SOUTH CHINA SEA
The Vietnam People’s Navy patrol boat cut two of its three diesel engines a hundred meters out, and reduced the third to slow ahead as the skilled helmsman maneuvered it toward the Don Pedro, Guzmán’s fishing trawler.
Guzmán was surprised it had taken this long to be pulled over and inspected by one of the national services. He’d passed through the waters of four countries in the last two weeks, mostly to take on supplies, gather intelligence, and reinforce the “legend” that his purse seiner ship was, indeed, a working fishing vessel. It was. At least, in part.
The Don Pedro’s actual captain was a stoic, barrel-chested sailor named Järphammar with twenty years’ service in Baltic waters as an officer in the Swedish Royal Navy. Järphammar showed little concern when he was first hailed by the Vietnamese vessel, speaking in English to them through teeth clenched around his perpetually lit meerschaum pipe.
After requesting and confirming the Don Pedro’s identity from its AIS signal, the Vietnamese captain, Lieutenant Commander Phan, ordered the trawler to stop engines and prepare to be boarded for inspection.
Järphammar complied, readily.
The Vietnamese patrol boat was a familiar Russian design that the sturdy Swede had encountered before during his time of military service. Technically, it was half a meter shorter than the Don Pedro, but more than made up for its lack of stature with, among other armaments, a forward-mounted AK-630, a six-barreled 30mm rotary cannon similar to an American M61 Vulcan. Expending upward of five thousand rounds per minute, the AK-630 could shred the Don Pedro’s thin steel plating in a matter of seconds. Compliance was both logical and inevitable.
“We look forward to your visit, Commander,” Järphammar replied.
We do, indeed.
The Don Pedro was fishing in international waters currently undisputed between China and Phan’s own country, but close to it.
Too close, the Vietnamese captain thought.
The Chinese had been aggressively and illegally overfishing traditional Vietnamese waters for the last five years. Worse, the Chinese Maritime Militia (CMM) had become an active and effective arm of the PLA Navy. Drawing on China’s huge private fishing fleet, the PLAN had recruited nearly two hundred thousand civilian fishing vessels. PLAN variously supplied them with advanced electronic equipment, weapons, and training to carry out asymmetrical naval warfare duties. These fishermen-soldiers not only illegally fished Vietnamese waters, but harassed other nations’ fishing and naval vessels. They also hauled ammunition, weapons, and personnel to various PLAN outposts. And they supported the development of the “artificial islands” now permanent and prevalent throughout the South China Sea.
The Vietnamese People’s Navy, like every other regional navy, had become alarmed by the CMM’s activities. It was originally feared that the Don Pedro was one of these vessels in disguise. Phan was ordered to check it out.
From his bridge, Phan scanned the deck of the Don Pedro with his binoculars as his patrol boat approached. The blue-and-white civilian vessel appeared to be a working boat, with cranes and masts to support deepwater commercial fishing. The men on deck were either working or cleaning equipment. They all appeared to be men of fighting age and, it seemed, in good shape, which most deepwater sailors had to be. It was strenuous and dangerous work.
None of them appeared to be Chinese. An interesting mix of Europeans, Hispanics, and, he presumed, a few Africans.
“Oh,” Phan said aloud as his binoculars swept over the front deck. He nudged the naval infantry sergeant standing next to him and handed him the binoculars.
“Extreme danger, Sergeant. Better warn your men.”
The dour infantryman put the glasses to his eyes and scanned the deck, then broke out into a grin.
Three young women lay sunbathing on chaise lounges in string bikinis, leaving little to the imagination.
Perhaps this boarding won’t be so bad after all, Phan thought, taking back the glasses for a second long look at the young women.
Fifteen minutes later, lines had been secured and the two boats were lashed together, separated only by the Don Pedro’s heavy bumpers that squeaked with friction as the two ships bobbed in the gently rolling sea.
Lieutenant Commander Phan jumped the short distance between the vessels. He was followed by the sergeant and three more armed naval infantrymen with AK-74 rifles strapped to their chests. Phan and his men were greeted on deck by Captain Järphammar, who led Phan and his four men to the Don Pedro’s spacious bridge, equipped with the latest navigational equipment.
