Viper Strike c-2, page 12
part #2 of Carrier Series
The pilots departed, leaving Lin alone to contemplate the map. The ghost of a smile played at his lips. Sector one-seven… that was at least fifty miles from where the plane had actually gone down. If the Americans had survived, they would not be walking out of that jungle soon.
And if they didn't make it by tonight, they would be too late. He rolled up the map and returned it to its metal tube. outside, the chatter of helicopter rotors rose in pitch as the SAR choppers prepared to depart.
General Hsiao would be pleased that there would be no interference from the Americans on this critical day. The general's coded radio message moments ago had been most insistent about that. If the Americans were found and rescued, it would be difficult to keep their comrades from coming to U Feng to pick them up, to search the area where they'd been shot down.
That could not be allowed. Not now.
Major Lin put the map container in its storage rack and returned to his duties in the air operations tower.
1830 hours, 17 January
Fantail, U.S.S. Thomas Jefferson
Jefferson's liberty boat was kept in almost constant operation, especially during the weekend when duty schedules were adjusted to allow more of her crew to go ashore. It was a forty-minute round trip from ship to shore to ship, with the stubby-looking, open landing craft ― called a mike boat ― tying up at a Sattahip dock only long enough to put another liberty party ashore and to take aboard any officers and men waiting to get back to the ship.
Tombstone had caught the gray government shuttle bus out of Bangkok for the ride back to Sattahip, arriving at the wharf well after dark. At the waterfront, he could clearly see the Jefferson riding at anchor out in the bay. The elevator doors were open, and light from the hangar deck spilled out into the night, casting long shimmers of reflected light into the water below the ship. The island too was brightly lit, and from this angle, Tombstone could even make out the lights on the carrier's drop-line, the string of lights hanging down her stern from the flight deck roundoff as a perspective aid for night traps.
The dark waters of the bay were crowded with other vessels. He could make out the anticollision lights of Vicksburg and Gridley, swinging on their hooks almost a mile astern. The other ships of the CVBG were still at sea but would have their chance at Sattahip's facilities later. Elsewhere, civilian craft motored back and forth closer inshore, respecting the moored warning marker buoys which preserved Jefferson's close-in security zone.
This early in the evening, there was no one waiting at the pier for a ride back to the carrier. Tombstone accepted a life jacket from the chief boatswain's mate in charge of the craft and stepped aboard as the man at the wheel gunned the diesel engines as if he were revving up a motorcycle. Line handlers cast off from the bollards, and the mike boat pulled away from the pier, angling out across the dark water toward the Jefferson.
Tombstone was in a decidedly confused state of mind. He'd gone into Bangkok the afternoon before, convinced that Pamela Drake would prove to be an enemy, someone determined to twist his words in such a way that he ― and the Navy ― would look foolish. The interview had been a surprise in that Pamela had gone out of her way to make him feel comfortable… and she'd been far more interested in his role as a hero than in the waste and mismanagement of the United States Navy.
And then there'd been dinner… and this morning's stroll in Thonburi.
It was strange. If he was any judge of women at all, she'd been as reluctant to part as he.
There was a stiff breeze over the water, and by the time the mike boat approached the Jefferson, his uniform shirt was damp where it wasn't covered by the life jacket. A float had been rigged at the ship's stern, a temporary pier resting on the water and secured to the ship's hull lines. The boat's coxswain steered the craft alongside with practiced ease as a sailor in dungarees caught the line tossed by a man standing in the bows. The diesels throttled back to a low, rumbling idle, and the mike boat bumped gently against the float.
The ladder between the float and the fantail twenty feet above had wheels which allowed its lower end to roll freely with the movements of the water.
Waves generated by passing boats in Sattahip Bay set the wheels to squeaking madly from time to time, the sound interspersed with the hollow thump of the tires secured to the floating pier as bumpers colliding with Jefferson's hull.
Tombstone trotted up the nearly vertical ladder and swung onto the fantail.
