| |
SOUTH CHINA SEA
PALAWAN ISLANDS
14:26 THURSDAY 6 FEBRUARY
Lynne exited the cramped military aircraft that had flown her to Palawan Island and came to an abrupt halt, pounded by the heat radiating in rippling waves from the empty tarmac.
She gathered her gear and began walking toward what appeared to be the terminal building. She had covered half the distance when a jeep careened around the corner of the adjacent hangar and screeched to a stop at her side.
“Toss your stuff in the back. The captain is anxious to get underway.”
She interpreted this curt greeting as all the introduction she was going to get and scrambled in.
The driver gunned the engine and took off with a roar, barreling down the runway without waiting for her to get settled.
Thrown off-balance, she grabbed the seat frame. “How far is it?”
Her wide-eyed attention was riveted on near-misses of trucks, buses, various farm animals and pedestrians. She doubted they would survive the short trip.
Twenty harrowing minutes later, they slid to a stop enveloped in a cloud of dust and exhaust. The driver pointed out her destination, a small naval station set within the clutter of the port. He bid farewell without a hint of irony, “Have a safe trip.”
Lynne looked in the direction the driver indicated and set off for the ship that was to be her home for the next week. An officer detached himself from a group of sailors loading supplies and walked toward her.
“Ms. Lynne? I am the executive officer, Lieutenant Santos. If you will please follow me?”
Santos motioned for a sailor to pick up her gear and led the way while providing a brief description of his ship. “The Emilio Jacinto is considered to be the most capable patrol boat in the Philippine Navy. She displaces 710 tons and is armed with a 76mm cannon and four 7.62 machineguns.”
He completed his narrative as they boarded and led her aft before descending a ladder leading to a tiny room. “You will be using my stateroom. Now, if you will excuse me, my presence is required on deck. The petty officer will help you get settled.”
Lynne found her way to the bridge after unpacking and found a spot out of the way to observe the crew. The patrol vessel’s bow swung away from the quay and sailors were coiling the dripping forward lines on the deck. No longer tethered to the shore, the vessel’s freedom was announced by a shrill whistle over the ship’s speaker and a loud voice proclaiming, “Underway. Shift colors.”
Lynne felt the Emilio Jacinto come to life with the gentle lift and fall of the ocean swell as they headed toward the open sea. A green channel marker slipped by.
Satisfied all was well with his vessel, the ship’s captain motioned Lynne to join him. “Ms. Lynne, I am Captain Reyes. I trust you have found your quarters to your liking?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Excellent. I will be on the bridge for the next several hours, but if you would join me for dinner, we will review the particulars of our mission.”
A look of consternation crossed Lynne’s face. At a loss at what to do next, she didn’t move.
Reyes turned to face her. “You are welcome to stay if you wish. Our destination is First Thomas Shoal, 248 miles from our current location.”
* * *
FIRST THOMAS SHOAL
06:35 FRIDAY 7 FEBRUARY
Lynne secured the watertight door and stepped out on the weather deck just as the morning sun broke the horizon. The faint odor of diesel fumes greeted her and she could taste the salt in the air. The ocean, royal-blue tipped with white where waves broke over the barrier reef of a small horseshoe-shaped atoll.
There was already a great deal of activity on board. A knot of sailors clustered near the stern were preparing to launch the small boat she’d seen yesterday.
The unmistakable whopping sound of an approaching helicopter prompted her to look in its direction. She recognized the aircraft. A Vietnam-era Huey. The muzzle of a machine gun poked out the starboard door. Below the helicopter, two patrol vessels and what appeared to be an ancient World War II ship, an LST.
Now that’s interesting. I wonder what’s up?
Lynne turned her attention to the activity around the small boat. Reyes stood watching several Marines load satchels of explosives. He motioned her to join him.
“Good morning, Captain.”
“Good morning Ms. Lynne. How are you this fine Navy day?”
“I couldn’t be better, thank you. I see there is about to be some action?”
