Shattered Trident

4. COVERT ALLIANCE

22 August 2016

Tokyo University, Waseda Campus

Hongo, Bunkyo Ward, Tokyo

It had not started well. Then it got worse.

The Littoral Alliance, which appeared to be the most popular label for the new collaboration, was supposed to be a secret from the Chinese. Therefore, Komamura had suggested having the first face-to-face meeting of the principals at his university. The University of Tokyo was one of the most prestigious schools in Asia, and its Graduate School of Economics sponsored a nonstop calendar of international seminars and conferences. The Chinese would be much less likely to notice the heads of several Asian navies in one place if they met at his school instead of a military base.

It should have been trivial for one of Todai’s most famous professors to reserve several seminar rooms. But the school had needed to know what conference the rooms were for. So Komamura had invented one, on “maritime economics,” and then had to invent a reason why information on the “conference” should not appear on the school’s Web page or in the newsletter. And he had to submit a preliminary list of attendees at least a week before the conference, and a final list within twenty-four hours of the opening session…

There seemed to be a hundred details, each requiring phone calls and e-mails. And with every interaction, he’d wondered if this was the one the Chinese would spot. Regardless of its innocence, each communication was a data point, a stone in the river. Given enough rocks, the Chinese might find a path across.

His classwork suffered. Even after unloading every duty he could on his hard-working graduate students, there were certain tasks he refused to delegate. Doctoral dissertations needed to be reviewed, lecture notes updated. It was work, but work he enjoyed because of his fascination with economics.

And then there were the frequent meetings with Admiral Kubo. Komamura looked forward to them, and he believed the chief of the maritime staff enjoyed the break from his demanding routine.

Kubo Noriaki was a small, square-faced man, legendary for the long hours he put in at his desk, and his love of sumo wrestling. The admiral always dressed in civilian clothes, which did nothing to change the air of authority that surrounded him. Sitting in a Tokyo udon restaurant, the two looked like a pair of senior executives on their lunch break. Tokyo had hundreds of such shops, and they never ate in the same one twice.

Their last meeting had not been as pleasant as most. Komamura had received word from his contacts in both India and Taiwan, on the same day, that they would not be attending his conference, even as observers. He was depressed, and it surprised him that he was so upset.

“Of course you take it personally. This alliance is your child, sensei.” Kubo insisted on addressing him using the same honorific Komamura’s students used. It could mean “teacher,” or “master,” and implied a level of professional respect that Komamura really didn’t feel worthy of right then. Kubo also insisted, because of his civilian “cover,” that Komamura simply address him as “Kubo-san.”

The admiral was realistic. “Not everyone will think the alliance is as necessary as you do. India has reasons for keeping its distance. They are not directly threatened by Chinese expansion into the South China Sea, at least not yet. They are interested in ways of weakening their greatest enemy, but their participation is a risk with much less benefit. They will join once they believe we have a good chance of success.

“Taiwan is a different problem. They have lived next to the dragon for seventy years, and are very cautious. If China discovered the alliance, and that Taiwan was involved, it would be disastrous for us and more so for Taiwan.”

Kubo asked, “If China succeeds in gaining control over the resources in the South China Sea—oil, food, minerals, not to mention control of the sea lanes—what are the long-term consequences for Taiwan?”

Komamura answered, “I covered that in the book, of course. Even a conservative—”

“I mean the political consequences, Professor,” Kubo interrupted. “Ten and twenty years later. You said it yourself, in chapter nine. ‘Political power is based on, and is directly proportional to, economic power.’ You even had a chart. Can Taiwan remain independent under those circumstances?”

“Politically,” Komamura mused. “With China stronger, possibly the strongest economy in the world, and all the littoral nations weaker. Taipei would have little choice but to accept unification, on Communist Chinese terms.”

“Then that’s the message you must give to the Taiwanese leadership. If you use only economic or military arguments, you will not convince them.”

“Am I really the best man for this task?” Komamura asked. “I’m not a diplomat.”

“You are the famous author of Navies for Asia. We believe that your independence from the Japanese government is an asset, not a disadvantage. You will speak your mind, not parrot our government’s agenda. As to your lack of expertise, you’ve inspired three governments to work together. Considering the historical bad blood between us, you’ve performed nothing short of a miracle to get this far. With time, the others too will be convinced. When will you go to Taiwan again?”

