Area Denial (Maelstrom Rising Book 7)

by Peter Nealen

  “That was bound to happen.” Hank wasn’t being dismissive. He could see the numbers as well as Smythe could. But they had to play it cool, and as long as they didn’t get boarded, they should still be able to play this off. The war was still very much in a “cold” status, as far as the Chinese appeared to believe. Repeated public assurances from Washington that the US did not hold Beijing responsible for the actions of their people on the ground in California, Oregon, Washington, Arizona, and Texas might actually work to the Triarii’s advantage for the moment.

  He didn’t think it was going to last, but they’d take full advantage while they could.

  But in the next few moments, even Hank started to wonder about the intel estimate.

  Three green fishing vessels suddenly turned toward the Jacqueline Q and surged forward, their engines throbbing as their bows sliced through the water. They weren’t built for speed, but the Chinese Communist Party insisted on certain standards for their fishing fleet, primarily so they could be called up for militia duty. They came roaring around the Sierra Madre’s stern and made for the Jacqueline Q.

  “Just be cool.” Hank kept his tone relaxed and easy. Smythe was already double or triple thinking his decision to come along as the Jacqueline Q’s skipper. “We’re just passing by.”

  “Tell that to them.” The cutter was moving in behind the screening formation of fishing boats.

  Hank had to admit—at least to himself—that he was by no means sure that the bluff was going to work. The Chinese had been perfectly willing to resort to violence on American soil. What were they going to do way out here, while reasonably certain that the US Navy—what was left of it in the Pacific, after that LNG tanker had “accidentally” blown up in Pearl Harbor—wouldn’t lift a finger if they sank or captured one fishing trawler?

  The little arrowhead formation of ships was heading out to cut the Jacqueline Q off. Hank could see men in the pixelated green, gray, and brown Chinese camouflage uniforms on the decks of the fishing vessels, and the cutter’s weapons were manned. A bullhorn was turned toward the Jacqueline Q from the bridge of the cutter.

  “Attention! You are entering Chinese territorial waters! Please turn around immediately! I repeat, please turn around immediately!” The accented words were still in good English as they echoed across the water.

  “I know it’s not technically over the radio, but that use of ‘repeat’ still makes me twitch.” When Smythe gave him an odd look, Hank explained. “In the mil, we all got taught never to say ‘repeat’ over the radio, because it means ‘repeat fire mission.’ Whenever somebody uses ‘repeat’ on the radio, some cannon cocker somewhere giggles and pulls the lanyard again. So, we all got it drilled into our heads to use ‘say again,’ instead of, ‘repeat.’”

  Smythe had started to relax and grin a little despite himself, which had been what Hank had been going for. Everyone needed to stay real calm, cool, and collected for the next few minutes, or this could go seriously sideways.

  He reached for the radio and switched channels until he got the same transmission, coming in an increasingly strident tone as the Chinese vessels got closer. They were still about a klick away, but closing fast. He waited for a pause in the litany of demands that they turn around, then keyed the mic.

  “We are in international waters, and Second Thomas Shoal is claimed by the government of the Philippine Islands. We have every right to be here.” He let go of the PTT switch and glanced at Smythe. “Keep going.”

  Smythe gulped. “They’re getting close.”

  “They’re going to. Those fishing boats will get so close you’ll think they’re going to ram you.” Wallace—and Vetter—had insisted that every section leader and raider captain study every bit of information about Chinese operations—both official and under the radar—in the South China Sea that they could find. There had been a surprising amount of documentation, going back to the 1990s. In fact, there’d been so much that Hank—along with quite a few others—had been left wondering just why the US had insisted on playing nice with the PRC for so long.

  So, Hank had been somewhat forewarned of what they were going to face out here. So had Smythe, but Hank had been in combat. Smythe hadn’t.

  There’s a difference between knowing and experiencing.

