by Peter Nealen
Sometimes quantity has a quality all its own.
It was impossible to see exactly how many of the torpedoes hit. Hank was pretty sure, as he watched the cutter through his binoculars, that most of them probably missed. That had been accepted as inevitable during the planning phase. That was why the torpedoes were as simple, unsophisticated, and cheap as they were. They could launch enough of a spread to almost ensure a hit despite the dispersed launchers and the iffy timing of the collision with the tug.
Granted, if the cutter had veered off and missed the tug, it would have made things somewhat more complicated, but that’s the fortunes of war.
The first one hit amidships. A white geyser of water erupted alongside the cutter, and the whole ship rocked under the shock of the explosion. A second hit near the bow a few moments later, not far from the mangled steel where the cutter had practically cut the tug in half.
That explosion appeared far more significant. Whether it had hit higher or lower was hard to say, but the cutter’s bow surged up out of the water for a moment before it broke off, the white wedge of the bow wallowing on the surface with the remnants of the tug for a while before starting to sink.
The rest of the torpedoes had apparently missed, but the damage had been done. Even as the Jacqueline Q got closer to her target, Hank could see the cutter starting to list, even as the smashed remainder of the bow was already starting to go under the water.
What happened next had not been in the plan.
Seeing the “accident,” the maritime militia trawlers had started to close in on the stricken cutter, probably intending to render aid. As they did so, one of them sailed right into the path of one of the torpedoes that had missed.
The torpedoes each had a 575-lb warhead, just like the Mod 3 Mark 18s of World War II. That was good enough to sink a merchantman. Against a fishing trawler, even one of the bigger ones that the Chinese fishing fleet deployed to the South China Sea, it was catastrophic.
With another fountaining explosion of spray, almost concealing a darker, fiery burst in the middle of it, the torpedo’s warhead broke the blue-painted fishing trawler’s back. The vessel heaved partway out of the water, almost rolling over completely before its hull tore itself in half, the two parts rapidly settling as the aft section began to burn.
The cutter was sinking fast, black smoke beginning to belch from somewhere below. The Bill Collector had turned off and was making tracks for open water, her infrasonics shut down, their task accomplished. The Rosalinda had already moved away, and the torpedo boats—many of which had been partially hiding behind other sea traffic, little of it operated by Triarii—were similarly breaking contact.
But two of the Chinese trawlers had spotted the Bill Collector, and while the others gathered around the stricken cutter, the rapidly-sinking tug, and the destroyed fishing vessel—Hank remembered that the blue-hulled ones were definitely crewed not by the maritime militia, but by the Ministry for State Security; that was an open secret—two of them headed at flank speed for the Bill Collector.
Hank saw it happening, but the Jacqueline Q was committed, closing in on one of the two merchantmen anchored near the reef. One was supporting the construction project. The other, Hank’s and Chan’s target, was the one that had been loading one of the fishing trawlers that had been running guns and munitions to the NPA.
The Jacqueline Q was already getting close enough that there was no more time to watch the evolving fight at sea. Putting the binoculars down next to one of the aft consoles, Hank headed below to get ready to board their target.
So, he didn’t see as the Bill Collector pushed her throttle to the stops, doing whatever she could to put some serious distance between her and the oncoming Chinese maritime militia. While the Bill Collector had some better engines than the Chinese ships—at least, that was the intent when fitting her out—she was still a fishing trawler by design. She wasn’t a speedboat. And the Chinese trawlers had seen some upgrades to make them more effective as asymmetric warfare platforms, as well.
The Chinese vessels, issuing increasingly belligerent warnings and threats via loudspeaker, weren’t closing the distance to the Bill Collector, but they weren’t losing ground, either. And the Bill Collector’s lookouts soon saw the HJ-8 anti-tank missile launchers mounted in the trawlers’ bows, manned by now-uniformed Chinese maritime militiamen, aimed in at the Triarii raider.
It didn’t matter that they had no real idea what role the Bill Collector had played in the destruction of the rapidly-sinking mega-cutter. There had been no time for even theories to be communicated clearly to the “Little Blue Men.” All they knew was that the cutter had been moving to intercept the Bill Collector, and something catastrophic had happened, resulting in two of their ships heading for the bottom with most of the hands aboard.
That was enough. They were going to capture the Bill Collector or sink her. And given the documented aggression of the People’s Armed Forces Maritime Militia in the South China Sea, they would have no issue with sinking her at the drop of a hat.
But while the Triarii had been perfectly willing to sacrifice a $500,000 seagoing tugboat for this operation, that vessel had been unmanned. They weren’t just going to leave the crew of the Bill Collector hanging.
The Rosalinda was still some distance away, never having closed enough to attract much Chinese notice. She was too far for any sort of accurate torpedo shot, however.
The op called for secrecy, and as little open engagement as possible. The intent had been to make it look like an accident—one caused primarily by Chinese aggression and incompetence—that the Philippine government then would take advantage of to retake their territory. There were some holes in the narrative, especially considering the boarding actions that the Triarii infantry were preparing to embark upon, but the idea had been to sow as much confusion a possible, until the Philippine marines held Second Thomas Shoal again, without it being easily ascertained how it had been done.
