Red Tide

by William C. Dietz

  “He was killed,” Jing said, without offering any details. “As was private Guo. But everything is under control now. You will take the lieutenant’s place.”

  The noncom saluted. “Sir!” And turned away.

  Jing allowed himself to exhale. And was surprised to learn that he’d been holding his breath. He saw a flash on the horizon, followed by a moment of silence, and what might have been thunder. Except it wasn’t thunder. Missiles were falling on Okinawa. And people were dying.

  ***

  Aboard the semi-submersible Sea Dragon, in Tonaki bay, 36 miles from Okinawa, Japan

  Captain Ko was standing in the Sea Dragon’s CIC peering over a tech’s shoulder. The atmosphere was tense as targeting data arrived from a variety of sources, including Yaogan-30 satellites. The one hundred Dongfeng 26 missiles promised by Admiral Chao had begun to fall. On command-and-control targets? Yes. But on selected houses and apartment buildings too. All identified by Chinese spies who lived on Okinawa.

  Would the hits entail collateral damage? Or course they would. But that was necessary. Command and Control was more than radars, operations centers, and computers. They were tools. The real threat was resident in the minds of the men and women who commanded them.

  Dead officers could and would be replaced. But it would take time for their replacements to arrive, learn, and start to function. Valuable time which China would use to good effect.

  Of course, most of the incoming D-26 missiles were being intercepted—just as Chao predicted they would be—thereby sparing some of the targets.

  But computers were tracking “misses,” and sending that data to the Sea Dragon, where one hundred of the ship’s two hundred missiles were waiting to receive it. The rest were reserved for surface targets the ship might encounter on the way home. Ko’s eyes were on the countdown clock. “Missiles one through one hundred. Report.”

  “Ninety-eight are programmed, or have been reprogrammed, and are ready for launch,” the CICWO (Combat Information Center Watch Officer) reported. “Missiles 52 and 79 reported technical issues and were taken offline.”

  “Understood,” Ko replied. “Stand by to fire missiles, fire!”

  The Sea Dragon lurched as the surface-to-surface missiles left their launchers and sped downrange.

  “The railgun,” Ko ordered. “Report.”

  “Targets loaded. All lights are green. The railgun is ready to fire,” the CICWO replied.

  Ko was ready. “Fire!”

  There was no need to give orders after that. The railgun would fire until it overheated. Progress had been made since the attack on the Concord. Now, the railgun could fire nine shots before it was necessary to replace the barrel.

  That meant the Sea Dragon could put to sea. There was no way to know if the Japanese would let the Americans attack Tonaki island, but they might. And Ko planned to be elsewhere if that occurred. “Shore party. Report.”

  “Two dead,” the officer of the deck reported. “No wounded. The last of them are boarding now.”

  Two dead? That was a surprise. “Cut the rafts loose. Get the marines below. And raise the anchor. We’re about to get underway.”

  The last shot was fired. The railgun was lowered into the hull, and a crew immediately began the process of replacing the old barrel with a new one.

  Once clear of the harbor Ko gave the order to submerge most of the ship and sent a message to Admiral Chao: “Mission accomplished. Departing.”

  The reply came quickly: “This moment will live for a thousand years. Congratulations.”

  Try as he might Ko was unable to resist the feeling of pride that the admiral’s words produced. Ko sought to push it away.

  The original plan, his part of it anyway, had been to use the Sea Dragon and her submarine escorts to ambush one or more Allied ships as they left Japan’s Yokosuka navy base. But now he wasn’t so sure. “There will be times you need to disengage from a fight so you can be in a position to fight another day.”

  The great Chinese general, strategist, writer and philosopher Sun Tzu had written that in the 5th century BC. And Ko felt it in his bones. Rather than seek the enemy, he would let the enemy seek him. And if a fight ensued, then so be it.

  Ko’s thoughts were interrupted by his executive officer Commander Shi. “Excuse me, sir. We have a situation. May we speak privately?”

  Ko frowned. “What kind of situation?”

  “One we should discuss privately.”

