Red Tide

by William C. Dietz

  “That’s bullshit,” Ryson replied. “There’s nothing for me to do here. Keep an eye on the sky, Charlie … We’re well within range of Mischief Reef, and you know what that means.”

  The rate of reciprocal fire increased as the distance between the ships decreased. Someone called for a corpsman, and fenders gave, as the vessels made contact.

  Ryson was outside by then. Bullets pinged off metal as a Chinese sailor shot at him. There was a prodigious boom when Ryson fired the Benelli. At least half the load of 00 Buck struck the sailor’s chest and threw him back. Blood splattered the Type 22’s superstructure.

  Ryson jumped down onto the main deck where lines and grappling hooks bound the ships together. A Chinese sailor was sawing on a rope with a sheath knife when the Arc’s X0 shot him. “We’ll have none of that,” she said crossly. “Follow me!” And with that she jumped the gap between the vessels only to be killed by a sailor swinging a fire ax.

  Ryson fired another blast, made his way across, and came face-to face with an officer. A blow from the shotgun’s butt broke the man’s jaw and an American sailor finished the job.

  “Find their CIC!” Ryson ordered. “And check the bridge. I want charts, binders, laptops, phones, and the command-and-control computers. Cut the cables. We don’t have time to fuck around.”

  An announcement from Moy served to underline the order. “Two, repeat two, enemy aircraft inbound from the northeast. Prepare to engage.”

  Ryson was in the Chinese CIC by then. Two sailors were dumping items into bins. What would the Chinese fighter pilots do? Ryson wondered. Would they fire on both ships? Or would they hold off? Ryson was hoping for the latter, as he pulled a handful of binders off a shelf, and dumped them into a box.

  There were Chinese holdouts in the stern. And Ryson could hear sporadic gunshots, as he slung the shotgun, and carried the box out to the point where willing arms waited to receive it.

  The Combat Systems Officer was in charge of document/computer retrieval. His name was Cassidy, and he’d been hit, judging from the bandage on his left arm. “I think we’re in good shape, sir. Unless you want us to search the engine room.”

  “No,” Ryson replied. “That won’t be necessary. Get your people off. Be sure to count heads.”

  “Aye, aye sir,” Cassidy replied. “Or, we could take the 22 with us.”

  The thought hadn’t occurred to Ryson. But why not? Odds were that the Intel people would love to strip search a Type 22.

  “That’s a good idea, Lieutenant. Assuming that we are in full control of the boat. Belay the first order, and get me a sitrep.”

  Jet engines screamed as a Chinese Chengdu J-20 fighter swept over the boats. It didn’t fire on them however. And that was a blessing.

  Once aboard the Arcus Ryson went straight to the bridge. He arrived in time to see a Stinger crew send a missile after the Chengdu. It failed to catch up and had to self-destruct. “Single up the lines,” Ryson ordered. “And prepare to break contact. Cassidy is checking the feasibility of taking the 22 with us.”

  Moy looked surprised. “Yes, sir.”

  Engines roared as the second Chengdu passed overhead. Then Cassidy spoke in his ear. “This is Seadog Four-Four. Eleven enemy personnel were killed in the fighting. Four are alive. Both engines are operational, and she responds to the helm. Over.”

  Ryson looked at Moy who shrugged. “This is Six,” Ryson replied. “How many personnel do you have? And how many do you need? Over.”

  “I have six,” Cassidy replied. “I have a corpsman. Send me an EN (Engineman) and an ET. I’ll put two deckhands back on the Arcus. Over.”

  “Done,” Ryson replied. “And I’ll send Stinger Team 2 as well. Keep those prisoners under lock and key. Do you read me? Over.”

  “Five-by-Five sir. Over.”

  The jets circled as personnel went back and forth between the two vessels. Then the Chief Bosun’s mate and a deck ape severed the remaining lines.

  That was a good thing and a bad thing. Good, because Moy’s crew had what they’d been ordered to get. And bad, because the Chinese fighter pilots had no further reason to withhold fire.

  The jets circled wide as they prepared to attack. “Take evasive action,” Moy ordered. “Prepare to fire chaff. Prepare to fire missiles.”