“I’ve been invited to lead a seminar at Zuoying Naval Yard next week.” He paused. “After the conference.”

“It’s a good time to speak to them. We will know so much more. And right before you go, there’s a microbrewery here in Tokyo you should visit. Admiral Wu Chen loves their Kenji Weizen.”

24 August 2016

By Water

Halifax, Nova Scotia

He’d moved to the house in Purcell’s Cove ten years ago, paying far too much, but it was unthinkable to be away from the water. It hadn’t been in the best shape when he bought it, and since then he’d fixed what he could by himself, and let the rest age gracefully.

Hector Alexander McMurtrie didn’t care what the outside of the house looked like, and he cared even less about the yard. He’d dealt with the neighbors’ complaints by planting evergreens, which had eventually blocked the view, except toward the ocean.

“Mac” left the kitchen, which also doubled as the dining room, and headed for his office at the other end of the house. He passed what could have been a formal dining room but was instead filled with filing cabinets. They lined two walls, while shelves above them were filled with ship models and nautical memorabilia. Prints and nautical charts covered every patch of wall space above chest level. The hallway was similarly decorated.

He shuffled past the first bedroom, where he actually slept, lined with bookshelves, and entered what should have been the master bedroom but was instead his office.

The house was sited on a low rise, and built so that bay windows in the kitchen and master bedroom faced the water. Mac didn’t see any reason for spending his time with his eyes closed in the room with the best view of the ocean.

The shelf formed by the large bay window held his favorite relics and models: a Hog Islander his father had helped him build when he was thirteen, a small piece of the merchant ship Mont-Blanc, shattered in the 1917 explosion, several seashells, and other treasures, none of them tall enough to block the view.

He stood looking out for several moments, gauging the weather. Clear, with thin high stratus. A pair of binoculars sat in one corner of the window shelf, but there was nothing on the horizon to look at.

His desk, secondhand when he bought it, faced the blank wall next to the bay. All Mac had to do was turn his head to the left and he could check to see if the ocean was still there. The desk was extended on either side by folding tables. One was loaded with printers, a server box, and a wide-bed scanner, while the other was covered with papers and reference books. Behind him a bookcase had been divided into cubbyholes, each labeled and holding a project, some urgent, and some waiting years for the right moment.

Bookshelves filled the available wall space, prints and photos and maps covered the walls, and ship models and assorted maritime knickknacks occupied every horizontal surface.

Taking a large sip from his third cup of coffee, Mac was ready to get to work, although he hardly thought of it as such. Twelve years ago, when the Irving Shipbuilding Company had offered early retirement, he’d jumped at it. Now, on the high side of sixty, his second career kept him typing ten or twelve hours a day, more if he wanted. It felt like he’d always done it this way, as if being a naval architect had just helped prepare him for his real occupation.

As he’d expected, the electronic inbox was full. E-mails from friends and associates all over the world passed on bits of information on naval and merchant ships, or asked questions about naval technology. Some sent images, others brought new work: requests for two book reviews just this morning, an offer of collaboration on a photo book, and a request for an article on steam-powered reciprocating propulsion plants. That was one of his specialties.

It was his own fault. Thirty years ago, he’d started a computer bulletin board on GEnie with his own mix of naval news, opinion, and outright bias. That had evolved into “Bywater’s Blog,” named in honor of another naval writer, Hector C. Bywater. It was also a play on words, since the mailbox in front of his home read BY WATER.

Because he was usually right, and often insightful, he’d attracted more and more readers, who had provided more and more information. Part of the fun was not just reading the latest gossip, but adding a piece, or two, to the jigsaw puzzle. One of Mac’s smarter ideas had been to include the amount of new information contributed to the membership statistics. Now other naval writers, sailors from navies and the merchant service, and hundreds of enthusiasts competed to send him information.

His digital empire included an online database and daughter blogs on warship developments, shipbuilding, and maritime losses. The spinoffs had greatly improved the readability of his daily blog, but had also doubled, or even tripled, the amount of e-mail he had to answer.

“Last twenty years?” snorted Mac with amusement. “Try the last hundred.”

“MerchantMan” was the handle for one of his longtime correspondents, a real-life merchant sailor who helped keep his database up to date. He’d know the answer to the coal dust question as well as Mac, but he was trying to rule out a theory.

