Island Warriors

SEVENTEEN

Coyote was in a killing rage. The loss of the AWACS and the defenseless Observation Island ate at him, and the refusal of the National Command Authority to order an immediate retaliation almost drove him over the edge. On an intellectual level, he understood the reasoning. The United States was not prepared to go to war, not now. Forces had to be moved into place, the support of the public garnered, and every diplomatic avenue exhausted. When America fought, it fought with massive numbers of troops and assets, intending to win quickly and decisively, and there was no way the carrier and her escorts could pull that off — not yet.

But Coyote knew what the Chinese intended to do as surely as if he was sitting in on the Chinese staff meetings — and until they made the first move, there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it. Not actively — but he could get ready for them.

He turned to his operations officer. “Get us in an antiair formation,” he ordered. “And that submarine — that worries the hell out of me.” He pointed at the large symbol displayed on the screen. “Even with old gear, that Taiwanese frigate is the best asset we’ve got. I want her on the outer edge, with full authority to prosecute as her captain sees fit. And tell him I’m giving him two helos in addition to his Sea Sprite. He can use them any way he wants.” Coyote glanced over at Major Ho. “If there are any communication problems, I want you on them immediately. Got it?”

Ho bowed slightly. “Of course, Admiral. There will be no problems.”

A respectful answer, a competent one, but there was something in the Taiwanese Army officer’s eyes that worried Coyote. What was it? Damn, these guys were hard to read sometimes, and it was a bitch getting them to speak up.

Despite his redneck origins, Coyote was an exceptionally astute observer of human nature. He knew that it was the cultural differences that made the Taiwanese officer sometimes seem deferential, when the Taiwanese officer thought he was making himself perfectly clear. He had debated several times on the best way to encourage the officer to speak up, and to make allowances for their lack of understanding, but nothing seemed to penetrate his reserve. Indeed, Coyote had the suspicion that the officer had taken his comments as criticism, rather than a plea for help. Because there was so much that they could do, so much that they could learn from each other. These people knew this water like no one else did, and that frigate — well, he hadn’t seen a sailor do so much with so little since he worked with the Coast Guard on a few situations.

Damn it all, he tried. But the situation was getting too critical for niceties. He turned to Major Ho. “Is there anything on your mind?”

The Taiwanese officer’s eyes were shuttered. “No, Admiral.”

“Anything I have overlooked?” Coyote pressed.

A slight look of horror crossed the man’s face, and quickly disappeared. “Of course not.”

Coyote turned back to study the screen, frustrated at not being able to get the information he wanted. There was something on the Taiwanese officer’s mind, but he couldn’t get at it. Was it something in the formation? Coyote had the feeling the major was offended at something, but how could he possibly be offended at conveying primary responsibility for the submarine prosecution to his nation’s ship, as well as giving the Taiwanese skipper operational control of two additional helicopters? If anything, it was Coyote’s own DESRON Commander who was likely to get his panties in a knot over that.

“Your ship is well inside our antiair umbrella,” he said, turning back to watch the officer’s reaction. “She will be in no danger — or at least, no more than the American ships.”

And now he really stepped on it, he could tell. Why? Had Ho taken it as an accusation of cowardice?

Inwardly, Coyote groaned, wondering how bad he’d screwed up this time with the man.

“I wish you to convey to your captain,” he said to Ho, “my utmost respect and admiration for his abilities in ASW. It is for that reason that I ask them to take command of this problem.”

The Taiwanese major bowed slightly again. “Of course. I’m certain he appreciates the honor.”

Coyote gave up. The frigate’s captain would either understand, or he wouldn’t, and Coyote was betting that the more senior officer had spent more time working with the Americans and could see through any misinterpretations made by this young major.

“If he has any other requirements, please let my staff know immediately.” Coyote gestured at his air operations officer. “Anything within reason.”

Major Ho Kung-Sun picked up the microphone, inwardly raging. The blatant disrespect, for the admiral to refuse to communicate with his captain personally. And to add injury to insult by implying they were worried about an air attack. No, the admiral had tried to gloss it over, but Ho Kung-Sun understood very well what he’d meant. And he would make it plain to Captain Chang Tso-Lin as well.

Captain Chang listened as Major Ho detailed the admiral’s plan. At first, he felt a rush of pride. Certainly it could not be often that a foreign ship was given such a substantial role in protecting the carrier battle group.

But then, as Ho continued, Chang began to frown. The voice coming over the speaker, speaking Mandarin, left no doubt as to Ho Kung-Sun’s conclusions.