  Ryson figured that, since the jet jockeys didn’t know the 22 had been captured, they would leave it alone. For the moment anyway. All he could do was grit his teeth and wait. Moy had done an excellent job so far, and it was his responsibility to defend the boat.

  The Arcus was on foil by then, “flying” south at top speed, and leaving the 22 to fend for itself. The theory being that the pilots would assume it remained under Chinese control.

  Ryson stood with feet spread so he could shift his weight back and forth to accommodate the evasive maneuvers that the helmsman was putting the PHM through. “Fire chaff,” Moy said laconically, as a jet chased them. “Fire missiles when ready.”

  Moy’s timing was excellent. The Chengdu fired two missiles. Chaff drew one of them away while the other exploded short of the hydrofoil’s stern.

  A Stinger missile lanced upwards, found its target, and exploded. Chunks of flaming wreckage cartwheeled through the air. They were still spinning when the second fighter flew through the cloud of debris.

  The Chengdu seemed to shudder as a piece of wreckage was sucked into the port engine. Perhaps some fan blades were broken. Or maybe it was something else. But whatever the cause, a trail of black smoke followed the plane as the pilot turned north towards Mischief Reef. A reedy cheer went up. Luck, Ryson mused. So much of war is luck.

  His thoughts were interrupted as one of the ETs spoke over the intercom. “Forward Operating Base Samir is under attack! They’re requesting assistance!”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Ang Nam Ngum Reservoir, Laos

  Mickey Fanon was dead. Shot down in the Lucky 7 bar. Which, on reflection, was the worst shit show Kelsey had ever been part of. She and her team had survived untouched. But an opportunity to expand the Allied intelligence network had been lost.

  And after stopping at the hotel, the team had gone straight to the plane where the pilots were waiting. The Seastar took off shortly thereafter and made a beeline for Laos. The sun rose two hours later.

  Candy Wride turned the Dornier Seastar floatplane south over a broad expanse of sparkling blue water. The vast one hundred and fifty-five square mile Ang Nam Ngum Reservoir was located more than fifty miles north of the capital city of Vientiane. And, because the Vietnamese city of Da Nang was eight hundred and three miles to the east, Wride wanted to refuel.

  As Kelsey stared out the window to her left, she saw azure water, green clad islands, and tiny fishing boats. It was all very beautiful. But her mind was focused on a woman in the Vietnamese port city of Da Nang.

  According to what she’d been told, Madam Bian Nguyen had been a successful human trafficker prior to the war. Just one of the traffickers who smuggled an estimated eighteen thousand Vietnamese into Europe each year.

  However, profitable though the business was, it all but dried up once the war began. But Nguyen was a resourceful woman. So, rather than sit around and bemoan her losses, Nguyen turned to smuggling cigarettes.

  It was a well-established profession and a profitable one. Forty-five percent of the Vietnamese population were smokers. And because legal cigarettes were subject to an import tax of more than 100 percent, smokers had every reason to look for less expensive alternatives.

  In fact, the black-market cigarette trade was so pervasive, that the government was losing an estimated 360 million Vietnamese dong every year.

  Most of the tax-free coffin nails were being smuggled in from the Philippines, which was a net exporter of tobacco products, and only a hop, skip and a jump away. That’s where things got interesting.

  Kelsey felt a gentle thump as Wride put the plane down, and taxied toward the dilapidated dock where a pink float plane was moored. It had been r
ed at one time. But that was before decades spent baking in the sun. A fuel pump was located near the plane.

  As the Seastar got closer Kelsey saw a sign that read: “Joe’s Air Tours.” Not the fanciest logo—but clear enough. The reservoir was a tourist destination. Or had been prior to the war. And, by hiring a float plane, visitors could sample the best resorts, beaches and scenic vistas in a matter of hours.

  Wride brought the plane in next to the floating dock. Brody hopped out to tie up. “I’m going to visit with Joe,” Wride announced. “And buy some fuel. I’m guessing he has some overpriced refreshments for sale if you’re thirsty.”

  All of them wanted to stretch their legs, Kelsey included. She followed the pilots to the ramshackle building which clearly served as both a home and office.

  A screen door opened into a messy room with no AC other than a fan. It was furnished with mismatched furniture and what appeared to be a brand-new refrigerator.