He saluted the colors, then turned and saluted the officer of the deck.
"Request permission to come aboard."
"Granted," the OOD replied, returning the salute. "Welcome aboard, sir."
The head of a line of men in civilian clothing and orange life jackets stood nearby, the line itself extending back into the long passageway which connected the fantail with the hangar deck. A chief was addressing them in fatherly tones, warning them that the district known as Klong Toey, famous as a rough waterfront strip in Bangkok, was strictly off-limits to all Navy personnel. Tombstone started to move past them and into the passageway when someone called him.
"Stoney! Hey, Tombstone!"
He turned and saw Fred Garrison. The aviator had been off to one side of the fantail deck, apparently chatting with the camo-clad Marine at the.50 caliber machine gun which was mounted on the railing as a security measure when the Jefferson was in port. "Army!" Tombstone said, using Garrison's running name. "How's it going?"
Garrison removed his aviator's sunglasses and jerked his head toward the passageway. "C'mon inside, Skipper. I gotta talk to you."
Past the machine shops, the passageway opened into the hangar deck. A number of Jefferson's boats and small craft were stored on cradles at the aft end of the tWO-acre cavern. Garrison led Tombstone to an out-of-the-way corner of clear deck space next to the Captain's launch.
"I had to talk to you before you heard it on the bush," he said. The bush telegraph was slang for the unofficial lines of shipboard rumor and information and was widely regarded as faster and more authoritative than official channels.
"What is it?" Tombstone didn't like the expression on Garrison's face.
That look, mingled worry and sadness, generally meant bad news.
"It's Batman and Malibu," Garrison said. "They're down. Shot down by MiGs."
Tombstone's eyes widened. "Oh, God! Were there chutes?"
He shrugged. "Price and Zig-Zag made it back and trapped a few hours ago. They're still getting debriefed. The word is that the Batman and Malibu were out of sight when they went in. No sign of chutes, no SAR radio contact… but that could just mean they were too far away." He hesitated before adding, "There's a hold on SAR ops up there. Something about problems coordinating with the Thais. I'm sorry, Tombstone. But I thought you'd want to hear it straight."
"Yeah." Tombstone nodded. "Yeah, thanks."
Batman and Malibu down… attacked while flying the mission Tombstone was supposed to have been on.
"You okay, Skipper?" Army was watching him closely.
"I'm fine." Tombstone kept his voice level. "No problem. Where's CAG?"
"Ashore."
"What? Where, Sattahip?"
"Better than that. Bangkok. With the admiral and most of both staffs.
They flew in by helo with their war paint on."
Coordinating with the That military over what to do about the incident, no doubt. Would there be a rescue effort, he wondered, or were Batman and Malibu going to be left on their own?
Garrison seemed to sense the fire in Tombstone's eye. "Look," he added.
"I'm sure everything possible's being done for our guys…"
"Yeah," Tombstone said. He turned to leave. "Right. I'll grab CAG when he's back aboard."
"Where you heading, Skipper?"
"Up to the ready room. After that I'll be in my quarters if you need me."
He walked away without another word.
1900 hours, 17 January
Kiong Toey, Bangkok
General Hsiao entered the warehouse as his chauffeur held the door wide.
The building was located in a run-down section of Bangkok's waterfront district, a dilapidated, rust-streaked collection of warehouses and storage sheds off At Narang Road. Hsiao strode down passageways formed by stacked crates and wooden pallets. A That shipping company, itself owned by Hsiao's agents, had bought the warehouse the year before, and it served well as headquarters and meeting place, out of the public eye.
His office was a plasterboard cubicle in the back, equipped with desk, telephone, and a single chair. It was illuminated by a single bulb hanging on its cord from the ceiling. A teenager armed with an AK-47 performed a crude approximation of snapping to attention as Hsiao opened the door and went inside.
"Phreng!" Hsiao called. "Phreng, where are you?"
A dark-skinned That civilian with a jagged white scar down the left side of his face appeared in the doorway moments later. "General Hsiao," he said without expression, "We were not expecting you to return so soon."