  “All right, let’s duck into the chartroom.”

  After asking the navigator to leave, Ko turned to Shi. “Okay, what’s up?”

  Shi’s face was expressionless. “A villager killed one of the marines with a Samurai sword. Lieutenant Ma began to execute people. Lieutenant Jing shot him in the head. Then Jing took command and completed the mission.”

  Ko stared. “You’re joking.”

  “No, sir.”

  “How do we know this?”

  “Jing told the head of Communications who told me.”

  “So, it’s all over the ship.”

  “Yes, sir. But, strangely enough, there’s been no complaint from Lieutenant Ma’s marines.”

  “Hmm,” Ko said. “That would suggest that he wasn’t popular. And that his noncoms agree with what Jing did.”

  “I think so, yes,” Shi replied.

  “Let’s convene a disciplinary panel, go through the motions, and find Jing innocent of murder before we reach Yulin. You might want to speak with a couple of noncoms ahead of time.”

  Shi knew what that meant and nodded. The hearing would go smoothly.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Manado, Indonesia, aboard the Allied transport Agger

  It was not just raining, it was pouring. Water pounded the ship’s decks as if determined to penetrate steel. Rain droplets ran down the window in Ryson’s cabin as he looked out across the bay. But his thoughts were elsewhere.

  While Ryson and his boats had been up north rescuing pilots, the Chinese cruiser Sea Dragon had been on another rampage. Okinawa was the target this time. With support from launchers on the Chinese mainland the cruiser had been able to destroy dozens of command and control targets, and assassinate the Commander of U.S. Forces Japan.

  It was depressing. Very depressing. And the only thing the media was focused on at the moment. As a result, the rescue mission had received scant attention. And a story which might have lifted spirits around the world was subsumed by grief.

  Once clear of the fishing boats, the Armindales had been able to make good time. And it wasn’t long before Allied fighter planes appeared to protect them.

  Now Ryson was seated at the cabin’s built-in desk, drinking coffee while he sought to plow through the pile of work that had accumulated during his absence. Supply requisitions, a disciplinary action, and a missing assault rifle. It went on and on.

  The phone rang and Ryson picked it up. “This is Commander Ryson.”

  “Of course it is,” Admiral Nathan said irritably. “Pack a bag, and be sure to bring a dress uniform. I’ll meet you at the gangway in half an hour. We’re flying to Port Moresby.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Because General Haskell is pissed,” Nathan replied. “And no wonder … The attack on Okinawa could cost him his job. So, he’s going to hold a command conference and light a fire under senior management.”

  Ryson took note of the way the situation had been framed. Haskell, and perhaps Nathan as well, saw the attack on Okinawa as a resume killer. “Yes, sir. I’ll see you in half an hour.”

  Ryson put the receiver down. Rain pattered against the window. Kelsey’s family lived in Port Moresby. Would she be there? He hoped so.

  ***

  Lieutenant Command “Gun Daddy” Greer was going home. That’s what his orders said. First to Washington D.C. for a recognition ceremony that the POWs would participate in. Then to the TOPGUN school where he would serve as XO. All over his objections. Because while Greer was eager to grab some leave, he want
ed to fly planes. Not a desk.

  But, in the words of the local interservice tasking officer, “I asked, and the people at the Pentagon said, ‘No fucking way.’ What if you were on a mission, got shot down, and were captured? Can you imagine what the Chinese would do to you? And the propaganda they would pump out?”

  Greer could imagine. And knew the brass were correct. But, before leaving Manado, Greer wanted to say goodbye to Mary. So, he dashed from the hotel to the store across the street, where he bought a hat and a cheap plastic raincoat.

  But when Greer stepped out into the rain, he realized that something was missing. And that was the 9mm pistol he’d been issued and “forgotten” to return. Not a must for visiting a graveyard. But nice to have without Dalisay as a guide.

  After retrieving the weapon from his room Greer returned to the street. Rain rattled on plastic as Greer got his bearings. Three taxis were waiting, and he stuck his head into the first. “Do you speak English?”