Järphammar introduced Guzmán as the ship’s owner. Guzmán offered up a friendly smile, an unopened bottle of Jack Daniel’s Black Label, and glasses.
Phan’s flint-faced demeanor softened slightly at the sight of the Jack Daniel’s. “No, we can’t while on duty, but thank you.”
“I understand,” Guzmán said, cracking open the bottle.
At that moment, two of the statuesque young women Phan had seen sunbathing earlier, one blonde, the other brunette, appeared in the cabin doorway carrying a huge ice chest between them. They were now both dressed in clean coveralls and introduced as the Don Pedro’s cooks. Both were taller than the Vietnamese men standing on the bridge.
They set the ice chest down on the deck and the blonde opened the lid. Thick slabs of pink tuna steaks and bottles of chilled Filipino Red Horse beer sat on top of the crushed ice.
“Japanese sushi chefs say that the southern bluefin is the best tuna for sashimi,” Guzmán said. “I prefer mine grilled with butter and pepper over a pit barbecue.”
“What is this?” Phan asked. It was enough food and drink for each member of his crew.
“The benefit of being a fishing boat is that we catch a lot of fish. Please accept this small token of our appreciation for keeping the oceans safe and allowing us to do our jobs and feed our families.”
The commander’s eyes fell on the tuna steaks. His mouth watered. “That is very generous of you. But I must inspect your ship.”
“We insist on it,” Järphammar said. “We need your documentation to prove that we are operating legally in these waters, unlike the goddamned Chinese.”
Phan’s jaw clenched when he heard “Chinese,” the name of his nation’s ancient mortal enemies with whom they’d been warring for a thousand years. His father had fought against the Americans in what the Vietnamese called the American War. But even his badly wounded father saw the Chinese as far worse enemies of his people than the American invaders, despite the millions of Vietnamese who had perished in that war.
Phan nodded his appreciation. “Then I thank you for your generous gift.” He turned to his sergeant. “Have your men carry this back to the ship.”
“Excuse me, sir,” the blonde said in accented English, shutting and securing the lid. “But we have a very special way we’d like to prepare the tuna if you will allow us to do so.” The two strong young women picked up the chest with ease. No need for smaller men to do it.
Phan exchanged a conspiratorial glance with his sergeant.
“We look forward to it,” Phan said. “I’ll inform our galley that you are on the way.” He turned back to his sergeant. “You and two of your men will begin the inspection, the other will escort these ladies to our galley.”
The sergeant smiled, turned, and barked his orders.
The youngest Marine led the way off the bridge with a smile as the two tall women bearing gifts followed behind him toward the stairs. The sergeant and the two other enlisted Marines exited the bridge as well to begin their inspection.
Phan turned to Järphammar. “Your papers, sir?”
Järphammar heard the Marines’ boots clanging on the steel steps as he pulled a thick leather folio from a nearby desk and handed it to him.
Guzmán brought over a glass of smoky bourbon to Phan, then handed one to Järphammar.
The Vietnamese officer glanced up, annoyed.
“Since we’re alone now.” Guzmán winked. He lifted his glass in a toast. “To the sea, and all that she gives.”
“Oh, what the hell.” Phan smiled. “To the sea!” He threw back his shot. It burned in the best kind of way, warming him all the way down his throat.
“Another?” Guzmán asked, holding up the bottle.
“No, thank you. That is quite enough.”
“A cigar?” Guzmán held out a thick Cuban Cohiba.
Phan wavered, then gave in. “Perhaps for later.” He accepted the cigar and pocketed it.
Guzmán reached under Järphammar’s desk and pulled out an unopened box of Cubans and handed it to the commander. “For you and your men, of course. Perhaps after dinner.”
Phan took the box and tucked it under one camouflaged arm. “The men will enjoy this.” He turned serious, suddenly remembering his duty. “Now, shall we proceed to our inspection?”
Järphammar nodded. “Follow me.”
Järphammar led Phan and Guzmán down the stairs toward the main deck, following the path the Vietnamese Marines took.
