“Oh,” the P.M. said. “That I didn’t know.”
Tyler-Jones saw his opportunity, and the moment the P.M. finished speaking, he added, “And I thought that if Beijing wants to foment more trouble on the Vietnamese-Chinese border, we might be able to assist our American cousins with Gurkhas.”
“Very good, Richard,” the P.M. responded, unwinding, both arms outstretched for isometric exercise, pushing hard against the edge of the desk. “Very good indeed. And of course the Gurkhas, black chaps and—”
“But Asian in appearance. They come from Nepal.”
“Quite. That’s what I meant. Asian-looking. And in Asia, Asian troops on our side would look much better than— Good.” The P.M. was plainly pleased with himself, as if it had all been his idea from the first. “Excellent.” A light on his console blinked silently. Not bothering to lift the scrambler phone, the P.M. spoke into the small intercom. “Very good. We’ll be out in a moment.” He turned to Tyler-Jones. “Dinner,” he announced. “You’ll stay to partake, Richard?”
‘Thank you, sir.” Any meal with the P.M. was a feather in one’s cap, particularly when one had been instrumental in putting the P.M. in such a good mood.
“Corned beef, cabbage, and white onion sauce, Richard. How’s that sound to you?”
“Delightful, Prime Minister.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The dot in the distance looked like all the others, seabirds of one kind or other, some lazily gliding about a crinkle of white as turquoise swells broke upon a barely submerged reef like the one Mellin had drifted onto. Though his legs had been lacerated by the reef, he owed his life to the rocky outcrop. Mellin knew he could have lasted days without food, floating in his Mae West, but could not have survived without water, and in the higher depressions of the rocks, those not flooded by seawater at high tide, he found a few pools of rainwater from the downpour that had followed the attack on the drill ship. It wasn’t much water, but it was enough to prevent what would have been a fatal dehydration. As for food, he’d forced himself to eat and swallow a slimy sea urchin from one of the tidal pools, and had almost thrown up.
Soon Mellin could discern another ship close to the dot, and then he saw that the two seemed to cohere and were now one. Several seconds later he could see it was a speedboat, most probably a patrol boat passing the almost completely submerged reef in the distance and coming toward him. Now, after the days and nights of hoping and waiting, he was suddenly afraid.
Would it be a rescue or a killing? He guessed the vessel, whoever’s it was, would reach him in about twenty minutes. Then it occurred to him that maybe the boat wasn’t Chinese or Vietnamese. Perhaps it was a speedboat coming westward from Brunei. It also occurred to him that although the reef wasn’t large, only thirty to forty yards long and ten to twenty wide, he could, if he wanted to, hold on to the edge of it as one would grasp the edge of a swimming pool, all but his head submerged, to somehow hide and see them before they could see him.
Hanging behind a piece of coral that jutted out from the reef like a small peninsula, Mellin now realized how absurd it was to think that it mattered whether they saw him first or he saw them. The reality was that unless he wanted to die on the reef, he would have to go with them, whoever they were. He saw the flag of the Red Chinese — its five stars representing China proper, Manchuria, Mongolia, Sinkiang, and Tibet — fluttering from the stern of the ship, not a gunboat, but a frigate, its bow, a quarter mile from Mellin, slicing through the light swells with an effortless grace that belied her purpose.
On the frigate’s bridge, an officer walked out to the port wing and, binoculars in his hands, began to peer more intently at the reef. Mellin knew they had to spot him. After thirty seconds or so it struck him that the ship might in fact be on a routine patrol of the Spratly Islands and reefs to check that no foreign structures or markers had been placed there, the Chinese and Vietnamese having had confrontations about such claims, and on several occasions firing upon one another. In one incident several years ago, in the early nineties, over fifty Vietnamese had been killed by the Chinese. In a way, Mellin was relieved to see the Chinese flag, signifying that it was a PLA naval warship, rather than a fast patrol boat of the kind some pirates used in drug runs across the South China Sea to the countries that lay on its rim.
Now the ship leaned hard astarboard, turning away from the island. Suddenly Mellin was yelling out as loudly as he could, raising his voice above the slap and smash of the swells along the hundred feet of rock and coral.
The officer of the watch, however, had seen him, and the ship was merely coming about to better launch its rubber boat. It was with a mixture of gratitude and apprehension that Mellin saw this taking place. He could hear an outboard motor coughing, spluttering, and dying. Chinese maintenance, he thought, and grew more anxious now, not because of the temperamental outboard — he knew they would get him somehow — but because of what appeared to be spikes — rifles sticking up from two of the four men aboard. The outboard now sounded like an angry wasp as the Zodiac’s bow rose, slapping the crest of a wave then disappearing for a second or two before reappearing again, the blue-and-white-striped shirts of the sailors standing out against the sea, now a gunmetal gray beneath a big cumulus that had obscured the sun.
The first thing that struck Mellin after they took him aboard was the stiff attitude of the four PLA navy types. Every face was solemn. The petty officer at the control console pointed to the middle of the boat and said in Chinese, “Sit there!” Mellin didn’t know much Chinese, only what he’d learned as a POW in Vietnam, where he had been guarded by Vietnamese Chinese.
No one answered him, two of the four using their rifle butts to push the rubber boat away from the reef, where it could easily capsize should a sudden swell rise high above the reef’s edge then just as suddenly drop precipitously onto the coral below. Steadying himself in the middle of the Zodiac, he thanked them again. The unsmiling bosun, a rather sorry sailor, said something to him gruffly and pointed to the rest. The bosun waited till the water lifted the rubber boat high, then turning the wheel sharply to starboard, he gave full throttle and they were heading back at about eight knots toward the frigate.
The bosun pointed impassively toward the reef and again said something just as grumpily as before. Mellin couldn’t understand the tone. As far as he knew, the Chinese and U.S. had cordial relations due to joint Chinese- U.S. ventures. It then occurred to him that even if they could have understood what he said, they might not know about the attack on
They were nearing the ship now, and Mellin made one more attempt at conversation. “Shipwrecked,” he lied. Maybe it would be better for him to stick to a shipwreck story and say nothing about the
“Get up the ladder!” the bosun ordered in clipped but perfectly understandable English.
Mellin had a distinct sinking feeling.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
General Douglas Freeman was in his tiny kitchen, emptying the last of his coffee around his aspidistra plant — an aspidistra was able to take anything and thrive — when the phone purred. It was the Pentagon telling him that the Emergency Response Force was to be activated for immediate deployment. Freeman knew it was for Vietnam, and a shiver of excitement rather than apprehension passed through him.
“Yes, sir,” he answered crisply. The irony of Americans returning to the country where they had suffered their first and most humiliating defeat in the twentieth century was on his mind, and he knew it would be at large among the EMREF’s troops; if not the British SAS contingent, then certainly among the rest of the force. But he welcomed
