by Peter Nealen
The Chinese coast guard must not have been ready for that kind of an ultimatum. Their adversaries usually either played dumb or backed down. After all, the PLAN was the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the South China Sea, since the US Navy’s Pacific Fleet had been all but gutted. Sure, the Lake Erie was in the vicinity, but she was still off to the northeast, taking her time while announcing another “freedom of navigation exercise” as a way of trying to diplomatically force things to calm down.
That ship sailed a long time ago.
“The South China Sea is historic Chinese waters!” The Chinese coast guard captain sounded like he was already at the end of his script. The usual ultimatum hadn’t worked. And if the Philippine captain was serious, he had the Haijing 1302 seriously out gunned. The Zhaoyu-class cutter had a single 30mm gun. The Antonio Luna was a frigate, armed with a 76mm gun, a 30mm, and four .50 caliber machineguns, as well as SSM-700K C-Star anti-ship missiles and K745 Blue Shark torpedoes.
But the Chinese captain wouldn’t back down. Not that the Triarii had been hoping that he would.
“Philippine presence on Nanshan Island is illegal! Turn around immediately, or face the consequences!”
The guy’s got some balls, considering the nearest PLAN ship is hours away at best, and we’ve got drone jammers going gangbusters right now.
The Antonio Luna’s captain wasn’t having it, though. “You have five minutes to change course and proceed out of Lawak Island waters, beyond the twelve-nautical-mile limit, or you will be fired upon.”
Hank couldn’t see the cutter that clearly, on the other side of that blinding glare coming off the target fishing trawler. But from what he could see, it didn’t look like she was coming about. In fact, it looked like she was starting to accelerate toward the Antonio Luna. Calling the Philippine captain’s bluff.
Then all hell broke loose. Because the Antonio Luna’s captain wasn’t bluffing.
A flash was followed by a harsh thunderclap. The Antonio Luna had opened fire with her 76mm gun. Several more reports followed. The ships were too close to effectively engage with the frigate’s anti-ship missiles, the 76mm might not sink the Haijing 1302, but it would do a lot of damage.
That was the Triarii’s cue. Hank twisted the throttle, the increased rumble of the outboard motor drowned out by the heavy-caliber gunfire less than a mile away. The Zodiac surged forward, the other boats accelerating to either side, closing in on the fishing trawler’s stern. With any luck, every eye would currently be fixed on the naval battle happening between the Antonio Luna and the Haijing 1302. Which had been the entire point of the push in the first place.
He slowed as they neared the stern. Fortunately, most the lights had been hung to either side, with only a handful astern, so the boarding boats had some shadows to hide in. And, surprisingly according to plan, the crew had moved forward to watch the fireworks.
Hank eased the boat in closely, Winkler and Evans again in the bow, this time keeping an eye out for fishing lines. Running into one in the dark could ruin the whole night, especially if it got sucked into a propulsor.
Then he was driving the bow against the rusty, cracked paint of the squid boat’s stern, Huntsman putting the caving ladder up. It hooked, and then Winkler was swarming up and over the stern, Faris next to him, clambering up out of LaForce’s boat.
Huntsman reached over and clipped in to LaForce’s boat, as LaForce himself handed the tiller over to Patterson, who had recovered from his wound enough to steer a boat, but not enough that LaForce was willing to bring him on a clear. He’d stay back with the Zodiacs until the job was done.
Hank didn’t hear the pop-hiss of the torpedo being ejected from its tube aboard the Antonio Luna, but he heard the boom as it struck the Haijing 1302 amidships, blowing a six-foot hole in her hull. The cutter immediately heeled over under the impact and explosion, then swung back to starboard and started taking on water.
Then Hank was following Huntsman up the ladder, his rifle slung on his back, clambering up as fast as he could, before the maritime militiamen aboard could react.
Phase two was underway.
Chapter 24
Winkler and Faris had already pushed out to either gunwale, guns up and covering the boarding point. The stern was still partially in shadow, and the Chinese crew were still gawking at the destruction as the Haijin 1302 started to burn, so the Triarii boarders still hadn’t been spotted yet. Hank pushed starboard, joining Faris and Bishop, reaching forward to give Faris a squeeze.
