Area Denial (Maelstrom Rising Book 7)

by Peter Nealen

  It didn’t open at first, though Hank heard a crack as his boot crashed into it, just below the doorknob. Rearing up, he hammered his foot down and back again, and the doorjamb cracked, then gave way, the door juddering inward.

  Evans was moving as soon as the door started to open, blowing past Hank and shouldering through the door, his rifle coming up as he turned to clear the corner.

  Hank fell in behind him, going through the hatchway even as gunfire erupted from inside.

  He kept moving, even as bullets snapped past his ears, sure that he was about to get shot, but he was just a hair faster than the man in the blue-and-gray camouflage and black plate carrier crouched behind one of the consoles, trying to track him with a QBZ-95. Hank threw himself onto the deck, knowing he was leaving the corner uncleared, but also knowing that if he didn’t deal with the threat that was right in front of him, he was dead anyway.

  It wasn’t the kind of tactics he’d been taught or trained for over two decades. There was no CQC course in the world that taught throwing oneself flat on your side on entry. Well, there might be, but they would rightfully be shunned by those who knew what they were doing. Going side prone on entry was a good way to trip the next man up, not to mention exposing the Number One man’s back to anyone in that corner you didn’t just clear.

  But fortunately, Reisinger was right behind him, and had seen what was happening. Reisinger’s own M5 cracked above him, even as he tracked in on the nearly panicked PLAN marine behind the console, who hadn’t expected him to drop like that.

  Both men fired at the same moment, but Hank was just a little bit more accurate. He felt the bullet burn across his shoulder as his own shot punched through the PLAN marine’s cheekbone and blew out the back of his skull just below his ear.

  It wasn’t an immediately fatal shot, but the kid was out of the fight immediately, collapsing to the deck with a burbling scream that was immediately drowned out by the storm of gunfire and shattering windshield glass.

  Hank desperately rolled onto his stomach, got his feet under him, and stood up, scanning the bridge over his rifle. It was all over, though.

  Four PLAN marines lay on the deck, dead or badly wounded. The crew had been armed, but they’d thrown down their CF-05 submachineguns as soon as the marines had been cut down and raised their hands.

  Hank moved to the one he’d shot, and kicked the QBZ-95 away from him, just to be on the safe side. The wound was bad, and the marine didn’t have long for this world. There was a lot of blood pouring out onto the deck.

  “Six Four Actual, Six Four Five.” Spencer’s voice on the radio was a little distorted and scratchy from all the metal between them, but still readable. “Engine room secure. Patterson’s wounded. Doc’s already taking care of him.”

  “Roger. Bridge secure. We’ll consolidate and then start clearing the rest of the superstructure.”

  “Six Four Actual, this is Seven Two Five. Be advised, the Philippine Marines are boarding now, and Sabata says they’ll clear the rest of the superstructure.” Lind had stayed back aboard the Jacqueline Q to coordinate.

  “Good copy. Sabata, Six Four Actual.” Hank hadn’t planned on the Philippine marines doing much of the clear. Not because he didn’t think they were capable, but simply because they hadn’t trained with the Triarii, and there was a lot of deconfliction that hadn’t been worked out.

  “Go for Sabata.” Yadao clearly had a taste for spaghetti westerns.

  “I have shooters on the boarding site, the engine room, and the bridge. Seven Two is currently clearing the holds. Watch your fire. Be advised, the crew are armed, but at least on the bridge, they surrendered as soon as we killed the PLAN marines.” Hank had been impressed that they’d gotten this far with only Patterson getting hit, and he really didn’t want to risk that changing because one of their allies failed to ID his target before he dropped the hammer.

  “Roger that. We will be careful. Sabata out.” Yadao also didn’t like to be reminded of tactical basics, apparently.

  The kid he’d shot through the face was dead. Reisinger and Evans were watching the surrendered crew, including the captain. Hank leaned against a console and covered the doorway. “Reisinger!”

  “Radio room’s clear, Hank!” The shout came back through the open hatch. “I can’t tell if they got a message off, though.”