  But Smythe maintained their course and speed, and Hank got a better view of the construction going on to starboard of the Sierra Madre as they continued toward the north. It wasn’t much, so far—just a few concrete pilings and some steel framework around them—but the first construction on Fiery Cross Reef, off to the southwest, hadn’t been much, either. That was now an artificial island two and a quarter miles long and over half a mile wide.

  He didn’t bother to take photos. He knew that Lind and Spencer were doing plenty of that, from a spot far less conspicuous than the Jacqueline Q’s bridge.

  The first fishing boat came in fast, cutting in front of the Jacqueline Q, about two hundred yards away. The second cut that distance in half. The cutter turned and slowed, so she would come to a stop practically across the Jacqueline Q’s course. The bullhorn and the radio both echoed with the same message. “These are Chinese territorial waters! Turn around now!”

  The intercom crackled. “Got what we need to, Boss. We can let them save face for now.”

  Hank nodded, and Smythe pulled the tiller over. Hank could see the men in full battle rattle, with rifles in hand, along the cutter’s rail. That cutter was big, too, practically the size of a frigate—at least, that was roughly what Hank figured. He was admittedly no great expert on ships.

  The third fishing boat was still coming on, despite the fact that the Jacqueline Q had, apparently, blinked. And as Hank watched, he felt his fingers tightening on the console in front of him. That boat looked like it was coming right for the Jacqueline Q’s side.

  “Brace for impact.” Now that the danger was much more palpable, Smythe had calmed down and fallen into the captain’s role. He knew what he was facing now, and it had become not something to dread, but a problem to be faced and solved. He was still increasing the throttle as he pulled the tiller harder to starboard.

  The Chinese fishing boat passed barely ten feet from the Jacqueline Q’s hull, the crew in their People’s Armed Forces Maritime Militia uniforms jeering and shaking their fists as they went by. Hank suppressed the powerful urge to flip them all the finger.

  There would be a lot worse exchanged than insults and threats by the time this was over.

  “We’re getting out of here.” Smythe was setting a course back to the northeast and piling on the power. He had no desire to get his ship shot up.

  Hank really couldn’t blame him. He was glad that his gear and rifle were at his feet. As the fishing boats settled in on the Jacqueline Q’s flanks, crowding her dangerously, and the cutter took up position pacing them to stern, he found that he really wanted to gear up and start taking the fight to these arrogant bastards. He’d seen too many dead, maimed, or simply crushed by the Chinese Communist Party’s ambitions, and that was just Stateside, over the last year. He knew enough to know that it was a lot worse in this part of the world. The ChiComs were rapacious thugs, and they’d finally decided to stop being subtle about it.

  Well, we’re here to show them that some people see through their bullshit, and are done taking it.

  The thought seemed somewhat hollow in the moment, as they steamed away at fifteen knots, hounded by Chinese fishermen in cammies. He reminded himself that they were playing the long game, and that emotion had no place in it.

  We’ll be back, you Commie bastards.

  ***

  Spencer waited until the Chinese had finally given up the chase—though that had taken a lot longer, over a lot more sea space, than they’d hoped for or expected—before he came up to the bridge, carrying their recon setup, the tripod with the massive, high-end camera over one shoulder. “Got ‘em dead to rights, boys.” He plugged the camera into one of the laptops and started scrolling through th
e photos. “Not only are they building a replenishment station with 30mm cannon for close-in defense, but look at this.” He zoomed in on a photo of a large fishing trawler, snugged up against one of the big cargo ships, with familiar-looking crates being lowered to her deck. “Look familiar?”

  Hank squinted at the slightly pixelated hull number. “Isn’t that one of the boats from the other night?”

  “It is indeed. Same hull number that Tomas snapped.” Spencer rapped his knuckles on the desk in front of the laptop. “They not only muscled in on Second Thomas Shoal after probably setting the fire that drove the Philippine marines off, but now they’re using it as a staging point to clandestinely supply the NPA with arms and munitions. Think Habu will be interested in this?”

  “I know he will be.” Hank folded his arms. “I just hope his bosses are, too.”