Guzmán saw that the Marines were sniffing around bins and holding tanks, pulling up tarps, checking equipment lockers. Nothing too aggressive, but thorough. His men were disciplined enough to cooperate enthusiastically, even joking with the soldiers as they worked.
Järphammar pointed out the features of his vessel to Phan, his voice booming with pride. He described its speed and endurance characteristics, the amount of fresh fish cargo it could hold in ice thanks to its onboard CO2 refrigeration system, and a host of other nautical features Guzmán couldn’t care less about.
Neither Phan nor his men paid attention to the women following the young Marine as they crossed over to the Vietnamese ship and headed into the bowels of the patrol vessel with their ice chest.
“Shall we head belowdecks so that you can inspect our equipment?” Captain Järphammar asked.
Phan waved the sergeant and his two Marines over to join him, then turned back to the beefy Swede. “Lead the way, Captain.”
Järphammar headed down the steel stairs first, followed by the three enlisted men, then Phan, and finally Guzmán. The smell of diesel and hydraulic fluid wafted up the staircase as they descended.
Järphammar stopped on the first level and pointed down the hallway. “Crew’s quarters.”
“How many?”
“Eighteen souls, all good seafaring men—and women, as you saw.” Järphammar laughed and winked, and gently punched the much smaller Vietnamese.
Phan nodded, nearly blushing.
Järphammar pointed to the descending staircase. “This way, gentlemen.”
Phan led the way, followed by his men. Guzmán and Järphammar were the last down. The Vietnamese commander heard and smelled the workings of some kind of machine shop, which struck him as somewhat odd. When he reached the lowest deck, he stopped, taken aback by what he saw. His men stood to one side. Järphammar and Guzmán stood close behind them.
More fighting-age men and a few women in great physical shape, including the third sunbather he’d seen earlier, were at their respective stations. Some were soldering motherboards, others constructing electronic equipment with fine tools. Still others sat at various computer screens monitoring AIS ship traffic, radar tracks of ships and aircraft, weather patterns, and other data. It looked like a combat information center. In the middle of the room was a twenty-foot-long steel table, and lying upon it was something out of a science fiction movie.
“What is this—”
Phan’s last words were choked off by the razor-sharp wire garrote that sliced through his windpipe.
Before the other three surprised Marines could react, Järphammar’s knife stabbed with lightning speed, like a needle on the end of a runaway sewing machine. All four men fell into a bloody heap on the rusted steel deck.
The men and women working on the floor hardly looked up.
Guzmán watched Järphammar wipe the blood off his Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife, a double-edge stiletto designed for surprise attacks, first made famous by the British commandos in World War II.
Guzmán nodded with an approving smile. “You are fast with that blade, amigo.”
“You should see what my wife can do with it.” The big Swede laughed, referring to the brunette “cook” who was now on the other boat.
And definitely not cooking.
The TALL BLONDE peeked around the corner of the door into the patrol boat’s bridge and called out, “Hello?”
The XO stood by the helmsman, trying to reach his commander on the radio. When he heard her voice, he turned around, frowning.
The blonde flashed a big toothy smile and came out fully from behind the wall holding out a bottle of chilled beer with her right hand, her left hand held casually behind her back.
“Commander Phan wanted you to have this.” She tossed the bottle at the Vietnamese officer. He instinctively reached out and caught it.
The bottle exploded in his hands as the frangible nine-millimeter round plowed through it and into his gut. The lead bullet dragged microscopic shards of glass along with it as it shredded his bowels. Two more shots barked out of the blonde’s cold, wet pistol as he fell backward.
At the same time, thirty .45-caliber hollow-point slugs tore around the confined space, ripping into the unprotected flesh of the helmsman and three other crewmen, their eyes wide with shock.
The bridge quickly filled with bitter blue gun smoke, the ice-chilled grip of the Heckler & Koch UMP machine pistol clutched in the brunette’s hands. She stood just behind the blonde, a wisp of smoke still curling from the crown of her SIG 365XL pistol.
