By Treason's Tooth

By Jeff Mulliner

Navy Lieutenant Tran Van Mihn usually faces the world with a shrug and a smirk, but he can't just stand by and let an innocent man, even a dead one, be accused of sabotage.
The USS Chester Williams cannot sail because someone has smashed a console of essential pressure gauges. Tran, the ship's Operations Officer, is assigned to conduct the required investigation. The ship's Captain, livid over this smear on his vessel's reputation, pressures Tran for a quick and tidy conclusion. Tran tries to comply--he just wants to get the thing done--but the evidence he finds is anything but neat and tidy. There seems to be more at play than a disgruntled sailor.
Repaired, the ship gets underway, and a man is lost overboard under suspicious circumstances. An agent from the Naval Investigative Service, on orders from higher command, comes aboard to complete the investigation. The agent does so and names the lost sailor as the saboteur, much to the Captain's satisfaction. Tran, however, is convinced this is not true. He disregards direct orders and, at risk of his career, continues his now unauthorized search for the truth.
But someone else is concerned about Tran's refusal to back off from his suspicions; someone with murderous intent. Soon Tran finds more than just his naval career in jeopardy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeff Mulliner
• Release date: Jan 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310535758

Jeff Mulliner

A retired naval officer, Jeff Mulliner lives in Northern Virginian and works in Washington D.C. supporting a Federal Agency>

Book preview

Chapter 1

Sixteen Years Earlier

Gulf of Thailand

Mihn had always loved the sea. On those wondrous days when his uncle announced they were going to the seaside and loaded them all into the family Citroen, Mihn would ride with his head outside the window, sniffing for the first hint of ocean air. Its fragrance held a beguiling promise of excitement and possibility, irresistible to a boy.

But this ocean had no smell. It was dead. Its greasy surface filled Mihn’s vision as he leaned over the gunwales of the slowly rolling boat and retched. Splinters pierced his palms where he gripped the rough wood of the rail. There was nothing in his stomach, yet it still convulsed, and he could do nothing but gag. His mother reached over to dab at the sores at the corners of his mouth with a cloth dipped in tepid seawater. It felt like sandpaper, and he pushed her hand away.

He had lost track of the number of days that had passed since he and his sister had been awakened by their uncle in the middle of the night. In case the house was watched, no lights had been turned on, and Uncle had urged them all to make no sounds. They had left with their mother in hurried silence, taking the few essentials that Uncle had collected over the proceeding few days. The rest of what they would need would be on the boat he had said.

Mihn wasn’t sure which of his recollections of the ride to the coast were real and which were dreams. It had all been a confused jumble of images played against a background of urgent whispers.

The next day, safely aboard the ancient fishing boat his uncle had arranged for, they had waited with the other passengers for nightfall. Despite the stifling air and the stench of fuel, Mihn had fidgeted and danced in place, waiting with nearly uncontrollable excitement for the sea journey to begin.

Mihn understood why his mother and Uncle had decided to flee. He knew that the North had won the war—a war that had begun long before his birth. Despite his mother’s best attempts to keep him safe in the house, he had slipped out when the first trucks with loudspeakers had gone through the neighborhood. He and a friend had been on the street to see the unopposed tanks enter the city, flanked by stern-faced troops in their unfamiliar pith helmets.

Uncle said that things might become difficult for the family and not just because of his job in the municipal government. Mihn’s face burned in shame; he knew his uncle was referring to his round eyes and brown hair, legacies left to him by an American marine who had never returned from the great Tet battles. He knew exactly what the rest of the family meant when they whispered about Mother’s mistake and the shame it had brought upon the family. It especially stung when Grandmother had once hissed at him that he should be in an orphanage, where he belonged.

Twenty other people had been crowded with Mihn’s family into the cramped engineroom. The hold forward, meant for the vessel’s catch, had been filled to the overhead with drums of extra fuel. It would be an easy voyage, Uncle said, lasting a week-and-a-half, two weeks at most. The most difficult task would be evading the patrol boats prowling along the coast, most of them ex-American craft, now manned by crews from the north. Once past this gauntlet, they would sail south into the entrance of the Gulf of Thailand and then west to Thailand itself.

