Red Tide

by William C. Dietz

  So, the Sea Dragon was hard to see from space, and hard to hear underwater. That sucked. But for the life of him Ryson couldn’t understand why he was in the room. He looked from face-to-face. “No offense, but why am I here?”

  Moran laughed. “Spoken like a true surface warfare officer. I like that. Here’s the deal Commander … Operation Red Tide has three components. They include satellite surveillance, subsurface surveillance, and surface surveillance.

  “We believe that a multi-national squadron of high-speed patrol boats might happen across the Sea Dragon. Or develop Intel sources that will lead us to her.”

  “But that isn’t all,” Dorsey added. “The squadron that Secretary Moran mentioned will have other duties too including, but not limited to, special ops insertions, anti-smuggling operations and counter terrorism missions.”

  “And you,” Simmons said, “will be in command of Squadron 7. I don’t know whether to congratulate you or commiserate with you.”

  Ryson felt a wild mix of emotions. Excitement, fear, and uncertainty all battled each other for dominance. “Thank you, I think.”

  The others laughed. “Time is of the essence,” Moran said. “We need to find and destroy the Sea Dragon as quickly as possible. So, there won’t be time for leave. I’m sorry about that. But this might put a smile on your face.”

  Moran pushed a velvet covered box across the table. “Go ahead, open it.”

  Ryson flipped the lid back and found himself looking at a Navy Cross. The United States Navy and the United States Marine Corps’ second-highest decoration—awarded for valor in combat. “You earned it,” Simmons said. “Congratulations.”

  “Under normal conditions there would be a ceremony, the admiral would give a speech, and I would pin it on your chest,” Moran said. “But these aren’t normal times. May you have fair winds, and following seas.”

  ***

  Luke’s Steak House, Washington D.C.

  Ryson didn’t have time to go home to his grandfather’s house in Westport, Connecticut. But shortly after arriving in Turkey, Ryson had spoken with his grandfather by phone, and suggested a meal in D.C. And now, as he sipped a gin and tonic, the navy officer was watching the door. George Ryson was pushing 80. But, as he entered the room, the marine architect didn’t look a day over 60. He was tall, lanky, and burned sea-sun brown.

  Ryson stood and waved. George smiled and made his way over to the table. “Maxwell! It’s good to see you Son … I missed you Boy.”

  “Maxwell,” and “Son,” and “Boy.” Those were names George always used to address his only grandchild who, after losing his parents to an auto accident, had come to live with his grandfather at the house named “Sea Salt.”

  “I missed you too Pops. You look good.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” George said, as he sat down. “But I have a lot of aches and pains. Old age sucks.”

  Ryson smiled. “I think everyone agrees on that. How’s the boat?”

  George and his grandson had constructed the twenty-six-foot sloop Serene with their own hands. A boat which George insisted on sailing almost everywhere while making minimal use of the Serene’s small inboard engine. “She’s a sailboat,” George liked to say. “Not a stinkpot.”

  “She’s fine,” George replied. “I just had the bottom painted. I wish you could come up.”

  “I wish I could too,” Ryson said. “But I’m leaving in the morning.”

  “I don’t suppose you can tell me where you’re headed.”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “I saw a news story about the battle in the Black Sea. They aren’t allowed to mention names, but I knew the Pegs were in your squadron. How bad was it?”

  “Bad.”

  George nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  The waiter arrived, took their orders, and departed. “I ran into Marisa a few days ago,” George said. “She asked after you.”

  “That was nice of her,” Ryson responded.

  “She’s single you know,” George said pointedly. “And pretty.”

  “And she’s self-centered, too focused on money, and a social climber,” Ryson replied. “All the qualities my grandfather warned me about.”

  George laughed. “Touché.”

  The next hour was spent eating, drinking, and telling stories. Finally, when the time came to part company, they hugged. “Take care of yourself, Pops. I’ll send emails when I can.”

  “You do that Son. Give them a broadside for me.” And with that they parted.

