by Peter Nealen
They’d have to settle for only two squads for tonight. Hank still wasn’t decided on their immediate course of action, anyway. For the moment, he was intent only on finding the pirates. The fruits of their reconnaissance would determine their course of action from there.
It took some doing to pile into the helo, since it was still hovering about three feet off a moving deck, and they had to clamber up into the fuselage while wearing helmets, night vision, body armor, emergency flotation “horse collars,” ammunition and gear, weapons, and the water they’d need if this op went long. The Timor Sea was relatively calm at the moment, but that just meant that the Jacqueline Q was only rising and falling about four feet or so with each swell. The fact that the pilot managed to keep the S-70 as steady and close to the deck without crashing as he did was a testament to his skill.
Finally, through a combination of scrambling, climbing, waiting for the gap to close again as the trawler rose on the next swell, and simply reaching down and hauling Triarii up by main force, they got everyone aboard. Hank found himself getting tense again as the pilot changed the pitch of the rotors and clawed for altitude. If they’d missed something…
Been a land mammal for too long. Back in the Corps, this wouldn’t have bothered you so much. But he knew all too well how dangerous maritime air ops really were, and he couldn’t help it.
The bird gained altitude smoothly, however, and in moments they were circling a hundred feet above the Jacqueline Q, none the worse for wear. The second S-70 headed in to pick up Navarro’s squad.
Hank watched as closely as he could while the Dash One bird circled. Navarro had fit in fairly well, as had his squad. Tango India Six Four had taken enough losses since the grid had gone down that the entirety of Third Squad were new guys. Well, new to the section, anyway. While the Triarii were beginning to recruit from the general civilian population, the bulk of the operational guys were still all veterans.
Navarro’s squad got aboard mostly without mishap, though at one point, the Jacqueline Q dipped into a trough while one of the shooters was still only halfway aboard the bird, and he dangled over the ocean for a long moment before he was hauled aboard. Hank couldn’t see who it was, especially from that height and on NVGs. It wasn’t fully dark yet, which made matters worse, as the PVS-14s didn’t have the greatest contrast during the immediate post-sunset twilight.
Finally, Third Squad was loaded up, and the two birds banked and headed into the night to the north.
***
“Contact, bearing three five four, sixteen miles.” The pilot’s voice penetrated the constant drone of the helo’s rotors, coming through Hank’s headset. He pivoted in his seat and peered out through the windshield, between the pilot and copilot.
The pilot pointed, and after a moment Hank spotted the small, white dot on the blackness of the ocean below. He couldn’t make out any detail at that distance, but he’d been watching his compass and roughly calculating their speed. Unless the fleeing pirates had abruptly changed course after the Jacqueline Q had lost visual contact, that was probably them.
But he still couldn’t see any mothership in the distance. The boat was still alone on the waters of the Timor Sea. Granted, if they had ranged far enough, they still could have a good distance to go.
“How close can you get before they decide we’re watching them?”
“Not much closer than this,” the pilot answered. “They can probably hear us already. They shouldn’t be able to see us, unless they’ve got NODs, but they’ll know somebody’s flying nearby, and we’re a long way away from land.”
Hank nodded, considering their options. He was all but completely certain there was a mothership somewhere out here, and he wanted to take it out while there was a chance that they still weren’t completely made. Taking this one launch out would be something, but if he could make the whole pirate band disappear without any sign that there were round-eyes with guns in the vicinity, so much the better.
You know, you could bird dog it and then call it in to the Aussies. Their navy, such as it remains, should be able to handle one pirate ship.
But even as he thought it, he knew he wasn’t going to go that route. Questions would still be asked. Questions that none of the Triarii fleet wanted to answer.
It had taken months and a lot of money to build this fleet in disguise. And while officially Beijing and Canberra were on the outs, he knew that just like back in the States, there were enough sympathizers and outright sellouts in the Australian government that the Chinese would know something was going on before noon the next day if they called in the Aussies.
