Red Tide

by William C. Dietz

  In keeping with his rank Nathan was quartered in what had been called the “Penthouse Verandah Suite” prior to the war. It sat atop all the rest, with sweeping views of the harbor. An Australian Navy petty officer was there to receive Ryson and show him into a beautifully appointed cabin complete with sitting area and separate bedroom. “Breakfast will be served on the verandah,” a civilian steward said. “Please follow me.”

  Ryson followed the steward out onto a sun splashed verandah where a white clad officer and a woman with shoulder-length auburn hair were sitting. “Good morning,” Nathan said, as he stood. “I’m Admiral Nathan and this is Special Envoy Kelsey Parker. She’s an expert on interisland shipping and works for our State Department.”

  Nathan had a ruggedly handsome face, a slightly sunburned complexion, and a steely grip. Parker’s handshake was firm and cool. Her eyes were green and filled with what? Intelligence? Curiosity? Yes. And something else that Ryson couldn’t quite put a finger on. Calculation? Perhaps.

  “Please,” Nathan said. “Have a seat. Your coffee is waiting. A whole pot of it! I’m a tea man myself. How was the trip? No, no need to answer … It was horrible. How could it be otherwise? Let’s dig in. We’ll talk business once our stomachs are full.”

  As it turned out that was typical of Nathan. He had a tendency to ask questions and answer them himself. That would have been disconcerting but Ryson preferred it to the squinty-eyed interrogation he’d been expecting. And it seemed that Parker shared his opinion. She even went so far as to wink at him when Nathan asked her a question about Indonesian shipping and proceeded to tell her the answer.

  “And so,” Nathan said as he put his fork aside, and allowed the steward to pour him another cup of tea. “Enough chatter. Let’s discuss the so-what of the situation.

  “The Chinese have a new weapon. A semi-submersible cruiser armed with a railgun and hundreds of missiles. And, according to our intelligence blokes it was this cruiser, the Sea Dragon, that sank the Concord, not the carrier Henan. Even though the enemy’s propaganda machine claims otherwise.

  “It isn’t clear whether the Chinese elites are trying to downplay the Sea Dragon’s capabilities, or are so focused on the mechanics of traditional sea power, that they don’t grasp how truly revolutionary the cruiser is.

  “Not that it matters,” Nathan added, as he took a sip of tea. “What is, is. So, all of us are looking for the Sea Dragon, and with no luck thus far. She’s a stealthy bitch, with a lot of ocean to hide in. Perhaps they’ll spot her from space. Or a spy will deliver the goods. Or maybe Squadron 7 will hunt her down! And that, Commander Ryson, will be your primary task.

  “But there are pirates to deal with, smugglers, and all sorts of other riff raff. Not to mention merchant ships to protect. Many belonging to Kelsey’s father. Isn’t that right, Honey?”

  Suddenly Ryson understood. Nathan was a friend of Parker’s father who, as a shipping magnate, might be a political force. That matched what Master Chief Jensen had told him.

  So, was something corrupt afoot? Or was it more a matter of common interests? The navy was supposed to protect Allied shipping. And if people knew each other, so what?

  Parker’s eyes narrowed. Ryson had the feeling that she didn’t like Nathan’s use of the endearment “Honey.” “The admiral is correct,” Parker said. “My father’s company, our company, specializes in interisland shipping. Most of our vessels are only 200 to 300 feet long. Just right for small ports like this one. And they make tempting targets as well.

  “But that isn’t why I’m here,” Parker added. “We have extensive contacts throughout Indonesia, Cambodia, and Vietnam. And it’s quite possible that one or more of those contacts will either spot the Sea Dragon, or receive information about her location. If that occurs a speedy response will be required to take advantage of the information.”

  “That’s right,” Nathan added. “By the time we summon a carrier, and all the rest of it, there’s a high likelihood that the Sea Dragon will have slipped away.

  “I trust that the two of you will work together to create the intelligence network that Kelsey mentioned, and to ensure a quick response in case of a sighting.”