  ***

  Yulin Harbor, Hainan Island, China

  It was late in the day. Thousands of citizens, all bused in for the occasion, stood on docks and waved victory pennants as the ships steamed out to sea. Because the Henan was still in port undergoing repairs, Admiral Wen had been forced to shift his flag to a new Type 055 destroyer. The Baotou, in company with another destroyer and a frigate, were headed north toward Japan.

  Normally such deployments were concealed to the extent that such a thing was possible. But Wen wanted the Allies to see the relatively small armada in hopes that the Japanese would send their nascent fleet out to do battle.

  Two Chinese submarines were waiting to join the group beyond the seawall and, under the cover of darkness, the Sea Dragon would sail as well. The cruiser’s assignment was to hang back about fifty miles or so, where she would be ready to support the other vessels with her railgun and missiles. Wen felt sure that another great victory was in the offing, so long as the Japanese took the bait.

  ***

  Aboard the semi-submersible cruiser Sea Dragon

  Captain Peng Ko was frustrated. He understood Admiral Wen’s plan, but believed the Japanese were too smart to engage the battle group without having an American carrier on hand, and were likely to remain in port.

  But had the Sea Dragon and the submarines been allowed to venture forth on their own, it might have been possible to catch the Japanese by surprise during one of the fleet exercises they were so fond of. And Ko had said as much.

  It was clear however, that even after the role the cruiser played in sinking the Concord, Admiral Wen viewed the semi-submersible as little more than a toy, rather than a key element of his battle group.

  So as Ko knelt before the statue of Tianfei in his cabin, he called upon her to help Wen understand the Sea Dragon’s true value, and grant his ship its rightful place in the battle group. He finished with the words, “I am a sailor. I ask your blessing on my ship and my crew.”

  The Princess of Heaven remained mute—one hand extended as if to bless him. Ko hoped that she would.

  ***

  Lieutenant Junior Grade Jev Jing was terrified by the extent of his own success. After harvesting Ang’s key strokes Jing had been able to access the political officer’s banking information and remove $1,000 from an account that had a very large balance. Jing spent the money on an encryption and de-encryption tool called Strong Sword NIK7854.

  Now it was time to use Strong Sword, and do so quickly, before Ang discovered the illicit transaction. And before he could call on others for help. Because although Jing lacked proof, he felt sure Ang was more than a communist zealot. If so, it would behoove Jing to get whatever he could, make use of it and reformat the hard drive on his laptop.

  But, just as Jing was about to start work, Commander Shi’s voice came over the loudspeaker system. “Attention on deck. We’re about to cast off. Report to your duty stations immediately. We’re going to sea.”

  ***

  Sam Ratulangi International Airport, near the city of Manado, Indonesia

  Ryson was exhausted. The trip from Washington D.C. to Manado, Indonesia had taken a day and a half, and involved three connections, some of which required long waits.

  Sam Ratulangi had been a mostly civilian airport prior to the war. That was no longer the case. Because Manado was on the very north end of the Indonesian Archipelago, and just south of the Philippines, it was home to an important airbase. Most of the base was dedicate
d to military cargo planes, and Airborne Early Warning and Control (AWACS) aircraft, which were used to track Chinese air, land and sea movements.

  But since Manado was within range of the Chinese airfield on Hainan island, the Allies kept a multi-national air wing there too, which was ready to respond if the enemy sent their long-range bombers south.

  And such a thing was possible since the H-6Ns could make the round trip without refueling if necessary, and were equipped to carry air-launched cruise missiles.

  To keep the airport safe the area was protected by surface-to-air missile batteries and C-RAM (Counter Rocket, Artillery, and Mortar) installations. One of which was a thousand yards away as Ryson clattered down the roll-up stairs. It was early in the day, but the temperature was already uncomfortably warm, and the air was muggy.

  A female Master Chief was there to greet Ryson at the foot of the stairs. The salute was followed by a handshake. “My name is Jo Jensen, sir. Welcome to Indonesia and Squadron 7. Royal Australian Navy Lieutenant Commander Linda Vos is your XO. She’s out on patrol, but sends her regards, and is looking forward to meeting you. Do you have any checked luggage?”

