by Peter Nealen
Hank felt a wry smile tugging at his lips, and saw the same expression spreading across Vetter’s and Benavidez’s faces. Chan, true to form, while he looked vaguely amused, was still poker faced. “That sounds perfectly reasonable to me.”
Habu smiled then, but there was a brittleness to the expression. “I should have an answer for you soon. In the meantime, and completely off the record, I’m glad at least someone has come from America to help here. The fact is that the NPA has never posed quite the threat they do now, and our Special Forces friends have apparently been instructed to stay away from Palawan and anywhere else the NPA is operating. Their instructions are to train our people and help us against Abu Sayyaf, IS, and the Moro Ikhwan. No one else. And they have not been offered an explanation to give to us, either.”
Vetter nodded solemnly. “Believe me, we’ve run into the same thing. We’ve even been threatened with the terrorist group label because we held the line.” He pointed to Hank. “More specifically, he did.”
Habu looked over at Hank. “Really?”
Hank nodded grimly. “Turns out when you cross international borders to hunt the terrorists who attacked your area of responsibility, and then throw more of them off your own territory, some people don’t like it.”
Habu laughed mirthlessly. “That sounds familiar.” He stood up. “I will be in touch, Miguel.” Looking around at the rest, he added, “Good hunting, gentlemen. Just try to keep things from blowing up before it is time, please?”
“We’ll do what we can.” Hank stood up as well. “But the enemy always gets a vote, too.”
“Oh, I know, my friend,” Habu said. “I know.”
Chapter 6
“Quiet night.” Doug Vetter had come over from the Slow Company, an eighty-foot yacht that had been turned into his section’s raider. He and Hank were leaning on the Jacqueline Q’s rail, looking out over the water as it glittered under the starlight and the glow of the half-moon overhead. Palawan was a dark line off to starboard.
“They’ve all been quiet, lately.” Hank tried to keep the frustration out of his voice. After all this time, he should have been plenty patient, but he found that he just wanted to get stuck in. They’d been patient for two months on the passage across the Pacific, but they’d had a solid goal in mind then. Now, they were just sailing around Palawan, watching and waiting for something to happen, never entirely sure if they were going to spot the enemy or not. And it was wearing on him.
Furthermore, he knew that Vetter was checking up on him. He was checking up on all his section leaders, but Hank couldn’t escape the feeling that Vetter had an eye on him in particular. He hadn’t known the former Delta operator before this mission, but he’d gotten to know him well enough to be well aware that Vetter was a keen judge of character, and could often sniff out when something was wrong well before it manifested outwardly. Especially when it came to his subordinate leaders.
“Give it time.” Vetter sounded downright relaxed. “Hell, our mission is to sail and lounge around in the sun for now. What’s not to like?”
He’s feeling me out. Why? What have I done, or not done?
Hank grimaced as he looked up at the stars. “Nothing, on the surface. It’s just been a long time getting out here, and now we can’t do anything but wait.”
“That’s always been the way of it.” Vetter looked over at him. “I ever tell you I did a stint in A Squadron’s Recce Troop?”
Hank shook his head. There hadn’t been time during the workup for a lot of tale-swapping.
“It was a lot of work to get there, but what part of the Unit isn’t?” Vetter looked out to sea again. “But the biggest asset as a recon guy is patience. I once had to lie in a trash heap in Pristina for two days. Let me tell you, that was a long time without hardly moving except at night, when I was reasonably sure that nobody was watching. And finding that hide was even worse, since even Kosovo had plenty of CCTV cameras set up by then.”
He turned and leaned on the rail, watching Hank with an appraising eye. “You might have been a regular infantryman, but in this day and age there ain’t no such thing as ‘regular’ anything. I know it. You know it. I know you’ve done some Sneaky Pete stuff in your time with the Triarii. I therefore know that you’re well aware of the need for patience. So, what’s eating you?”