Mac began his digital excavation. When steamships had used coal for fuel, the dust could mix with the air in dangerous concentrations. Explosions weren’t common, but they weren’t unheard of, either. It was suspected as the true cause for the loss of USS Maine in Havana in 1898, and as a contributing factor to the loss of several warships in World War I.

But the precautions against coal dust were well known, and Mac could find no ship lost to that cause since 1937. Probably not coal dust, then. But then why had she disappeared?

He called up the news reports of the loss. The media said that search planes had found nothing along her planned route, which was a well-traveled shipping lane. There had been no distress calls, which would be consistent with an explosion. The weather had been good, both for the search and for several days before. There were no navigational hazards along her route, which was well known and traveled daily by dozens of other ships.

Naval lore was littered with mysterious losses, some resolved decades later, but many still with secrets known only to the sea. Mac started typing.

Sending the e-mail, he reflected for a moment, then wrote a short piece on Vinaship Sea for his daily blog. He described her disappearance, the lack of explanations for it, and pumped up the mystery as much as his conscience allowed. Then he asked for information, or suggestions that would resolve this “newest mystery of the sea.”

Mac hit the “Return” key and checked his watch. Half an hour for one e-mail. He’d have to do better than that if he was going to get any time to work on the book review.

25 August 2016

Tokyo University, Waseda Campus

Hongo, Bunkyo Ward, Tokyo

In the end, they’d just placed a table at the front for Komamura and his assistants, while the delegations from Vietnam, South Korea, and Japan occupied three tables in a single row. Each admiral had brought only one aide, an intelligence specialist, and a translator. Komamura felt the absence of India and Taiwan, but it couldn’t be helped, he told himself.

The Japanese support staff, heavily biased toward security personnel, outnumbered the attendees, and Komamura did his best to keep them out of sight. The Japanese were hosting the meeting, but this was not supposed to be a Japanese event, or a Japanese-led alliance.

There were no flags, no nameplates, and most strikingly, no uniforms. No one had objected to wearing civilian clothes, but all three delegations had asked about a dress code, so everyone had shown up in business suits. The South Koreans even had matching ties.

Admiral Park Uchin was visibly the youngest of the three naval leaders, and had been Chief of Naval Operations for the ROK Navy for only six months. He’d only met with Komamura once, and in very cloak-and-dagger surroundings, at a bench in Pusan’s Yongdusan Park. “I’m required to report anything more than ‘casual contact’ with foreigners to counterintelligence,” Park had explained. “I’m exercising my discretion in what is considered casual contact.”

Komamura was surprised. “Are you that worried about the reliability of your own intelligence people?”

“Nobody knows about this, except people I’ve known personally for many years, and of course, my superiors,” Park insisted. “The enemy is just a little distance to the north, and China just beyond. I am taking no chances.

“But it’s worth the risks,” Park continued. “We’ve got our hands full just dealing with the north. Someday, maybe soon, Kim’s regime will fall, rotten and weak from its own corruption. We will have a moment’s opportunity to unify our country, but few think it will be as peaceful as Germany.

“A dominant China will not help our cause. Better the Americans, or your alliance if the Americans are too weak. When the crisis comes, we stand a better chance of success with friends at our side.”

The “conference” had begun with the formal signing of the document creating the Littoral Alliance. It was short, just two pages, and only three copies were made. Hidden like the rest of the alliance, each copy would be kept in the owner’s safe until it was necessary to reveal its existence.

After a quick toast with rice wine, the admirals had listened to an intelligence brief, given by Commander Ty of the Vietnamese delegation. The three intelligence officers attending the conference, assisted by extremely small staffs, would serve as the group’s intelligence arm. No one nation would command or lead the alliance. Instead temporary commanders would be appointed for specific tasks, depending on need and availability.

After reporting the Chinese Navy’s status, Ty described the search for Vinaship Sea. Nearby merchant ships had reported an explosion and debris consistent with her projected position. There had been no sign of her crew of twenty-two. The Vietnamese shipping company had not linked those reports to Vinaship Sea. Instead, false positions reports, filed by the Vietnamese shipping company since her sailing from Ho Chi Minh City, had placed the freighter one hundred nautical miles northwest of Luzon when she “disappeared.”