Hsiao stared back at the man, assessing him. Phreng Kitikachom had been a minor gangster, one of Bangkok's medium-level providers of heroin and raw opium, until Hsiao had taken him into his growing organization ― Never much more than a petty thug, Phreng and the criminal contacts he maintained throughout the city nonetheless had proven useful as Hsiao assembled the intricacies of Sheng li. There were times when Hsiao needed such contacts, times such as this, which was why he'd kept Phreng on the payroll.
"Things are moving more quickly than we anticipated," Hsiao said. "It appears that the Americans will soon be involved."
"Yes, sir."
"I need several American sailors, men off the carrier now at Sattahip.
Bangkok should be full of them tonight… especially Patpong."
"Yes, sir." There was the faintest tug at the corner of the That's mouth. "My girls have been busy already."
"Yes." Among his other enterprises, Hsiao knew, Phreng ran a string of girls in the sex and sin district called Patpong. He shifted to English, which Phreng understood. "Perhaps you can put them to good use tonight. I need two or three men from that carrier. They should work in radar, in flight operations, or in the carrier's air traffic control center." He pronounced the words carefully, and made Phreng repeat them back before shifting back to That. "Tell your people, quickly."
"There is urgency in this, sir?"
Hsiao nodded. "There is. I am not sure what the Americans' reaction to the loss of one of their planes will be. It is possible that they will recall their people in Bangkok back to the ship. We must capture the men I need before that happens."
"It will be done, sir. Where do you want them?"
"Here. We will use the rooms downstairs. Go, now."
Phreng gave a perfunctory wai and departed.
Hsiao thought for a moment. It was late, well past normal office hours, but Sword might well be at his desk despite the hour. With things about to break at U Feng, the agent would be working to prepare things for his role in the coming drama. Hsiao picked up the phone. Dialing a number, he asked to be connected with a particular extension. "Is Den Phitsanuk there, please?"
he asked when a familiar voice answered.
There was a long silence. "Den is visiting family in Chiang Mai," the man at the other end replied. Question and response were code phrases, identifying each speaker to the other and verifying that there were no eavesdroppers on either end.
"Perhaps I can reach him there," Hsiao said. "In one hour."
He was about to hang up the phone. The message, that he needed to meet personally with the agent known as Sword at a particular rendezvous in an hour, had been delivered. But he heard Sword's sharp intake of breath over the phone. "Please! Wait," the man said. "This line is clean. We can talk."
Hsiao frowned. This was a flagrant violation of the security rules he'd laid down at the very beginning of this operation. Sword should have known better. "We will talk," he said sharply. "In an hour."
"No. Now." Sword was persistent. "There is trouble… an American naval aircraft lost near U Feng. The Americans have scheduled a meeting with members of the government. They are demanding permission to mount search-and-rescue operations in the area. I may not be able to put them off much longer."
Hsiao glanced at his watch. "It is already past seven," he said. "It is rather a late hour for government meetings, is it not?"
"The Americans are… upset."
"You will be at this meeting?"
"Of course, sir. General… our people fear what the Americans may do!"
The voice sounded desperate. "We could lose everything!"
Hsiao forced himself to remain calm. Sword could jeopardize much more than the Americans would if the man lost his nerve now.
"We have lost nothing," Hsiao said gently. Now, he judged, was the time for soft words and assurances. He needed Sword to guide upcoming events within the government, especially once word of U Feng reached Bangkok sometime later this night. "We shall use the Americans, not avoid them."
"Are you saying we will confront the Americans directly? Your MiGs will never get within a hundred miles of their carrier!"
Hsiao laughed. "You talk about the Jefferson as though it were magic!
She is a large warship, to be sure, but she is not invulnerable!"
"You have a battleship or two hidden in reserve, perhaps? Or a cruise missile?"
"We have something much better, my friend. Surprise… and the Americans' own feelings of safety within a friendly port!"
