Centuries of practice had given the Chinese the ability to construct
deceptively strong buildings out of little more than bamboo, twine, and wire.
The two-inch-diameter poles were woven together in such an intricate interlace
that the resulting building could withstand almost anything short of a
typhoon.
Chu Hsi held up one hand to block the sun and gazed longingly at the
larger camp. Life was easier there, certainly. On his last trip to the base
camp, he’d seen the catchment basins used to collect rainwater. One of the
soldiers had told him that they were allowed two gallons of water every week
just for bathing, a luxury Chu Hsi’s crew would have to forego for the three
weeks of their tour on the rock. By the time their tour was up, the salt that
collected on their skin would have started to chafe open sores around their
collars. Only changing socks every three days kept their feet from
disintegrating into molding, festering tissue.
A distant roar reached his ears, barely audible above the noise of the
waves lapping at his rock. Chu Hsi scanned the horizon, finally locating the
source.
More aircraft. Probably the Americans again, he thought. He called his
gunner. The daily overflights by aircraft and the hourly radio checks with
the Mischief Reef camp were the only relief from terminal boredom.
His gunner popped his head out of the tank, and then pulled himself up to
join Chu Hsi on the deck.
“Back again, yes? Maybe someday we can make life more interesting for
them. I have just the toy to do it with!”
“You really believe you could hit an American fighter with that device?”
Chu Hsi laughed. “About as much chance as us hitting it with this tank!”
“You wait.” The gunner looked pointedly at his Stinger, and hefted it to
his shoulder. The Stinger, a U.S.-built shoulder-launched infrared guided
surface-to-air missile, had proved its reliability in every combat theater in
the last fifteen years. It had been the primary reason for the Soviet defeat
in Afghanistan. Chu Hsi had seen the demonstrations, and was impressed. But
he wasn’t about to tell his gunner that.
“I won’t hold my breath.”
The two men watched the aircraft grow larger, impossibly fast. The light
gray shapes were hard to see in the ever-present haze that clung to the
surface of the warm sea, but the contrails that formed in the warm air were
clear.
“F-14. I will make the report.”
“Which is so necessary,” Chu Hsi sneered. “As though our superiors on
the next island can’t see and hear it just as clearly as we can.”
The gunner paused, half in and half out of the tank. “It is a
requirement. You are aware of that.”
Chu Hsi waved him down, suddenly tired of baiting the gunner. Useless
entertainment, since nothing ever pierced the gunner’s humorless devotion to
operational requirements. The sheer boredom of sitting in a tank on a rock in
the middle of the ocean would probably kill both men before anything else.
The American aircraft disappeared over the horizon. Chu Hsi took a step
back toward the open hatch. The minutes until the next hourly radio report
stretched interminably before him. Chu Hsi sighed.
0824 local (Zulu -7)
Tomcat 205
The two Tomcats made several passes over the two rocks, descending to
five thousand feet for a better look. “Nothing new, as far as I can tell,”
Bird Dog said finally. “Same old rusty tank, same little fellow sitting on
top. And the same old gun emplacements on Mischief Reef. Okay, enough of
this shit!”
“Now that we’ve had our look-see, you ready to head for home?” Gator
asked.
Bird Dog didn’t answer.
“Come on, Bird Dog, let’s just head back to the carrier, nice and easy,”
Gator coaxed.
“In a minute. Let’s take a quick trip around the battle group first.
Just for the hell of it,” Bird Dog said, too casually.
“Don’t do this to me again,” Gator warned. “No fly-overs on the cruiser,
you hear me? They got downright hostile the last time you did that without
asking them. You’re going to convince them to send a missile up our ass next