They centered around the Spratlys, a few barren reefs that had ambitions to be islands at low tide. The new oil pools were probably the biggest at-sea petroleum find since the North Sea fields back in the 1970s. Unfortunately, the nations surrounding this oil discovery were nowhere as reasonable as Great Britain and Norway when they partitioned the North Sea fields. Half a dozen nations had claims over the new oil find, and few of these nations could be described as "reasonable." To the east lay the Philippines, where a share of the oil revenue might relieve an exploding population's chronic poverty. To the west, the Communist governments of China and Vietnam coveted oil to fuel their economies and earn hard currency from petroleum exports. To the north, Taiwan, still claiming to be the "true" Government of China, felt entitled to a piece of China's share. But the real trouble lay to the south, where Malaysia, Indonesia, Singapore, and Brunei all had claims on the new fields, and some of them were willing to fight for a larger share.
Tiny Brunei, with the wells that produced fabled North Borneo crude, the world's purest oil, was the richest nation per capita in the world. This provoked envy among neighbors, particularly Malaysia, with its growing population, simmering ethnic tensions, and lack of oil resources. The Malays had been full of threats this past summer. The reason was the upcoming United Nations conference at the end of October which would settle, once and for all, the development plans for the South China Sea oil fields. Malaysia had joined Indonesia in a coalition for the coming conference, and was trying to entice Singapore. The same offer had been extended to the Sultan, but he had politely declined the invitation.
He would place a proposal on the table to create a multi-national non-profit corporation which would invest the oil income into a regional development fund to build schools, roads, and other infrastructure so badly needed by the peoples of the region. The Sultan knew that the leaders of the other countries did not share his vision, and this was why he wanted to put his ideas on the table at the UN. The article in the Wall Street Journal spelled out the details of the plan-as well as the first reactions to it, which had come quickly. Malaysia and Indonesia had denounced it. Vietnam and China had remained ominously silent. But Singapore, Taiwan, and the Philippines had all endorsed the idea, and this gave him hope. He smiled and sat back, composing his thoughts for the clinic dedication.
The bright, newly painted yellow circled "H" of the clinic's medevac landing pad was just coming into view around a bend in the river. Today's duty pilot for the Royal Flight was a retired British Fleet Air Arm commander with thousands of hours logged in just about anything with rotors. He had also been trained in escape and evasion. It didn't do him much good. He caught the flash on the ground and instinctively pulled into a hard break to starboard. The data pad flew out of the Sultan's grip and bounced off the Plexiglas windscreen.
The pilot's move was too late. The seeker head of the first shoulder-fired missile had locked onto the hot metal of the turbine exhaust even as other missiles lanced upward from the opposite side of the valley. The high-explosive warhead detonated on impact with the port engine, shredding fuel lines, hydraulic tubing, and control cables. A single missile hit might have resulted in a survivable crash, but the second hit turned the tough and graceful chopper into a flying cloud of flaming wreckage. By the time the stunned VIPs and the medical team from the clinic arrived at the crash site, His Royal Highness, the Sultan of Brunei, by some estimates the world's richest human, was identifiable only from dental records.
The Palace, Bandar Seri Begawan, Brunei, September 2nd, 2008
Crown Prince Omar Bolkiah, twenty-six years old, was on the tennis court with an instructor when the elderly, respectful, and impeccably discreet palace chamberlain arrived with the news of his father's death. Omar was unsure which of his innumerable half-brothers had engineered the assassination, though he had a reasonable suspicion which foreign power had provided the hit team, and he knew that his own life would not be worth a ringgit if he were found anywhere within the fifty-acre Palace compound. Twenty minutes later, veiled and shrouded in women's garb and surrounded by a gaggle of his favorite sister's servants, he slipped out of a little-used riverfront exit and boarded a small boat. Within an hour, dressed in the plain white uniform of a junior naval ensign, he was embarked on the rusty but trusty missile patrol boat Pejuang, listening to the throb of the twin diesels as she slipped out of Muara harbor, bound for the treacherous shoals of Louisa Reef.
The young Prince ("No, now I have to start thinking of myself as the Sultan," he thought) had many worries, but pursuit was not one of them. There were men he could trust in the Navy. As the sun went down over the South China Sea in another magnificent tropical blaze of glory, every other patrol boat in the Royal Brunei Navy swung gently at her moorings, polished and scrubbed to the best Portsmouth standards, and thoroughly sabotaged. Within days, some very junior mechanic's mates would pay with their lives for their loyalty to their Prince.
British Embassy, Washington, D.C., September 5th, 2008
The package had arrived on a trans-Pacific red-eye flight into Dulles from Singapore under the diplomatic seal of Her Majesty's Foreign Service. It was picked up by a car from the British Embassy and escorted by two Secret Service Chevrolet Blazers. That was unusual, but at that hour, there was no one around to take any particular notice. The men gathered to examine the package came from a variety of military, diplomatic, and intelligence services. The Americans had better teeth. The British wore better-fitting suits. They had all been through this drill before. A fine linen tablecloth was flung over the exquisitely inlaid conference table; then the work began. Some of the tropical hardwood trees from which the table was made had been logged over a hundred years before, not far from the crash site. The package was opened without ceremony, and the charred and blackened shards of metal were passed from hand to hand for examination and judgment.
