Red Tide

by William C. Dietz

  Maybe the jet ski armada already existed. Or maybe some enterprising officer threw it together on the fly. But it was dangerous either way. He turned to Christian. “Try to contact the Eucia,” Ryson ordered. “And offer assistance if you raise her.”

  Then he snatched the bridge mike off its hook. “This is Seadog-Six. Be careful with the fifties. What we don’t need is casualties from friendly fire. All units will rally around the Rockhampton. Execute. Over.”

  That was when a half dozen jet skis arrived. One came so close that the port fifty couldn’t depress far enough to hit it. A Molotov cocktail sailed through the air, landed on the flat surface forward of the bridge, and shattered. The resulting fire spread quickly, but was extinguished by two sailors with fire extinguishers.

  Ryson opened his mouth to give orders, and forced himself to close it. He was responsible for the squadron. But Christian was in command of the Rockhampton, and should be left to fight the enemy as he saw fit.

  “The missile teams will prepare to engage the enemy,” Christian said formally. “Do not, I repeat, do not fire in the direction of a friendly, because you will probably hit it. Choose targets with care. Fire at will.”

  Ryson knew that each boat had two Stinger missile teams, and that the Stingers were fire-and-forget weapons equipped with passive infrared seekers. That meant the weapons should be able to target the heat produced by a jet ski engine.

  It also meant the Stingers could identify the heat produced by a patrol boat as well. And, if an Armindale was in line with a jet ski, a Stinger was likely to choose the hottest target. That meant Christian was placing a great deal of faith in his missile teams.

  The gamble paid off. A sailor waited for a Jet ski to pass on the starboard side and fired. The Stinger took off, achieved lock on, and hit the watercraft dead-on. The resulting flash of light was accompanied by a clap of thunder. The Jet ski disappeared.

  Three of the other patrol boats had closed in around the Rockhampton by then, forcing the attackers to change their tactics. Now, rather than pass between the Armindales, strafing them as they passed, the Jet skis were circling all three boats in a clockwise direction.

  Flares fired by the Armindale crews reflected off the oily black waves as they lit up what looked like a scene from hell. Jet skis threw water sideways as they wove in and out, and continued to spray the gunboats with small arms fire.

  But that was a mistake, because it allowed the Australian sailors to fire their weapons without fear of hitting a friendly boat. Ryson watched as a series of watercraft ran into fifty-caliber fire and were torn to shreds.

  Then, as quickly as the battle had begun, it was over. Is that it? Ryson wondered, as the surviving Jet skis roared away. Or is the worst yet to come? He feared the latter.

  But the battle was far from one-sided. Because by that time the Eucia had sunk.

  After lobbing a Molotov cocktail aboard the unsuspecting boat, the attackers managed to attach an IED to her hull, and detonate it from afar. That meant Lieutenant James Atworthy was dead, along with all of his crew.

  How many people has Dancy lost by now? Ryson wondered. To free three prisoners? Does the whole thing make sense?

  No, he decided. Not logically. But, in some other way, it makes perfect sense. For morale? Yes. But for some ineffable reason as well. Something which can be felt, if not fully rationalized.

  “Get a message off,” Ryson ordered. “Eucia lost to enemy fire. Enemy repelled. Holding station. Over.” It wasn’t much of an epitaph. But it would have to do.

  ***

  Creech Air Force Base, Nevada, USA

  The first Simba had been destroyed in the fighting, killing two commandos, and wounding another. Now the surviving Simba was leading the 6x6 trucks west toward the town of Bagao where RIB boats would be waiting to take both the soldiers and the POWs off the beach.

  Cat-Four knew that much. What she didn’t, couldn’t, know was what it felt like to be sitting in a truck with a bunch of Australian commandos racing for the west coast of Luzon. Because weird though it might be, she was sitting in a high-backed leather chair, in a secured building on Creech Air Force base in Nevada.

  Cat’s job was to fly the drone. Her sensor operator, call sign “Samsonite,” was in charge of monitoring the Reaper’s infrared and night vision sensor systems.