  Jensen appeared to be forty-something, had navy-short hair, and a lanky build. Ryson liked her professional no-nonsense manner. As the squadron’s senior enlisted person Jensen would play an important role as an advisor and go-between. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Master Chief. I checked a duffle bag. Let’s see if it survived the transfers.”

  Jensen led Ryson inside where she spoke to an air force sergeant, and presto, the duffle bag appeared. An unarmed Land Rover was waiting in the parking garage. It soon became clear that Jensen knew her way around as they left the airport and merged with traffic. “Manado is about eight miles away, sir. So, the trip won’t take long.”

  “Tell me about the harbor,” Ryson said. “It isn’t much from what I could see online.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Jensen agreed. “The main problem is size. It’s too small. There are two freighters in port at the moment, plus three warships, and some interisland steamers. Never mind the fishing fleet and the liner that serves as Admiral Nathan’s headquarters. So, it’s very crowded.”

  “Admiral Nathan is Australian? Do I have that right?”

  “You do,” Jensen replied.

  “What do you think of him?”

  Jensen gave Ryson a sideways glance. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

  “Granted.”

  “The good news is that Nathan believes in fast patrol boats. He took part in the annual Key West Offshore Races before the war. And he was the runner-up.”

  Ryson knew that, when the water was smooth off of Key West, specially designed super boats could achieve speeds in excess of 121 knots per hour. That seemed to suggest that Nathan was knowledgeable about basic seamanship and the technical issues associated with fast boats. “And the bad news?”

  “He’s egotistical,” Jensen replied. “And might have an eye on a postwar political career.”

  The extent of Jensen’s forthrightness raised her up in Ryson’s estimation. There was good reason to be cautious however. An American Master Chief was unlikely to have much exposure to an Australian admiral. Therefore, it seemed safe to assume that Jensen’s opinions were based on hearsay. Ryson decided to wait and form his own opinion of Nathan.

  As they entered Manado, Ryson was struck by the absence of high-rise buildings. Homes and businesses stood shoulder-to-shoulder on narrow streets. A cloud-capped mountain could be seen in the distance. It was shaped like a volcano.

  When a bay appeared at the foot of the street they were on, Ryson saw a vessel with the unmistakable silhouette of a cruise ship anchored there. “That’s the Agger,” Jensen said. “She’s on loan from Denmark. You’ll have to take a launch to reach her. The Harbor Master was forced to reserve the dockside moorage for container ships.”

  Someone had given the Agger a haze-gray paint job so she could fit in with convoys. And Ryson knew she could keep up. Most cruise ships could make 20 knots or so. “So where is the squadron moored?” Ryson inquired.

  “A couple of miles that way,” Jensen said, pointing north. “Our boats are moored to floating docks underneath a steel-reinforced concrete warehouse. There isn’t much clearance at high tide, and it’s pretty gloomy down there, but the bad guys can’t watch us from orbit. And we’re safe from old-school bombing raids.”

  “Have there been air raids?”

  “A few,” Jensen replied. “But they weren’t very successful. The Chinese have to fly more than a thousand miles to reach Manado. So by the time they arrive, our planes are waiting for them. But that could change if President Costas allows the bastards to fly out of the Philippines.”

  Ryson could imagine it. If the Chinese had a base on the island of Mindanao, they would be only minutes away by air. Jensen stopped the SUV a hundred feet away from a sign that read, “Passenger Terminal. Military Personnel Only. No weapons allowed.”

  “Thank you, Master Chief,” Ryson said. “Assuming things go the way I hope they will, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Ryson lugged his knapsack and duffle bag to a metal grate where soldiers from the 2nd Battalion, Royal Australian Regiment, were providing security. A sergeant came to attention and popped a British style palm-forward salute. Ryson returned it. “Good morning, sir. Are you headed for the Agger?”

  “I am,” Ryson replied.

  “All right then,” the noncom responded. “I’ll need to see your ID, plus a copy of your orders.”

  It took the better part of twenty minutes for Ryson to pass through the checkpoint, follow a stairway down to the dock, and make his way out onto one of the Agger’s waiting launches. After taking a party of civilian crew people aboard, the boat left the dock, and made straight for the cruise ship. The sun was setting and the ship’s lights were on.