“Ah, yes. The ship’s boat and Marines. We are approaching an illegal maritime buoy the Chinese placed in our waters. It is a hazard to navigation and could endanger our fishermen by leading them onto the reef. I have been ordered to remove it.”
“And the Huey and other ships?”
“We are not anticipating any difficulties, but they are accompanying us to prevent any unfortunate accidents if an unsuspecting vessel should approach. We wouldn’t want someone to stumble into harm’s way as we dispose of this marker.”
“I see,” Lynne said, taking note of the scripted response.
“The smaller patrol boat is the Romblon, a gunfire support ship.”
Lynne studied the vessel, thinking Reyes use of ‘ship’ a bit overstated.
“And there. The ship coming abeam of us, the Salvador Abcede. Her displacement is only 147 tons, but she is our fastest and armed with one 40mm and two 20mm cannon. The amphibious ship is the Kalinga Apoyo. She is transporting reinforcements for our garrison on Pagasa Atoll north of our location.”
Reyes shifted his feet, anxious to resume supervision of his command.
“Captain, I apologize for keeping you from your duty.”
“Yes, if you will excuse me. Our small boat is rigged out ready to be lowered.”
Reyes took his place on the bridge and maneuvered the Emilio Jacinto to a safe distance while Lynne watched. Her excitement mounted, anticipating the fate of the Chinese channel marker.
She didn’t wait long. A thunderous explosion rocked the air. The buoy disappeared in a fountain of white water and swirling dirty-brown smoke. The boom of the explosive charge sent a flock of loitering sea birds scattering in disarray. They wheeled in the air, adding squawking protests to the din.
The sea birds had just settled down when the solitude of the isolated atoll was shattered again. This time, the roar of jet aircraft approaching at wave-top level punctured the quiet of the morning.
Lynne whirled, seeking the source of the ear-piecing noise. She spotted approaching planes, tensing in fear.
“They’re ours. F-5s,” the sailor standing next to her volunteered. “Judging from their markings, they’re from the 6th Tactical Fighting Squadron flying out of Villamore Air Force Base. Nothing to worry about.”
The jets roared overhead, splitting the air with a pair of sonic booms. They vanished to the north as quickly as they had appeared. Only a thin cloud of exhaust and silence remained. Despite their impressive display, Lynne learned that these vintage planes represented almost the entire operational jet aircraft of the Philippine Air Force.
* * *
The few curious Chinese who occupied the island were also watching the activity of the new arrivals. Their first reaction to the morning’s events was pleasant surprise, relieving the tedium of their daily existence. As awareness dawned, their good humor was replaced by shock, then anger, as several more buoys were blown out of the water.
They ran to their command building, jolted into action by the Filipinos. The message the garrison commander sent to his superiors at the PLAN headquarters on Hainan Island was not nearly as positive as the one a chuckling Captain Reyes sent to Cavite Naval Headquarters.
* * *
His primary mission complete, Reyes turned his attention to his next goal, the reinforcement of Pagasa Atoll laying one hundred and sixty miles to the northwest. He left the astonished Chinese behind and guided his small flotilla between the PLA installations on Johnson Atoll and Mischief Reef. The PLA forces were now on full alert and itching for a fight.
* * *
AT SEA
17:35
That evening, Lynne stood on the bridge observing the navigator plot the ship’s course. While the Spratly Islands appeared tightly grouped on her small map, she realized they covered a substantial portion of the ocean. “There are so many islands.”
“Very few people understand this,” the officer responded. “There are over one-hundred islands and atolls in the South China Sea oriented southwest to northeast, all scattered within this oval-shaped area two-hundred fifty miles wide by five-hundred miles long.”
Lynne noted a seamount defined by a deep slash crossing the chart. “What’s this?”
“The Palawan Trench.” The navigator traced his index finger across the chart. “The deep water is contiguous with the Ryuku Trench extending from the Southern Japanese Islands. American attack submarines ...”
“Oh?” Lynne said in response to the navigator’s mention of the U.S. ships.
“Captain on the bridge.”
The navigator gave way to allow Reyes access to the ship’s compass and chart table.
