment.

  Shehab took advantage of the smoke. He ran at a crouch to the boat’s stern and rolled off into the water, swimming downward, hoping to go unnoticed as the speedboat was ripped apart by the unceasing bursts of machine gun fire. He stayed under as long as he could stand it, treading water, fighting to keep from being pulled to the top where he would offer a nice target. Finally, his lungs aching, he popped to the surface, gasping for breath.

  The speedboat, still billowing smoke, was several hundred yards away by now, almost stopped, the smoke even thicker and blacker. The Philippine helicopter still hovered stubbornly above the doomed vessel, pouring bullets into the hull.

  Shehab could see flames pouring out of the boat, could see it listing sharply in the water, but he didn’t have time to watch. He had to get as far away as possible before it sank. The chopper would come back, searching for anyone along its path. He took one more deep gulp of air and started the long, slow swim to Bubuan Island, praying to Allah for help with each stroke.

  The nuclear attack submarine Topeka cruised silently, just beneath the surface of the sea, invisible from anyone who might look in her direction. The black behemoth was maneuvering back and forth in a small box twelve miles off the North Korean coast. She was as close to the Democratic Peoples’ Republic of Korea as she could get and still be in international waters. She had to keep it legal in the unlikely event the North Koreans detected her meanderings out here.

  The sub's sophisticated antennas were constantly sucking up electronic signals from the airwaves like a giant vacuum cleaner. The crew kept a close, suspicious eye on all ship traffic going into and out of the harbor. In the three weeks Topeka had been on station, the cryptologists had sorted through reams of electronic information. They still had another month to go before being relieved.

  Marc Lucerno, the boat’s weapons officer, leaned back from the periscope and rubbed his aching eyes with both fists. The long hours of grinding boredom were building up into aching fatigue for the young submariner. There wasn’t a hell of a lot to see out there but he was duty-bound to keep looking at it. He put his eye back to the periscope again and resumed his slow circular walk, looking out at a gray overcast sky painted above a gray, choppy sea.

  "There is not a damn thing out there," he mumbled to no one in particular. "This is about as exciting as a case of hemorrhoids."

  "You say something, Lieutenant?" Fire Controlman Joe Cully asked. Cully sat in front of the BSY-1 fire control panel. The USS Topeka's ultra-sensitive sonar system fed the information that it garnered from the waters surrounding the Improved Los Angeles Class attack submarine into the BSY-1. It then digested the information and fed it back out for Cully to analyze.

  "Just bitchin’," Lucerno answered. "Getting bored looking out at the same piece of gray all the time. You'd think there would be something a little more exciting going on up there. After all, we're just twelve miles off one of North Korea's largest navy bases."

  He stole a quick glance at the sonar repeater screen. The only contact was the merchant they had been listening to for the past several hours. The old tub sounded like a real trash hauler as it made its way down the coast. Probably some ancient steamer out of Vladivostok. She was still way too far out to see through the periscope but Lucerno could picture her already and she would not be anything exciting to observe.

  Oh well. At least it would be something different if she came within range. Anything besides washed-out sky and dingy water would break the monotony.

  "What's the CPA on sierra two-six?" Lucerno asked. It was always a good idea to know how close the steamer was going to get, even if Topeka could easily avoid it. Besides, if the skipper popped into the control room, he would ask that question, and it would be wise to have the answer ready for him.

  Cully looked at the solution he had worked out on his computer screen before he responded. It would be an even better idea if they gave the captain the right answer.

  "CPA is seven six hundred yards, bearing zero-three-six, in two hours, twenty-four minutes."

  Lucerno memorized the information and swung the periscope around, still watching his 360-degree view of a gray and boring world.

  Colonel Kuang il Chung leaned against the Won Ki’s starboard rail and lit another cigarette. The wind kept blowing out his match but he managed to suck until he got a little glow on the end of the cigarette. He drew in
a lung full of the acrid smoke, held it, and then exhaled. He could feel the nicotine begin to calm his frayed nerves.

  Another six hours rocking around out here and then he would be home, rid of this rust bucket. It would be good to be back on solid, dry land at Najin again. The Dramamine had barely kept his seasickness at bay. His stomach still felt queasy, rumbling ominously.

  Despite the discomfort, Chung had to smile. The journey to Vladivostok was a complete success. The destitute Russian naval officers there had been only too willing to part with another of their Soviet 53-68 nuclear torpedoes. Five million U. S. dollars had pried the corroded hulk from their hands and delivered it to the forward hold of the Won Ki. Chung would promptly turn that piece of hardware into fifty million dollars from that Philippine terrorist who so desperately craved it and fifty million more for its twin when they arrived next week. The much-needed hard currency would be very useful to the State Security Department. It should be all it took to give him the boost necessary to rise to the innermost ranks of the D. P. R. K. Secret Police, to a position of responsibility he so richly deserved. All he needed to do now was clean the torpedo up a little and deliver it.

  Chung felt the ship heel slightly. He gripped the railing with both hands while he looked up to see the bow swing around toward the dim setting sun. It was time to make the last little run into Najin.

  His nerves and his stomach were feeling better all the time.