  The landing stage was bobbing up and down, forcing Ryson to time his jump. A miss would not only be humiliating, but dangerous, should he be caught between the launch and the float. He made it. An aluminum gangplank led to an open hatch and the reception area where thousands of tourists had been required to show their ID prior to the war.

  And it was no different with the military in charge. A female warrant officer was waiting to greet him. “Welcome aboard, Commander Ryson. My name is Riley. Admiral Nathan is ashore at the moment, but would like you to join him for breakfast in his cabin at 0800. Would that be acceptable?”

  Ryson grinned. And Riley did as well. Both knew that there was only one possible answer. “Yes,” Ryson said. “Thank you.”

  Riley led Ryson to a cabin on Deck 6, which was still referred to as “The Verandah Deck.” Once inside Ryson discovered that a stack of paperwork was waiting for him on a counter. But he was too tired to do anything more than take a brief shower, slip into bed, and close his eyes. Sleep was waiting. It pulled him down.

  ***

  Aboard the semi-submersible cruiser Sea Dragon, south of Japan

  Captain Peng Ko was standing in the forward conning tower, binoculars to his eyes, thinking about his personal hero Zheng He, a 14th century mariner, explorer, diplomat and fleet admiral during the Ming dynasty. Zheng He was also a eunuch—which was one of the reasons why Ko had chosen to remain celibate—to focus all his energy on his profession.

  But that left Ko with nothing else to live for. And it was painful, so very painful, to watch Admiral Wen squander China’s precious resources on a plan that was doomed to fail.

  As the American General George Washington had said, “Never underestimate your enemy.” Especially the same navy that successfully attacked Pearl Harbor, forced the British out of Southeast Asia, and occupied China.

  The plan to tease the Japanese out of their safe harbor to do battle with Wen’s battle group was a nonstarter. And it would be only a matter of hours before Wen would have to admit that and return to port. And then, Ko decided, is when I will strike. The high command will listen to me after Wen’s failure. An
d, like the Bismarck in WWII, the Sea Dragon will prowl the seas alone.

  ***

  After being relieved, Lieutenant Junior Grade Jev Jing made his way to officer country, and his shared cabin. The door opened easily and there was Political Officer Bohai Ang. “Aha!” Ang said. “Where have you been hiding?”

  That was when Jing saw that his locker was hanging open and his belongings were scattered on the deck. The sight filled him with dread. Ang had sent and received half a dozen encrypted messages earlier in the watch. Had he discovered the keylogger? And the bank transfer? That seemed likely. “I was on duty, sir. I just got off.”

  “I will check on that,” Ang growled. “Give me the password for your computer. That’s an order.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jing said, secure in the knowledge that there was nothing incriminating on his laptop. That stuff was on a password protected thumb drive, hidden behind the ventilator grill, in Stall 2 of the junior officers’ head.

  Jing wrote his password on a scrap of paper and handed it over. Ang snatched it out of the junior officer’s hand, tucked the laptop under his right arm, and left.

  Unfortunately, Jing hadn’t had time to page through Ang’s secret messages. But now, Jing told himself, you’d better make time.

  ***

  Aboard the Allied transport Agger, in Manado Harbor, Indonesia

  Ryson was somewhere, running from something, when the phone next to his bed began to ring. He reached for the sound and found the receiver. “Yes?”

  “This is Warrant Riley. The Admiral’s steward would like to know if there’s anything you do or don’t want for breakfast.”

  Ryson looked at the clock. Shit! It was 0713 and he was due to meet with Nathan at 0800. “Coffee please,” Ryson croaked. “And crispy bacon if you have it. Thank you for asking.”

  “You’re welcome, sir,” Riley replied.

  Ryson swore as he put the phone down. What an idiot. He’d gone to bed without setting the alarm. What followed was a rush to shower, shave, and prep a summer uniform. Perhaps Admiral Nathan was a camo kind of guy. But maybe he wasn’t. And, as his grandfather had taught him, “It’s always better to be overdressed, rather than underdressed.”