SPRING, 1951 – “YEAR OF THE TIGER”

 

The nameless trawler ran low in the water, its foredeck stacked with wooden crates and boxesheld tightly in place by heavy rope netting. Thickly woven straw fenders, following the rhythm of the waves, flopped back and forth along its worn sides. Below decks, an ancient single-stroke diesel engine strained valiantly to keep the old scow moving ahead through one more night in these dark waters. High above them, scudding clouds drifted past, all but obliterating whatever faint light came from the thin sliver of a crescent moon hanging low on the far horizon.

The lack of moonlight to guide the way was of little or no concern to these men, preferring, insteadtheir continuing passage through the South China Sea remained uneventful, and unseen.

The two men standing at the trawler’s slightly raised stern were dressed for the night in the timeless garb of China’s seafaring boat-people, thickly woven straw fishermen’s capes thrown over canvas jackets, cloth scarves covering their faces, their wide conical hat tipped low, offering only scant protection from the wet windsthat gusted around them, swirling the shifting fog bank lying just ahead.

Chinese junks and trawlers similar to this one had carried every conceivable type of cargo up and down the South China coastline since the Han Dynasty in 220 B.C. Over the course of time, there were occasions when it was considered prudent that these cargos not be subjected to close scrutiny. All part of a time-honored tradition throughout the China Sea, where smugglers and privateers were respected men engaged in an honorable profession that avoided paying taxes to corrupt, petty bureaucrats.

Recently, in addition to the waves and the weather, there were new risks to contend with. The men who sailed on these anonymous vessels through dark nights counted on the fact that the Chinese People’s Liberation Army Patrol boats were few and the South China Sea was vast. Besides, what other choice did a man have but hope that the ancient gods of his ancestors would smile down on him and grant him safe passage and “good joss?”

From his place at the wheel, the helmsman watched as another member of the crewmoved with an easy agility toward the bow. The patterned stippling tattooed along one side of the man’s face marked Wu-zan Ni’ang as coming from one of the Burmese hill tribes. Bracing himself, Wu-zan swung out a knotted lead-weighted rope, letting the line pass smoothly through his fingers as the lead dropped deeper into the water. He tightened his hold on the line as it went slack, the weighted end making contact with the ocean floor beneath them. Pulling the up line, he grasped the knot on the rope where it had met the waterline. Calculating quickly, a look of concern clouding his face.

“’Gouzaizi!’ son of a dog! – the sea floor rises,” he called back into the wind. “Now, only six meter!” he yelled, pulling up the line hand over hand, letting his eyes continue to scan the dismal sea ahead of them. “Aiii! Look there!” he hollered, pointing toward the shapes looming directly ahead, “’Lóng de yáchǐ’–‘The Teeth of the Dragon!’”

The helmsman gave an unperturbed nod. “Wo kan dao tamen I can see them, sea monkey,” he responded in the same rasping mix of Cantonese and accented pidgin English.

A short distance ahead, the pinnacles of the Dongsha Reef rose up, an unwelcoming formation made up of three broken coral crescents, forming a rough approximation of a jagged, gaped-tooth smile. Often ravaged by typhoons, this was a rugged lifeless outpost in the middle of nowhere. White foam boiled along the base of the coral spires – “The Dragon’s Teeth” – that jutted upward along the reef’s front edge, wind blasted outcroppings that stood 20 feet in the air with irregular narrowed broken gaps between them. Rising swells rose and smashed their way through the teeth then receded, revealing the jagged coral below, ready to rip out the underside of any ship foolish enough not to give them a wide berth.

Wu-zan shifted his stance on deck, his attention momentarily pulled away from the reef, focused instead on the low throbbing sound that carried across the water, the unmistakable deep rumble of a powerful engine, moving in their direction. As quietly as he dared, he called out as to the two men standing by the helm. “Ting nali!- Listen! There! On our port side,” he hissed.