  The meeting came to an end ten minutes later. And, as Ryson returned to his cabin, a number of unanswered questions went with him. What if the plan succeeded? What if one or more of his boats managed to close with the Sea Dragon? What then? He didn’t have a clue.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The town of Currimao, The Philippines

  Currimao was a small town in the province of Llocos Norte. And, according to Wally, most of the 12,000 or so residents made their livings either directly or indirectly from the sea. That wasn’t unusual since roughly 800,000 Filipinos were fishermen.

  The plan called for Greer to board one of the larger boats, which would carry him down Luzon’s west coast to the south end of the island where the plan became somewhat fuzzy.

  “They’ll let you know,” Wally said vaguely. “Good luck Gun Daddy … You are a good man.” And with that the teenager delivered a good imitation of a salute, did an about face, and marched out the door. Bright sunlight flooded the shack for a moment and vanished when the door closed. That left Greer sitting in a hot, humid fishing shack that stank of rotting fish. “Don’t worry, someone will come,” Wally had promised. But who? And when?

  The cross-island trip to Currimao had been tedious but uneventful. After a taxi ride to a safe house, and a two hour wait, a beat-up travel agency van had arrived. There was very little tourism because of the war. But there was a trickle, including a few business people from Africa. Which was consistent with Greer’s cover story and altered passport.

  Sadly, the van’s AC wasn’t working, and it was hot. So much of the day was spent sitting on a hot vinyl seat, with air rumbling past the open windows, listening to an evangelical preacher on the radio. They had to stop at two checkpoints along the way.

  Fortunately, the soldiers who manned them were more interested in the van’s driver than Greer. And no wonder since she was pretty.

  Greer’s thoughts were interrupted by a knock and the squeak of a hinge. A man entered the shack. He was dressed in a ball cap, a dirty tee, and baggy boardshorts. A pair of ancient flip flops completed the outfit. “Put this on,” the man said without preamble. “Then grab the net that’s piled in the corner and wrap it around your briefcase.”

  Greer did as he was told. The outfit was new but otherwise nearly identical to what the fisherman hand on. And while not entirely convincing, the disguise was better than walking around the docks dressed as an African businessman.

  Once Greer was ready the man led him out of the shack and onto a rickety pier. High-bowed Banca boats were tied up along both sides of the jetty. There was some variety, especially where masts were concerned, but most of the fishing boats were yellow.

  Greer noticed that unlike the small craft pulled up on the beach, these boats weren’t fitted with outriggers, and could probably venture further out to sea. A motor rumbled, pop music floated on the air, and a power drill whined nearby.

  A sway-backed gang plank led from the pier to the Saint Andrew’s cluttered deck. Greer followed the fishman over the narrow gap and down some steep stairs, into the cramped living quarters below. The overhead was so low that Greer had to duck his head. The air was thick with the combined odors of fish, diesel, and spicy food. Greer put the bundle down.

  A man was standing under a light. He was relatively young, and dressed in a blue polo with immaculate white pants. A sure indication that he was something other than a fisherman. He was talking on a cellphone. “Yes, yes, I know that. But we can’t let them get away with it. Make the bastards pay. Yeah, later brother. Stay safe.”

  “Sorry,” the man said, as he slipped the phone into a pants pocket. “Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Roberto Dalisay. And you’re the American flier called ‘Gun Daddy.’ You and I have something in common.”

  “And what’s that
?” Greer inquired, as they shook hands.

  “We both have a price on our head,” Dalisay replied. “Although mine is much higher than yours.”

  “I’m not in the least bit jealous,” Greer responded.

  Dalisay laughed. “Please have a seat. The boat will depart soon, and I need to speak with you first.”

  The table was little more than a polished two-foot-wide wooden plank, resting on pipes that were screwed to the deck. Stools lined both sides so that the men faced each other.

  “I hope you like fish,” Dalisay said, “because you’re going to eat a lot of it. Luzon is 460 miles long. And it will take four to five days for the Saint Andrew to reach the town of Bagao, where you’ll transfer to a different boat, and make your way to Indonesia.”

  “Thank you,” Greer said. “I’m grateful.”

