Red Tide

by William C. Dietz

  Five long minutes passed. “They changed their minds,” Qwan said. “We are to proceed at top speed for Hainan, and seek medical attention there.”

  “Tell them we will comply,” Ryson said.

  A white bow wave appeared as the Yinchuan began to increase power and angled away. No fucking way was the CO about to expose his crew to a communicable disease. “That was close,” Conte said. “Too close.”

  “Yeah,” Ryson agreed. “It’s going to be a long day.”

  Timing was critical. The Queen was supposed to arrive in the Chinese village of Coloane at 2000 that evening. And Ryson planned to be on time. Not early, because the missile boat might attract attention, and not late or else the triad might fade.

  So Ryson worked with Conte to calculate the precise speed, which combined with the prevailing sea state, would put the Camo Queen in Coloane at precisely 2000.

  The hours dragged by. Darkness fell. And unlike Manado harbor in Indonesia, Macau’s lights were on. A no-no during WWII.

  But now, in the age of computer guided weapons, it didn’t really matter. Missiles and smart bombs didn’t care if the lights were on or off. They would hit their targets regardless. That’s what the Chinese believed. Although other countries were more conservative.

  “We’re running fifteen minutes ahead of schedule,” Conte cautioned.

  “Throttle back a bit,” Ryson ordered. “It would be rude to arrive at the party early. How ‘bout that Kelsey? Have you heard anything from Mr. Soo?”

  Kesey had spent most of the time in her cabin up until then. But now, with the lights of Macau glittering ahead, she was like a race horse at the starting gate. She was fidgety, talkative, and given to bouts of awkward laughter.

  Kelsey’s sat phone was their link to triad leader Soo, and she was holding it in her hand. “Nothing yet,” she replied as she eyed her watch. “But there wouldn’t be. The prisoner transfer is scheduled for 1830. The snatch is supposed to take place at approximately 1930, followed by a handoff at 2000.”

  Ryson had heard it all before of course. And hoped that Kelsey’s confidence was justified. He tried to imagine how it would go down. A car, maybe two, leaving the detention center in Macau. There would be traffic, but not much due to gas rationing.

  At some point a triad vehicle would cut in front of the police car. And, if Ryson was running the operation, another would pull up from behind. Then the first car would brake, forcing the transfer vehicle to slow.

  In the case of two vehicles, odds were that the escort car would lead rather than follow. And as a motorcycle pulled up beside it, a passenger would shoot the car’s driver, causing his vehicle to crash or stop.

  Meanwhile the second car, the one containing Mr. Pei, would come to a stop. Perhaps the driver and guard would offer to surrender. It wouldn’t make any difference. By killing the policemen, Mr. Soo’s thugs would slow the official response.

  At that point Mr. Pei would be extracted from the transfer vehicle, loaded into a rescue car, and spirited away. Assuming everything went well, the triad cars would disappear into traffic. But if something went wrong there would be a gigundo shit show. Perhaps in Coloane.

  With that possibility in mind, Ryson gave orders for the Queen to dock bow-on to the village, so the 30mm cannon could be brought to bear. He hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to fire. There would be lots of collateral damage if the autocannon let loose.

  The missile boat cut through the water, the lights grew brighter, and time passed. Kelsey was just outside the wheelhouse where her sat phone could “see” the satellite above.

  She was antsy as 1930 came and went. Then, at 1942, a call came in. Kelsey thumbed a button and said, “Go.” She listened. “Got it. We’ll be there.”

  Kelsey stepped into the wheelhouse. The look of relief on her face was plain to see. “They have him,” she said. “And they’re on the way. But some sort of celebration is underway. And there’s more traffic than usual. They might be a few minutes late.”

  Ryson nodded. “Okay, thanks.” The village was straight ahead. In order to reach the public pier, the Type 22 had to avoid the fishing boats which were moored to buoys.

  Colored lights reflected off the dark oily water. Beyond the dock, and the street that served it, rectangles of buttery yellow light were visible. Ryson could imagine families getting ready for bed, unaware of the drama about to take place outside. Then the drone arrived.