When it finally came, the dash to the open ocean had been exhilarating. Against his mother’s shrill protests, Mihn had been allowed to take a place in the boat’s bow where he had reveled in the spray and kept what he imagined to be a vigilant lookout. They had met no other boats, and by the third day, the voyage settled into one of boredom and heat. But they had plenty of fuel and food, and it was just a matter of time before they reached Thailand. Uncle and the other men congratulated themselves on planning well. One of them, a sailor and former river fighter whose chest was adorned with anti-communist tattoos, assured everyone that their progress had been remarkable.

Then, on the seventh day, the engine just stopped. First, it gave a low grinding sound that escalated into an air-rending screech. Mihn had clapped his hands to his ears to shut out the sound. Then silence, and the boat began to wallow in the waves.

Mihn had watched as the river man and an ARVN colonel sweated and cursed over the ancient diesel. He had been confident in the adults’ ability repair it. At dusk, when the failing light permitted no more work, the men came up out of the engineroom and called the others together. It was no good they had said. The oil system had failed, and bearings had seized. They would have to start conserving water and food.

Despite their careful rationing, supplies were very low now. The river man reckoned they were drifting east, back into the South China Sea. That was better, he said, then drifting south to the Malaysian Peninsula; pirates worked those waters. But Mihn didn’t care. Only hunger and thirst mattered.

Lethargic and weak, Mihn leaned back and closed his eyes. The sun seemed to burn through his eyelids. He listened to the boat creak and groan as its wooden joints flexed. Above him, with each roll, the yardarm of the makeshift sail they had rigged banged against the boat’s single mast. For some reason, his little cousin wouldn’t wake up completely anymore, and her moaning reached him from the shade of the small deckhouse where his aunt comforted her.

These sounds faded as he fell into a feverish sleep.

* * *

The colonel’s shrill screaming awakened him.

Light the fire! Quickly. Everyone, wave something. Your arms. Anything!

A foot thumped heavily next to Mihn’s head as someone ran past to the bow. It was the river man. With shaking hands, he tried again and again to light a match to throw into the drum of diesel oil lashed to the rail. Finally, he got one lit, and the oil ignited with a crump.

Mihn raised himself on one arm and became aware of a rhythmic drumming sound.

Disoriented, he stood up. The sound seemed familiar. Then it came to him. A helicopter. He stumbled to where the colonel stood waving his shirt and pointing. Mihn squinted in the direction indicated by the man. There. Like a gray-green dragonfly, an aircraft was moving directly towards them.

Everyone on the boat was awake now, and they jostled one and other to reach the rail. Jumping up and down, in a frenzy of release, they laughed and wept, while gesturing wildly to the aircraft.

The throbbing noise of the helicopter’s engine grew louder until Mihn could feel its beat in his chest. The colonel looked down at him and shouted, American!

Descending to the level of the boat’s mast, the helicopter circled the vessel twice. A small hatch on the aircraft’s side was open, and a man—faceless in his helmet and dark visor—waved and held his closed fist out with a thumb pointing up. The helicopter hovered for a moment and then, dipping its nose, turned and flew off in the direction from which it had come.

A collective cry of dismay rose from the people on the boat. Some slumped to the deck, with their arms outstretched, others crowded around the colonel, who would know about such matters. He motioned for silence.

The helicopter couldn’t have landed, he said. It has no floats, and there was nothing else they could do. But it wasn’t land-based—it had naval markings. It went back to its ship, which must be near.

Will they report our position? Will someone come?

The colonel stared out at the aircraft through the oily smoke from the signal fire that hung in the motionless air. The helicopter was now just a speck in the distance. I don't know, he said. I just don't know.

* * *

Mihn was the first to spot the warship when it appeared four hours later on the horizon.

While his memories of the next six months were to fade into a hazy recollection of dusty refugee camps and hours of standing in lines, the events of the rest of that day stood out in sharp contrast. He remembered every detail: the little boat that the ship lowered, the faded blue uniforms and bright orange life preservers of the men in the boat, and the almost comical exchange between one of the men, calling out in atrocious Vietnamese and the colonel, who had answered in—to Mihn’s ears—unintelligible English. He vividly remembered the diesel smell of the small boat as Uncle lowered him into the waiting arms of one of the American sailors. But one memory stood out from all the others, and he carried it in the camps like an icon—that of the man who, seeing that Mihn was too weak to climb the ladder from the little boat to the ship, clambered down and carried him up on his broad back. The man pulled his blue ball cap off and reached back to settle it on Mihn’s head. Mihn could still recall the sensation of the cap as it rested on his ears.