  The man in the swivel chair had thin hair, a red nose, and a noticeable paunch. “Well, well. Will wonders never cease? Candy Wride. A stripper’s name if I ever heard one. How ‘bout a lap dance?”

  “How ‘bout some fuel?” Wride replied. “Assuming it’s any good.”

  “I use it,” Joe answered, as if that was all she needed to know. “I like your play pretty. What is that? A Dornier?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a nice one, that is. Where you headed?”

  “Hanoi,” Wride lied.

  “Sure, you are,” Joe said cynically. “Well, wherever you’re going, be careful. I took a trip east last week, and a Chengdu J-7 buzzed me. The pilot spoke perfect English, and wanted me to provide a clearance code, or land on the nearest pond.”

  Vietnam was officially neutral but had been forced to let the Chinese air force use its airspace. Kelsey frowned. “And?”

  Joe swiveled his gaze. “Who’s this? She’s pretty hot.”

  “She’s my boss,” Wride said, as she lit a cigarette.

  “Okay then, here’s what happened. My passenger, a man who shall remain nameless, gave me a code and the J-7 went away.”

  Joe riffled through the stuff next to him, found what he was looking for, and gave a slip of paper to Wride. “There you go, sweet buns. Maybe it’s still good, and maybe it isn’t.”

  “That’s nice of you,” Kelsey said. “But why?”

  “Cynics,” Joe replied. “They’re everywhere. This may surprise you baby cakes, but I was forty pounds lighter back in the day, and I had all of my hair. Candy and I, well, we ran into each other in Sydney one night—and the rest is history.”

  Wride blew a column of smoke into the air. “Old history.”

  Joe laughed. “Pump your gas ladies. And no, I don’t clean windshields.”

  They were back in the air forty-five minutes later. Wride was careful to check in with VATM (Vietnam Air Traffic Management) because, with the exception of Chinese planes, which could come and go as they pleased, the Vietnamese kept a tight grip on their airspace.

  The sun was up and the weather was clear. But what would have otherwise been an enjoyable trip was marred by the possibility that a Chinese fighter jet would appear out of nowhere and interfere with the flight.

  Fortunately, the Seastar was allowed to reach Da Nang unimpeded. And Kelsey felt a sense of relief as the Port of Da Nang appeared. Parker family ships came and went from the harbor all the time. And some had been under her command in years past.

  Before the war the port had handled more than 2.7 million tons of cargo. Not counting black market cigarettes that is.

  Of course, it was highly unlikely that Madam Nguyen would try to bring her illicit cargos into a port like Da Nang, which was crawling with customs officials. No, with over two thousand miles of coastline available to the smuggler, she would land her cigarettes on deserted beaches, or in tiny fishing villages—where some of the locals were on her payroll.

  Merchant ships of every possible description flashed past both sides of the plane as Wride brought it in for a landing. Once on the water Wride had to thread her way between ships, modern junks, and navy vessels to reach the “Happy” seaplane base. It consisted of a floating dock, a barge with a prefab repair facility, and a crane large enough to pluck a plane out of the water.

  After being guided into a slip, it was time to tie up and unload. Brody was assigned to stay with the plane. Everyone else carried their bags up two flights of switch backing stairs to a waterfront street where two black SUVs were waiting.

  After accepting the keys to both, and tipping the rental car employees, Chaney assigned Smith to drive the second vehicle. Their hotel was located about five miles away, on the west side of the bay, near a marine terminal. And that’s where the company’s agent was waiting to meet them. His name was Tony Chin. And, in keeping with the Parker family’s executive dress code, he was wearing a dark suit and well-polished oxfords.

  Kelsey knew him and they shook hands. “Hi Tony, how’s the wife? Has she divorced you yet?”

  Chin grinned. “Nope. We’re still on our honeymoon. It’s my mother she wants to divorce.”

  Kelsey laughed. “I suggest that you side with your wife.”

  Chin nodded. “I agree.”

  “So, what’s the situation? Are we still locked in with Madam Nguyen?”

  “You are,” Chin replied. “After the war ends, Nguyen wants to smuggle people again. And she thinks the Parker family could be useful in that regard.”