Suddenly, a dazzling searchlight cut through the swirling fog, tracking back and forth across the surface of the water.

The men on the deck of the trawler froze, hoping that the PLA patrol boat hadn’t seen them and would then move on.It didn’t.

With an uncanny accuracy, the searchlight swung back and stopped. The decrepit trawler caught in its unforgiving glare. A second later, the PLA machine gunner sent a line of 30 cal. slugs toward them, cutting a line inches in front of their bow.

The next burst they knew with a certainty, would teartheir boat to pieces.

*                               *                              *

The sudden swell that slammed into the side of the PLA Patrol boat was enough to eliminate the certainty, throwing off the machine gunner’s aim so that the next barrage hissed harmlessly past them. Before the PLA gunner could adjust, the trawler had disappeared behind a rolling wall of low-lying fog: A moment of safety that was temporary at best.

“Bad joss for us old son. ‘Fraid we’re in for a long night of it,” the helmsman noted darkly. The pidgin English replaced by pure American. Pushing aside the cloth covering, Boyd Wendell Phillips ran a gloved hand over his rain-slicked face. Even with a three-day growth of beard, Boyd had the alert, penetrating look of a predator. Eyes narrowed, head cocked slightly to one side. Listening for the sound of the prowling Chinese patrol boat’s engine.

“Yeah, here we were, minding our own business and these assholes have to come and spoil it,” the man standing next to him growled in a voice and attitude that came directly from Flatbush Avenue Brooklyn, U.S.A. “And no,” he added, shaking his head in disgust, “the sonsofbitches could not have picked a worst place to pull off this ambush if they’d tried.”

At first glance, these two couldn’t have been less alike.
Standing well over six feet tall with wide shoulders, dark hooded eyes, Mitch Shreddowsky, “Shredds” as his pals had called him since he was a teenager, had grownup on the streets and sidewalks of a walk-up tenement apartment neighborhood that backed onto a fetid stretch of East River backwater. He had been one of the Gowanus Boys, street-tough Jew boys that nobody ever called kikes or sheeneys. That ever happened? The offending loudmouth would be spitting teeth, compliments of a Louisville slugger slammed into his stupid face.

Boyd Phillips had been raised a world away in Bostonian privilege, educated within the confines of prep schools bearing the names of distant relatives, and then sent to an Ivy League college, one of the bastions of America’s future ruling class – a destiny he’d managed to short-circuit.

What had drawn them together was a shared belief that you did what was right. You gave your word. You backed up your friends. You killed America’s enemies. Period. Full stop.

There were plenty of significant differences in their past circumstances, but none of these mattered as much as the time they’d spent with the OSS in the mountains and jungles of Northern Burma. Protecting each other. Surviving.

Almost thirty pounds lighter than Shredds and as almost as tall, Boyd carried the outward appearance of an Oxford don combined with a fallen angel, complete with the knowing smile along with a few of the scars and bruises from the bumpy ride down. There was an inner toughness to him as well, something he’d acquired during the long days and nights fighting running gun battles against the Japanese. And fighting against his own fears.

“Think maybe they’ll get bored, give up and just go away mad?” Shredds asked without much conviction.

The sharp concussion from a shell fired from the patrol boat’s deck gun sent up a pillar of water, drenching them in the spray that fell onto the deck.

“I’d take that as a definite ‘no,’” Boyd answered, already spinning the wheel, turning the boat to the side. “Seems the only option left is to make a run for it,” he added, his hand already reaching to slide open a compartment on one side of console. Inside was a row of toggle switches. Below them a T-shaped chrome-handled throttle. Decidedly out of place on this old tub. Flipping down the toggles got the clanging of the single-stroke diesel replaced with a visceral rumble, as a much more powerful engine switched on. Satisfied, Boyd eased the throttle handle forward, transforming the rumble into an gut-shaking roar as the engine thrust the trawler forward, the bow lifted out of the water. Behind them, two more shells exploded. Exactly where they’d been only a second before.