Chapter 2

2300 27 APR

Subic Operating Area

South China Sea

Lieutenant Tran Van Mihn’s body jackknifed upward at the piercing sound of the engineering casualty alarm. A voice blared from a speaker just outside his stateroom. THIS IS A DRILL, THIS IS A DRILL. LOSS OF FIRES, NUMBER ONE BOILER.

Tran threw back his blanket with a groan and stabbed at the light button on his watch. Just half-an-hour had passed since he had lain down, and he was due on deck for the midwatch in another half-an-hour. The alarm had split his one precious hour of off-time perfectly.

Goddamn Navy.

The shock of cold linoleum on the bottom of his feet sent a shiver through him that ran to his ears. Twin pops came from his knee joints as he straightened and moved to his sink to toss back two aspirin for the fatigue headache welling at his temples. He slipped on a khaki shirt, and still buttoning it, walked down the passageway to the wardroom. When he threw open the door, the greasy smell of sweet and sour pork greeted him. The grey meat itself lay congealing in a pan on the wardroom table.

A rumpled-looking lieutenant glanced up at Tran from a clipboard, piled thick with radio messages. Hi, Ops, he said. "Leftovers again. You’d think they could roust up just one little messcook to fix us some real food for midrats, wouldn’t you? Not onboard the Chester Williams. If it ain’t eaten the first time, by God it will be the second time."

Tran dropped into a chair at the table and pushed the food away. What’s the grip, Pat? We rendezvous with the sub yet?

Yeah. When I left the bridge, we had comms with her, and everyone was on safety course, waiting for her to surface. The Captain just secured engineering drills.

Sounds like I better head up to Combat. Tran half-filled a coffee cup and headed out the door.

He made his way forward, leaning with each roll of the ship and pausing to open and close the steel doors that divided the frigate into watertight sections. Night vision-preserving lights on the overhead bathed the passageway leading to the Combat Information Center in a red glow. This lighting was continued in CIC, accented with blue spotlights over the plotting tables and pinpoints of yellow reflective writing on the status boards. The compartment was a hive of activity. Sailors sat hunched over radarscopes or stood, writing on the vertical status boards. Voices streamed in over the radio circuits, many of which were patched to speakers, creating a din that only selective hearing could sort out.

In silence, Tran studied the boards for a moment and then read and initialed the Captain’s Night Orders. He moved over to the plotting table and scanned the spider web of lines on its white plotting surface. Toward the center of the table, two blue-penciled symbols marked the position of the Chester Williams and that of the assisting destroyer, the Copeland.

A slender seaman was bent over the far end of the table, and an officer, wearing khakis faded to the color of coffee with cream, perched on a stool next to the sailor. The officer looked up, and his face brightened. You’re early, he said. Just as well, we’re close to starting.

Yeah, I think the engineer times his drills to start the minute I climb into the rack. For what it’s worth, Lieutenant Tran, ready to relieve you.

The other officer’s smile widened. Lieutenant Hanson, ready to be relieved.

Speaking rapidly, Hanson listed the ships in company with the Chester Williams and showed Tran the formation in which they were steaming. He then pointed to an ensign hovering nearby, just outside the circle of light thrown by the lamp above the plotter. Delmonte over there’s your evaluator, and you’ve got a new hand to be your plotter.

The sailor at the far end of the plotting table straightened and nodded.

Tran smiled. Hey, Jonesy, coming up in the world?

Hanson clapped his hand on the sailor’s shoulder. Yeah, Jones here’s been studying. If he screws up, you’ve got only yourself to blame—since you signed his request chit to strike out of Deck Department.

I’ll take my chances, Tran said. You got your plotting symbols down cold? Won’t be much time to think when things get busy.

Jones twisted his shoulders and fiddled with his headset. Been going over them night and day, sir.

Great. Keep Ensign Delmonte and me out of trouble, okay?

Jones grinned. Aye-aye, sir.

Hate to lose you Jones, Hanson said. You ought to stay in Deck. There’s a great future in chipping paint. He leaned over the plotting table and looked back at Tran. "Okay, Copeland’s off our starboard beam at two and a half thousand yards."

Kind of close.

Yeah, but you ain’t searching the entire ocean. The sub’s at communications depth, and the bridge is talking to her on Navy Red. She’ll surface so we all know where everybody is. It’s a canned scenario—a simple track-and-engage exercise.