  They were seated side-by-side with ten monitors arrayed in front of them and a console in between. Cat’s controls consisted of a keyboard, joystick, and throttle plus switches that controlled everything from transponder codes to flap deployment. It was difficult to master all the technology at first. But after a year of training, plus three months experience, flying the Reaper was second nature.

  Later, after completing her shift, Cat would head home to a rented condo where she would attempt to decompress. That involved watching children’s cartoons while downing two gin and tonics. Never less, and never more, because men and women all over the world were counting on her.

  Cat’s drone couldn’t match the convoy’s relatively slow ground speed without falling out of the sky. So, she was flying circles overhead watching for threats. The most likely of which would be an attempt catch up with the convoy and/or cut it off from the coast.

  But, when trouble arrived, it was different from what Cat expected. “We have two tangos at ten thousand,” Samsonite said. “They’re helos rather than planes, and Mr. Computer says that they’re a 96 percent match with MD 500 Defenders.”

  MD 500s were observation choppers armed with TOW anti-tank missiles, 7.62 mm miniguns, or Stinger air-to-air missiles.

  The Reaper was at fifteen thousand. And judging from what Cat could see on the monitors, the helo jockeys were blissfully unaware of the drone’s presence as they began to close on the convoy. If they were armed with TOWs the Australians would be toast.

  “They made us,” Samsonite said. “Or, some radar operator did. Here they come.”

  The helicopters were climbing. What to do? Reapers weren’t designed for dog fights. But newer units were armed with AIM-92 Stinger missiles, and Cat was “riding” one of them. That was the good news. The bad news was that Cat had zero experience with the missiles.

  Oh, she’d been through the virtual training course all right, but nothing more. Still, what else could she do? Try to drop a 500-pound bomb on a moving target?

  “I’m arming a Sidewinder,” Cat said, as she pushed the drone’s nose down.

  “Sidewinder armed.”

  A grid appeared over the target. “Firing.”

  “Missile away, tracking, tracking, shit!”

  It appeared that the MD 500 pilot was firing flares as a precaution and it paid off. Cat’s Sidewinder swerved, homed on a flare, and blew up.

  Cat saw flashes of light as the helicopter’s machine gun fired. However the Reaper was in a tight turn by then, and the stream of tracer missed.

  The Reaper could climb and run. But if Cat did that, the convoy would be easy meat for the helos. At that point she had one air-to-air missile left, with two targets on the loose. I need to get closer before I fire, Cat decided. So the Sidewinder will choose the chopper instead of a flare.

  The second helo was closer by then. Cat banked, advanced the throttle, and watched the distance close. Tracer rounds stuttered her way, bent, and seemed to veer away when she applied some left stick.

  The second MD 500 was firing flares just like the first one had. But Cat was closer by then. Much closer. And the moment she pickled the missile off, the UAV operator knew it was on the money.

  Cat was turning as an explosion strobed the night and Samsonite made the call. “Tango down. One A-hole left. Whatcha going to do?”

  That was a good question. With no air-to-air missiles left to fight with, Cat was out of options. Or was she? The thought put a grin on her face. “We’re gonna ram the bastard, Sammy. So, stand by for that.”

  Samsonite stared at her. “A Reaper costs 64 million buckaroos!”

  “That’s true,” the pilot
admitted. “But we don’t have enough fuel to make it back, do we? And if we bag another helo, the brass will celebrate.”

  “You’re smarter than you look,” Samsonite said admiringly.

  “And you’re a pain in the ass,” Cat said, as she aimed the Reaper’s nose at the helo.

  The MD 500 pilot didn’t know how many Stingers the American drone was carrying. And, after having seen his wingman vanish in a ball of flame, he decided to run for it.

  That was a serious mistake. The helo could travel at 160 mph full out. The Reaper had a max speed of 300 mph.

  It appeared that the helo pilot knew the drone was closing on his six. He began to fire flares, and jink from side-to-side. And that made sense. Or would have if Cat was going to fire a Stinger. But she wasn’t.

  The collision alarm sounded as the Reaper slammed into the helicopter at 293 mph. Their screens registered a flash of light before cutting to black.

  “Okay, then,” Sam said. “That’s one way to get off work early.”