“While a formal investigation is under way, Chinese retaliation for the mining of Liaoning is the most likely possibility. Questions?”

Admiral Kubo smiled. “You phrased that last sentence very carefully, Commander, but is there any other possible explanation?”

Ty raised his hands helplessly. “We have no proof of any cause, only the fact of her sudden loss, and the timing. None of us believe this is a coincidence,” he said, looking at the other intelligence officers, who nodded their agreement.

“If they’ve managed to trace the mining of Liaoning back to Vietnam, then the alliance is already in jeopardy.” Admiral Park did not speak casually. They’d all been briefed on the basic facts of Vinaship Sea’s loss days ago. The Korean admiral was challenging the entire idea of covert cooperation. “How long can we act without retaliation against one or all of us? We can share intelligence, and even conduct surveillance, but an alliance in more than name demands action, and that will be the start of a war we cannot win.”

Komamura, in the front of the room, broke in to the discussion. “I agree. Even acting together, we are too weak to challenge China’s military strength. Even with America on our side, the issue would be in doubt. And the destruction and economic cost would be catastrophic.”

Komamura paused for a minute. Admiral Park looked unhappy, even though Komamura had just agreed with him, but Admiral Hieu motioned to the other Vietnamese and tilted his head slightly toward the Japanese table. Kubo seemed unconcerned. The Vietnamese officer stated, “And you have a plan.”

“Yes, Admiral, I do. I am only hesitating because I’ve never commanded a ship or even worn a uniform, and yet I’m standing before the heads of three navies. Please excuse my presumptuousness, but I believe the key is an asymmetric attack, matching our strength against the Chinese weakness.”

“Our submarines,” Hieu answered.

“Yes,” Komamura confirmed. “Your attack on Liaoning was possible because your navy has first-line subs, and Chinese anti-submarine warfare is poor at best. In spite of the escort vessels patrolling outside the harbor, your captain was able to penetrate their screen, lay his mines, and withdraw without being detected.”

Gesturing to the other two admirals, Komamura continued, “Japan and South Korea also have first-class submarine arms, at least one and often two generations ahead of their PLAN equivalents. Admiral Kubo has said that the Soryu class, even though it is conventionally powered, would have several advantages over even the Chinese nuclear boats, including quieting, sensors, and weapons.” Kubo silently nodded his agreement.

“I agree,” Park declared. He stood and bowed slightly toward the professor. “This shows great insight. Between our three countries, we can blockade almost every Chinese naval base and catch other units at sea.” His expression had changed completely, his face now alight with the idea. “We can deploy covertly and coordinate our first attacks. Perhaps we can time them to catch Liaoning as they tow it from Yulin to Dalian, and finish her off. We can inflict tremendous damage on the PLAN in the first twenty-four hours. They won’t feel safe outside their own harbors, much less the South China Sea. The shock to their navy, to their leadership, would be tremendous.”

“It would be a humiliation,” Komamura agreed, unhappily, embarrassed, “but I regret to say that this is not the course I envisioned. Even if such an offensive were completely successful, sending our submarines against their fleet would clearly be a classic military conflict, a clash of navies. It’s impossible for our subs to repeatedly attack naval vessels, especially after the initial surprise is lost, without being detected. Even if our boats evade counterattack, detection leads to identification, which would inevitably lead to retaliation.

“China’s political leadership would be compelled to respond, and to the world they would be the aggrieved party. All of our countries are within range of Chinese aircraft and missiles, and we cannot sink enough of their navy to prevent it from actions against our shipping or coastlines. It would still become a wide-scale war.”

Admiral Park clearly wasn’t happy. “It’s a classic matchup of our strength against their weakness. Why wouldn’t it work?”

The professor replied, “Because while anti-submarine warfare is a weakness in the Chinese Navy, it is not a fatal one for China. Her true weakness is her dependence on energy from abroad. If you want to make them feel pain, shut off their oil.”

Nodding toward Admiral Park, Komamura explained, “I agree that a covert deployment and a timed, coordinated offensive is important, but the target should be the merchant ships bound for Chinese ports, specifically, their tankers. Their economy is balanced on a knife’s edge. It would not happen overnight, but halting their oil imports will hurt them badly. They can compensate, at least at first, but the compensation itself will trigger other problems.”

“Why wouldn’t they respond to an attack on merchants the same as attacks on their navy?” Park countered.