  “Roger.” There was nothing to be done if they had. It was only a matter of time before the Chinese reacted to what they’d just done, anyway. He hoped they’d moved fast enough that the situation was still too confused for a concerted push right away.

  ***

  Yadao, Chan, and Hank stood on the bridge, behind the Ren Hai’s captain. The man looked downright ill. And no wonder.

  Chan had found stacks of ordnance, weapons, and other supplies for the NPA down in the holds. The Ren Hai had clearly been a logistics vessel for the PLAN’s support operation, using the NPA as a proxy against the Philippines.

  But that wasn’t what had the captain looking green. The orders that Chan had rapped out in perfect Mandarin had given him his current case of indigestion.

  Because the Ren Hai was currently heading straight for the shoal, not a hundred yards from the burned-out hulk of the Sierra Madre. And the flag of the Republic of the Philippines was already flying from her masthead.

  “Even if we managed to move fast enough that they don’t know what happened for sure, the Chinese are going to respond.” Hank looked over at Yadao.

  “I know. Especially when the Gregorio del Pilar comes out to take the prisoners off.” Yadao didn’t look worried, but from the tone of his voice, he knew exactly how tenuous this victory was. They’d hurt the Chinese, but the PLAN still had a lot more resources than they did. “We are prepared to hunker down if they want to make a siege of it.”

  Hank hoped that was all the Chinese would do. But he had a hunch that they’d just escalated the war in the South China Sea more than Yadao thought.

  Chapter 18

  The Triarii were back aboard their ships and moving away from Second Thomas Shoal, their part done, when the initial Chinese response came. And it came harder than even Hank had expected.

  “All Tango elements, this is the Bell Challenger.” The radio crackled, the voice on the other end tight with urgency. “Six airborne contacts inbound toward Second Thomas Shoal from the north, moving at six hundred knots, angels ten.”

  Hank had just come up to the Jacqueline Q’s bridge, Chan behind him. They’d both taken time with their sections, getting gear reset, weapons cleaned, and in Hank’s case, helping see to Patterson. The young redhead would be fine, though he wouldn’t be out running and gunning anytime soon. He’d had a chunk of meat blown out of his bicep, and it would take time to heal.

  While he’d just come through the hatch, he’d heard the whole transmission. Smythe was at the wheel, frowning at the radio, unsure what to make of it. He’d picked up a lot, but the captain was still learning. “What does that mean?”

  “Fast movers.” Hank immediately grabbed binoculars and headed toward the windshield, searching the sky to the north. The Bell Challenger’s warning should have come with enough time that they should still be out of visual range, but six hundred knots was fast enough that they wouldn’t be for long. “Jets. Probably fighters, at that speed.” He put the binoculars to his eyes and started scanning.

  Second Thomas Shoal was just barely visible on the horizon. In reality, the shoal itself wasn’t, being almost entirely submerged, but he could pick out the shapes of the wreck of the Sierra Madre alongside the Ren Hai, the Gregorio del Pilar, and the Salubrity, not to mention the pilings and steel framework of the aborted construction. The Philippine marines had run the Ren Hai aground, not a hundred yards from the burned-out Sierra Madre, replacing that ship as the Second Thomas Shoal outpost.

  He was still scanning when Chan called out, “Three Five One.”

  Unfortunately, Hank’s binoculars didn’t have a built-in compass. He had to look down at
the ship’s compass, then reorient himself. When he brought his optics to his eyes, though, he could see the planes coming in.

  Only specks in the sky at first, after a moment he could make out the slightly humped spine, the big, swept-back wings just behind small, triangular canards, and the twin tails. “Those are J-15s.” He kept watching, tracking the naval air superiority fighters as they arrowed toward Second Thomas Shoal. “Do they have any of those on Mischief Reef?”

  “Not that we know of.” Chan had been making a point of keeping up on the intel they were getting from the Filipinos and their own drone flights. “They’ve had a squadron of J-10s there for the last few months, and there isn’t room for another flight. Plus, they’d be coming from the northwest. These are flying due south.”