  After checking out with Seadog-Six and Seadog-Three, Cat wrote her after-action report, hit “send,” and left. She arrived home forty minutes later.

  Then it was time to make a gin and tonic, and watch a Scooby Doo episode titled: “The Glowing Bug Man.” The tears were waiting. But Cat refused to let them flow.

  ***

  Off the coast of Luzon, the Philippines

  The surviving Armindales wallowed offshore as long, lazy rollers swept in from the west, passed under the boats, and made for the beach. Ryson’s nerves were on edge. All the RIB boats had been sent ashore to retrieve the shore party and the POWs. That left his force vulnerable to a Filipino or Chinese surface attack. One or more patrol boats would be bad. A destroyer or a frigate would sink his flotilla in seconds.

  Meanwhile the air cover that Ryson had been counting on, which was to say the Reaper drone, had been destroyed. F-18s had a range of 1,253 miles. They couldn’t make it from the carrier group that was cruising east of Luzon, or from Indonesia, and make the return trip as well.

  Normally a KC-46 Pegasus aerial refueler, or a venerable 396 KC-135 Stratotanker, would have been the app for that. But 46s had been grounded for another round of retro-fixes, and the so-called “Stratobladders” were like gold. Everyone wanted to get more of them and keep what they had. The situation would improve once the Armindales entered Indonesian waters, but that moment was in the future.

  As an angry looking sun began to rise in the east as Ryson eyed the shoreline through a pair of binoculars. Everything was riding on how quickly the Aussie sailors could collect Dancy’s people and get off the beach. Fortunately, they were doing a good job of it.

  The RIBs had landed and been loaded. Now came the tricky task of pushing the boats stern first into the surf, where the coxswains could start their engines, and back out through the low-lying surf. Then, once it was safe to do so, they would turn and head full-speed out to the Armindales.

  That was when the metal stairs on the stern of each patrol boat would prove their worth. Once the commandos and POWs were aboard it would be time to recover the RIBs, strap them down, and haul ass. Ryson spoke into his headset. “Radar … What have you got?”

  ***

  The radar tech was a sailor named Sykes. He turned to the tech next to him and rolled his eyes. The American commander was like a teenager on his first date. If Sykes saw something worth reporting he’d sure as hell say so. “We have a target that looks like a northbound container ship off to the west, sir … And plenty of fishing boats. None of which are headed this way.”

  ***

  Ryson frowned. The report was too good to be true. After losing scores of troops at the prison, not to mention a couple of helicopters since then, the Filipinos were sitting on their hands? He didn’t believe it.

  Ryson raised the binoculars. The RIBs were underway. Spray flew away from their blunt bows as they muscled their way through the waves and began to close with the patrol boats. That was when the first artillery shell fell. The explosion threw a fountain of water up into the air, and a RIB roared through the briny spray, on its way to an Armindale.

  “They’re wasting ammo,” Christian observed calmly. “Artillery isn’t designed to track and hit fast moving targets.”

  “True,” Ryson replied. “But the Rockhampton isn’t small, nor is it moving. It’s the Armindales I’m worried about.”

  Ryson opened his mike. “This is Seadog-Six. All RIB boats are to head west until further notice. The Armindales will get under way and follow. Over.”

  A shell exploded off the Rockhampton’s port bow and water droplets hit the windshield like a hard rain. The Rockhampton shuddered and began to increase speed. “How far can they lob those shells?” Ryson asked of no one in particular.

  A good thirty seconds passed while Christian’s XO consulted her laptop. Her name was Tracy Devin. “They have a range of approximately seven miles, based on the assumption that the shore batteries consist of U.S. made M101, or M102, 105mm towed howitzers.”

  “Thanks, Sub,” Ryson replied, and spoke into his mike. “All units will rendezvous eight miles offshore, load passengers, and secure the RIBs. Over.”

  A flurry of acknowledgements was followed by the steadily dwindling thud of artillery as the RIBs and the Armindales drew further away from land. It took the better part of twenty minutes to transfer the passengers and retrieve the RIBs. And it was during that time that Greer, along with three gaunt looking strangers appeared on the bridge. “I thought you’d like to meet the POWs,” Master Chief Jensen said.