“Because a merchant has no way to detect the identity of its attacker,” the professor answered. “Until China can supply proof of nationality, it will be reluctant to act overtly, especially since two of our members are U.S. allies. There is historical precedent. During the Spanish Civil War, unidentified ‘pirate’ submarines sank Soviet merchant ships bringing supplies to the Republican forces. They were Italian subs, but while there were suspicions and accusations, the Russians could never provide proof.”

“That can’t last forever,” Park argued.

“It won’t last long,” Hieu agreed. “And China won’t wait to act. There will be covert responses against anyone she suspects. And we all have merchant ships, too.”

“Every day of uncertainty is a day we’re hurting them and they’re not hurting us,” Kubo answered. “We can even leak suspicions that the ‘first’ merchant ship lost, Vinaship Sea, was caused by a Chinese attack. And we can pull our merchants out of harm’s way and effectively embargo trade with China at the same time. That will deny her strategic materials, sophisticated machinery and electronic imports.”

“How long will it take for her economy to show the effects?” Hieu asked.

Komamura felt more comfortable with this question, and he’d researched it carefully. “They have a strategic oil reserve of ninety days at their normal consumption rate, but they’ve already started using it because of shortfalls in their oil imports,” he explained. Seeing their faces, he quickly added, “But we will not have to wait that long. Oil prices will spike. That will cause pain by itself, and then China will see her shipping costs increase by as much as fifty percent. Together, these will cause great stress. Shortages will quickly affect many sectors of their economy.”

“And your goal?” Kubo prompted, as if he knew the answer.

“At least a recession, and preferably an economic depression.” Even as its author, Komamura hated the sound of it. Economists wanted to fix things, not wreck them.

“Not a collapse?” Park asked.

“No, Admiral,” Komamura quickly responded, “that would be a disaster for all of us. Famine and civil unrest in the largest nation on earth? It could create the greatest humanitarian disaster in history, and nobody can predict the political consequences.” He spoke with great intensity. How many would die? What would China’s leaders do to stave off famine?

“It would replace greed with desperation,” the professor explained. “I believe it is enough to give China’s leaders a new set of long-term problems.”

Park looked thoughtful. “And we do not attack PLAN vessels.”

Komamura shrugged. “Except in self-defense, of course. We must do our best not to give the Chinese an opportunity to play the victim on the world stage. Their submarines are a special case. We shouldn’t go looking for them, but since they can attack our merchant ships, if one of our subs meets one, we should sink it.”

“When should we start this campaign?” Hieu asked.

“Now. This very minute.” Komamura felt the intensity return. “Damaging their carrier threw their plan into disorder, but nobody believes they have abandoned their goal entirely. In that case, the sooner we close the valve, the better.”

“This means more than just sending out our submarines,” Park argued. “Our armed forces have to be prepared, our merchant ships diverted. If there’s to be an embargo, we should be stockpiling critical materials.”

“Any visible action may warn China,” Komamura countered. “I recommend sending out your submarines immediately, but take no other detectable action until Chinese merchant ships begin sinking. After that happens, your actions can be explained as reactions to those events.”

Komamura took the time to study the reaction of each delegation. He saw general agreement with the plan, but the import and scope of the consequences were just now becoming clear. Having heard Komamura’s plan before, Kubo was calmest. Park looked thoughtful, but his aide was writing at a furious pace.

Hieu’s face was hard, almost angry. “Our nation has been at war since Banh Mi mined the carrier,” he declared. “All three of our submarines will be under way within the hour. The rest of our armed forces have been quietly preparing. If this conference had not ended as it has, we were prepared to begin the struggle ourselves. We have fought and won against powerful enemies before.”

The Vietnamese admiral stood and bowed slightly. “The Socialist Republic of Vietnam is honored to join our cause to yours.”

26 August 2016

By Water

Halifax, Nova Scotia

Mac tried to keep a regular schedule, stopping in the late evening. At his age, he felt a late night much more than he used to. But he loved communicating with friends scattered all over the globe, sharing their interests and knowledge. Sometimes it was hard to stop.

Threads of a dozen conversations passed through the keyboard, and Mac often imagined himself playing ping-pong with his correspondents, but instead of balls, batting information back and forth. It was a good game, and in the end both players won.