“They often refer to us in derogatory terms when they think I am not listening, Captain. Of course, I do not tell them what I hear — I wish for them to continue to think I do not understand, that I am a fool. But it is quite evident from this latest set of orders that they consider us far less capable.” The major’s voice was querulous.

Chang frowned. Ho Kung-Sun was a generally competent officer, although, of course, his primary background was in the Taiwanese Army. Still, he had been extensively trained at the nation’s most prestigious military schools, and family connections had gotten him this sensitive position.

“Perhaps we should look at their actions rather than their words,” Chang said mildly.

“Yes, perhaps we should. The admiral, he does not call you himself, does he? And look at our position within the screen. Our ship is exposed to the first wave of air attacks. We will, in effect, be a missile sump for the American battle group.”

“We are repositioned where we are in the best position to prosecute the submarine contact,” Chang countered. “It is the same decision I would make myself.”

“And you truly believe that is their intention? After all I have told you, my analysis of the dynamics here — you believe that? That with all of their advanced weaponry and sensors, the American Navy still needs the assistance of one broken-down frigate that they got rid of twenty years ago?”

Chang stiffened. Political pull or not, the major’s tone was becoming unacceptable. “Our ship is—”

“—an antique. Ancient. Ming Dynasty,” Ho finished, cutting him off.

The crew inside combat turned pale. Captain Chang, while he was not as well connected as Ho, was well-known throughout the Navy for his ability. For a junior officer to speak to him so was entirely out of order.

“Believe what you will, Captain,” the major continued. “I will make the report. You’ll see what the results will be. And in the meantime, do not be overly impressed by your interpretation of the admiral’s reasoning. I can assure you that it is merely for public consumption. And this is just why I was placed here, was it not? To provide insight into the battle group’s decisions.”

Captain Chang, since he was treading on dangerous political ground, refrained from answering. Had he not been hesitant, his answer would have been, “No.” He had been placed there to insure that there was a maximum degree of cooperation between United States Navy and our forces in defending Taiwan. Not for personal glory — not for political reasons. To make sure, just as their man here did, that we understood each other. That is all.

“I will keep your thoughts in mind,” Captain Chang said out loud. “I thank you for your insight.”

Petty Officer Jim Lee, a cryptological technician (interpreter), or CTI, groaned as he listened to the conversation coming across his headset. He was taking notes, writing in Chinese characters, making an occasional English comment as a translator’s note. Senior Chief Armstrong Brady stood to one side. On the other side was Commander Busby.

When the Chinese voices finally stopped, Wells leaned back in his chair and sighed. “They’re pissed, sir. Real pissed. Major Ho Kung-Sun, he’s telling that skipper that we’re dissing him, disrespecting him. By the admiral not asking them directly to take care of that submarine, by assigning them to a station further away from the CV. That frigate captain, I’m not certain what he’s thinking, but he’s listening to the major. Doesn’t sound like he’s buying it one hundred percent, but he is listening. According to the background briefing, the major is connected back home. Real connected, I bet.”

“That’s right,” Lab Rat said.

Lee nodded. “That’s about the only thing that could account for the major taking that tone of voice with him. Talk about disrespect — it’s not as much the words as the way he says it, the way he doesn’t back off. I knew there was something else going on between them.”

“Captain Chang Tso-Lin is a senior naval officer,” the senior chief said. “That major — a ground pounder. I’m betting that the captain understands a lot more than the major does at this point.”

Lab Rat nodded. “I wouldn’t doubt it. But how is Captain Chang supposed handle this? I mean, Ho Kung-Sun is supposed to be his liaison. The Taiwanese would not have put him here if they didn’t have some confidence in him.”

“So we let them work it out themselves?” the senior chief asked.

“Yes, but — it’s always ‘yes, but,’ isn’t it?” Lab Rat said. “We can’t afford to have any misunderstandings right now. Not when everything is about to break loose. So what do we do?”

The senior chief shrugged. “Above my pay grade, sir. But I’d sure as shit get in there with the admiral and tell him what’s going on. Then try to figure out what set this whole thing off. There’s got to be something.” The senior chief turned to Lee. “How about you hang out in combat for a few days, kind of listen in on what’s going on? I’ll have someone else cover your watches. You keep an eye on this major. Maybe you can pick up some clues from how he’s acting. Something’s gone and pissed him off, and we need to figure out what it is before it gets any worse.”

“Does Major Ho know you speak his language?” Lab Rat asked Lee.

Lee, who graduated first in his class from the Naval Language Institute, shook his head and smiled. Lee stood around six-foot-three and was a large black man. “No, he doesn’t. And I’m betting I’m not going to be his first guess.”