Where do you expect her to show?

A forelock of lank, straw-colored hair fell across Hanson’s forehead as he pointed to a spot on the other side of the plotting table. Probably there. Then she’ll pull the plug and try to get past us for a shot at the high value targets—the fat ships in the center of formation.

What can I use?

Exercise some patience, man, it’s a virtue.

You want to be relieved before this thing starts?

Okay. You can use either active or passive sonar, but I’d stay quiet, if I were you. Why announce yourself? Besides, the CO’ll have your ass if you so much as ping once without his say-so.

Hanson handed Tran a length of curled and shiny trace paper. Here are the results of the last BT drop. Water’s nice and isothermal down to about two hundred and fifty feet. Then there’s a hell of a layer. You ain’t going to hear anything below that. The temp drops right off for another two hundred or so, then steady and cold all the way to the bottom.

Bet I know where the sub’s going to be.

Below the layer. You’ll probably get some fantastic passive ranges, but only above the layer—and no sub’s going to spend much time there. She’s been doing BT drops of her own, so she’s going to be deep. I doubt you’ll hear her until she comes up for a firing solution. You just have to be there waiting for her.

Tran reached into Hanson’s shirt pocket and pulled out the pack of cigarettes he’d seen bulging through the fabric. He tapped one out, lit it, and slipped the pack back. Easy as that, huh, Tom?

We’re starting with the sub’s exact posit when she submerges, so it doesn’t come any easier.

Right.

A piece of cake, Mihn. As soon as she pokes through the layer, we’ll be on her like stink on shit. Just get a firing solution and simulate a shot. Transmit ‘Quebec, Quebec, Quebec’ over the underwater telephone, she’ll come up and surrender, and we’re all naval heroes. Most fun you can have in an upright position.

Yeah. Any last ‘oh by the ways’?

Nope, that’s it.

Tran gave Hanson a cursory salute. Okay, I relieve you. And you owe me fifteen minutes.

I stand relieved. Hanson returned the salute by tapping his right eyebrow with his forefinger.

Tran straightened and cleared his throat. Attention in Combat. This is Lieutenant Tran. I have assumed duties as TAO.

Ayes echoed in turn throughout CIC as each watchstander acknowledged Tran’s announcement.

Hanson pushed away from the plotting table and slid out of his stool. I’ll be in Sonar for now. We just installed some new circuit cards in the passive suite—part of an upgrade—and I want to see how they work. See ya. Oh yeah. Hanson snickered. Good hunting.

Get the hell out of here. Tran hopped up onto a stool. Hold up. Your sonar techs know what they’re looking for?

"They’ve been studying the Mako’s sound profile for a week now, and the system’s programmed to key on it. You get us in range, and we’ll get contact, no sweat."

Hanson disappeared behind the curtain that divided CIC from the sonar spaces.

Tran turned to Delmonte. The ensign, his blue ball cap crushed into twin peaks by his headphones, hunched forward and paced back and forth as far as his phone cord would allow. He was reading the pre-exercise message.

How’s it going, Tony? Tran asked. All ready?

Yes, sir. Delmonte’s eyes flickered from the message to the plotting table and back again.

Tran shook his head. Fourth in an unbroken line of career naval officers, Delmonte had graduated from the Naval Academy just the summer before. He’d been aboard the Chester Williams for a month now, and Tran had yet to see him lighten up. It was if he was carrying the full weight of his family history on his shoulders.

Delmonte’s eyes narrowed. Head cocked, he pressed one earpiece closer to his head. Lookouts report one red light off the starboard bow, thirty degrees, he said.

That's our sub. Right on time, Tran said. Does that correlate, radar?

Without looking up, the sailor on the radarscope to Tran’s left said, Just picked her up, sir, zero-three-zero relative, range two thousand yards.

Okay, Tony, Tran said, let the bridge know we’re ready to go. Jones, you got her plotted?

Jones was carefully penciling a red dot over a point of light projected on the plotting table from below. Yes, sir. He then drew a V beneath the dot.

Then on with the show. Tran lifted a red handset from its cradle above the table. He had to remember to speak slowly, so the internal scrambler could synch to his voice. "USS Mako, this is USS Chester Williams. Comex event 23005, over."