Without turning his head, keeping his weapon pointed around the corner of the boathouse, Faris stepped out and headed forward, toward the bow, with Bishop and Hank right on his heels.
Three of the crew were near the rail, staring at the burning cutter. One of them turned and saw the three figures coming toward them, still only partially illuminated by the squid-attraction lights. Eyes suddenly widened as the gear, helmets, and leveled weapons registered.
The trawler’s crew might have been People’s Armed Forces Maritime Militia, but they weren’t currently in uniform, nor were they armed, at least not the men on deck. As the first turned to get his fellows’ attention, Faris moved quickly, closing the distance, his weapon leveled.
“Bié dóng.” Faris had been one of Hank’s problem children for a long time, and there was a reason he hadn’t gotten a new squad once the section had gotten reinforcements. But he’d proven to have his strong points, too, despite the fact that putting him in a position of authority had only brought out his lazy side. He’d learned a lot of Mandarin from Chan on the trip across the Pacific, and he was almost as fluent as a native speaker. “Jŭqĭ shŏu lái.”
The other two spun around at the unexpected commands, and after a moment they raised their hands, their eyes wide as the crewmen realized they were in no position to do anything but surrender. With their armed backup rapidly sinking and the Antonio Luna bearing down on the fishing boats, they’d just been caught flat-footed, and they knew it.
But Hank saw movement forward, as a head suddenly ducked out of view and disappeared below.
“Secure them.” He spared a glance over his shoulder, after making sure that Bishop was still watching forward, while Faris covered their first prisoners. “On me.”
LaForce was right behind him, and a second later, the two men were driving forward, toward the low forecastle and the ladderwell leading down into the hold. From the sounds of things, Huntsman, Evans, Taylor, and Reisinger were already moving into the boathouse.
The deck wasn’t exactly neat, and they had to slow as they carefully picked their way over lines, nets, crates, and floats. Furthermore, they had to hug the boathouse, carefully watching the portholes, to get past the three men on the side, without getting between them and Faris.
Hank carefully kept to the rail, keeping his muzzle trained on the hatchway leading down into the hold. The smell of fish and squid was pretty strong, but he didn’t think that the crewman had ducked down in there just to count the night’s catch.
With LaForce still right on his heels, having quickly cleared the bow, Hank started down into the dark.
The hold below was almost pitch black, except for a dim light somewhere aft. Hank kept his NVGs down, but still had his thumb resting on his weapon light’s activation switch. There were a lot of squid already down there, packed in buckets and coolers. Hank cleared what he could see forward of the bulkhead, flashing his weapon light just long enough to see into the corners, then pivoted forward off the ladderwell as LaForce covered the aft hatch. No one forward. Turning back, he stepped up behind LaForce and gave his shoulder a squeeze.
The two men moved aft. The deck below was in even worse shape than above. Slick with water and squid slime, there was plenty of detritus on the deck that they could trip over, and in the dark, it was even harder to find their way than up above.
Still, they moved toward the dim light on the other side of the hatch, weapons up and looking for targets.
The next compartment aft
was partially taken up with more fishing gear and stored squid. But the two Chinese who had already donned chest rigs, toward the rear of the compartment, weren’t pulling nets or fishing lines out of the crate on the deck. One already had what appeared to be an AK, or more likely a Chinese Type 56, in his hands, and the other was pulling another out of the crate.
LaForce shot the armed man without preamble. Even suppressed, the 7.62 round was painfully loud in the small compartment, as it punched right through the man’s chest, spattering blood on the bulkhead behind him. He staggered, looked down at the growing red stain on his shirt in mute shock, and then toppled onto his face on the deck.
The second man hesitated for a brief second, as Hank stepped up to LaForce’s shoulder, his own rifle coming level. Then the militiaman made his decision, snapping the rifle up at the two Triarii, his finger slipping inside the trigger.