  Hank didn’t comment, though he was definitely thinking through the implications. There were three known Chinese airstrips in the Spratly Islands, on Fiery Cross Reef, Mischief Reef, and Subi Reef. All of those were to the west. And to the best of anyone’s knowledge, the J-15 was being primarily deployed on the PLAN’s aircraft carriers, the Liaoning and Shandong.

  The PLAN had changed the game.

  They were too far away to see the bombs fall. But they saw the impacts.

  More geysers of white water erupted out of the ocean around the shoal. Two fountained up to the port side of the Ren Hai, two more awfully close to the Gregorio del Pilar. Another struck the Salubrity, a fireball rising above her amidships. A sixth bomb hit the wreck of the Sierra Madre, throwing another black-and-orange fireball into the sky, though there wasn’t much more that could be done to the burned-out hulk.

  Then the J-15s were banking away and heading north again. It looked like the airstrike hadn’t been as effective as the Chinese might have hoped, but even as he thought it, Hank knew that this wasn’t over. “Have we got course and speed on the Xuchang and the Kunming?”

  “Not at the moment.” Smythe’s eyes were locked on the rising black smoke from the Salubrity.

  The radio started up again. “Enemy airstrike on Second Thomas Shoal. Identified maritime militia vessels currently inbound from north and west, supported by destroyer Yinchuan and frigates Liuzhou and Yueyang. Air assets appear to be launching from Mischief Reef. No missile launches at this time.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Smythe looked over at Hank. “What do we do now?”

  “We wait.” Hank didn’t like saying it, didn’t even like thinking it much, but reality was what it was. The Philippine marines and the Gregorio del Pilar had control of Second Thomas Shoal now, and it was going to be up to the marines to make the call. He knew that Yadao had expected a response, and was already working on denying the shoal to the Chinese in the event the Philippine marines got pushed off. “If they have to leave, they’ll get lifted to the Gregorio del Pilar.” He kept watching the horizon, though none of the contacts were visible yet, all still being over the horizon. He could see just over eight nautical miles, and the South China Sea was a big AO.

  Spencer came up from below. “All hell’s breaking loose.”

  “Yeah, we can tell.” Hank pointed to the smoke still rising from the Salubrity, which now appeared to be listing.

  “Not just that.” Spencer had been watching drone feeds, after all, and so he wasn’t surprised by the destruction visible in the distance. “Beijing’s issued a formal accusation of piracy aimed at Manila. Said that the Philippine navy attacked Chinese vessels engaged in peaceful traffic in historically Chinese waters. The Philippine government hasn’t formally responded yet, though from what I’m hearing, that’s because they’re busily trying to tear each other’s guts out over which way to jump. A lot of the local pols are scared of crossing Beijing, others are sick of being pushed around, and still others think they should try to smooth the waters given the current situation in the southern islands.”

  “Which I’m sure was part of the Chinese’ calculations from the get-go.” Hank kept watching the horizon.

  “Probably.” Spencer squinted out at the water. “It’s worked elsewhere. Even if everyone knows it’s a lie, they’re too big and too powerful.”

  Before either Hank or Chan could reply, Vetter came over the radio. “Six Four, Seven Two, this is Tango Charlie Six.”

  Hank stepped over and grabbed the handset. “Go for Six Four.”

  “We have contact with the Kunming.” Vetter sounded calm as ever, even though he had to be juggling a lot of different contacts and moving parts. The Triarii had well over three dozen vessels in the South China Sea by then, and they had to be coordinated while simultaneously keeping track of the enemy. “I need some fishing ships to play chicken and keep her delayed. She’s turned around and is heading for Second Thomas Shoal.”

  “Roger.” Hank swallowed hard at that, his mouth suddenly going dry. He wouldn’t call himself afraid of much, but what Vetter was asking them to do—as necessary as it was—was in its way a lot riskier than what the Chinese maritime militia fishing vessels had been doing.

  After all, the US Navy was likely to blink when faced with a collision. Would the PLAN?

  But they were out there to do the job, and that job came with risks. Far higher risks than anyone in the regular military would necessarily be expected to shoulder. Because they had only the Triarii to rely on out there. Even the Philippine marines and navy were only interested in so far as they were serving the purposes of the Republic of the Philippines. The Triarii, despite any rapport they’d built with the marines and with Habu’s Tiradores, were deniable privateers.

