building “fishing camps” on the islands. The presence of tanks and guided
missile emplacements in “fishing camps” indicated that both nations were
expecting a little more than economic competition.
“First rock coming up,” Gator said a few minutes later.
“Okay, okay. Anything around?”
“Nothing new. I probably would have told you if there were.”
Bird Dog winced at the chilly note of reproach in his RIO’s voice. Not
only was Gator a friend, he was also considerably senior to Bird Dog.
“Sorry, Gator,” he said finally. “Just in a bad mood today, I guess.”
“Happens. Best get your head out of your ass and fly this mission,
though. If I tell you to move, I want to see some action up front.”
“Yeah, yeah. Like anything’s going to happen. We’ve been circling this
pile of rocks for days, and nobody’s ever shown up to play with us. And it
ain’t like there’s anything on those rocks that’s going to shoot at us.”
“You really think you’re immortal? ‘Cause if you do, you can let me off
at the next pit stop.”
“No, I know they’ve got Stingers. But why in the hell would they shoot
one at us? We’re not at war with anyone. I don’t even know what we’re doing
here!”
“National security, Bird Dog. Didn’t you read the OP-ORDER? We’re
supposed to keep China from making a grab for the islands.”
“Like it’s any of our business anyway. Who cares whether the Chinese or
the Vietnamese or the Malaysians end up owning these islands?”
“You’ll care, if China throws everybody else out by force. No way we
could let her start establishing a regional hegemony, and that’s what will
happen if she gets her hands on that oil.”
Bird Dog moaned. Not only was he required to fly straight and level–no
aerobatics, no fooling around–in the world’s best fighter, but he had to
listen to lectures on world politics at the same time.
“One minute away from Mischief Reef, thirty seconds to Island 203,” Gator
added. “T-54 tank, probably some Stingers with it.”
“Got that, Spider?” Bird Dog said over the radio circuit. One short
click acknowledged the transmission.
Great. Now even his wingman wasn’t speaking to him.
0820 local (Zulu -7)
Island 203
Spratly Islands, South China Sea
Chu Hsi crawled out of the tank and stretched. He glanced around, hating
the naked vulnerability of his post. Fifteen years in the Chinese army, most
of those as part of a tank crew, had ingrained in him an instinctive longing
for maneuverability that was the key to survival in land warfare. Trapped on
this rock, barely out of the reach of the sea, his tank rusting under the
constant mist of sea spray and his instincts screaming reflexive warnings
about his immobility, Chu Hsi could only wonder at the thinking of his
superiors.
The rock had no name, and was barely even far enough above water to be
called an island. Twenty meters long and eight meters wide, its ragged peak
protruded only two meters above the waves. Two weeks earlier, a transport
helicopter had deposited the T-54 Russian-made tank and its two-man crew on
the rock. Perched squarely in the middle of the rock, tilted and
uncomfortable ten degrees off plumb level, his tank looked forlorn and
abandoned.
Doctrine called for maintaining a continual alert status and radio watch,
though he’d never known–nor bothered to ask–why. Mischief Reef, five miles
away and barely visible through the haze and the fog, was the command post for
this area of the South China Sea. Its elaborately constructed
bamboo-and-corrugated-sheet-metal main camp perched on an island six times the
size of Chu Hsi’s rock.
The Mischief Reef camp was three stories tall, the lowest floor almost
twenty feet above the island’s surface. While the island itself might be able
to boast of more surface area than Chu Hsi’s rock, most of it was awash in the
sea. Even the drinking water there had a faintly salty taste. The stilts
were necessary to keep the structure away from the ever-hungry ocean.
From a distance, the structure looked like it might teeter and fall into
the warm South China Sea at any moment, but appearances were deceiving.