That had mandated the use of the reasonably stealthy torpedoes instead of weapons systems more easily spotted above the surface. But when it came to protecting Triarii vessels, certain precautions got put aside.
Though not entirely. The armed drones that rose from the Rosalinda’s deck were quiet and stealthy, and once they got over the side, they skimmed just over the waves as they darted toward the two trawlers, two drones per target. Even if any of the Chinese ships in the area still had radar up and running, the drones would barely appear the size of sparrows, being almost entirely built of plastic, fiberglass, and resin. They were also painted a dull blue, and were flying close enough to the surface that they wouldn’t be easily picked out with the naked eye, either.
The pair targeting the lead vessel, the one slightly to port of the Bill Collector, the HJ-8 gunner almost ready to press the firing controls, hit first. One after the other, both drones darted in, staying only about three feet above the water until the last fifty yards, at which point both popped up and dove on their target.
They weren’t even semi-autonomous, but were being piloted remotely by gunners on the Rosalinda, using frequencies carefully picked to lie outside the broad-spectrum jamming that the Triarii were hoping would keep the Chinese drones out of the fight. So, the first one dove on the anti-tank missile launcher, while the second threw itself at the boathouse.
The first detonated in an ugly black puff right above the anti-tank gunner’s head. One of the missiles sympathetically exploded a moment later, adding another orange flash just before the second drone dove through the windscreen and into the vessel’s bridge, where it exploded and flensed the interior of the bridge and everyone in it with two hundred flying ball bearings.
Moments later, the second trawler got hit in much the same way. Soon, both of them were drifting, smoke pouring from each boat’s bridge.
The Bill Collector, her job done, motored quickly away from Second Thomas Shoal as the rest of the attack fleet, minus the boarding vessels, similarly dispersed.
Hank over the side and down the ladder, looking around at the others. Minus the three they’d lost on Palawan, the squads were up and ready, each boat carrying either four or five Triarii.
He looked over at Chan and got a nod. He gave a thumbs up to the bridge.
Almost as soon as he’d sent the signal, the cranes started cranking the boats into the air and swinging them out over the side. It was time.
Chapter 17
The boat hit the water hard, the cable spooling out fast. Time was of the essence now. They’d hopefully sowed enough confusion at the south end of the shoal that all eyes would be there, those that hadn’t been electronically blinded by the jamming. But while they’d hopefully jammed the drones, they couldn’t be quite as certain about the Chinese comms. And the men aboard those merchantmen were going to be screaming for help in a moment, as soon as they saw the Combat Rubber Raiding Craft full of armed men in green hauling ass for their hulls.
As soon as they were down, the Triarii scrambling into the boat, Durand and Simons were releasing the cargo hook as Hank dropped the engine and yanked the starter. They’d done all the priming aboard the Jacqueline Q, but it still took three pulls before the engine coughed, caught, and started with a puttering rumble. By then, the other boat was in the water and the cranes were already inboard to pick up the next two.
The three boats already in the water on the starboard side turned and raced for the towering blue side of the cargo ship, Navarro’s in the lead. Figures were already starting to move to the rail overhead as the boats pulled up alongside, but the Jacqueline Q was well within range, and still had her 30mm cannons and one squad per section aboard, their machineguns and rifles quite capable of reaching across to the Ren Hai. A brief exchange of gunfire, several shots cracking out over the water, kicking up geysers of spray where they hit the ocean ahead of Navarro’s boat, were answered from the Jacqueline Q, and a moment later the rails appeared to be deserted.
Navarro brought the boat up against the hull, turning the outboard to force the Zodiac’s hull up against the blue-painted steel, and in moments, the Nakato brothers had gotten the boarding ladder up, using a long, telescoping pole to hook it over the edge of the gunwale. A moment later, as Lee lowered the pole, Bob started up, followed a moment later by Rossiter.
Hank didn’t wait for them, but immediately found his own boarding spot, driving the Zodiac against the hull just hard enough to hold it in place once they bumped against it, rather than bouncing off. Durand and Simons got the ladder up, and then Kinzie was the first one up, the short, skinny Texan clambering up so fast that the cable ladder barely had time to twist as he climbed. Durand was next, followed by Fuentes and Alexander.
Hank handed control of the boat off to Simons. Under other circumstances, he might have been expected to stay with the boat since he’d coxswained it in, but he needed to be up on deck for this. And the advantage to being the section leader was sometimes that he could jump in the stack and nobody could tell him, “No.”
He didn’t swarm up the ladder nearly as fast as some of the younger Triarii had. He followed at about Alexander’s pace. The big man was pushing fifty, and while he was strong as an ox and a dead shot, he wasn’t what anyone would call fast. And his mass had made the ladder twist and swing a lot, further slowing him down.