There would also be problems with the Aussies about a freelance naval force like the Triarii flotilla, as well. Governments don’t like having armed forces around that don’t answer to them.
“Let’s continue to follow. Keep as much distance as we can, but maintain contact, at least until we spot some sign of a mothership.”
“Roger that.” The pilot glanced down at his gauges. “We’ve got about thirty more minutes before we have to turn around.”
“Copy that.” Hank hoped that they would have spotted something before then. He stayed where he was, between the crew seats, watching the ocean ahead as the pilot turned away from the distant speck of the pirate launch. They’d weave back and forth across its path, maintaining their distance until either they spotted something, or they hit bingo fuel.
***
It didn’t take nearly as long as he’d feared.
They’d been pacing the launch for about fifteen more minutes when lights appeared on the horizon ahead. A quick check of the chart showed they were still too far south for the lights to be any of the settlements on the south shores of the Letti Islands. It had to be a ship.
And the launch was heading straight for it.
The pilot swung wide to the west, their Dash Two bird following suit, dropped altitude, and sped up to get a better look at the ship without overflying the launch.
Waving a hand to get Hank’s attention, the pilot pointed to one of the multi-function displays on the dash, that had been linked to a camera pod on the side of the bird’s fuselage. He leaned forward to peer at it. He’d forgotten about those.
The image showed what looked like an ancient chemical tanker, wallowing on the seas. At least half a dozen smaller vessels were tied up alongside.
“That looks like our target.” He was already wondering if they should try to do this the sneaky way, or just bring more of the Triarii raider ships up and just rocket the thing until it blew up and sank. Sneaky is less likely to attract attention.
For a moment, he was sorely tempted to just swoop down and board, clearing the ship from the top down. But he reconsidered quickly. The S-70s didn’t have the dwell time, and this was primarily a reconnaissance mission. It would be bad juju if they boarded, got into a fight, and their only support ran short on fuel and had to leave them alone on a pirate ship, about forty-five nautical miles from the Jacqueline Q.
“Mark it and let’s head back.” He was already switching his radio to call back to the ship, which should be steaming north at about fifteen knots. This was going to take some tight timing, given the length of the nights that time of year, but he was pretty sure they could get it done. As long as they boarded before sunrise…
“Tango India Six Four Five, this is Six Four Six.
“Get the boats ready. We’ve got our objective.”
Chapter 3
The eastern sky was already turning pale as the four Zodiacs skipped over the waves toward the looming silhouette of the former MV Brilliant Titan. The ship’s lights were still on, though everything appeared otherwise still, the launches and fishing boats tied alongside bobbing slightly on the waves, ladders leading up to the main deck. While they were still some distance away, Hank couldn’t see any sentries on the rails or the superstructure. Either the pirates thought they were safe, since the attack hadn’t materialized with the distant snarl of helicopter rotors in the dark, or they
really were paranoid as hell, and were hiding well.
Of course, the boats were still a good half a nautical mile from their target, so the latter was certainly possible.
He eased off on the throttle. They had less than an hour of darkness left, but roaring up to the ship at full speed would be almost certain to alert someone, even if the pirates didn’t have anyone on watch. So, they’d use the last of Before Morning Nautical Twilight to drift in. Hopefully the low, black rubber boats would blend in with the darkness of the ocean as they closed.
There wasn’t a Triarius aboard those four boats who wasn’t wishing on some level that they’d been able to helocast in, flying much closer before they dropped the boats and jumped in after them. It wasn’t a typical infantry method, but given their mission, Wallace had insisted that every section going to the Western Pacific practice it. They weren’t technically special operations forces, but they still needed to know most of what the SOF guys did.
But they simply didn’t have the assets to fly the boats in. Colonel Santiago was reportedly working on getting some heavier lift helicopters that could be adapted for naval use, but so far all they had were the S-70s and the Vipers out in the Pacific. Anything else would have to wait.
Provided things didn’t completely fall apart with the Feds first.