"Our Special Air Service lads picked these bits up the night after the crash. Rather a lot of confusion on the scene, as you can imagine. They had the devil of a job getting in and out without being spotted."
"No question," one of the Americans finally said. "This is a Chinese copy of the Stinger."
The missiles that had downed the Sultan's helicopter were, therefore, untraceable. You could pick one up in any Third World arms bazaar for a few thousand deutschmarks. The next question, asked by the President's National Security Advisor, was aimed at the British ambassador.
"Mister Ambassador, what is the position of the British Government on this matter?"
"My Prime Minister is, as you know, in a very difficult position. British Shell and Lloyds are the primary guarantors of more than a trillion British pounds of investment in both Malaysia and Brunei. Potential revenues from those two countries represent many times that amount. As might be imagined, British industry is putting huge pressure on our government to do absolutely nothing and accept this new arrangement as a fait acompli. The reality is that what we have here is nothing more than the rape of a small country by a larger and more powerful neighbor, just like Kuwait in 1990. Thus, while we will not be seen taking active measures, rest assured that we will support any initiative by your Government to restore the status quo." The ambassador then extended his hand to seal the latest of many such back-channel deals between the United Kingdom and her former American colony. Once again, the "special relationship" had been reaffirmed.
Off Louisa Reef, South China Sea, 0400 Hours, September 6th, 2008
Commander Chu Hsiang-kuo raised Hai Lung's periscope and slewed it around the horizon with a practiced flick of the wrist. There was the Bruneian patrol boat, a few hundred yards/meters to the south, just where he had been told to expect it. "Helm, come to course one hundred eighty degrees, slow to five knots and prepare to surface." Chu clicked the stopwatch button on his Rolex watch, a gift from an uncle who owned a major Taiwanese electronics firm. He planned to spend no more than three minutes on the surface, and had drilled his crew for days to shave every possible secon
d off the tricky rendezvous and pickup. There were too many Mainland Chinese patrol planes about to allow him the luxury of loitering on the surface. Two minutes and forty nine seconds later the hatch clanged shut and His Royal Highness, the Sultan of Brunei, was a guest aboard the Republic of China's best submarine. The traditional formalities of piping a head of state on board were dispensed with; Omar simply gave Commander Chu a bear hug. The Prince was finally safe, though the patrol boat crew would have to hot-bunk in the Taiwanese sub's cramped accommodations for a while. As Hai Lung (Sea Dragon) dove, the patrol boat Pejuang wallowed deeper on the glassy sea and slowly capsized. Scuttling charges might have attracted unwanted attention. The Mainland Chinese had wired these waters for sound, and this last act of Brunei's Navy was played out quietly.
The Palace, Bandar Seri Begawan, Brunei, September 6th, 2008
Surrounded by thuggish bodyguards, twenty-one-year-old Prince Abdelrahman, brother of the missing Crown Prince, looked distinctly uncomfortable in the uniform of a field marshal. It would be his first press conference. Although his handlers had thoroughly drilled and briefed him in the four days since the assassination, the "live" satellite feed, in English with simultaneous translation into Malay, Mandarin Chinese, and several regional dialects, had a seven-second delay; and a senior Malaysian intelligence officer, covered as an audio technician, was standing by the "kill" switch, just in case Abdelrahman said anything particularly stupid.
He coughed and stuttered out, "In the name of Allah, the merciful, the compassionate, I, Prince Abdelrahman Bolkiah, Sultan of Brunei, have the sad duty to inform my people and the world of the events that have shattered the peace and tranquillity of our country during the past week. We have uncovered proof that our late father, the Sultan, was treacherously murdered in a plot by our half-brother, the former Crown Prince Omar, who has fled the country. We will pursue this criminal by every possible means and bring him to justice. Our government will regard it as a most serious breach of international law if any foreign power gives sanctuary to this criminal.
"Even as We exert every effort to avenge our father's murder, we must take thought for the future of our people. For over a hundred years, this Sultanate has been a vestige of colonialism and a geopolitical anomaly." He paused for a sip of water. The English phrases would be a mouthful for the poor translators. "We have consulted with representatives of our people and our faith." He nodded toward the hard-line Islamic fundamentalist imams who had taken control of the local ulema, the collective interpreters of Muslim religious law.
"We have therefore determined that Brunei will formally request admission to the Federation of Malaysia. We have received assurances from His Excellency, the Prime Minister of Malaysia, that the traditional prerogatives of the Sultanate and the customs, culture, and traditions of our people will be fully respected. Also, in the forthcoming international conference on territorial waters in the South China Sea, Brunei's historic claims will be represented with the full power of the Malaysian Federation. Our military forces will be merged into the Malaysian armed forces, and the Brunei dollar will be withdrawn from circulation and exchanged for the Malaysian ringgit at a very favorable rate. Foreign embassies will be given every assistance in relocating their facilities and staff to Kuala Lumpur, and we invite all the nations with which we have enjoyed friendly diplomatic relations to maintain an appropriate consulate here in Bandar Seri Begawan." He finished with the words "Peace be upon you." There were no questions. Everyone agreed that, for his first press conference, the kid had followed the script pretty well.