  “You fought for us,” Dalisay said. “That’s how we see it. So, we’re duty bound to help you if we can. But I must admit that I have an ulterior motive as well.”

  “Which is?”

  “I hope that after seeing the conditions here, and receiving assistance from the underground, you’ll become a spokesperson for our cause. We need weapons, ammo, and medical supplies. And, since Costas provides support to the Chinese, our fight is your fight.”

  Greer nodded. “I’d be happy to tell my superiors what I’ve seen, and suggest that the United States send more supplies to your organization. But I think there’s an even more effective way to accomplish what you have in mind.”

  Dalisay cocked his head. “I’m listening.”

  “Good,” Greer replied. “Let’s gather intelligence on the prison where the American pilots are being held. Then, with help from your organization, we’ll steal a private plane.

  “I’ll fly it to Indonesia where we’ll propose a special ops mission to rescue the pilots. And you will take the opportunity to make the case for additional support. Believe me, at that point you’ll have their undivided attention.”

  Dalisay stared across the two-foot space separating them. Greer thought he could see the wheels turning. At least thirty seconds passed by.

  “He who speaks first loses.” That was a negotiating tactic the pilot’s father swore by, and Greer was determined to win.

  Dalisay spoke first. “If your superiors agree to the plan, and if the raid is successful, would the Allied press report on it?”

  “They’ll shout it from the rooftops,” Greer assured him. “The story will be everywhere.”

  “I will make the necessary arrangements,” Dalisay said. “And I’ll meet you in Bagao.”

  ***

  Manado, Indonesia, aboard the Allied transport Agger

  Prior to the war the Mermaid Room had been used to stage lectures about the major attractions available in the next port of call, as well as musical performances after dinner.

  Now, as Ryson took his place behind the podium, the tastefully decorated room was half filled with Squadron 7’s commanding officers and their senior enlisted people. He cleared his throat. “Good morning, and welcome. My name is Maxwell Ryson, and it’s an honor to join Squadron 7. I didn’t have the pleasure of speaking with your last CO, but I understand he’s out of hospital, and the prognosis is good.”

  Ryson’s eyes scanned the room. He had some basic information about each man and woman, but he couldn’t put faces with names yet. That would come soon.

  “It would have been nice to have your executive officers present for this meeting,” Ryson said. “But duty requires that our fast patrol boats be fast. And among other things, that means the ability to clear the harbor within fifteen minutes, day or night, except when vessels are in for maintenance. With that in mind either the CO or the XO will need to be aboard their boats at all times.”

  There wasn’t any applause, nor did Ryson expect any, since he was imposing a higher level of response time than they were used to. “And that isn’t all,” Ryson added. “To maintain that state of readiness, 75 percent of your crews will need to be on board or nearby. Please adjust your liberty rotations accordingly.”

  “Now, a word or two about what Squadron 7 is, and is not,” Ryson added. “Squadron 7 is a multinational naval combat unit, rather than two units operating under a single name.

  “Take a look around. You chose to seat yourself in groups according to nationality. That’s understandable. But it needs to change. Part of fighting as a unit is to be a unit. Please rearrange your seating so that Squadron 7 is fully integrated.”

  Ryson saw some frowns as officers changed seats. And he could practically read their minds. “What a load of crap,” at least half of them were thinking. “This guy is a full-on asshole.”

  “Good,” Ryson said, as the exercise was completed. “Now, if that pissed you off, then you’ll love this. It is my intention to cross train all of the COs and XOs so they are qualified to command any boat in the squadron.

  “No, you won’t have to become experts. But it’s important for American officers to know what the Armindales are capable of, and for Aussies to be sufficiently familiar with PHMs, so they could take one into battle if that becomes necessary.

  “And understand this … Each mission is unique. When a boat is on patrol the crew will have to deal with whatever comes their way.

  “But when we plan a mission, we will assign to it the type of boat most likely to succeed. And if that isn’t known, we’ll use secondary criteria such as maintenance, crew condition, and arm wrestling to settle the matter.” That got a few chuckles, but not many.