  It was a quadcopter drone with a rounded camera pod on its belly. Red and blue lights flashed as a voice barked words in Mandarin. Chief Engineer Cheng was on the bridge. He was dressed in a Chinese uniform. “It’s the police,” he said. “They want our harbor access code.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  Cheng shook his head. “I don’t know. It must be some sort of security measure.”

  “Go out and tell the drone that we’re having engine trouble and going to dock.”

  Cheng did as he was told. But the drone continued to circle the Queen, even as sirens stuttered, screeched and wailed in the distance. Flashing lights appeared on the street.

  Ryson spoke into a mike. “The bastards are onto us,” he said grimly. “Prepare to fire on targets of opportunity. It looks like we’ll be forced to depart without our passenger.”

  “No!” Kelsey said emphatically. “Not yet … Give them five minutes. She’ll be here by then.”

  “Standby,” Ryson said over the intercom. “We’re holding. But be ready.”

  That was when the drone flew in through the open door. Cheng threw his arms around the device and carried it to the deck. Muzzle flashes appeared as a machine gun began to chatter, and was quickly joined by a second weapon, as bullets pinged the hull. “We’re pulling out,” Ryson announced. “Half astern. Open fire.”

  A tongue of fire appeared as the 30mm rotary cannon began to fire short bursts. The shells destroyed the shack at the end of the pier. Then, as Gunner’s Mate Wes Cory swept the outgoing fire from left to right, a police car exploded—and a storefront was destroyed moments later.

  Meanwhile, Cheng was smashing the drone into the deck, even as a disembodied voice ordered him to surrender. Kelsey had been outside with the sat phone to her ear. She entered the wheelhouse. “Stop!” she shouted. “She’s here! In a skiff! Off the stern.”

  Ryson thumbed the switch. “Deck crew to the stern. Our passenger is in a small boat. Get him aboard.”

  “I can see the boat,” a lookout said. “We’re on it.”

  The small arms fire had died away, only to be supplanted by the rhythmic thud, thud, thud of a heavy machine gun, as a six-wheeled armored personnel carrier appeared on the scene. The Queen shuddered as large caliber shells pounded her hull.

  Cory didn’t like that and brought the 30 to bear on the vehicle. Dozens of high explosive shells struck the vehicle’s turret and blew it off. A fountain of fire shot up into the air, and secondary explosions rocked the APC, as reserve ammo bins began to cook off.

  “That’s right motherfuckers,” Cory declared. “Your fucking pea shooter is a fucking piece of fucking shit!”

  “Belay that bullshit,” Conte ordered. “And learn a new word.”

  “We have a girl,” the Chief announced. “But there’s no sign of a man.”

  “Secure her,” Ryson ordered. “Full speed astern. We’re out of here. All hands will prepare for a running fight. I’m looking at you, Fire Control … We’re going to need those anti-ship missiles. All eight of them. Get the Stingers on deck.”

  The Type 22 had been carrying six anti-ship missiles when captured. And, once the boat was approved for the trip to China, Ryson put in a request for two TL-10 Sky Dragons to fill the empty tubes.

  There was only one country other than China that used them and that was Axis member Iran. But as luck would have it, thirty-six TL-10s had been aboard a ship bound for Iran, and were intercepted in the Arabian Sea. Two were flown in. So, the Queen had teeth. But only eight of them.

  Water churned whi
te as the Camo Queen backed out, turned to the southeast, and Ryson ordered “Full speed ahead.” Then he turned to Conte. “Get ahold of the operations folks at INDOPACCOM. Give them a sitrep. Tell them we’re going to need a full-on extraction by the North Dakota. And the sooner the better. The Chinese are going to come after us with everything they have. Oh, and the North Dakota is going to need backup. Do you read me?”

  “Five-by-five,” Conte replied. “I’m on it.”

  Confident that things were at least momentarily under control Ryson hurried aft. A girl? Instead of a man? Was that intentional? Or had an innocent fisherwoman been kidnapped?

  Ryson ran into the Chief Bosun’s Mate by the missile array. “Where’s Kelsey? Have you seen her?”

  “She took the girl and went below,” the chief replied. “Permission to speak freely?”

  “Of course.”

  “Both were crying. They know each other.”

  That was completely unexpected. What the hell? “Thanks, Chief. Make the rounds. You know what to say.”