Hank blasted three rounds into him, reflexively hammering a failure drill into the man’s chest and face. The headshot was slightly low, blowing through the militiaman’s teeth and out the back of his jaw. He was already dead from the two rounds through his heart and lungs from less than six feet away when he fell to the deck.
“Dumbass.” LaForce kept moving, pausing only to kick the AK—or Type 56—away from the first dead man’s hands. The two of them stepped over the bodies and continued aft.
There was one more compartment before the engine room, and that one was unoccupied, but filled with tackle and squid. Then they were pushing into the engine room, where the big diesel was still chugging, though it was only idling since the vessel was at anchor.
There was no one in the engine compartment. Mounting the ladderwell up into the main boathouse, Hank called up, “Friendlies coming up!”
“Bring it in!” That was Taylor. When Hank started up the steep metal steps, he saw that the balding man had clearly been holding security on the ladderwell leading below.
“Belowdecks is clear. Two dead tangos and a crate of weapons.” Hank looked around the cramped living quarters, bunks and hammocks stacked on top of each other, a small galley forward of the short ladderwell leading up to the bridge. “Status?”
“Bridge and living quarters are clear. Deck’s clear.” Taylor nodded forward, where Evans and Reisinger were holding security on two more men, kneeling on the deck with their hands on their heads. “No resistance in here.”
Hank nodded, suddenly tired, but started up toward the bridge. “Any updates from the other squads yet?”
Before Taylor or Huntsman, who was on the bridge and watching the instruments, could respond, the radio crackled in his ear. “This is Seven Two Three. Requesting support on Target Seven.”
Hank stepped onto the bridge next to Huntsman, finally getting a good view of their surroundings, since the big man had killed the lights. The cutter’s decks were awash, smoke still rising from her superstructure, and even as he watched, she rolled over and disappeared beneath the dark water. Most of the other trawlers were still at anchor, with Zodiacs gathered around them. Most of them were quiet, their squid lights extinguished, figures on their decks as the Triarii boarders gathered the crews for transfer to the Antonio Luna. The destroyer was already moving in and taking the Chinese Coast Guard crew out of the water, those who had bailed out of the cutter before she went down.
But Target Seven was one of the bigger trawlers, farther off to the north and closer to Lawak Island itself. If Hank remembered correctly, it was one of the blue hulled ships, too. Which was almost guaranteed it was a Chinese intelligence vessel. The odds were good that the crew of that ship didn’t actually do much fishing.
He turned to LaForce. “Give me three.”
“Huntsman, Taylor, Reisinger.” LaForce didn’t even hesitate. “You’re up.”
Huntsman joined Hank on the way back down to the boats, with Taylor and Reisinger meeting them at the stern as Evans chivvied the prisoners out onto the deck, joining those that Faris was already watching. Bishop was already heading below with Winkler to secure the weapons.
It was a short climb down into the Zodiac clipped in beside Hank’s original boat, which Patterson was still holding in place. Hank quickly unclipped it and backed water, then they were motoring around the squid boat’s flank and heading for Target Seven.
“Seven Two Three, this is Six Four Actual. I have a boat with four shooters, coming up aft of your target. Where do you need us?”
“Come up on the stern, Six Four.” Hank thought that was Corbin. “They have open fields of fire to either side and forward, and they’ve got us pinned aft. We haven’t been able to advance past the boathouse.”
Hank thought about it for a moment. “Watch your fires to the flanks.” He looked forward. “How are your night eyes, Reisinger?” Reisinger was the youngest man in the squad, though he was still in his early thirties.
“Give me a couple minutes, and I should be able to get a shot.” Reisinger looked back at him. “Are you thinking about trying to flank ‘em anyway?”
Hank nodded. “Piling more dudes onto the stern’s not going to help much if they’ve got Corbin’s guys pinned. Just give them more targets. I’ll try to keep us out of the light.” The Zodiac was unarmored, and Hank had to admit—if only to himself—that he was more than a little nervous about approaching the blue-hulled trawler and risking taking fire. That fight on the beach on Palawan was still entirely too fresh in his memory.
