"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 receiving 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."
The warrior and the diplomat made eye contact. Faint smiles flickered across their impassive faces. Little was said and much was understood.
"Please convey to His Majesty my deepest gratitude for this honor."
By the end of the week, the 7th Rifles were out of the country, and for some unaccountable reason, they wound up in Manila, billeted in the same hotel as the Crown Prince Omar Bolkiah. At the same time, the 14th Gurkhas were held up in transit. Problems with paperwork, it was said. Diplomatic channels hummed with profuse apologies, while Malaysian authorities scrambled to recruit temporary security guards. For now, though, the new Sultan had only a Malaysian shield.
Prime Minister's Residence, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, 1430 hours, September 10th, 2008
It was intolerable. The Prime Minster was not a patient man. He had devoted a long career to building up his fragile nation into a respected regional economic and military power. And now the insolent American task force, steaming provocatively though his territorial seas, was requesting that Malaysian patrol planes keep a distance of at least 50 nm/91.4 km to avoid "unfortunate incidents." In response, he had summoned the American ambassador and browbeaten the man for half an hour. The bland diplomatic replies about "freedom of navigation" and "precautionary measures" had only infuriated him more. Malays could be a hot-tempered people. Amok is a Malay word, and the Prime Minister was just about ready to run amok. As soon as the American had been dismissed, the Prime Minister grabbed the red phone that connected him directly to the Armed Forces Chief of Staff. He would give them an incident to remember.
Above the South China Sea, 1500 Hours, September 10th, 2008
There was a time when a flight of four vintage MiG-29 Fulcrum-Cs flying top cover for a gaggle of four shiny new F/A-18C Hornets might have seemed bizarre. In the New World Order, though, any mix of aircraft was possible. The Malaysian Air Force had stretched its limited budget by driving hard bargains, East and West, and the result was this formation. Squadron Leader Edward Tawau, call sign Red Dragon, nervously thumbed the stick's radar-mode select switch between air-search and surface-search modes. He didn't like this mission one bit. His orders were to fly directly over the ships of the American task force at low altitude, cracking sonic booms just above their mastheads. At the pre-dawn briefing, the Wing Commander had assured the pilots that the Americans would back off as soon as they understood that Malaysia was serious about enforcing its sovereignty.
The Wing Commander (call sign Blue Python) had been born into a princely family of one of the little sultanates that made up the Malay Federation and trained by the RAF. He was contemptuous of Americans, a strange people, wholly without courtesy and lacking in any sense of family honor or obligation. On the other hand, the Squadron Leader's parents had met in a factory that assembled circuit boards for an American computer company, and he had learned to fly his F/A-18C Hornet in Florida. He might not understand Americans, but he was not likely to underestimate them.