“That’s one smart sonofabitch driving that PLA tub,” Shredds noted with sour admiration, watching the Chinese patrol boat quickly accelerate, running a parallel course, cutting off any chance of their escaping back into open water. “They’re gonna keep riding our tail all the way into the reef.”

Exactly what I’d do if the tables were turned, Boyd thought to himself, looking back. “Only way out of this mess is for us to lose the excess baggage we’re carrying.”

Shredds scowled. “You’re sure this’ll work, right?”

Boyd said nothing. Just shot him a look. “First time had better be a charm. But, just in case, you might want to hang on to something solid.”

Without waiting for a reply, Boyd snapped down the second set of toggles. He tightened his grip on the wheel as a series of small explosions flared along the entire length of the rope netting covering the empty crates and boxes stacked along the deck, shearing it neatly down the middle. The trawler shuddered slightly as its load of “cargo” was swept away, taking the boats bulging false sides along with it. Released from its previously disguised “cocooned” wrapping, what emerged was a low-profiled, high-powered speedboat, designed to run fast over the open water.

A year before, and under somewhat questionable circumstances, they’d “acquired” a WWII Aussie Rescue Crash Boat. The original 300-hp diesel engine swapped out and replaced by a monstrous V-12,1250-hp Packard 3M-2500, “liberated” from an old U.S. PT boat stored in a backwater Brisbane naval yard.

After that, the previous silhouette of the boat’s raised bridge and front crew quarters had been reconfigured, cut down and enlarged to accommodate the crates and boxes of U.S. Army surplus weapons and ammunition stacked inside. Finally, the boat was disguised to look like something it wasn’t, an anonymous old trawler, not worth a second look. It was all a part of a working relationship they’d developed after the war with old OSS friends who had moved on to become members of the newly-created Central Intelligence Agency.

For Boyd and Shredds it was the perfect working arrangement. They had access to tons of U.S. Army surplus weapons along with a list of newly-hatched anti-communist, ex-warlords that needed help promoting democracy in the South China Sea. The Agency’s Policy Coordination unit kept the guns and ammo coming. With all that in hand, they’d been able to fly under the official radar, stay in the game and still make a few bucks off the hot end of the cold war.

Behind them, the PLA patrol boat recovered quickly from the surprise move, skillfully avoiding the mess of smoking cargo netting, empty crates and debris that the transformation had left in their wake.

Boyd spun the wheel, heeling the boat hard over, veering away from the looming threat just ahead. Two shells burst from the PLA guns right off their bow forced them back around, driving them again toward the rocks.

“Any way you can fake ‘em out, then make an old-fashioned run for it?” Shreddswondered out loud just as another gut-wrenching turn that was met with more shells bursting in the water, even closer this time.

“That’s not gonna work. We turn and we’re exposed. Bet they’ll be expecting it, nail us for sure,” Boyd said, studying the way ahead, his eyes fixed on the fragmented explosions of white foam that burst over the coral rocks, held suspended for a fraction of a second before falling back with a rush. It was a hyper-awareness of the moment, a gift that he didn’t fully understand, but had come to accept. It had served to keep him alive before. He hoped it would do so again.

Closing his eyes, Boyd felt the pull of the sea as it rolled beneath them. It was a living presence, neither friend nor enemy, he’d been told. Simply a raw power to be understood.

“I know what you’re thinking but there’s no damn way we can get through those rocks!” Shredds yelled, seeing nothing but a wall of jagged coral spires rising up in front of them.

Wiping off his glasses, Boyd let his eyes fix hard at a narrow opening, the foaming channel of water that surged upward then disappearedan instant later as the rough surf burst around it on all sides.