“Good evening, Ms. Lynne. I trust the navigator has been informative?”
“Thank you, Captain, he —”
“Sir, we were just going to talk about Pagasa Atoll,” the navigator interrupted, afraid he would be reprimanded for mentioning the submarines.
“Yes, we have occupied the atoll for almost thirty years. It lies barely fifty nautical miles north of the nearest Chinese occupied island. We believe the Chinese moved our missing fishermen to this area.”
* * *
Lynne retired to her stateroom armed with Captain Reyes’ insights and the images of what she had witnessed still vivid in her mind. She began to enter meticulous notes on her laptop, beginning with the evening’s discussions dealing with the geopolitical and military significance of the Spratly Islands.
Reyes had made a point to address the provisions of the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea. He emphasized that international law gave the Philippines the legal right to contest the occupation of their islands by the Chinese. However, with so many overlapping claims by the six principle countries involved, it was impossible to establish clear boundaries.
The next piece of the puzzle was the Manila Declaration. The ASEAN countries wrote the document in an effort to prevent the very confrontation that had occurred this past week. It was a futile gesture. Beijing took a divide and conquer approach and refused to sign the accord. They would only participate in bilateral discussions.
From her research, Lynne knew this point wasn’t lost on the diplomats gathering in Manila. The Philippine Undersecretary of Foreign Affairs spoke for the assembled nations: “You can’t discuss multiple conflicting national claims on a bilateral basis. The nations must negotiate on a multilateral basis to reach our common goal for peace in the region.”
Lynne recalled that particular quote. Well, gentlemen, at the moment nobody appears to be talking; bilateral or otherwise. Unless something happens real soon to turn things around out here, we’re headed for serious trouble.
With those concerns, Lynne opened a new file and began to compose her story.
“Tensions heightened this week between the Philippines and China over territorial rights in the strategic Spratly Islands following the destruction of maritime marker buoys by units of the Philippine Navy. The center of controversy between these two Asian countries lies in an unlikely scattering of barren coral atolls in the South China Sea that stand over suspected reserves of oil and natural gas. This is not the first time armed confrontations have occurred in this region...”
Her fingers froze on the keyboard, her mind wrestling with the wording of the next paragraph. She closed her laptop.
* * *
PAGASA ATOLL
11:23 SATURDAY 8 FEBRUARY
Any thoughts Lynne had entertained of Pagasa Atoll being a tropical paradise were driven from her mind when the patrol boat tied up alongside the small stone jetty. She adjusted her floppy hat to cut down the glare and stepped out the shade of the ship’s superstructure. She was slapped by a wave of heat supercharged by humidity.
The heat intensified as she walked down the prow onto the quay. The sun’s rays blasting off the bleached coral of the adjacent runway pounded against her body. She glanced at her watch. Not even noon.
A C-130 Hercules cargo plane was parked in front of her. Several men were taking refuge from the torrid heat in the slip of shade beneath its wing. Behind the plane, sat an army Huey helicopter. Adjacent to the runway stood a whitewashed concrete structure with a corroded tin roof. In front of the building, the Philippine flag hung lifeless from a short flagpole. Several yards away, a rusted ladder led up to an open observation tower topped by a thatch of palm fronds. Hidden by coarse grass and patches of scraggly bushes were several empty gun emplacements and a scattering of battered fifty-five-gallon oil drums.
Lynne turned back to the cargo plane stunned by the thought this desolate atoll could be the site of Armageddon. Two officers in sunglasses and flight suits emerged from the C-130’s cargo ramp. They looked in her direction, spoke a few words to each other, and sauntered over.
“Good morning,” the taller of the two said. “You must be, Ms. Lynne, the correspondent. We were told to expect you.”
“Yes, thank you.”
“I am Major Villanueva, the aircraft commander of the Hercules. You will be riding my aircraft back to Manila. This is Captain Baptiste, pilot of the Huey. He has been directed to fly you over several of the disputed islands to observe the Chinese activity. Captain Reyes has urgent matters to attend to and declined our invitation.”
