by Don Keith
Smith frowned as he listened. This was obviously all a set-up, a ruse to take his ship. At best, they were going to hold the ship and crew for what amounted to a ransom. At worst, they would stop at nothing to stake their claim on what Smith and his crew had discovered in the deep water out there.
“I demand to see the US ambassador,” Smith told him. “You can’t hold us here like this on such trumped-up...”
“Oh, Dr. Smith, we most certainly can. And we will. We are a very long way from the US and in a very out-of-the-way part of the world. And we have long and painful experiences with colonialism perpetrated by the US and European powers. Our government, on behalf of our people, has vowed to no longer tolerate such.” Ahio Evaipomama paused and smiled quite insincerely. “As you likely are aware, the US Embassy is on Fiji. It will take some time to notify them through the proper channels and then for a representative to journey here. In the meantime, I suggest that you make yourselves comfortable.” He glanced around the cell block before adding, “Or at least as comfortable as the accommodations allow.”
“And how about the female members of our crew?” Smith asked.
“Be assured they are being well cared for. Or at least as well as any other felons would be as they await justice.”
With that, the Tongan bureaucrat turned on his heels and briskly left the cell block.
Ψ
Yon Hun Glo stood in the back corner of Wushiwu’s control room and watched as Captain Liu Zhang surfaced the submarine. It was only one of the things he missed about no longer being in direct command of such a wondrous vessel. Even now, proud as he was of his lofty position in PLAN’s submarine service, he had to resist the impulse to take charge of the boat, to correct the captain when he did not do things precisely as Yon would have, to reprimand a crewmember who did not perform his duties as Yon believed he should.
The long trek from Hainan to Tongatapu was almost over. The lang qun now steamed in a slow circle a couple of miles to the north and east of ‘Eueiki Island, waiting for darkness. Yon Hun Glo knew that transiting the narrow Avi Piha channel at night would be dangerous, but it was well worth the risk. He was convinced that they had managed to make the entire voyage without the American Navy being any the wiser. To risk being seen by one of their satellites during the last couple of miles of the transit would be foolish.
The sun was an hour below the western horizon when four black monsters slowly emerged from the watery deep. They formed a line astern with Wushiwu in the lead as they steamed past the coral bluffs of little ‘Eueiki Island. Meanwhile, Yon Hun Glo climbed up to the bridge just as they slowed to rendezvous with the pilot launch at the entrance to Avi Piha Channel.
With the Tongan harbor pilot aboard Wushiwu, the submarines steamed on, bows pointed down the funnel-shaped channel. As the line turned to the south and headed past Talufu’ou, each of them, without ever being aware, tripped the sensor field that ORCA One had laid only three days before. The sensors’ communication buoy up-linked the alerts to an overhead satellite. That meant Jon Ward’s intel team knew of the Chinese wolf pack’s arrival at Tonga even before the mooring lines were doubled.
The four submarines tied up alongside the Chinese container ship Pearl Moon, which was moored stern first to the quay. By midnight, camouflage had been constructed over the subs so that anyone looking down from overhead would only see a couple of broad, flat barges snuggled up next to the cargo ship.
An hour after the submarines disappeared under the camouflage nets, the Chinese research ship Zhang Jian motored into the port and tied up alongside the pier. The fully outfitted, deep-sea research ship was ostensibly cruising the South Pacific mapping migration patterns of pelagic fish as part of a Shanghai Ocean University project. The cover story did not really equate very well with the very-deep-water mineral recovery equipment that covered her ample and open main deck. That gear included the orange and white Fendouji manned submersible, one of only a few vessels in the world capable of reaching ocean depths as great as six miles.
Yon Hun Glo’s first action was to send word to the palace that he desired to hold a meeting with King Tofuwanga at the earliest opportunity the following morning. Then, with his submarines safely moored at their destination and their presence adequately hidden from prying eyes, and with the meeting with the country’s ruler arranged, Yon decided that his day’s work was complete. It was now time for him to turn in so he would be well rested for the next day’s important work.
Meanwhile, ORCA One had continued to follow the four submarines all the way to the moment when its command algorithm determined that the UUV was now within a restricted harbor. At that point, the submersible’s brain ordered the mission aborted and instructed the UUV to retrace its path back to open water. Once safely out of the Avi Piha channel again, ORCA One communicated back to the command center on the Portland, detailing its completed mission.
In Pago Pago, Joe Glass, Commodore of US Navy Submarine Squadron Seven, had learned of the Chinese submarines’ arrival at the port in Tonga at about the same time that Jon Ward had. Things were about to get very interesting in the backwaters of the Pacific, an ocean whose name literally meant peaceful and tranquil.
Ψ
The activity was massive, immediate, and very noticeable for any of the world’s naval powers who might be watching. Four harbor tugs pulled the George Washington away from the pier at the Yokosuka Naval Base. By the time she had cleared Agatsuma Island, the rest of the Seventh Fleet ships—every one of the destroyers and cruisers stationed there—had left the pier and were underway. They steamed in a long, impressive line down Tokyo Wan toward open water. The Blue Ridge, the more-than-fifty-year-old Seventh Fleet command ship, was delayed by several hours in getting underway as her long-suffering engineering department struggled to make essential repairs to her boilers.