  Chapter 10

  The Citystate Asturias Hotel was a pretty nice place, with light stucco walls and a red roof, set in one of the more affluent areas of Puerto Princesa. Hank, Chan, Spencer, Lind, and Vetter were back in their “Western tourist” mufti, though each man was still armed. The NPA’s heightened threat was enough to make that necessary, nevermind the jihadi groups’ history of kidnapping tourists and dragging them back to Sulawesi or Mindanao as hostages.

  Still, when they got up to the Executive Suite, they were met by Habu and several more hard-eyed Filipinos in dark suits, and had to submit to searches, handing off their pistols. One of the guards, a short man in a dark suit with a wired earpiece in his left ear, went through the courier bag Spencer had been carrying with a fine-toothed comb, inspecting the cameras, tablet, and drives carefully before putting them back. Habu made a vaguely apologetic shrug, but the people he’d brought them there to see wouldn’t be sitting down with armed men. Particularly not of the Triarii variety.

  Hank found the whole thing as irritating as he always had. He’d largely grown up with the security environment after 9/11, but especially during his time in uniform, he’d found having to endure it excruciating. Especially since he had enough knowledge to realize what a farce it was, most of the time. This wasn’t, not really. The terrorist threat on Palawan was as high as anywhere else in the Philippines. But they were supposed to be there as allies, and being treated as potential threats chafed.

  With the security dance done, Habu beckoned, then turned and led the way deeper into the suite. The floors were shiny, impeccably clean white tile, the rest of the room accented in dark wood, including the posts that held up the ceiling. The bed was on a raised dais to one side, and Habu led them down into the sunken living area in the center.

  Three cream-colored couches were set in a U-shape around the TV, and as the five Triarii entered and came down the step into the living area, two of the men on the couches stood up. They weren’t the security men. Hank had immediately taken note of the four additional young men in dark suits around the outside of the suite, mostly at the back, near the desk, where they had good eyes on the door. He had little doubt that every one of them had a Glock 17 under his jacket, and that the two messenger bags on the floor at their feet were probably carrying MP5s instead of the electronics Spencer was carrying.

  Those men stood, too, but they had their hands carefully folded in front of them, where they could easily sweep their open suit jackets aside and draw. Hank saw that, too.

  The one person in the suite who had not risen was a Filipino woman in a dark blue dress. She appeared to be in her late 40s, and watched the five Americans impassively through small, square-lensed glasses, her hands folded primly on her lap.

  Vetter stepped forward, extending his hand to the two men, both of whom appeared to be middle-aged, one clean-shaven, the other sporting a small but neat goatee. “Gentlemen. I’m Doug Vetter.”

  “Bayani Liwanag,” the slightly younger, bearded man said as he shook Vetter’s hand.

  “Manuel Prieto.” The older man glanced at the woman, who was still watching impassively, but shook Vetter’s hand. From where Hank stood, it didn’t look like the firmest of handshakes, either.

  “And this is Paloma Ayala.” Habu stepped to one side, beside the woman’s couch, his hands clasped behind his back. Hank knew for a fact that Habu was armed. But he was leaving the security to Ayala’s detail. Which made sense, since he wasn’t there to run security. And Hank was pretty sure that they had already built a decent rapport with Habu, especially after the hit on the NPA a few nights before.

  He turned his attention to Ayala. The long transit across the Pacific had given them plenty of time to get up to date on intel, even though some of that “up-to-date” was a little suspect, given the still-nagging comms problems. There were still some working civilian satellite constellations up, but they weren’t as reliable as what had been available before the cyber attack—and the attendant anti-satellite strikes that still no one was talking about—so most of their comm back to Texas had been via HF. And that was sketchy at times, especially with atmospheric conditions being what they are.

  But he knew who Ayala was. She was no newcomer to the Philippine political scene. In fact, she’d been a powerhouse for most of the last ten years.

  That was potentially a good thing and a bad thing. As the Triarii leaders sat on the couch across from Ayala, and the other two Philippine politicians sat down as well, Hank studied her. She was cool and detached, her face utterly unreadable. She had a reputation as a hardliner, against both American and Chinese influence in Manila. He saw her glance at Chan, though she didn’t visibly react to his obviously Chinese features.