Hank shook his head and concentrated on the approach. The rest of the command element—except for Spencer, who was in Navarro’s boat—plus one man from each squad, lay on the gunwales, with Shevlin and Carrington in the bow, their M5s aimed up at the rising cliff of the Brilliant Titan’s hull as they got closer. He’d slowed even more, as had the other coxswains, and now all four boats were online, approaching the tied-up launches and fishing boats almost silently, practically drifting forward.
He cut the throttle altogether at the last moment, pivoting the tiller to bring them sliding up against what looked like the very fishing boat they’d pursued north. It was empty, rocking at the Brilliant Titan’s side, secured by lines reaching up to the rail above, along with a sketchy-looking rope ladder.
Hopefully that ladder held when six big men with weapons and gear got on it. It looked like it might unravel or snap under enough tension.
Carrington and Kinzie reached out and grabbed hold of the white-painted fishing boat’s gunwale, quickly hooking the Zodiac in, tying it up securely by the grab lines on the flanks. They would need every shooter to board and clear a ship that big, so they couldn’t spare a man to watch the boats.
It was a risk, but so was this entire op.
In moments, they were scrambling into the fishing boat, moving as quickly as they could without knocking the boat against the hull and making noise. That lasted about as long as it took one of the Triarii in one of the other boats to start up the ladder and knock his suppressor against the steel of the ship’s hull.
The bong echoed out across the water. Someone might have called out querulously from above.
“Move!” Hank wasn’t the number one man on the ladder—Carrington had beat him to that—so he was in the bottom of the fishing boat, his rifle trained on the rail above, watching for the telltale head to pop over and see the men in dark green swarming up the ladders onto the ship.
But Carrington, Bronsted, Huntsman, and one of the Nakato brothers got to the rail before any of the pirates could react. A suppressed shot cracked from up there, and then everything went silent again.
Hank swarmed up the ladder behind Kinzie, letting Shevlin and Doc Travis wait in the fishing boat. He needed to be up there.
The first Triarii were already moving aft, while Bronsted held security on a knee next to one of the big chemical tanks, facing the bow, just so that none of the men on the ladders got blindsided. Hank joined the stack heading for the superstructure, moving at a fast glide despite the faint sway underfoot as the ship rocked on the swells.
A voice was suddenly raised from above, and he looked up to see a figure on the navigation deck beside the bridge, holding an AK and looking down at the deck. The pirate yelled again, raising the alarm as he leveled his rifle at the boarders.
Carrington shot him first, his bullet punching through the man’s torso and knocking him on his ass. A pretty impressive shot for that distance, through a red dot on NVGs, while the ship was moving on the sea. It didn’t kill the pirate, though, who started wailing as he tried to bring his AK back to bear again.
Three more rounds hammered into the railing, the deck, and the pirate. But the damage was done.
Shouts and bellowed orders in some Indonesian dialect reverberated through the superstructure. Someone was on a megaphone, shouting in fast, high-pitched Indonesian. But the first Triarii had already climbed up the short ladderwells onto the rear deck and reached the port hatch.
It swung open before Carrington could reach for the dogging handle. Apparently, lacking any real clear idea of what was happening, the pirates had decided to run to defensive positions. Half a dozen small men in various stages of dress, carrying a polyglot assembly of weapons, some with load bearing gear thrown over their shoulders, others with only what ammo they had in their rifles or submachineguns, crowded through the hatchway.
And died.
The range was so short that it was next to impossible to miss. Suppressed gunfire crackled as Carrington and Huntsman raked the clump of pirates, hardly even bothering to aim, just dumping rounds as fast as they could pull the trigger as they dragged their muzzles from one side to the other. In seconds, six men lay dead or dying, blood spattered across the hatch coaming and running out onto the deck.
Carrington and Huntsman stepped out of the way, reloading as Hank, Kinzie, and Bob Nakato swept through the hatchway.