Mac studied the e-mail, reading it through twice. He wished he could track down the captain of Hanjin Malta and ask him about the “column of smoke.” That sounded like an explosion, and a big one. How high had the column gone? How far away had they been from the victim? The report didn’t list Hanjin Malta’s starting location, but it had taken her almost an hour to reach the scene, presumably at her best speed.

That he could work with. He called up her particulars. Motor Vessel Hanjin Malta, call sign D977, length 289 meters, beam 32 meters, maximum speed 16.7 knots, built in…

He could ignore the rest. The container ship had been at least fifteen nautical miles away from the unfortunate vessel, which meant a column, what, a hundred, two hundred feet high? At least.

Mac was familiar with explosions at sea, although he’d never been in the military. If you cared about the sea, and you lived in Halifax, you knew about the December 1917 collision between the relief ship SS Imo and SS Mont-Blanc, carrying thousands of tons of TNT, picric acid, and guncotton. The force of the explosion had been calculated at three kilotons. They’d heard it on Cape Breton, over two hundred miles away.

It killed two thousand people, as well as leveling most of the town. That smoke column had ascended to twenty thousand feet, but an explosion of “only” a few hundred feet still meant tons of explosive, enough to shatter the hull of most vessels, including this one, obviously. And an explosion that big could not be caused by coal dust.

But was it Vinaship Sea? He pulled up a digital chart and plotted the freighter’s track, based on her departure time, then started measuring. Her reported position was hundreds of miles from the site of the explosion reported by Hanjin Malta. But on the chart, Mac could see that the distance along Vinaship Sea’s track seemed the same as the distance from Ho Chi Minh City to the explosion when backtracked two days. This proved nothing, but still, two unexplained ship losses, closely related in time, and in the same region strained credibility.

Why hadn’t Vinaship Sea’s owners made the connection? Marine losses were widely reported in the trade journals and on the Web. And one would think her owners would want to explain the loss of a vessel worth hundreds of millions of dollars.

If Vinaship Sea had been hijacked without making a call for help, which seemed unlikely, that would explain her position. But then what had blown her up? He wanted to solve the riddle, but part of him loved the mystery.

He made a new entry in Bywater’s Blog, titled “Two Mysteries or Just One?” He laid out all the known details, and started asking questions. “The cause of Vinaship Sea’s loss remains unexplained. Why are there no reports of her being in distress along a heavily traveled sea lane? Instead, a second (reported) loss has appeared, with gross cause (explosion) and location explained, but no company or nation has stepped forward to claim the casualty. Rough calculations indicate the cargo included at least four tons of high explosive or its equivalent, possibly much more.”

Mac stopped the entry there. He didn’t need to mention “arms smuggling.” It was an obvious, if fantastic possibility. It could easily be something more prosaic, but much more complicated. And even if it was arms smuggling, what made them explode?

His nautical investigation had carried him to almost two in the morning. Then it took him a while longer to fall asleep, his mind still searching for new possibilities.

The phone woke him a little after 8:00 A.M. It was a young woman’s voice. “Is this Mr. Hector McMurtrie? My name is Christine Laird. I’m a journalist with CNN. Are you the administrator of a ‘Bywater’s Blog’?”

Her tone made it clear she was unsure of the name, but her introduction had given him a chance to force his eyes open and unstick his tongue. “Mph. Garh…”

“Did I wake you, sir? I’m very sorry, but we’re short on time. We’re preparing to run a story on the loss of a merchant ship and your blog…”

That woke him up completely. “You mean Vinaship Sea?” he interrupted as he switched the receiver to his other hand. That allowed him to reach for his glasses. He certainly didn’t need them to speak on the phone, but putting them on banished the fuzzy vision and made him feel more awake.

“Yes, exactly,” she said brightly, even as she seemed surprised that he’d know the name of the ship. “We’d like to quote your blog during our piece, and your claim that the Vinaship Sea was the victim of sabotage—”

“No,” McMurtrie spoke quickly, “I never said that.” It took fifteen minutes to make her understand that there were two separate locations and that the facts were complete in neither case. Trying to work in a bigger mention of the blog, he began explaining how others had worked with him to investigate the loss, but she was obviously frustrated with having to report a mystery rather than an incident. Her replies became more impatient, and he could tell she was ready to end the conversation.

Then he remembered the idea about the captain of Hanjin Malta.