Hank sighed. “I guess a part of me was hoping that this would be a bit more straightforward. Hunt the ChiComs, kill the ChiComs. No hearts and minds, no entanglement with the locals. Just get out on the water and start doing raids and sabotage.” He grunted. “Instead, here we are, doing ‘warrior diplomacy’ again.”
It was a little hard to make out Vetter’s features in the starlight and moonlight, even though most of the Jacqueline Q’s exterior lights were blacked out. But he was studying Hank closely, and even in the dark, Hank could see the wheels turning. Then the other man nodded slightly as he turned back around and leaned his elbows on the rail.
“I know we haven’t talked about it, but Wallace told me what happened in Texas. Said it took some serious digging to find out about it, too. But he’d cautioned me when we were going over the roster that you’d seen some shit that had you a little…off. Not non-operational, but that you were processing some things. Something about a local kid you’d taken under your wing until he got killed.”
Hank couldn’t help but stiffen a little at that. There’s a lot more to it than that.
“I know, there’s a lot more to it than that.” Damn, the man’s a fuckin’ mind reader. “And I’d be the last one to condemn a man for taking a local kid to heart. Been there, done that. We’re supposed to be warriors, not psychopaths. I know plenty of guys in this business who really are functional sociopaths, but those aren’t the guys I necessarily want fighting the kind of war we’re in. Oh, maybe certain missions, but there’s only a certain place for the ‘break glass in case of war’ sort of dude.
“From what I’ve heard, you haven’t been one of those guys. Except that now you’re trying to be.”
Hank stared at the low, dark outline of Palawan in the distance, his lips pressed tightly together. He didn’t have an answer.
“I can’t blame you for turning in on yourself a little, if the stories I’ve heard about what happened are true. It’s hard enough to see a kid get killed. When he’s yours, whether by blood, adoption, or just taking care of him, it’s fucking devastating.” Vetter paused, as if he was trying to think of the best way to phrase what was to follow. “I’m not going to tell you that it gets any easier. We’re both grown-ass men. I shouldn’t have to lie to you, and you shouldn’t accept it if I did. But here’s the deal.
“You’re a Triarii section leader. Like it or not, your boys need to see that you’ve got the big picture, the commander’s intent, foremost in mind. Yeah, aggressiveness is a good thing, but we joined this organization to do more than just stay in the fight. As a section leader, you’ve got to be more than just a trigger puller. Which means sometimes you’ve got to push those emotions to the back and put on that ‘warrior diplomat,’ easygoing manner, and do what needs doing. If that means being patient and letting the situation develop, glad-handing with some Filipino politician who might be able to get us an angle, then that’s what it means.
“But above all, it means leading. And sometimes that boils down to letting your section see that you’re not bothered by the waiting, not wearing a hole in the deck pacing because you’re pissed that the ChiComs haven’t jumped in front of your muzzle yet.” Vetter peered at him keenly. “You hearing me, Gunny?”
Hank took a deep breath as he nodded. “Loud and clear, Sergeant Major.”
Vetter laughed a little as he clapped Hank on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. If what Habu said pans out, I think we’re going to see plenty of action soon enough. But guerrilla warfare is a patient man’s game. And maritime guerrilla warfare even more so.”
Hank looked over at him. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I got to wonder, since you mentioned
‘maritime’ guerrilla warfare…”
“Why a Delta guy instead of a SEAL?” Vetter shrugged. “Because I was available, and I volunteered. And between you, me, and the dolphins, I don’t think Colonel Santiago likes SEALs very much. He had a bad experience with a DEVGRU guy early on.”
“Hadn’t heard about that.” Hank couldn’t say that he objected much. He’d dealt with some SEALs over the years. Some were great guys. Some were every bit the arrogant pricks that had been the cause for the rest of the military’s stereotype of Naval Special Warfare.
“It hasn’t gotten spread around much. Mainly because there would be some people in jail who don’t necessarily belong there if it did.” Vetter clearly wasn’t going to go into any greater detail, so Hank decided to drop it.