  Chief Bossert had been in the navy for seventeen years. He nodded. “Yes, sir. I know what to say. There ain’t nothin’ to worry about.”

  Ryson grinned. “Exactly.”

  Ryson went below, made his way to Kelsey’s cabin, and rapped on the hatch. It was Kelsey who opened it. But it was the other woman who claimed Ryson’s attention. Li jing. He was looking at a Eurasian version of George Parker’s first wife.

  Ryson looked from the woman in the blue prison outfit to Kelsey. “Your sister?”

  Kelsey bit her lower lip. “Yes.”

  “So, the Mr. Pei story was a lie.”

  “He exists,” Kelsey said miserably. “And he’s in prison. But yes, I lied. Rong is my sister. My half-sister. The Chinese were using her to blackmail my family. They forced us to do terrible things.”

  Ryson was filled with rage. His fists were clenched. The Parkers were double agents. His voice was tight. “I’m no lawyer. Maybe this is treason. Or maybe it’s something else. But you are going to prison. If it was up to me, you’d be taken out and shot. In fact, I’d be happy to do the job myself.”

  Tears trickled down Kelsey’s cheeks. Her eyes beseeched him. “Please, Max … Please forgive me.”

  “Never,” Ryson replied. “And, if one person on this boat dies his, or her, blood will be on your hands.”

  Ryson took hold of a wrist, towed Kelsey out into the passageway, and bellowed. “Find Chief Bossert!”

  Bossert arrived thirty seconds later. “Sir?”

  “Take Ms. Parker into custody. Chain her to something. The other woman is her sister. Restrain her as well. Do you understand?”

  Bossert was understandably confused, but nodded his head. Orders were orders. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. I’ll be on the bridge.”

  Ryson arrived in the wheelhouse to find that more bad news was waiting for him. “The North Dakota is supposed to check in with INDOPACCOM every hour on the hour,” Conte told him. “And the next contact is thirty-six minutes away.”

  Ryson swore. There was no way to make radio contact with a sub unless it deployed an antenna. And it would be necessary for thirty-six minutes to pass before the sub could receive new orders.

  How far away would the North Dakota be when that occurred? It would be a matter of luck. Meanwhile, as the Camo Queen ran for her life, at least half of the Chinese navy would be in hot pursuit.

  The first indication of this came as new blips appeared on the CIC’s radar screens. The boat’s CSO (Combat Systems Officer) was a lieutenant named Kady Willke. She was generally referred to as “the Loot” by her subordinates, a nickname she treasured. “We have one, two, three planes inbound from the west,” Willke announced. “Tracking. Over.”

  Ryson was wearing a headset in order to communicate with crew members who couldn’t hear the ship’s speakers. “Stinger crews will stand by to repel aircraft. Three from the west. Fire Control will prepare to fire chaff. Over.”

  A Mark 36 Chaff and Decoy Launching System had been fitted to the Camo Queen to replace the Chinese version. Ryson turned to the helmsman. “Commence evasive maneuvers.”

  “Evasive maneuvers. Aye, aye, sir.”

  “Five surface targets,” Willke said. “In from the west. Fire Control is ready. Tracking.”

  “Wait for it,” Ryson replied. “We need clean hits. One missile per target. If the targets sink, then good. But our main goal is to stop or delay them.”

  “Incoming missiles,” Willke reported.

  “Fire chaff,” Ryson ordered.

  The Mark 36 system consisted of two arrays of six mortars each. One array to port, and one to starboard. Three tubes in each cluster were set at a different angles to ensure an effective spread. Each mortar produced a soft thud followed by a puff of gray smoke as an infrared decoy shot up to explode and scatter chaff.

  “Targets optimal,” Willke said.

  “Fire missiles,” Ryson ordered.

  The Type 22 lurched as the Sky Dragon missiles left their tubes, and raced into the night. Would they hit their targets? And if so, how many? Ryson waited to learn his fate.

  ***

  Aboard the United States submarine SSTN North Dakota in the South China Sea

  The coordinates for the original rendezvous with the Type 22 missile boat were hundreds of miles to the south. But the North Dakota had been sent north to refuel one of the navy’s new, less expensive diesel submarines. And that put the sub in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or the right place, depending on one’s perspective.