They found themselves in a narrow, poorly-lit passageway, redolent with the smells of rust, stale sweat, and raw sewage, over and above the stink of blood and voided bowels from the bodies behind them. More staccato orders rattled out over the ship’s intercom system, crackling and squealing with feedback, and while Hank didn’t speak a word of Indonesian—or whichever of the over seven hundred languages spoken across the Indonesian archipelago that the pirates were using—he got the distinct impression that the pirate captain knew that half a dozen of his men had just been cut to dog treats on the deck, and he was adjusting their response.
He didn’t give orders or advice but just gave Bob a squeeze to the shoulder. With you.
Nakato moved up to the first hatch, which was standing open. Probably a violation of shipboard safety protocols, but these were pirates. He popped the hatchway with his muzzle, and promptly opened fire.
Return fire smacked off the hatch coaming with loud bangs, the concussions hammering at the inside the compartment. Nakato dropped to a knee, still most of the way barricaded on the hatchway, and Hank leaned out above him.
They’d stumbled on the main berthing, which was currently overcrowded with pirates, still scrambling to grab weapons and some semblance of clothing. Some of them—of those Nakato hadn’t already shot—were clearly intoxicated. They weren’t moving so well.
“Screw this.” Hank dumped a pirate who had picked up another AK and sprayed a burst at them, hitting two of his compatriots in the backs of their heads first, then ducked back, yanked a frag out of his plate carrier, and pulled the pin. “Frag out!”
There were a lot of people who would have caught the vapors knowing that the Triarii—ostensibly a civilian militia/private military company—had weapons like LAWs and frag grenades. But Colonel Santiago had been planning for a long time, and the organization had facilities across the middle of the country turning out weapons and munitions to fight the war that it sometimes seemed as if only the Triarii were serious about fighting.
Letting the safety lever fly, he cooked the grenade for a couple of seconds as Nakato pulled back out of the hatchway. A couple of bullets smacked through the sheet metal wall, just above Nakato’s head. One hared into the opposite bulkhead, scarring the paint and rust, while the other hit Hank in the edge of the plate.
He felt the blow and felt the sting in his side, but he didn’t know how badly he was hit, and he didn’t lose his grip on the grenade. Instead, he hooked it inside, giving a good loft to bounce it off the overhead. Panicked yells reverberated from inside, a moment before the grenade exploded with a tooth-rattling boom. Shrapnel screamed out of the open hatchway, further peppering the forward bulkhead and the closed hatch on that side.
Then Hank and Nakota were moving again, covering the open hatch with their rifles as they swept past. The lights were out in the berthing compartment, but they could still see enough through the growing light in the portholes to the east to see that it was an abattoir. The men who hadn’t been killed or maimed outright weren’t in any shape to fight anytime soon.
Leaving the berthing to the following squads, the Triarii swept toward the central ladderwell and the bridge above. Hank wanted the captain.
More gunfire echoed through the superstructure below them as the other two squads spread out across the lower deck. In planning, LaForce’s Second Squad would take the main deck, Navarro’s Third would go below to secure the engine and machinery spaces, and Lovell’s First Squad would follow Hank up to take the bridge. It was a little messier than that in practice, given the “Fill, Flow, and Go” model that Hank had trained the section on for close quarters battle. If there’s an opening, fill it with a body and a gun. If the man in front of you goes right, you go left. Initiative and three-hundred-sixty-degree security mattered a hell of a lot more than the hasty canned plan they’d developed fifteen minutes after getting off the S-70s.
The ladderwell was narrow and steep, but there was no turn, no landing they had to worry about. There was only the hatch at the top leading onto the command deck and the bridge. That hatch was currently shut, but that was why they had a couple of Broco torches along.
The captain, or chieftain, or whatever he was, was still ranting over the intercom, sounding increasingly angry rather than desperate. He knew that his men hadn’t immediately slaughtered the enemy shooters who had boarded his ship, and rather than panicking, he was getting pissed.