“Hank? Doug? You might want to come take a look at this.” Chan had stuck his head out of the boathouse.
Vetter straightened up as Hank turned and headed toward the hatch. Chan wasn’t easily stampeded, and it sounded like he had something. Maybe this is our lucky night.
The command center was dark except for the glow of the laptop screens. Chan was sitting at the table by himself, having kicked his own assistant section leader, Travis Lind, out to go grab some rack time about a half an hour before.
“What have we got?” Vetter leaned over Chan’s shoulder, as Hank circled around to the other side for a look at the screens.
“It might be nothing.” Chan pointed at the window that displayed the northern drone feed. Those little UAVs were getting a workout. But with the limitations on radar—there was only so powerful a rig they could mount, and only so much they could use it, without looking like a naval vessel rather than just a fishing trawler—the drones were invaluable for early warning. “These four fishing boats came in out of the open ocean and are moving really carefully toward the northern tip of the island. Seems a little late for fishing.”
“If they’re Chinese, they won’t give a damn, any more than they’ll care about violating Philippine waters.” Vetter was studying the boats carefully.
Hank was doing the same. The three vessels were definitely fishing trawlers, ranging in size from one big one that looked like it was nearly the same length as the Jacqueline Q, to a couple of little forty-footers. It was impossible to see what flag they might be flying on thermal, but if they were Chinese, they probably wouldn’t be flying the flag this close to Palawan, anyway. A check of the positioning readout showed that they were barely five nautical miles off the coast, well into Philippine waters.
“They’re not moving like they’re fishing.” Hank had studied up on the Chinese People’s Armed Forces Maritime Militia before they’d headed for the South China Sea. They were usually actual fishermen, but with the side occupation of acting as extensions of Beijing’s military policy. The Chinese fishing vessels had often been far more aggressive than the actual PLAN.
“No, they’re not. They’re heading in toward shore.” Vetter swung one of the laptops to face him and brought up the overhead imagery, zooming out. “Where exactly are they?”
Chan rattled off the coordinates, helpfully including their course and speed. Vetter checked on it, then nodded grimly. “They’re heading for the inlets up on the north end of the island. Not a whole lot of population up there. A few resorts and the town of Taytay, but there are a lot of little bays and coves and a lot of jungle behind them.” He straightened up. “How much you boys want to bet they’re carrying weapons and supplies for the NPA?”
“No bet.” Hank wasn’t much of a gambler in the first place, but that was an easy call to make. It was still possible that they were Filipino fishermen, coming in late, but something about the whole thing, and the tight clump the boats were formed up in, that didn’t quite feel right. He checked their own plot, which he and Chan had prevailed on Smythe to feed down to their command center from the bridge. “We’re still a ways out. At their course and speed, they’ll be out of sight before we can close the distance.”
“Might be, but if we can keep tabs on them via drone, we might be able to get close enough to see what they’re up to. As long as they don’t jam the drones, we can maintain contact well enough to talk a squad in.” Vetter was staring down at the drone feed, chewing the corner of his lip, gauging time, distance, and risk.
“I’ll grab Navarro’s squad.” Hank turned toward the hatch. “Get us close enough and we’ll launch the Zodes and head in to see what we can see.”
***
Hank wondered if he’d made the right call, taking the lead on this himself. He was at the tiller of the first boat as it dangled from the Jacqueline Q’s forward crane and lowered toward the water. You could have let Navarro take this. He’s capable enough, and he’s proved it already, even if it was before you knew him. Maybe you should have stayed back in the COC and supervised.
But he couldn’t bring himself to do that. Again, it wasn’t a matter of showing leadership, no matter how much Vetter had stressed that during their conversation at the gunwale. With a few notable exceptions, most of his Triarii were self-starters. They’d proved that during the short-manpower, dispersed operations on the Texas border over the winter. They didn’t need a leader “inspiring” them.
No, Hank had to admit that he was restless and wanted to be doing something. If only to keep from pacing the deck and brooding.