  “We don’t smuggle people,” Kelsey said flatly.

  “I know that,” Chin replied. “But Madam Nguyen doesn’t. And why enlighten her prematurely?” The words were accompanied by a boyish grin.

  Kelsey couldn’t help but smile in return. “Of course. Why indeed?”

  After checking in, and taking a shower, there was barely enough time to get dressed and meet Chaney in the lobby. A single bodyguard. That, according to Chin, was all Madam Nguyen would allow.

  But Chin saw no reason for concern. “Nguyen wants to form a positive relationship with you,” the agent said. “And violence isn’t her style. She pays customs officials. She pays members of the National Assembly. She pays members of the judiciary, and she might pay the Prime Minister for all I know.

  “That said, she’s often referred to as the Mama Mamba for a reason. By all accounts Nguyen will drop the hammer when she thinks it’s necessary.”

  Cheney was already present when Kelsey arrived in the lobby. The dinner invitation specified “Resort wear. Nothing American.”

  Kelsey wasn’t sure what qualified as “American,” but felt sure that Chaney’s black bolero jacket and matching pencil pants would make the cut. Kelsey had chosen to wear a wrinkle proof red cocktail dress with matching high heels.

  Chin was dressed in the same suit he’d worn earlier. “This is Miss Luu,” Chin said, as he introduced a bespectacled young woman in a nondescript business suit. “Miss Luu is Madam Nguyen’s secretary.”

  Luu bowed. Her English was perfect. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Madam Nguyen sends her respects. Dinner will be served aboard the Water Lilly. A car is waiting. Please follow me.”

  The light was fading by then and the city’s lights were coming on. The car was a roomy Mercedes S-Class sedan. The interior smelled of leather and the faint scent of water lilies.

  A short drive took them to a parking lot and a flight of stairs leading down to a concrete pier and floating dock. There, idling next to dock, was a gleaming Chris Craft.

  The boat had a bench style seat upfront, an engine compartment behind that, and another seat in the stern. The exhausts produced the classic burbling sound that Chris Craft owners love.

  Chin and Luu sat next to the helmsman, leaving Chaney and Kelsey to occupy the back seat, which was quite comfortable. The soft night air pressed against Kelsey’s face as the launch surged out into the harbor.

  Ryson came to mind for some reason. What if they were together? What would life with him be like? Both of us h
ave strong personalities, Kelsey mused. But maybe we could work it out.

  Chin shouted something and pointed. And there, up ahead, was a beautiful Chinese junk. The real thing? From days gone by? No, Kelsey decided. She was looking at a modern interpretation of the historic boats. The Water Lily had three masts. A short mast in the bow, a mainmast forward of the cabin, and a lesser stick in the stern.

  Having grown up in a seagoing family, and traveled widely as a child, Kelsey was well acquainted with junks. What made the design unique were lugsails battened with strips of bamboo, and typically supported by a yardarm, roughly two-thirds of the way up whichever mast they served. Bamboo battens kept the sails flat even in high winds, which allowed the ships to tack at angles that surprised Europeans when they first arrived in East Asia.

  Furthermore, the design meant that Chinese sailors could climb the battens without resorting to the use of the ratlines found on western sailing ships. And thanks to the shape of their hulls, all but the largest junks could be poled through shallow water, or propelled with oars if necessary.

  Nguyen’s yacht was moored to a buoy and hung with strings of white lights. A crewman was waiting to help passengers up out of the launch onto a landing stage. Three steps led to the main deck where Madam Nguyen stood waiting.

  The smuggler was taller than most Vietnamese women, rail thin, and beautiful in a floral ao dai tunic and pants. Her hair was black with a single streak of white. And thanks to some skillful plastic surgery, plus regular injections of Botox, not a single wrinkle could be seen on her face.

  When Nguyen offered her hand, Kelsey felt as though she was holding a bundle of fragile twigs. “Ms. Parker,” Nguyen said. “This is an honor. Welcome aboard the Water Lily.”

  Kelsey bowed. “Thank you for inviting us. The Water Lily is stunning. Please accept a small gift from my father and myself.”

  That was when Chin stepped forward to offer a box. As with so many things, the agent had anticipated the need for a gift, and ordered it a week earlier.