The carrier airwing flew out of Atsugi Naval Air Facility to join up with the George Washington as the battle group headed almost due south. Task Force Seventy, the Seventh Fleet Battle Force, was underway, bows pointing south and proceeding at full speed.
At the same time, Task Force Seventy-Six, Seventh Fleet’s amphibious assault force, sortied out of Sasebo, Japan, steaming toward Okinawa. There, the Third Marine Expeditionary Unit was quickly making preparations to board the amphibs.
The ships of Destroyer Squadron Seven made an emergency sortie from Changi Naval Base in Singapore, northbound at full speed. Meanwhile, the Vinson Battle Group came from much farther away, from the Arabian Sea, across the Indian Ocean, then toward the Straits of Malacca.
The piers in San Diego, Pearl Harbor, and Bremerton, Washington, were eerily empty and lonely places once the haze-gray ships disappeared over the horizon, heading west.
The Navy was simply carrying out President Smitherman’s commands. But not even the top brass involved comprehended what was going on. Vice Admiral Stan Gray, Commander—Seventh Fleet, was totally confused by the vague orders. He was being asked to get underway with the greatest assembly of naval might put together since the end of World War Two. Then he was supposed to steam in tight little circles two hundred miles east of Taiwan. He was not to launch any aircraft sorties or take any actions that the Chinese or anyone else could even remotely construe as being offensive.
Just have all those warships steam in circles. There was no stated objective. And there was no end date.
Ψ
Joe Glass was well aware that he was on the wrong end of some damn serious problems. Even worse, they all seemed to have been dumped on him at once. As he stood in front of a large-screen display in the USS Portland’s Combat Information Center, he had to remind himself that problems were what he had signed up for in the first place. If things did not go sideways, there was little need for him. And he also reminded himself that he had the people and the machines available to address them. That was why he had gathered his small “command team” to review what they knew, what assets they had available, and to plan a course of action. Glass knew
he had to get beyond how he conducted this process in his previous life, commanding a single submarine, and take advantage of everything else he had at his disposal to fix the issues piling up around him.
The Portland’s advanced Combat Information Center was the perfect place for this discussion with the team. Its state-of-the-art displays were fed by the ship’s sensor system, but more importantly, her communications systems were fed by myriad outside sources. They could all be integrated and displayed here and would hopefully give them all the data they required to make correct decisions.
Glass and Marine Lt. Col. Stanton Readly, along with Mort Jones, the Portland’s CO, were intently watching the raw video footage from the Black Wing SLUAS that had been relayed to them by the Cheyenne. It proved quite informative.
“I counted at least a half dozen tracked armored vehicles,” Readly noted as he intently watched the screen. “They sure look like Chinese ZBD-3s. Those are airborne fighting vehicles and typically pack a thirty mike-mike auto cannon and a seven-point-six-two machine gun. Real nasty stuff. These sure ain’t Tongan Marines we’re looking at either.”
“Hey, Stanton, what are these wheeled vehicles under those palms?” Mort Jones asked, freezing the frame and pointing at two big trucks.
Readly stared at the image for a few seconds. He finally nodded, satisfied he knew what he was seeing.
“That looks like a pair of FB-6s. They are a Chinese anti-air surprise package. One of the vehicles has a pretty sophisticated phased-array radar while the other is the actual missile launcher. Those two make a deadly team. An airborne assault is going to be a real problem as long as those guys are serviceable. They hide out like that and can lock up on any target out to ten klicks or so. From this firepower, we have at least a battalion of Chinese Marines here.”
“Can you and your guys handle this?” Glass asked. “And assuming you say you can, how in hell do we get you ashore?”
“Damn good question, Commodore. We only have two Ospreys here. That’s thirteen sorties to get all my shooters over there. Figure a two-hour round trip, so we are taking something like twelve hours of continuous flying. Not exactly conducive to your typical surprise assault.”
“What about sending Portland out?” Jones asked. “We leave in the morning, we could be off Niue just after nightfall.”
Glass shook his head. “Not with four Chinese diesel submarines out and about. Too big a risk there.”
Jones piped up. “We need a new travel agent. I don’t see that we can do much of anything with what we have to work with.”
“What about their supply chain?” Readly chimed in. “Remember General Patton’s old saw, ‘An army travels on its stomach.’ They’re going to need groceries, some way of re-supply. Can’t we hit that?”
Glass thought for a few seconds, then replied, “That’s a good start. Only two ways to get supplies in. Either fly them in or haul them over by ship to Alofi.” He punched buttons until he saw a chart of the island. “The place only has one small wharf. The rest of the island is surrounded by reefs and high coral cliffs. We could station ORCA One a few miles off Alofi to warn us of any approaching shipping. We could also use the Ospreys to chase them away. Interdicting air supply, though? That’s going to be a problem until we can get some more assists in here.”
“Excuse me, Commodore,” Steve Weiss, the ORCA Team leader, interrupted. “We have Admiral Ward on the phone. He wants to talk to you.”
Glass took the headset from the commander and spoke into the boom mike.