The blonde’s ears rang from the deafening noise. She touched her own cheek with the barrel of her SIG, telling the brunette, “You’ve got a little blood . . .”
The brunette reached up and wiped off the arterial spray that had splattered on her face after knifing the young Marine escort and the killing spree belowdecks that followed.
“Call it in,” she said to the blonde. The Don Pedro’s assault team had boarded the Vietnamese vessel after the first shots rang out in the galley. The assaulters killed the rest of the crew as the women worked their way toward the bridge.
The blonde radioed over to Guzmán on her comms. She shouted loudly, nearly deaf from the ringing still in her ears. “We’re clear. Send the sappers.”
One of the Don Pedro’s assaulters scrambled up behind the brunette, breathing hard, his carbine in hand, his face anxious.
“What’s the problem?” the brunette asked.
“Your man Sablek. He’s gone.”
Later that night, Guzmán leaned over the rail on the stern of the ship, smoking one of the fat Cohibas, the copper blades of his boat’s single propeller frothing the dark water behind them like a ribbon of light.
Järphammar stood next to him with his pipe, nursing a beer, commiserating.
“These things happen in war, my friend. He was a good soldier and died doing his duty. That’s an epitaph I’ll take any day.” The Swede took another puff on his pipe.
The thin moonlight exaggerated the deep puncture scars in Guzmán’s round face, making them look like shadowed craters on a brown, fleshy moon.
“Sablek was just a kid. And we’re not at war.”
“He was a 2nd REP para with the Legion”—the French Foreign Legion—“and tough as nails. He knew what he was getting into when he joined with them. And he knew what he was getting into when he joined with us.”
“He was only twenty-six.” Guzmán took a long pull on his cigar and exhaled. The blue smoke wafted away into the dark behind them. “That’s too young to die for money.”
“He didn’t die for money. You know that. He died for us, as we would have died for him.” Järphammar took another swig. “We were his family. That means something, doesn’t it?”
“Not to his widow.” Guzmán examined the stub of his cigar, turned up his nose at it, and tossed it overboard. “I will see to it she gets a double share for his trouble.”
“That’s good of you, patrón.”
“A family takes care of its own.”
Järphammar worried for his boss. He’d seen these dark moods before in his years as his number three in the Sammler organization. He knew not to try and talk him out of his despair.
“Still no word from Bykov?” Guzmán asked.
“No, sir.”
Guzmán was now certain that Ryan was connected to van Delden’s death. Bykov had been sent to kill the big American for that but he hadn’t reported back in. This was worrisome as well.
Guzmán took the loss of one of his people like it was the loss of one of his own children, of which he had none. But van Delden’s death hit him hardest. The big Dutchman had been Guzmán’s first European recruit and a close friend.
“Did Harte make the AIS swaps?” Guzmán asked for the second time in the last ten minutes.
The Swede didn’t know if his boss was being extra cautious or if he was just distracted by his grief. It wasn’t like him to repeat himself.
“As you ordered. He swapped ours out and put it on the Vietnamese boat and killed their VDR before we scuttled it. The world will think the Don Pedro sank with all hands lost somewhere in the South China Sea.”
“And our new AIS is online and broadcasting?”
“You are now the proud owner of the Lupita, under a Panamanian flag.”
“And what did you do with the Vietnamese AIS?”
“Harte decided to put a battery on it and launch it on a weather balloon. At last report, it was traveling due east at fifteen knots.”
“A weather balloon? Won’t that be a problem?”
“AIS doesn’t measure altitude. It’s strictly GPS. Longitude and latitude only.”
He clapped Guzmán on the arm as his broad face broke into a wide smile. “But it would be funny if the Vietnamese thought their patrol boat was sailing along at seven thousand feet.” The Swedish captain swore that a small grin was tugging at Guzmán’s troubled face but in the dark it was hard to know for sure.
“I’m heading for my bunk. Notify me when we reach the next waypoint.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Järphammar watched Guzmán climb the ladder toward the bridge and his private stateroom. The Swede polished off the last of his beer, then tossed the empty into the churning wake behind him, knowing it would sink eventually somewhere out in the dark.