But he still didn’t think that just jumping in behind Corbin’s squad was going to do the trick. So, he angled out to sea, careful to avoid getting silhouetted against any other lights, opening up the throttle to get some distance while gunfire still rattled and cracked on board the target ship.
He slowed a good three hundred yards from the trawler, turned the boat to give Reisinger the best angle he could, and then did what he could to keep the boat steady, while Reisinger lay on the deck and rested his rifle on the gunwale. Huntsman and Taylor had to move to get out of his way, Taylor curling into a ball on top of the fuel bladder in the bow and Huntsman practically hanging off the port side gunwale. Hank hoped and prayed that he’d picked the right side, but it was the only flank that guaranteed they wouldn’t potentially be silhouetted against the lights on the island, which were all too close, especially since the Philippine marines would have been alerted by the action at sea.
Hank watched the distant boat, squinting to try to see past the lights. There. Figures were moving alongside the boathouse, heading aft, under cover of a shooter up on the flying bridge. He was about to suggest Reisinger hit that shooter, when the younger man’s rifle cracked.
It was a good shot, especially given the movement of both boats on the swell, the distance, and the darkness. Reisinger didn’t kill the man, but his first round hit him in the arm, throwing his aim off and forcing him to drop his own rifle. The follow-up shot was higher, and missed altogether, but then the Chinese soldier was searching for cover, as Taylor opened fire on the figures moving toward the stern. Bullets sparked off the steel of the hull and the rail, and at least one shattered a porthole. Accuracy and precision were difficult under those circumstances, but the sudden barrage of rifle fire beat the advancing Chinese shooters back, buying Corbin’s men some breathing space.
Despite the fact that Hank hadn’t announced his plan, and had ignored Corbin’s initial advice, the Triarii of Tango Seven Two acted immediately as the tactical situation changed, driving forward, suppressed M5s spitting bullets with a lot more accuracy than Reisinger and Taylor had managed from out on the water. As Hank brought the boat in closer, more gunfire hammered from inside the boathouse, flashes lighting up the portholes, and then Corbin came back over the radio. “Target Seven secured. Thanks for the assist, Six Four.”
“Roger. You need any more help?” Hank had one hand on the tiller, the other on his comm switch, his rifle still slung and the suppressor between his boots.
“Negative. We’ve got this.” If they’d taken any casualties, Corbin wasn’t saying.
So, Hank turned back toward their initial target.
***
By the time the sun came up, the captured trawlers were fifty nautical miles away, just off Hardy Reef. The raider fleet was nearby, but keeping its distance, except for the drones that were up to keep Chinese aerial surveillance at bay. The Chinese crews had been removed and taken aboard the Antonio Luna, having been arrested on charges of piracy and illegal fishing.
It meant that most of the trawlers were now considerably undermanned, as they’d only brought one or two sailors from the raider fleet aboard each, along with a squad or two of Triarii. While the Triarii were infantrymen, not sailors, most of them had learned a bit about operating a ship during the trip out from the Gulf of Mexico, so they were lending a hand where needed.
“I’m telling you, Hank, we should have tried to seize that cutter, too. Can you imagine the trojan horse that would make?” Chan was clearly excited about this idea, even over the radio.
“I can imagine.” Hank really wasn’t sure about this. “But we’ve barely got enough hands as it is. And I don’t think we could have done it last night with the numbers we had, not without word getting out to the Chinese before we secured her.” The signals guys aboard the Old Reliable were insisting that they were fairly sure that they’d jammed Chinese signals well enough that word hadn’t gotten out, but Hank still wasn’t sure about that. Officially, the Philippine marines had impounded the boats and arrested the crews, but all it would take would be the right satellites looking in the right place to see that the boats weren’t docked at Lawak Island, and that there was an unaccounted-for fishing flotilla out there that wasn’t where it was supposed to be.
“I’ll grant the point, but now we’ve really got a trojan horse we can use to get closer to an escort.” Chan just was not willing to drop the idea. “Think of it. If we get a Chinese coast guard cutter, we could sail right up to one of their frigates or destroyers before they had any idea what was happening.”