  “Speak English number one,” the driver replied.

  Greer figured that was good enough, opened the rear door, and slipped inside. The smell of stale cigarette smoke permeated the air. A half empty baby bottle was rolling around on the floor, Indonesian pop music was blaring from the radio, and a statue of Jesus was perched on the dashboard. “Take me to the Catholic cemetery,” Greer ordered. “And turn the radio off.” The driver glared at Greer in the rearview mirror as he turned the music off.

  Greer didn’t know Manado well enough to be sure that the driver was headed for the right location. But when the car came to a stop, he recognized the sagging wall, the overgrown shrubbery, and the ornamental gate. “Stay here,” Greer ordered. “Don’t worry. I’ll pay extra if you wait.”

  Water splashed away from Greer’s combat boots, and seeped down the back of his neck, as he passed through the gate and entered the cemetery beyond. The relentless downpour made the graveyard even more depressing than it had been the first time he’d been there.

  But death wouldn’t wait. Four grave diggers, all wearing ponchos, were hard at work under a structure consisting of bamboo poles and a ragged tarp. Were they the same men Greer had seen last time? Probably.

  Greer walked past them to the section of the cemetery where Mary had been laid to rest. Everything was the same. The weeds were just as tall. Headstones still lay where they had fallen. And the grave that Greer knew to be Mary’s was marked by nothing more than a wooden cross. That in spite of the money Greer had given to Father Wijaya.

  The pain was waiting deep inside of him. And as Greer knelt in the mud, he could feel his emotions churn as sorrow morphed into rage. “I’m sorry Mary,” Greer said, tears trickling down his cheeks. “I will punish the bastard. And, when the war is over, I will return. A monument will be constructed on this spot. I love you.”

  And with that Greer stood, turned his back on the grave, and made his way out to the street. The taxi was gone. Revenge? For the radio? Or boredom? Greer would never know.

  But it caused Greer to change course. He had Wijaya’s card. And, after digging it out of his wallet, Greer saw that the priest lived on the same street as the cemetery.

  There was a parsonage then, and close by, which made sense. Greer performed a slow three-sixty, spotted a steeple in the distance, and knew his theory was correct.

  With the steeple to guide him Greer followed the street west. A shabby church appeared. That was when Greer saw that the steeple wasn’t a steeple, but a steel tripod, with a bell and a crucifix mounted up top.

  Memories stuttered through Greer’s mind. The convoy, the ambush, and Boyle dying. All because the Filipinos knew the rescue party was coming. And how did they know that? Because a spy told them, that’s how. A spy who, despite a vow of poverty, was eager to make some money. Or, was that a reach? Greer was determined to find out.

  Thunder muttered as Greer approached the entrance to the church. One of the double doors was open. The interior was lit by wall sconces and the candles in front of the altar. The flames wavered uncertainly as a gust of wind entered the nave.

  All of the parishioners were women. And looked up from their prayers as Greer made his way along the right side of the cavernous room to a door. A sign said, “Private” in English, and what Greer thought was Bahasa. The door was equipped with a hasp. An open padlock dangled from it. Did that mean the priest was within?

  Greer drew his pistol and turned the knob. The door opened easily. Music was playing, classical music. And the lighting was dim. Sculptures lurked in the gloom—celebrations of male beauty copied from well-known Greek and Roman artifacts.

  A spotlight threw a circle of light onto the planked floor. And there, lit from above, was Wijaya. The priest was naked. And though no fan of ballet, Greer recognized the Arabesque for what it was. Wijaya was standing on one foot, his arms extended.

  Greer shot the priest in the knee. Blood flew and Wijaya screamed as he fell. Greer waited to see if the parishioners would come running. None of them did.

  Wijaya was lying on his back holding onto his bloody knee while rolling back and forth. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Why? Why did you shoot me?”

  Greer knelt just beyond the puddle of blood. “I gave you money. You made promises. None were kept.”

  Wijaya seemed to recognize Greer for the first time. “The headstone? This is about the fucking headstone?”