"I fail to see how that can help us."
"You, my friend, are the key. You can make everything work. Remember!
I chose you because you can make the bureaucracy work for us! Reports can be mislaid, orders delayed, decisions postponed or deferred."
"That doesn't help us with the Yankee carrier. If they should decide to openly side with the government-"
"They will have other things to worry about."
"What, General?" The voice carried almost open scorn. "Suicide motor boats? An armada of hang gliders? This is a nuclear-powered aircraft carrier we face!"
"A nuclear-powered aircraft carrier, yes. A ship which is enormously vulnerable." He chuckled. "You know many today claim that the aircraft carrier is already obsolete. That its vulnerability, its total dependence on the other ships of its battle group, would actually make it a liability in a war."
"You have an idea." It was a statement of fact, not a question. "What is it?"
Hsiao laughed gently. "Not over the phone, Sword. Attend the meeting and report to me afterward. Then I will tell you what I have in mind."
CHAPTER 11
2115 hours, 17 January
Patpong Road, Bangkok
Liberty in Bangkok was proving to be memorable, but not at all what David Howard had expected. It had started on the mike boat, when Bentley, Paterowski and Rodriguez had closed in on him like predators, escorting him ashore, standing in line with him waiting for the bus, then regaling him with improbable stories of sexual athletics for almost two hours as the ancient vehicle rattled its way up Route 3 into Bangkok.
They'd spent an hour simply wandering the streets, gawking at the sights and discussing what to do next. Bentley was in favor of visiting a bar he'd heard about in Klong Toey, an idea that terrified Howard since the waterfront district was strictly off-limits to American military personnel. The others preferred a trip to the infamous Patpong Road which they'd heard so much about from Bentley. Howard wasn't much happier with that idea, but he didn't want to be the one to argue about it.
Patpong won out in the end. Patpong Road had been pretty much like Bentley had said it would be, a glittering, tawdry, neon-bright strip of bars, nightclubs, sex theaters and cheap-looking hotels. The villainous-looking taxi driver dropped them off beneath a towering, red-lit sign flashing five repetitions of the word "topless." A sign across the street proclaimed the most sensual massage in Bangkok. Nightclubs abounded, and bars were everywhere, each with its own gimmick: nude dancers, dart contests, old movies, and special shows that promised "Sex! Live Girls! On Stage!"
According to Bentley, Patpong was just another street by day, but at night it became the sex and sin center of the city. Traffic crowded the narrow road, mingling freely with bands of laughing, jostling That men and small groups of foreigners. The street smelled, a mixture of spice, garbage and raw sewage. Howie fought to control his stomach. He didn't belong here, and he felt out of place and embarrassed.
They had dinner first at a Japanese restaurant called Mizu's Kitchen, then spent another hour roaming the street before choosing a bar called the Golden Coast. It was dark inside, and crowded. The very air throbbed to the beat of hard rock. They were met as soon as they stepped inside by four dazzling That girls, each wearing high heels and three wisps of golden silk and string which with considerable generosity might have been called bikinis.
There were numbers on small badges pinned to their bras. Paterowski explained to Howie with a wink and an elbow nudge that the numbers allowed the bar's patrons to ask for a particular girl, just in case there was further business they wanted to transact with her later.
There seemed to be a scantily clad, numbered girl for every male in the bar, drinking with the customers, laughing and talking. Howie's girl wore the number 21. She had a sweet smile, and Howie thought she was the prettiest girl he'd ever seen except, possibly, for Charlene back home.
But Charlene had never worn a bathing suit like that. When Number 21 turned around to lead the way to a table, it looked like she was wearing nothing but a couple of pieces of gold string, and Howard didn't know how to react to the sight of her bare buttocks. How did you talk to a girl who walked around like that in public? He felt a fiery, stiffening urgency in his loins he'd not known since Charlene had let him kiss her in her father's car, and was immediately ashamed of the comparison.
"C'mon, guys and gals!" Bentley cried, sitting down at the table.