  Commander Les Bonner experienced a sinking feeling as he received new orders from INDOPACCOM. The Chinese missile boat and its Allied crew were in trouble. He was to make all possible speed to their location, surface, and pick them up.

  A suicide mission if there ever was one. First, because the missile boat was going to lead Chinese vessels to his sub. And second, because the “Gas Can,” as his sailors called it, would be vulnerable while on the surface. Very vulnerable.

  It was funny in a way. Bonner had been judged smart enough to be accepted at Annapolis, smart enough to graduate at the middle of his class, and smart enough to be selected for the elite Naval Nuclear Power School in Charleston.

  But not smart enough to command a ballistic missile sub or an attack boat. But a sea going gas station? Yes. The brass thought he could handle that.

  And after years of internal struggle Bonner had come to accept his lot. And to look forward to retirement. Who knew? Maybe they’d buck him up to 06 just before he went ashore for the last time.

  Now, having been found wanting, he was about to be thrust into what was shaping up to be a sea going Alamo. And would almost certainly leave his wife crying over an empty grave. A lump formed in Bonner’s throat. “Roger that, sir … Out.”

  Bonner was in the sub’s high tech control room. That’s where the North Dakota’s pilot and copilot were located, along with his XO, Lieutenant Commander Nicole Hardy, and Chief of the boat, Miles Ford.

  Non verbals were important. Bonner knew that. That’s why Bonner had a smile on his face when he turned to face them. “We have new orders … We’re going to head west, rendezvous with the missile boat, and take the crew aboard.”

  Hardy frowned. “They’re in trouble, aren’t they?”

  “You could say that,” Bonner allowed.

  “And the Chinese navy is after them? Including attack subs?”

  “We don’t have Intel on any attack subs, but yeah,” Bonner admitted.

  “So, we’re going to surface in the middle of a shit show,” Chief Ford added.

  “Pretty much,” Bonner agreed. “But here’s the good news. Two of our attack boats are on their way to provide support.”

  “And the ETA for the first one is?” Hardy inquired.

  “Three hours give or take.”

  “And the ETA for the rendezvous is?”

  “An hour or so.”

  The control room was silent a
s everyone took the information in. “So, I have time for a nap,” Ford said. All of them laughed.

  Bonner felt grateful as he issued orders. Ford was the boat’s beating heart. And if he was confident, the crew would be as well. He felt the deck tilt as the North Dakota turned onto a new course. The Gas Can was going to war.

  ***

  Aboard the Camo Queen, east of Macau, China

  One of the incoming missiles detected a target, went for it, and exploded hundreds of feet above the missile boat. A second weapon came closer but met the same fate.

  Smoking confetti twirled out of the sky as the Camo Queen continued to race east in a desperate attempt to reach the North Dakota before the Chinese caught up with her.

  “One target is dead in the water,” Willkie observed, as the 22’s missiles fell. “The other targets are still in the hunt.”

  An hour, Ryson thought. We have to survive for an hour. And four ships are chasing us.

  “We have a new target to the east,” Willkie added. “And it’s coming our way.”

  “Get operations on the horn,” Ryson ordered. “Maybe they can tell us what it is. This is unlikely, but request air support. Maybe we’ll luck out.”

  They didn’t luck out. The blip, according to orbital Intel, was a Chinese destroyer. And the Camo Queen was too far away from the nearest carrier group to receive air support.

  “Two of the four western targets are pulling ahead of the others,” Willkie reported. “That suggests that they are smaller and faster.”

  Ryson was reminded of the C 14 missile boat that Atworthy’s Armindale had done battle with. The catamarans were small, armed with short range missiles, and capable of speeds up to 50 knots. That meant they were faster than the Queen. He eyed his watch. Forty-five minutes to go.

  Then the planes arrived. They circled like vultures over a dying animal. The first one dived. “Fire chaff,” Conte ordered. “Engage with missiles. Fire when ready.”

  Stinger Team 1 fired. But their missile went after a flare and exploded.

  Team 2 was ready with a follow-up. Their Stinger found its target. There was an explosion as the missile hit an engine, followed by a second explosion, and a third—as the Sukhoi Su-27 disintegrated.