Hank was well on the far side of forty, himself, and he was feeling every year, every fight, as he climbed up that ladder in the still sweltering heat of the South Pacific. Wearing body armor, which was a necessity, considering they were potentially going into an extremely close-quarters fight with Chinese marines, made things worse. He was just glad the armor only weighed a couple pounds per plate, anymore. He still remembered when armor alone had accounted for thirty to forty pounds of gear. But he wasn’t going to quit, and there was a fight up top. At least, he was expecting one. He’d heard a couple of gunshots, but so far, the boarding action was going remarkably quietly.
Reaching the top, he swung a leg over the rail and dropped onto the deck, quickly bringing his slung M5 around to bear. The Triarii were holding the boarding site for the moment, guns up and covering fore, aft, and the nearest hatch.
The ladder rattled behind Hank, and he glanced over the side to see that LaForce’s squad had elected to come alongside the boats already in place and climb up their ladders, rather than taking the time to mount new ones. Most of Chan’s two squads were already aboard and heading forward, leaving the superstructure and the bridge to Hank and his boys.
“Tomas, leave two men here to watch the ladders. Everyone else, on me.” Weapon up, he moved to the hatch.
To his utter lack of surprise, the hatch was secured. “Breacher up.” There was a porthole in the white-painted steel, and he risked a glance inside, trying to keep from fully exposing his head in the window, but saw nothing but darkness.
Durand had the Broco torch, and he made quick work of the hatch—or at least, as quick as was possible when cutting a hole big enough for a man to duck through in a half-inch-thick steel door. The rest of the squad stayed in place, covering corners, portholes, and the gangway above.
Finally, the smoking rectangle of metal hit the deck with a clang. Hank had already gotten an angle on the opening, though he’d had to crouch down into a glorified “paddy squat” so that he didn’t have to bend double to get a shot, if there was a welcoming party on the other side, aimed in at the glowing rectangle being carved through the hatch. The passageway beyond was clear, however, dark and empty.
Ducking through the opening, careful not to touch the ragged, still-scorching-hot edges, he quickly got out of the fatal funnel as best he could, moving on the first hatch aft without outrunning the rest of the squad behind him. The breach had taken too long already, but it was going to take a bit more time to get everyone through the hole in the hatch.
He held on the passageway and the closed hatch for a moment. The porthole in the hatch was dark and the passageway itself was quiet, with only the murmur of machinery and the vague creaks that went along with a ship still moving on the swell meeting his ears, at least, aside from the sound of movement as more Triarii came through the hole in the hatch behind him.
A muzzle came out beside him, covering the passageway. Another hand squeezed his elbow, and he yanked the hatch open, going through fast with his rifle dropping level as he took his hand off the handle. He pivoted to clear his corner and then stepped out of the way, as Evans came in behind him.
They were in berthing, with the compartment segmented into multiple staterooms with bunks stacked on top of each other. The crew clearly didn’t live in a great deal of comfort.
The crew also weren’t in their berthing. While the Triarii still painstakingly cleared each compartment, none of them were occupied. No crew, no Chinese shooters waiting in the shadows.
By the time they came out and headed deeper into the ship, gunfire had started to ring from the ladderwell aft. Someone was in the engineering spaces, and they were putting up a fight.
But there were two Triarii holding on the ladderwell leading up, toward the bridge, which told Hank that no one had gone that way yet. And the bridge was one of the primary areas they needed to take. Especially if they were going to pull off the next phase of this op.
“On me.” With Evans, Durand, Alexander, and Reisinger falling in behind him, he started up the ladderwell.
Carefully clearing each landing, he nevertheless bypassed the next three decks. They’d have to be cleared, but speed
was vital, and they needed to take that bridge, if only to try to ensure that the enemy didn’t get word out that there were round eyes in greens on board. The Jacqueline Q was jamming every commercial radio frequency heavily, but that was no guarantee if the Chinese ships were using military comms.
The other shooters behind him were being just as careful to cover their six and every hatchway they passed. The regular Triarii infantry perhaps hadn’t had the level of raid and CQC training that the Grex Luporum Teams had gotten, but they’d gotten the basics, even if they hadn’t had much of that kind of training in their previous military careers. And the sections coming out to the South China Sea had gotten a lot more, almost two months’ worth, just because they’d known that they would be facing actions like this.
Something exploded below, the thud reverberating through the hull. Hank just hoped nothing vital had been damaged. They still needed the Ren Hai to be able to move. Though it might not matter all that much in the long run.
His team reached the top, the entrance to the bridge. A small compartment at the top of the ladderwell connected to the radio room aft, and the bridge forward. Both were marked in English and Mandarin.
Hank stacked on the bridge, pointing Alexander to the radio room. If anything, that one was more vital.
The hatch leading onto the bridge was secured, but it wasn’t a steel, watertight hatch. It was more like a commercial door, probably because it was so far above the waterline that trying to make it watertight would be a waste of money and effort. That meant it was easier to breach. Hank waited until Evans and Reisinger were stacked on the door, Evans stepping out just far enough to cover the door past Hank, then he turned his back to the bulkhead and donkey-kicked the door just beneath the handle.