  Greer made the introductions and Ryson shook hands with Ames, Symons and Wix. Their expressions were somber. “Thank you, sir,” Ames said. “We’re sorry about all of the casualties.”

  “And we’re very glad that their bravery paid off,” Ryson replied. “Thank you for your service to our country.”

  Jensen led them away. Greer paused. “That was nicely said, sir. They’ve been through hell. Symons is going to need a lot of help.”

  Ryson nodded. “What you accomplished was truly remarkable, Commander … I have it on good authority that Admiral Nathan plans to hang some sort of Australian gong on you … And I’m sure our people will do likewise.”

  Greer started to reply, but Ryson interrupted. “I know you’re a modest man, Commander. But the brass will have their way with you. Look at it this way—the rescue will make news all over the free world—and inspire millions of people. And that’s a good thing.”

  Greer came to attention and saluted. Ryson returned the gesture and the pilot left the bridge. Stage 1 is over, Ryson thought. But Stage 2 is just beginning. And Indonesia is 1,000 miles away.

  ***

  On the island of Samir, in the South China Sea

  The sky was blue, a light breeze was blowing, and three flags snapped from their poles. One each for Austrailia, Indonesia, and the United States.

  Progress had been made. But FOB Samir was vulnerable. Lieutenant Commander Linda Vos was standing on top of the newly designated headquarters building looking north toward Mischief Reef. It was a race. Who would arrive at the island of Samir first? The Chinese? With planes and ships? Or the tugboat Hercules which was towing a barge loaded with weapons? Please God, Vos thought. Make it the Hercules.

  God wasn’t listening. That’s how it seemed as two Chengdu J-7 fighters swept in from the north and opened fire.

  Vos hurried to vacate the roof and Squadron 7 personnel scattered in every direction as they searched for places to take cover. Gravity bombs fell. And, judging from the size of the explosions, they were large. Something like a thousand pounds each. One scored a direct hit on the barracks building and blew it to smithereens. Sections of aluminum siding took flight, reached apogee, and slip-slid to the ground.

  Rockets arrived next. The wharf took hits as they came sleeting in, as did the building that housed a fishing boat. There were near misses too … Lots of them. Including one that exploded only yards away from the w
arehouse where the detachment’s supplies were stored.

  Gun runs followed. Vos didn’t know what kind of cannons the planes had. Only that the strafing attacks didn’t seem to be well targeted. A fact for which she was extremely grateful.

  After clearing their racks, and expending all the ammo from their cannons, the jets banked away. The attack was over. Lieutenant Chin was the first to arrive at Vos’s location. “So much for the welcome wagon,” he said. “This is a tough neighborhood.”

  “No kidding,” Vos replied. “Did we take any casualties?”

  “No,” Chin replied. “Not so much as a scratch. And I have some good news for you.”

  “Which is?”

  “The Herc and the barge are about two hours out.”

  ‘That’s wonderful,” Vos replied. “Let’s get everyone fed. We’ll have a lot of work to do once the barge arrives.”

  Time passed quickly and it seemed like only a matter of minutes before a sturdy looking tug pushed the heavily loaded barge into the lagoon. That was exciting.

  But of equal interest to Vos were the hydrofoils that had been sent as escorts. They included the Nimbus, under Lieutenant Commander Marie Moreno, and the Fractus, with Lieutenant Mark Conte in command. Between them the PHMs could launch sixteen Harpoon missiles at any Chinese vessel that might venture near. A fact that made Vos feel better.

  There were challenges however. Getting the barge alongside the quay took some doing. Then there was the matter of unloading weapons systems that had to propel themselves off the barge and onto the wharf. That meant constructing a ramp, using extremely heavy steel plates brought along for the purpose.

  The Russian built Tor missile system was the size of a heavy tank and mounted on treads. Considerable maneuvering was required to turn the beast onto the narrow ramp and nurse it up slope onto the concrete quay. But after an hour of fits and starts the behemoth was finally ashore.

  Vos had chosen a place for the Tor system well away from everything else where, if it was destroyed, nothing else would be harmed.