Red Tide, стр. 35
“It wouldn’t be wise to share either one,” Greer replied. “Not yet anyway. Will you send a boat? Over.”
“I’ll get back to you on that,” Reacher-Three replied. “Please continue to monitor this frequency. Out.”
“So,” Dalisay said. “What’s going to happen now?”
“The Filipino air force will send planes to shoot us down.”
“Will they? Shoot us down?”
“Don’t be silly,” Greer replied. “We have plenty of sky to hide in.”
That made sense and Dalisay nodded.
As for Greer, he knew better than to believe that bullshit, and was waiting to die.
***
The Celebes Sea, north of Manado, Indonesia
U.S. Navy Commander Max Ryson was stretched out on a bunk with his clothes on, and oblivious to the fact that the PHM Cumulus was hullborne, and pushing her way through three-foot seas. The dream was nothing new. He was ten or twelve and trying to find his way through a corn maze. Pops was somewhere nearby and yelling instructions like, “Take the next right!”
But each turn led to a dead end and Ryson was frightened. Then a second voice was heard. “Sorry to bother you, sir … But the skipper wants you on the bridge.”
Ryson awoke, swung his feet over onto the floor, and remembered where he was: perched on Katie Barkley’s bunk while she conned the ship. “Tell her I’ll be there in a minute. I need to bleed my tank.”
The com tech’s name was Evers. She grinned. “Sir, yes sir.”
Ryson felt the bow rise on a wave before sinking again as he entered the head. A moderate sea was his guess and nothing to worry about.
That assumption was proven correct after Ryson made his way forward and up the ladder to the bridge. It was dark outside but Ryson knew that the PHM Fractus was half a mile to port and on the same course.
Barkley was present, along with Quartermaster Chris Sanchez, and Combat Systems officer Marsha Lee. She started to say, “Attention on deck,” but Ryson waved the courtesy off. “What’s up? And it better be good. I was dreaming of an ice-cold chocolate milkshake.”
Barkley grinned. “Good luck with that, sir. A mug of coffee is the best we can do. According to the SAR folks some guy named Wong is flying a plane our way. He claims to be low on fuel, and will be forced to ditch north of Karakelong Island.
“But here’s the weird part … Wong claims to have a list of Chinese sleeper agents in the Philippines, which he’s willing to turn over in return for asylum.”
Ryson accepted a mug of coffee from Lee. “Do we have a recording?”
Barkley said, “Yes sir.” She was wearing a headset and clicked it on. “Hey, Evers … Play the SAR message to the bridge.”
“Okay,” Ryson said, once the recording stopped. “That is strange. Is it my imagination, or does Wong have a southern accent? And would a civilian request air cover?”
Barkley had bangs and narrow set eyes. She nodded. “Exactly. There isn’t much to go on. But we think he might be one of ours. A downed pilot perhaps.”
Ryson sipped his coffee. “Right. But why pretend to be a guy named Kilo Wong?”
“Because he is one of ours,” Lee offered.
Ryson nodded. “What do you think? Could we make it in time?”
“That depends on what he’s flying,” Barkley replied. “Assuming it’s a prop job, I’d say yes.”
“What does the Indonesian navy have on Karakelong?” Ryson inquired. “Maybe they can respond.”
“I’ll find out,” Barkley answered, and summoned Evers up to the bridge.
Ryson took a moment to reflect. If Wong was Wong, and in possession of the kind of list he described, then a rescue was consistent with the squadron’s orders. And if Wong wasn’t Wong, but an American pilot, it was his duty to make the pickup.
It took fifteen minutes to find out that, while the Indonesians had a couple of launches stationed at Karakelong, they were lightly armed, and no match for what the Filipinos and/or the Chinese would probably send south. “Okay,” Ryson said. “Send the following message to fleet headquarters. ‘Aircraft carrying an American pilot, or what could be an intelligence asset, is going to ditch north of Karakelong. Planning to intercept. Request air cover.’ And sign my name.”
“Yes, sir,” Evers replied.
Ryson turned to Barkley. “Plot a course to an arbitrary point north of Karakelong. Get the Fractus on the horn, brief Conte, and tell him we’re going foilborne in five.”
Barkley nodded. “Aye, aye sir.”
“Oh, and one more thing,” Ryson said.
“Sir?”
“Send the crew to battle stations.”
***
Two-thousand feet above Panay Island, the Philippines
Greer needed to pee. And no wonder. His last leak had been prior to the prison visit. And Greer wasn’t wearing an AMXD (Aircrew Mission Extender Device) which could detect pee and pump it into a collection bag. So, all he could do was pee his pants, or manage to hold it.
The sound of a voice broke his reverie. “This is Seadog-Three. We’re inbound to your projected ditch area. Let us know when you go feet wet. Over.”
Greer said, “Roger that, over,” and thought better of it. A guy like Wong wouldn’t understand carrier slang like “feet wet,” to describe the moment when a plane is no longer over land. Was someone testing him? Trying to suss out whether he was military? If so, that was fine. The navy was a lot more likely to rescue an American pilot rather than some dude called “Kilo Wong.”
Greer turned so Dalisay and Mary could hear him. “Good news! The U.S. Navy is going to help us. Or try anyway. Root around and see what you can find. We could use some life jackets and a flare gun.”
“I’ll look back here,” Mary volunteered.
Greer turned to Dalisay. “You said Wong had an accident. What kind of accident?”
“A fatal accident,” Dalisay answered. “He’s six feet under.”
Greer was about to reply when a jet