Vetter hadn’t objected. Chan hadn’t objected. LaForce had objected, but only because he’d wanted to go instead of Navarro. So, Hank was here, with Navarro in the Number Two boat behind him, as the Combat Rubber Raiding Craft touched the waves and Rossiter, a recently separated Marine and the youngest man in the entire section, released the cables from the crane. They were on their own, bobbing next to the metal cliff that was the Jacqueline Q’s hull.
Hank yanked on the starter cord, and after a few pulls, the outboard chugged to life. Easing in the throttle, he steered away from the shadow of the Jacqueline Q, heading toward the coast.
“This is Six Four Six. Underway.” His radio was carefully waterproofed, but he still had to be careful. It was a far cry from the old days, trying to use an MBITR or PRC-152 on the water, but salt water could still ruin a radio, even the tough, mostly waterproof handsets the Triarii were using. Even so, they’d be off comms in short order if the drone wasn’t acting as a repeater.
“Roger. They just turned into the big inlet south of Tulutan Island.” Hank nodded in the dark as he flipped down his NVGs and set course for the headland to the north.
“Good copy. Keep me posted if anything changes.” He let his hand fall from his transmit switch, wired into his chest rig, and turned his attention to the water.
Black on black, the two boats motored into the dark, heading for the coast.
Chapter 7
“Six Four Six, this is Juliet Quebec.” The low voice in his Peltor headset was shockingly loud after the last hour of quiet cruising, the only other sound having been the dull rumble of the outboard and the faint swish and slap of the waves against the rubber gunwales. Still, Hank was alert enough to avoid starting at the sudden words.
After all, he was getting more and more keyed up as he realized just how far behind they were. At their current speed, the Zodiacs would be rounding the point and entering the inlet south of Tulutan Island in about two more hours. And who knew how far they’d have to go after that to catch up with the Chinese fishing boats? This might just be mission failure before it had even begun, simply because of the tyranny of distance and the limits of the Zodiacs’ outboard engines.
“Send it.” He managed to keep his voice low, even, and almost bored, betraying none of his worry.
“Be advised, we’re seeing the boats moving into the inlet right on the opposite side of the point from you, and what looks like some lights on land where there shouldn’t be any. If you pull in, beach the boats, and hike due east, you’ll only have about a klick and a quarter to go on foot to get eyes on, as opposed to trying to motor all the way around.”
Spence
r was looking out for them. Hank couldn’t express his gratitude right then, but he sure felt it. The idea of missing the target simply because of time and distance had stuck in his craw.
Granted, twelve hundred fifty meters was still quite a distance in the jungle, at night. But it was better than the roughly fourteen nautical miles they’d still have to go on the water, at about five knots.
“Roger. Tango.” Without another word, he steered east, toward the dark, jungle-swathed coast. A glance over his shoulder showed him that Navarro was keeping pace, cruising in around one of the myriad little peninsulas that lined the Palawan coast. The moon had set, and for a moment, the other boat seemed to disappear in the blackness beneath the jungle canopy, before being briefly silhouetted against the pale beach.
The water calmed as they motored into the sheltered cove. Checking the chart board by the dim green glow of a mostly-shielded chemlight, he saw that—provided his plot was right, and he was pretty sure it was—the bottom got really shallow about seven hundred yards before the beach. That would help with handling, but Lee Nakato and Durand, up in the bow, would need to be on their game so that he didn’t drive the outboard into the bottom, potentially seriously damaging the propulsor.
Both men were heads-down, though, watching the bottom as best they could on night vision, while Rossiter, Kinzie, and Fuentes watched the jungle ahead and to either side.
Hank had them coming in pretty quick. He wanted to land, get the boats concealed, and get across that neck of jungle in time to get a good look at what was happening. Time was not on their side.
Durand’s hand went up. Hank half stood, reached down, and pulled the pins on the engine, ready to kill it and haul it up out of the water. They glided closer and closer to the shore. The jungle rose on three sides, an impenetrable black wall in all directions.