The real truth behind the latter statement was Reyes didn’t trust the airworthiness of the Huey. The assurances given him by Captain Baptiste, who remarked with a straight face that all of the unsafe helicopters had already crashed, had done little to change his opinion.
Captain Reyes did have work to do, though. He had received a report from his superiors at the Western Military Headquarters. The PLAN was preparing several of their destroyers to get underway for the Spratlys. He was to locate and free the missing fishermen before the Chinese could intervene.
Lynne’s tour of the atoll’s primitive facilities took little time and she was soon airborne in the Huey. Afforded a bird’s eye view of the island, she noted its shape reminded her of a very large snail. The bulk of the island comprised the shell while the runway extending over the shoreline on either side of its base represented the head and foot. A concrete barrier at the far end of runway, stuck forth like the creature’s antennae. She doubted the small garrison could hold off a determined foe.
The atoll soon disappeared over the horizon and Lynne leaned forward in her canvas seat. All she could see was an empty sea. Their destination, Subi Reef, was twenty-six nautical miles to the north.
A slowing of their airspeed signaled their arrival fifteen minutes later. She studied the facility in the distance as Baptiste hovered at a safe distance to avoid antagonizing the Chinese.
A three-story concrete structure topped with a large communications dish perched on the small island. A narrow causeway jutted out from the main structure connecting to a helipad.
“There’s no sign of our missing fishing boat and the place looked pretty quiet until we showed up. There’s nothing we can accomplish here but invite trouble. We’re going to proceed northeast and check out several other islands before heading back.”
No sooner had these words been uttered than Lynne noted bright flashes twinkling from several corners of the building. She wondered if the garrison was trying to signal them and watched with detached curiosity the graceful flight of red and orange balls reaching out toward her. Curiously, they appeared to get bigger as they approached.
Baptiste’s reaction was much faster. “We’re getting the hell out of here.”
“Oh.” Lynne gasped as she collapsed back into her seat. Someone just tried to kill us.
“Hey, look over there. What in hell are they doing there?”
Lynne scanned the island in the direction Baptiste indicated. Covered with mangroves and coconut palms, nothing appeared remarkable. Then the open door of the Huey framed a fishing boat riding at anchor in a small cove. Lynne craned her neck, trying to keep the boat and two frantically waving fishermen in sight while the pilot maneuvered the helicopter to get a better view.
“Those look like PLAN patrol boats by the shore,” Lynne heard Baptiste tell his co-pilot. “Get plenty of shots of them and the fishing boat.”
Lynne pressed her back into the seat. She had seen all she cared to and prayed Baptiste wouldn’t press his luck. “How are we doing, Captain?”
“We’ve seen enough. Time to get these pictures back.”
* * *
The blades of the Huey hadn’t stopped rotating before Lynne and the digital photos of the three vessels were hustled aboard the C-130. The Hercules lifted off the coral runway and set a course to the northeast.
“Ms. Lynne,” Villanueva said, “Look out your window. Just forward.”
Lynne did as she was told. Below her, the ocean was cut with a long white arc scribed by the Kalinga Apoyo.
“Judging from her course change, the LST has received orders to return to Pagasa. I suspect she will be involved in the rescue effort of our fishermen. You know it was in these same waters in 1944 that Admiral Kurita was defeated in his attempt to destroy the American invasion force during the battle of Leyte Gulf. At the time, your Seventh Fleet was composed of over seven-hundred ships. It’s unfortunate your Seventh Fleet is not so large now.”
Lynne considered this statement. Villanueva had just pointed out, without a great degree of subtlety, a much smaller Seventh Fleet represented American interests in the region.
“Smaller doesn’t necessarily translate into weaker, Major. I suspect President Stuart is viewing the security issues in the South China Sea within a much broader context.”
“So how do you think he will respond to the Chinese threat in the Spratlys, Ms. Lynne?”
Lynne didn’t have an answer to his provocative question.
Villanueva spoke to her silence. “Things are different now, aren’t they?”