“Wu-man,” Boyd called out to the Burmese crewman, “get up to the bow. Keep a close eye on the swells!” Catching Shredds’ look, “I figure our People’s Liberation boys are drafting a meter, maybe meter and a half deeper than we are,” he said. “It might make all the difference…”

Shredds swiveled his head back and forth. “Difference from what?” he yelled back.

“Trust me. It’ll be a surprise. You’ll like it,” Boyd told him, easing back a touch on the throttle.

“Surprise? I hate damn surprises!” Shredds told him, teeth clenched.

That much Boyd knew. Generally, in their line of work, surprises didn’t work out all that well. Everything went to hell and somebody usually got killed.

“You are a cold comfort, old son,” Boyd scolded him lightly.

From his place at the bow, Wu-zan hadone arm raised, his eyes fixed intently on the rhythm of the rise and fall of the ocean swells that crashed around the coral rocks directly ahead of them. Then his hand dropped. “Now! You go now!” he called back.

With the throttle jammed full ahead, Boyd kept his hands tight on the wheel as the boat surged forward, the bow coming all the way out of the water as the boat rose up higher, riding the lead edge of an especially large swell that pushed relentlessly toward the “teeth.” Nothing to do but hang on. And wait for the gut-ripping sound of jagged coral tearing through the hull.

Rock fragments exploded around them as the PLA patrol boat’s 30- cal. machine gunsopened up behind them. After that, all they heard was
the rush of wind, followed by a high-pitched shriek as their prop blades came clear of the water, cutting a lineacross the coral. A cascade of white foam sprayed over the deck as they careened through the gap and then came splashing down onto the calm water inside the reef.

“You are one lucky bastard, Slick,” Shredds shouted, trying, but not quite succeeding in keeping a wide grin off his face.

“Undoubtedly right on both counts,” Boyd answered, turning to look back. “But we’re not out of trouble quite yet.”

Looking back, they caught a glimpse of the PLA patrol boatrunning full out, aiming for the same narrow channel. As it caught a rising swell, the patrol boat was lifted up and carriedforward over the lead edges of the jagged coral rocks. Then, just as quickly as it formed, the surge collapsed, slipping away over the unforgiving reef. For a long second, the Chinese boat hung suspended, half-way over the coral gap. Then it dropped, the coral ripping into the hull. A second later, the boat disintegrated in a searing ball of flame as its fuel tanks and then its ammo exploded.

Wu-zan turned, his face somber as he brought his hands together, offering a silent prayer to the dead. “Not a good way to die,” he said quietly.

“No. It never is, Wu-man,” Shredds agreed with a slow shake of his head. Behind them, the smoking remains of the PLA patrol boat’s decking floated across the lagoon, the rest of the boat, any of its crew, nowhere to be seen.

“Bad luck for them, good joss for us,” he added.

“Yeah, good joss for us,” Boyd said quietly, letting various dark thoughts and new suspicions run through his mind. He could feel it. Shredds had been right. The PLA boat had picked the perfect spot for them to pull off their little ambush. Which meant what? Something to think about.

Clearing the reef, Boyd began easing the throttle forward, feeling powerful torque as the prop dug in deeper, lifting up the boat’s front end out of the water, driving them across the wave tops. Momentarily out of danger and on their own.

The months he’d spent in the sweaty jungle had set Boyd free from his past, an escape from the web of obligations and an imposed destiny that no longer held any real importance for him.

He’d fought alongside men who’d shared a common understanding that wasn’t derived from which side of the tracks they’d been born on, which part of the country they’d come from, or which accident of birth had determined the color of their skin. They were bound together because they shared a basic truth about the nature of freedom and justice – that these were ideals that belonged to everyone. Ideals worth dying for.

To Boyd’s thinking, in the years following the War, the Far East had become similar to the old Wild West. There were no rules out here. None. A world perfectly suited for schemers and dreamers. And the flat-out crazier, the better.

Boyd shock his head then spun the wheel hard over, steering a course along the thin path of moonlight laid out in front of them.

*                               *                              *