  “The captain says that you have something to show us.” Her English was impeccable, her voice cold.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Vetter put his hand up, and Spencer, who’d already been expecting it, placed the tablet in his hand. “I know that you’ve been aware of Chinese support for the New People’s Army in your country for some time, but that there’s been some difficulty proving it sufficiently for your government to be willing to go public with it.” He activated the tablet and handed it over. “On our own recognizance, we got both on-the-ground photos and drone footage of an exchange that happened several nights ago, due north of here. We passed the information along to the captain and his Tiradores, and they intercepted the NPA fighters before they could get all of the weapons and munitions hidden.” He nodded to Habu, who nodded back. “The photos and video are on that tablet.”

  Without a word, Ayala began to scroll through the imagery. That included the photos Hank and his section had taken, as enhanced as possible, and the thermal video of the Tiradores taking down the NPA convoy. She handed it to her colleagues—Hank assumed they were colleagues—without a word, and turned back to Vetter, folding her hands in her lap again.

  She’s playing this as hard as she can.

  “That alone might not be enough. The vessels dropping off the weapons and munitions in those photos were not exactly flying Chinese colors at the time, though a cross-reference of hull numbers will show that they are, in fact, part of the so-called Chinese ‘fishing fleet.’ Now, however, we have a bit more corroborating information.” He handed across a second tablet. Spencer had worked this little presentation up carefully.

  Ayala looked down at the photo on the screen and her face hardened. She looked up at Prieto, who was sitting closest to her, and handed it across. “So, one of those same vessels that violated Philippine waters to traffic arms to terrorists is also in Philippine waters illegally seized by the Chinese, loading more weapons from a Chinese freighter.”

  “Yes, ma’am. That was our assessment as well.” Vetter might have been a hell of a door-kicker and a killer, but he was pretty good at this diplomatic rapport-building, as well. Having doubtless briefed more than a few high-level HVT hits to brass and politicians who didn’t speak “Grunt,” he was well-practiced.

  Ayala leaned forward slightly, her hands still folded in front of her. “So, what is it, exactly, that you want? The captain told us that you have both an offer and a reque
st. If it is to allow more of your government’s meddling in Philippine affairs, binding us to Washington DC as your ‘little brown brothers,’ then we have nothing more to talk about.”

  Vetter actually chuckled. She hadn’t been expecting that, and Hank watched her eyes widen slightly, with a look that said she wasn’t entirely sure whether or not to take offense. “Ma’am, if you knew who we are, you wouldn’t even have thought that. No, we’re not here on behalf of the United States government. We have no demands to make. In fact, right at the moment, we have no connection to the US government whatsoever.”

  That got their attention. Habu might have been smiling, though it was so subtle it was hard to tell.

  “Who are you, then?” Liwanag demanded.

  “We represent a private concern that knows what the Chinese have done to the US and its allies over the last few years, accelerating in the last few months.” Vetter’s voice turned cold and hard. “I doubt that word has reached the Philippines, but Chinese assets have attempted to seize control of both the US’ West Coast ports, and the West Texas oilfields. They’ve killed a lot of Americans, funneling money and weapons to Mexican cartels, and we’re pretty sure that they had more than a small role to play in the cyber attack that dropped more than half our power grid.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “We have a common enemy here. We’re out here to take the war to the Chinese’ own doorstep, regardless of what kind of cowardly bullshit our politicos think up to deny reality and try to avoid it. The war’s already come to ours. And we’re not going to let the ChiComs get away with it.

  “So, that’s the reason we’re here. We’re here to hurt Beijing. We’ve been planning this for a long time, and we’ve got a fair bit of resources committed. All we need from you is an agreement to look the other way, especially if we have to operate out of Palawan.”

  “Such ‘private concerns’ often turn out to be fronts for the CIA.” Ayala clearly wasn’t convinced.