A reply came back almost immediately, the voice distorted by the scrambler. "USS Chester Williams, this is USS Mako. Roger, out."

Tran stared at the spot of light that marked the sub’s position. Once the sub slipped beneath the surface and radar contact was lost, they could only guess at her position until the sonar picked her up.

The light on the table winked out, and the radar operator slumped back in his chair. Lost contact.

She’s gone sinker, Tran said. "Tony, when we gain sonar contact, don’t forget to tell Copeland that we’re brother. She’ll call sister and keep clear, but you’ve got to tell her. Right?"

Delmonte nodded.

Okay, Tony, you’re the boss. Unless they see you’re going to run us into someone, the bridge will do what you say. Sink yourself a sub. Maybe they’ll name a ship after you, just like your grandpa.

Delomonte nodded again. Aye-aye, sir.

"And Tony. I want you to stay frosty, but remember; it is just an exercise, okay?"

The slightest trace of a smile worked at the corner of Delomonte’s mouth. He spoke into his mic, Sonar. Passive search, zero-zero-zero to zero-four-zero relative.

They waited. It was much too early to expect much, but they ought to get at least one good passive bearing on the sub before she disappeared beneath the temperature layer. It was the last, and only, chance to see where she might be headed.

Tran rested his chin on his hands for a few moments and then glanced down at his watch. They should have heard something by now. Six minutes, Tony. Figure she’s doing fifteen knots. How far has she gone?

Three thousand yards.

What’s your biggest problem?

Aside from whether the speed is right, sir?

She’s not going any faster. She’d be too noisy.

Delmonte sighed. She could turn.

Right. And every minute without contact makes the search area larger. So, how do you narrow it?

A voice snapped out of the speaker from the bridge. "I want contact, goddamn it."

Delmonte’s head jerked up.

Tran reached up and keyed the mic to the bridge. Combat aye, Captain. He turned to Delmonte. Skipper ain’t happy. What do we do?

She’s turned . . . she must have, Delmonte said. I don’t know why we didn’t get her passive. I mean the predicted ranges are good. He pressed the keying button on his mic. I’m going active, just one or two pings—

Tran cupped his hand over Delmonte’s mouthpiece. Not so fast. The sub probably doesn’t know where we are now, but she sure as hell will if you go active. Back off and think. Stay passive. You could widen your search sector, but then you give sonar too much area to listen to. Think. What’s the sub want?

The heavies—the carrier and the oiler.

And if we can’t hear her beneath the layer, she can’t hear us. Sound channels are two way streets, right?

I . . . that’s right, sir.

So she can’t hear her targets either. She’s got to come up above the layer to get their bearings for a shot. And we nab her when she does. I hope all of this isn’t news to you.

No, sir.

Good. So all you have to do is figure out where she’ll come up to listen. Which way will she head?

Toward the carrier.

Toward?

Delmonte grimaced. Ahead. She’ll use a leading angle.

So where’s the carrier, and what’s her course and speed?

Delmonte checked the radar for the aircraft carrier’s position and had Jones plot it. Jones then ran a course and speed vector out from the plotted position.

Okay, Tran said, so where’s the sub got to be and when? Don’t forget to figure in her weapons range.

Both Delmonte and Jones bent over the plotting table, laying out vectors, and checking results. A scant minute later, Delmonte stabbed his finger at a red mark that Jones had drawn. There.

So why are we farting around searching empty water?

Sir, that would put us out ahead of the formation. We’re on barrier ops. The standing OPGEN says that if contact is lost, we’re supposed to stay between the last-known threat bearing and the screened units.

Tran nodded. This threat’s moving. You want to follow doctrine or sink submarines?

Delmonte stared at the plot. Then he reached down and slashed an intercept line to the spot to which he had just pointed. He keyed his mic. Engine ahead full. Indicate turns for twenty knots. Left full rudder. Steady course two-eight-zero.

The ship took on a sharp right heel, and her deck plates began to vibrate as her single screw churned faster.

The response from the bridge was immediate. "What the hell is going on? We won’t hear shit now. Where the hell are you taking us?"

Tran called up to the bridge. "Bridge, Combat. Captain, we think the Mako’s ahead of us, off our port bow."

I didn’t hear sonar say they had contact.

They don’t, sir.

I’m coming down.

Delmonte’s eyes began to flick up and down again, this time between Tran and the plotting table.

Tran leaned