“Glass.”
“Joe, as if you don’t have enough on your plate, I got a hot one for you,” Jon Ward started. “Seems that our friend King Two-for-One has taken the Deep Ocean Explorer and the crew as hostage. We got a call from their Los Angeles agent. Looks like it happened a couple of days ago. Last satellite pass we could see the ship tied up at the port of Neiafu on Vava’u. That’s the Tongan Island closest to you. The ship’s AIS track confirms it.”
Glass shook his head. This whole thing was spinning out of control. The Tongan monarch and his Chinese allies appeared to be hell bent on causing a dangerous dust-up way out here in this quiet corner of the Pacific.
“What about the crew?”
“We think they are being held in town. The only place big enough and the most likely spot is the city jail.”
“Let me guess. You want me to stage a raid and get them out,” Glass said.
“Good deduction. That would be the plan,” Ward answered. “It’s well within the range of your Ospreys and your CH-53s. I wouldn’t expect a whole lot of kickback, especially if you hit them fast and hard.”
Glass nodded, even though he knew Ward could not see it. He was already running scenarios—including minimum risk to the captives and the island’s civilians.
“Okay, that one I can handle. I’m going to need some help with Niue, though. The Chinese didn’t pick that particular spot for its lovely beaches and vistas.”
“Get me a list of what you need,” Jon Ward shot back. “I’ll be working on it while you are noodling the Deep Ocean Explorer problem. But it’s going to be tough getting much firepower. Pretty much the whole Pacific fleet is heading toward the Philippine Sea, just in case that whole Dongsha Island thing spills over into a major war. It’s tying up everything including most of our intelligence capabilities. All the intel and imagery that we have is on its way to you. Keep me posted. Holler if you need me.”
Ward abruptly dropped offline.
Glass removed the headset and turned to the team.
“Guys, looks like we got ourselves a new knot to untangle.”
21
It was not quite 0700 local time when the government car that had brought Yon Hun Glo from the docks pulled up to the gates of the Tongan Royal Palace on Vuna Road. Though Yon had seen little else that impressed him on the ride over, he was surprised by the enormous, white, wooden structure sitting at the water’s edge. Its brilliant red roof was clearly visible from anywhere in the village of Nukuʻalofa.
But it was also obvious that a business day at the palace did not typically begin so early in the morning. The king usually did not arise until noon. The guard was still rubbing sleep from his eyes as he jumped up and waved the vehicle through the gates with one hand while holding a big mug of coffee in the other. The driver steered the car into a large parking lot, climbed out, and opened Yon Hun Glo’s door.
Two military officers, one wearing the insignia of a Tongan Army Brigadier General and the other of a Tongan Maritime Force Commodore, were lounging in the shade while waiting by the palace’s main entrance. The pair snapped to attention and saluted as Yon Hun Glo emerged from his vehicle. He waved a perfunctory answering salute and charged past them, through the open door. The two officers rushed to catch up and guide the Chinese vice admiral to his meeting with their king.
After escorting Yon Hun Glo to King Tofuwanga’s private office, the pair disappeared. The massively overweight potentate was waiting behind a huge desk. He appeared to have just crawled from bed, his thinning hair unkempt and his necktie a bit off center. The monarch waved the admiral to sit in one of the upholstered high-back chairs arranged in front of the impressive teakwood desk.
“Admiral, may I offer you a coffee? Something stronger? Perhaps a pastry?” Tofuwanga asked.
“No, thank you. I have long since completed breakfast.”
“Very well. I trust that your journey was smooth and uneventful. I cannot imagine making such a long trip like that while stuffed into such a tiny submarine. I am afraid I am a bit...”
Yon Hun Glo waved aside the pleasantries. Instead, his already stern expression turned even darker.
“There is much for us to discuss and we have little time. First is the matter of the island of Niue. My government was most distressed when you took your ill-advised action there without even bothering to consult us. That is no way to treat allies.” Yon glared at the king, who appeared to be taken aback by the admiral’s sudden attack.
“Fortunately for you, we had troops nearby. Otherwise, the Niue constabulary would likely have promptly expelled your puny force. And that does not even begin to consider the Americans and the New Zealand military and their potential response.”
King Tofuwanga leaned forward as much as his large belly would allow and started to protest. Yon Hun Glo raised his hand, palm forward, stopping him before he could utter a word.
“To this point, Your Majesty, this has been your one major indiscretion. Trust me when I tell you that you will not commit another. If so, you will find yourself immediately deposed. And perhaps worse. I am certain that we could find someone on this godforsaken island who can follow our orders precisely and not be tempted to ad lib.”
The king bristled at this obvious lese-majeste. No one was permitted to speak to him in this manner. Not without great peril.
“Admiral, my Tongan military, which I command myself, is quite adequate to defend our rights,” he thundered back. “And our decision to reclaim territory taken from us. Niue is our territory by historic right, and we have bravely and successfully protected what is Tongan. Only yesterday, we towed an American vessel into port that had dared to intrude into our sovereign waters. They were foolishly nosing around the gold fields, so we...”
The king stopped mid-sentence. It appeared the Chinese admiral was about to come over the teakwood table after him.