  He’d do it. Well, technically, Smythe would do it. And that was part of the problem.

  Because Hank, Chan, and the other Triarii infantry were going to be little more than passengers on this action, unless the Chinese tried to board. Boarding a Chinese destroyer with just under sixty men was not only likely to be suicidal, but it would defeat the “deniability” aspect they’d gone for so far. There would be no disguising American shooters attempting the seizure of a Chinese naval vessel.

  That was not a comforting thought. That they’d just be along for the ride, while Smythe tried an incredibly dangerous maneuver, wasn’t something that any grunt wanted to think about. Their fate was inextricably in the skipper’s hands, with nothing they could do to affect the outcome one way or another.

  When he looked over at Smythe, though, Hank saw no more enthusiasm than he felt. The captain gulped, hard, then turned the wheel over and started the Jacqueline Q moving back toward the southeast and Palawan.

  He met Hank’s eyes. “No, I don’t like it. But it’s the mission. And while I might not be the high-speed death machine you grunts are, I still signed on for the mission.” He gulped again. “So, I’ll do what has to be done.” He crossed himself. “I just hope that between me and that Chinese captain, the right one of us blinks first.”

  ***

  The Kunming was a modern Type 052D destroyer, with clean, angular lines. Her superstructure was a squat, sloped tower, topped by a cruciform mast and several bulbous radar domes. The 130mm gun in its faceted turret in the bow was the most obvious threat—and it would probably do a number on the Jacqueline Q if the Chinese opened fire, as would the 7-barreled, 30mm Type 1130 Close In Weapons System guns on her flanks—the missiles in their Vertical Launch System cells aft were far more dangerous.

  She was just visible on the horizon now, slicing through the water toward Second Thomas Shoal at twenty-five knots. The Xuchang was behind and off her port side, looking much like a slightly smaller twin to the bigger Type 052D destroyer. The Type 052Ds and the Type 054A frigates had very similar lines, though their armaments were quite different.

  “Unidentified fishing vessel! You are entering Chinese security exclusion zone! Change course to the south immediately!” Smythe didn’t even glance at the radio. The same warning had been sounding for the last ten minutes. He just kept the Jacqueline Q on course, though he was clearly sweating even on the fishing vessel’s air-conditioned bridge.

  Hank co
uldn’t blame him. It had been briefly tempting to go below, absorb himself in maintenance and planning, so he wouldn’t have to see it coming when they got rammed into oblivion or fired upon. But he’d stayed on the bridge, along with Chan, keeping a lookout and trying to stay out of Smythe’s way. This was the captain’s show, now.

  They were still about seven nautical miles from the Kunming, but at a combined forty knots, that distance was closing fast. And so far, neither side had shown the slightest inclination to turn aside. The Jacqueline Q and the Kunming were on a collision course.

  Of course, the Jacqueline Q wasn’t alone. The Bill Collector was about half a nautical mile behind her, along with about seven more raiders of various types, all of them swarming toward the Chinese ships.

  What came next was anyone’s guess. So far, the Chinese experience with these tactics had all been one-sided, with Chinese fishing boats harassing American and other nation’s warships and commercial vessels. The only reason there hadn’t been more collisions had been because the Americans—or British, or other targets—had gotten out of the way when the fishing boats had either run at them or formed a phalanx formation in their path. To the best of the Triarii’s knowledge, no one had ever turned those tactics against PLAN warships before, and they had no guarantees that the Kunming would either stop or change course.

  Smythe clearly knew it, too. He was looking even more green around the gills as the distance closed. They were down to five nautical miles. “Should we…”

  “Hold your ground, Skipper.” Hank had to almost force himself to say it. “Make them blink first.”

  “It’s going to be cold comfort if we blink last while we’re heading for the bottom because they rammed us.” Smythe wasn’t doing so well with this plan. “I’m going to slow down a little.”

  Hank didn’t comment. This was still Smythe’s ship, and this was his play. Hank was there for infantry work.