Area Denial (Maelstrom Rising Book 7)

by Peter Nealen

  Besides, Hank and his Triarii infantry were getting antsy to do something, rather than wait for the next phase to finally line up.

  Hank throttled back a little, though not so far that the ship would pass by them by much distance. He just didn’t want to give their position away by noise. They didn’t have intel as to whether the Fortunate had security contractors aboard, but with the uptick in piracy—not to mention the Triarii’s own asymmetric offensive—it wasn’t a good idea to assume that they didn’t.

  The other two boats closed in, as they moved over the waves toward the growing shape of the ship. She was lit up like a Christmas tree, brilliant spots on her superstructure bathing her hold in white light, more on her forward crane gleaming in the night. The light spilled out onto the water nearby, as well as lighting up the name on her prow, in both English and Mandarin: Fortunate.

  They were on target. Hank breathed a sigh of relief. It would have really sucked to miss the ship and have to head back to the Jacqueline Q with their payload, having wasted an entire night, as well as the precious fuel to run the Zodiacs for dozens of nautical miles.

  They didn’t steer directly toward the Fortunate, but began to circle around aft. The odds were better that if there were maritime security troops aboard, that they’d be watching forward more than aft. Not a guarantee, by any means, and the sheer number of lumens spilling over the hull were making Hank a little concerned, but they had to take the chance.

  For a moment, as the bulk carrier passed by in the night, Hank worried that she’d be moving too fast for the Zodiacs to catch up. They weren’t all that heavily-loaded, with a maximum of four men per boat, but the outboards only had so much power, and seagoing freighters could easily do up to twenty-five knots.

  But after a moment, it became clear that the Fortunate wasn’t going nearly that fast. As they came around into the bulk carrier’s wake, the Zodiacs started to close in. A simple eyeball guess put the Fortunate moving at around twelve knots.

  The ship’s wake rocked the Zodiac, but Hank kept on course, closing in and trying to find the least brightly-lit part of the water to approach. They needed to do this without being spotted, if it was at all possible.

  Deniability was one thing. Not getting bullet holes in another set of Zodiacs, while a long way from rescue, was foremost on his mind at the moment, though.

  He squinted up at the deck above. The lights were whiting out his NVGs, making it difficult to see much beyond the glare. It was almost impossible to tell if there were security contractors—or PLAN marines—moving along the rail or not. He cursed under his breath.

  Huntsman had left the nav board, taking off his helmet and NVGs and stuffing them in a waterproof bag before prepping the payload. Winkler and Evans had both slipped down into the bottom of the boat, even though that left both of them crammed together—especially since Evans, short as he was, was a big dude—and lying on top of the fuel bladder, in a noxious soup of saltwater and JP-8. But it put them in a better position to bring their weapons to bear on the freighter’s deck, while simultaneously lowering their profile still further.

  Unzipping the waterproof bag, Huntsman pulled the limpet mine out and double-checked it by feel before putting it back down on the deck and pulling on his fins. Hank steered the Zodiac closer to the hull, still watching the rail above as the ship’s side rose like a dark cliff above them. The lights danced on the water, glinting off the wet, black rubber of the Zodiac’s gunwale, and Hank had to keep tight control of the urge to get the hell away from the glare.

  He got up next to the hull, finding the closest thing to a shadow he could. The lights on the port and starboard sides of the superstructure were far enough out that there really wasn’t any spot alongside that wasn’t lit to some degree. They just had to hope that nobody looked down. The other two boats were several hundred yards behind, in the wake, beyond the lights, weapons up and covering.

  Each of the other two boats had their own limpet mines, just in case this went badly for Hank’s boat.

  The mines weren’t going to show up on any official inventory. Rather like a growing fraction of the Triarii arsenal, they had been purpose-built in a machine shop in Texas. In some ways, they were IEDs, Improvised Explosive Devices. They were just built to much higher tolerances and specifications than the terrorists who used IEDs usually managed.

  Winkler and Evans were practically lying on their backs now, their rifles trained on the rail above. Huntsman had the limpet in his lap, his finned feet on the inside of the boat, breathing carefully and deeply to oxygenate his tissues before he went underwater for the next couple of minutes. A safety line of tubular nylon was clipped to his belt on one end and the hand line on the inside of the gunwale on the other.

  Hank held the Zodiac as steadily as he could, about two yards from the Fortunate’s side. The waves were still bouncing the boat, which made this even harder, and the ship’s wake was trying to force the boat away. He heard Winkler grunt as a particularly heavy wave lifted him off the bottom of the boat to slam back down on Evans.

  With Hank’s squeeze to his shoulder, Huntsman took a deep breath and went backward over the side, disappearing into the black water below.

  The safety line almost immediately went taut. At about twelve knots, Huntsman was going to be towed most of the way. Hank just hoped and prayed that he was able to keep his equilibrium. Underwater, in the dark, it was easy to get disoriented. The deep thrum of the ship’s engines, and the lower purr of the Zodiac’s outboard, wouldn’t help. If that happened, he could either lose track of which way was up, or drift into the outboard. The propulsor was shrouded, but it still wouldn’t be good, especially if the line got sucked into it.

  Almost more importantly, if Huntsman lost his bearings down there, he might not be able to find the hull to attach the mine.

  The line shifted and slid back and forth a little on the gunwale, and Hank watched it closely enough—when he could spare his attention from trying to keep the boat steady alongside the ship—to see that it looked very much like Huntsman had successfully finned away from the boat, toward the hull. Still, Hank waited, his heart pounding in his chest, silently praying that Huntsman didn’t get lost, tangled, or just run out of air.