  “As you know, Lieutenant Commander Linda Vos is not only the Perth’s commanding officer, but the squadron’s XO, and will no doubt set me straight on all sorts of things.”

  That line got a laugh because Vos had a rep for not only speaking her mind, but lacing her comments with profanity. She was thirty something, with bright blue eyes, and a shaggy hair cut.

  “And,” Ryson said, “you are already acquainted with Master Chief Jensen. She is, and will continue to be, our senior enlisted person … Ah, I see that breakfast is being wheeled in. Please enjoy it. I will see many of you this afternoon when I tour the boats that are in port. I hope to ride with each of you on patrol. Thank you.”

  Breakfast was a chance to chat with Vos, Lieutenant Commander George Trygg of the Stratus, Lieutenant Commander Marie Moreno of the Nimbus, and the others. With the exception of Vos, the rest were polite, but reserved. And Ryson understood that. Seeing was believing. And they hadn’t seen anything yet.

  “Don’t worry,” Vos said as they parted company. “They’ll come around.”

  The next few hours were spent reviewing personnel files, a maintenance summary for each boat, and the squadron’s budget. Expenditures were right on target. That was a surprise. But consistent with the relatively small number of patrols authorized by his predecessor.

  Why was that? Had Commander Pierson been more concerned with hitting a number than strategic success? Or were there mitigating factors he didn’t know about? Perhaps weather, a lack of Intel, or command interference were factors.

  But for his part Ryson was determined to find the Sea Dragon, cost be damned. The decision to delay that discussion had been intentional. It would take place in a location that was a lot more secure than the Mermaid Room.

  Master Chief Jensen had a navy launch waiting for Ryson when he arrived on the float. Ryson stood for most of the trip so he could see the full sweep of the harbor. It’s tight, he concluded. Very tight. And busy too.

  One of the major destinations in the port was the Manado Marine Terminal, where interisland steamers docked to deliver cargos and load huge bins of locally grown produce.

  In contrast to many of Manado’s buildings, the terminal was well constructed. And the pilings that supported the warehouse were so tall that even a tsunami would be unlikely to touch the underside of the building.

  So it was there, in the shadows below the warehouse, that all ten of Squadron 7’s patrol boats could be moored. Although it wa
s unlikely that the entire force would be in port at the same time.

  The squadron consisted of six hydrofoils and four Armindale patrol boats. And, as the launch left the sunlight for the relative darkness beneath the warehouse, Ryson saw that two PHMs and an Armindale were missing and presumably on patrol.

  The Australian boats were of particular interest to Ryson because he’d never seen one first hand. The Armindales had a sleek, almost yachtlike appearance. Whereas the PHMs had a rather retro profile when hullborne.

  Ryson knew that each Armindale was 186 feet long, which meant the boats were more than fifty feet longer than their American counterparts. Plus, they drew less water, which could be an advantage when fighting inshore.

  On the other hand, ton-for-ton, the hydrofoils were better armed. Each PHM carried four missile launchers, plus a bow-mounted auto cannon, and two .50 caliber machine guns. Whereas the Aussie vessels were armed with a single 25mm Bushmaster autocannon.

  The other major difference was speed. The Class II Pegs could do 52 knots per hour in a pinch, compared with about half that for the Armindales. Yes, the PHMs could cut speed in order to accompany the Armindales, but doing so would reduce their effectiveness.

  Yet, to truly integrate the Americans with the Australians, it would be necessary to have them fight side-by-side occasionally.

  Ryson’s train of thought was interrupted as the coxswain brought the launch alongside a floating dock, and applied just the right amount of reverse.

  Ryson turned to thank him before making the jump to the dock. Vos was there to greet him. “Good morning, sir … And welcome to Squadron 7. If it’s all the same to you, I thought we would begin with a tour of the Perth.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” Ryson said. And he was.

  ***

  Aboard the semisubmersible cruiser Sea Dragon, at the Yulin Navy Base, China

  Jev Jing was terrified. After obtaining the program called Strong Sword NIK7854, and using it to de-encrypt the back-and-forth correspondence between Ang and an MSS official named Diu Zang, Jing knew he was in way over his head.