  “Yes,” Greer answered. “And it’s about the information you passed to the Philippine government. Information that led to dozens of deaths.”

  Greer had no proof of that. But the priest assumed that he did. “No! That’s impossible. I sent them a picture of her face. I told them about you, and the man who was with you, that’s all.”

  The photo came as a shock. Mary had been dead when Wijaya snapped it. But that, plus a written description of Dalisay, would be enough to trigger an investigation.

  And, after the authorities compared Mary’s photo to the images of her taken at the prison, they’d been able to put the rest of it together.

  Greer stood. Wijaya stared into the barrel of the pistol. “No! I’m a priest. God will punish you!”

  “He already has,” Greer said. And he pulled the trigger.

  Greer hadn’t touched anything up to that point, and was careful to avoid doing so, as he left through a rear entrance. America was waiting. And that at least, was a good thing.

  ***

  Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea

  The flight from Manado, Indonesia to Port Moresby, in Papua New Guinea, had taken more than four hours. So, by the time the eight passenger C-21 began its approach into Jacksons International Airport, it was midafternoon. The Air Force pilot put the jet down with a gentle bump.

  But rather than the main terminal, the pilot taxied to a remote hangar located next to Joint American/Australian command headquarters. Fighters were parked there. All protected by revetments.

  Once on the ground the navy officers were greeted by an Aussie lieutenant. He rendered a salute which Nathan returned. “Welcome to Pom City. Lieutenant Swallow at your service. The meeting with General Haskell is slated for 0900 tomorrow morning. But, according to what I’ve been told, he’ll be present at tonight’s party.”

  Nathan frowned. “Party? What party?”

  A party? Ryson wondered. In the wake of the attack on Okinawa? That was strange. But maybe the Parkers were trying to boost morale. A stiff upper lip and all that.

  “The party will be held at the Parker mansion,” Swallow replied. “Which, as it happens, is where you’ve been invited to stay.”

  “I see,” Nathan replied. “That was very nice of the Parkers. What have we got by way of ground transportation?”

  “The vehicles are over there,” Swallow said, as he gestured to a column of armored cars. “Nothing fancy, sir … That wouldn’t be safe here. Pom City was dangerous before the war, and it’s worse now. There’s a great deal of government corruption. And, because of that, the Raskol (Rascal) gangs are even more assertive. Car ja
ckings are common. As are kidnappings.”

  Ryson saw that a Bushmaster PMV was waiting to lead the parade, followed by two Land Rovers, and a second Bushmaster. All heavily armed.

  “I see,” Nathan replied. “Thank you for the efforts on our behalf. This is Lieutenant Commander Ryson by the way … He’s American, but don’t hold that against him.”

  Swallow smiled. “We’ll do our best, sir. Please follow me.”

  The fact that both visitors were issued body armor, and told to put it on, served to emphasize the dangers resident in Port Moresby.

  So why live there, Ryson wondered? Especially since the Parkers could live anywhere. The answer was obvious. For better or worse, the family business was headquartered in Pom City. And they had to defend it.

  “Parker House is located on Touaguba Hill, overlooking Port Moresby,” Lieutenant Swallow informed them, as the Land Rover bumped through a series of pot holes, and sped past a row of shacks with rusty roofs. “The house provides them with a terrific view of the harbor. Not to mention their ships as they come and go.

  “The Chinese try to bomb the Parker freight terminal on a regular basis but, thanks to our fighters, they haven’t been able to score.”

  That caused Ryson to wonder. Was Kelsey acting as a patriot, out to protect Australia? Or the daughter of a shipping magnate, with an ax to grind? And did it matter? So long as her motivations were consistent with each other?

  Swallow was an amateur historian, and proceeded to describe the air battles that took place over Port Moresby between February of 1942 and August 1943. “It was a bloody affair,” Swallow said, as the convoy passed through a seedy business district.

  “On March 31st our chaps were joined by the American 8th Bombardment Squadron which flew A-24 bombers. And for two weeks in May, six P-39 Airacobras of the American 36th Pursuit Squadron joined the fray.