Headquarters, Fleet Marine Force, Pacific, Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, September 7th, 2008
Lieutenant General Sidney Bear, USMC, was not a subtle man. Built like his name, he carried an old Naval Academy nickname of "Teddy," reflecting his kind and gentle nature. But at times he had a temper. Now was one of those times. As commander of Marine Forces, Pacific (FMFPAC), he was responsible for all Marine Corps activities in the Pacific Theater, and he had problems, both big and small. The American decision not to recognize the new Sultan and ignore the order to relocate the U.S. Embassy in BSB had caught U.S. Pacific Command by surprise. The general's first concern was for his own, of course, the squad of Marine guards at the U.S. Embassy in BSB. He quickly set up a video teleconference over a secure satellite link. The military attache at the embassy was an Air Force lieutenant colonel, but the general was relieved to see that the security detachment was led by an experienced gunnery sergeant. This was probably the first time the gunny had ever talked to a three-star general via the jerky image and fuzzy audio of an encrypted video phone, but his confidence and professionalism came across loud and clear.
"We've had a crowd of people at the gate this morning lined up to apply for visas, sir, but otherwise it's been business as usual."
"Gunny, I'm counting on you to be my eyes and ears until we can get you some reinforcements. Have your men keep a low profile. If they storm the embassy, let 'em have it. It's not worth dying for. We're gonna get you out of there real soon, but until then you're my eyes and ears on the spot. Anything unusual happens, you get on the horn to my Ops officer, ASAP. Understood?"
"Semper Fi, sir!"
No further explanation was required.
The White House, Washington, D.C., 1000 Hours, September 8th, 2008
The Secretary of Defense brought over a vanload of wall charts, slides, high-resolution satellite imagery, and documents to brief the President of the United States about the situation in Brunei. Then, the Secretary of State discussed the regional and global ramifications of the crisis. Finally, the National Security Advisor and the Chief of Staff explained it to him in simple language. These preliminaries over, the President made phone calls to London, Paris, and Moscow, and it was decided. The change of government in Brunei was an illegal coup d'etat. The policy of the United States was not to recognize any change in the international status of the Sultanate, and to seek to restore the reign of his rightful successor, the Crown Prince Omar Bolkiah.
Somebody recalled a phrase from the early 90s. "This will not stand."
A political solution through the United Nations Security Council would be pressed, but NSA analysis of the message traffic out of Beijing made it clear that a Chinese veto could be expected. That left only one alternative. The Secretary of Defense called the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. The Chairman called CINPAC. CINCPAC called the FMFPAC. A planning cell was activated in a dingy basement office under security so tight that only a half-dozen officers were fully "read-in" on the time, the place, and the objective. Wheels began to turn.
Headquarters, The 7th Gurkha Rifles, Seria, Brunei, September 9th, 2008
For decades Brunei Shell Petroleum had entrusted the security of its oil fields to the small, brown, and very capable hands of the Gurkhas. A Nepalese hill tribe, the Gurkhas enjoyed a unique relationship with the British Crown, combining elements of honor, tradition, mutual admiration, and direct cash payment. Maintaining a regiment of nine hundred Gurkhas cost the Sultan fully five million British pounds a year, and it was worth every penny. Nobody messed with the Sultan's oil fields. No professional soldier in the world ever wanted to go up against Gurkhas.
It was a delicate situation. Recruited and trained for generations by the British Army, the Gurkhas had been hired by Brunei to defend its oil fields, and there was no doubt in anyone's mind that as long as one of them remained alive, they would do exactly that. Colonel Rai stood 5 ft 4 in./1.6 m tall and weighed about 105 lb/47.6 kg, soaking wet. He was fifty-two years old, and could still decapitate a water buffalo with one stroke of his razor-sharp kukri, the curved fighting knife that represented the mystical center of the Gurkha warrior tradition. He rarely wore his full-dress uniform; his days were mostly spent on patrol with his men, or with the handful of foreign special forces officers who were favored with the privilege of jungle training with the Gurkhas. But today, every crease was as sharp as a kukri, and every bit of brass gleamed like gold, because he was r
eceiving a special guest, a personal envoy from his own Hindu monarch, the King of Nepal. Tea was poured, gifts were exchanged, and there was polite small talk while an orderly cleared the table.
"His Majesty desires the presence of your regiment in Katmandu for an important ceremony," the envoy said.
"We are not worthy of such an honor, and duty requires our presence here in Brunei. Surely His Majesty understands," Rai said.
"The 14th Gurkha Rifles will rotate in temporarily to perform your duties. The British Prime Minister has graciously offered the use of Royal Air Force transports to fly you and your men directly to Nepal at no cost."