  He wasn’t on dive equipment, after all. It had been brought up, but nobody in the section was dive trained—somewhat to Hank’s surprise—and Huntsman had insisted he could hold his breath long enough. Hank was starting to worry that he should have insisted on the SCUBA gear and the time to train on it, anyway.

  The line quivered, then quivered again. Then a gloved hand came out of the water, gripping the tubular nylon, and Huntsman broke the surface with a gasp. He nodded once. “It’s on.”

  Hank immediately throttled down the outboard and reached down to help Huntsman up into the boat, even as the Fortunate seemed to surge ahead. With a heave, he brought the big redhead up to his waist in the boat, and then Huntsman threw a leg over the gunwale, still spitting saltwater and sucking in big, gasping breaths.

  A shout sounded from above. Hank looked up to see a figure on the stern, shining a flashlight down at the water, then a spotlight stabbed down into the Fortunate’s wake. Someone up there on watch had seen something. Or heard something.

  The Zodiac was already almost out of the faint nimbus of illumination from the ship’s operating lights, though. And even as the spotlight continued to shine around near the water, looking for pirates who weren’t there, the Triarii Zodiacs fell farther astern, fading into the darkness.

  “Remind me never to do that again.” Huntsman was still breathing hard. “That sucked.” He looked up toward the receding ship. “Thought for sure I was going to get sucked into the props, safety line or no safety line. And I’m pretty sure I bounced off the hull a couple of times.”

  “How long on the timer?” Hank started the boat moving again. They needed to shadow the Fortunate until the mine went off…or didn’t. That was the other reason they had two extras.

 
; “Not sure. I thought I gave it two turns, but it felt like I was caught in an underwater hurricane down there.” The timer was entirely mechanical, essentially a wind-up watch tied into a striker detonator. Two turns was supposed to be about ten minutes. Which should have given the boats time to get clear and disappear into the dark before the “inexplicable accident” that tore a hole in the hull and started the Fortunate heading for the bottom of the ocean.

  Provided the mine went off as planned. Supposedly, they’d been extensively tested in the Gulf. But Hank hadn’t been there, and he’d been a Marine long enough that he fully expected the gadgets to fail. Every time.

  He’d probably have preferred to use time fuse and an igniter, but they’d been assured that this setup would work better.

  The minutes ticked by, as the three Zodiacs paced the freighter, about a quarter of a nautical mile behind. Hank kept checking his watch, the night adaptation in his off eye slowly coming back after the glare of the ship’s lights. The hands seemed to be moving entirely too slowly.

  When it happened, it was almost anticlimactic. The Fortunate shuddered, and Hank might have seen a small surge of water along her starboard flank. A few moments later, she had slowed to a near standstill, and was noticeably beginning to list.

  “Looks like it worked.” He turned the Zodiac’s bow away from the stricken bulk carrier and throttled up again. They needed to get away before someone aboard that vessel, or possibly one of the nearby PLAN or Chinese Coast Guard vessels, put a drone up.

  There was still a long trip back to the Jacqueline Q ahead, but for now, the mission was accomplished. Mischief Reef wouldn’t be getting this supply drop.

  And that was something.

  Chapter 23

  “We may have a problem, gents.”

  Vetter had opted for the mesh-network group call again, rather than bringing all the various skippers and commanders back to Palawan. “The Charley’s Downfall was pursued and engaged by the corvette Luzhou yesterday, as she passed by Fiery Cross Reef. No provocation, but we believe that the Charley’s Downfall was identified in relation to the strikes on the Satilda three days ago. She was one of our torpedo boats, converted from a yacht.”

  “You said, ‘engaged,’” Corlin, one of the other torpedo skippers put in. “Did they hit her?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Vetter’s voice was grim. “Last we heard, the Luzhou had opened fire on her with her main gun. We lost contact after that.”

  There was silence at that. Hank was sure that the same thought was going through everyone’s head. If the Chinese had IDed the Charley’s Downfall, they may well have figured out the whole game. The Triarii’s nautical disguise was slipping. And with it went one of their primary advantages.

  “So, we’re pulling most of the ships that have engaged the enemy out of the Spratlys for the moment.” Hank could easily see the frowns around the Jacqueline Q’s bridge. “We can’t afford to get hemmed up and lose ships and men right at the moment, not more than we already have around Second Thomas Shoal. We’re changing tactics, instead.”

  Hank looked down as a file delivery alert came across one of the laptops in the command center. “Jacqueline Q, Suzy Bee, and Slow Company have a new mission set. We’ll rendezvous off Lawak Island to prep. Briefing documents are already on their way to your command posts.

  “Watch your backs out there, gentlemen. The enemy knows something’s up.”

  ***

  Getting to the waters off Lawak Island, or Nanshan Island, as the Chinese called it, without running across the PLAN or their proxies took more doing than might have been obvious. For one thing, the Jacqueline Q had needed to pass Mischief Reef, and the squadron of J-10s on the artificial island’s airstrip had stepped up their combat air patrols. Furthermore, China had laid claim to Lawak, as well, despite the Philippine marines having physically occupied the island since the ‘70s. That meant there were Chinese fishing vessels, accompanied by another coast guard cutter, not far out to sea from the island itself.

  The Jacqueline Q had needed to swing east, around Second Thomas Shoal—still abandoned, as the minesweeper hadn’t gotten to the region yet—and approach Lawak Island from the southeast. At fifteen knots, that had taken most of a day. Spotting another small flotilla of fishing vessels, guarded by a Zhaoyu-class coast guard cutter, just off the south, only about ten nautical miles from the island, had necessitated another course change, adding still more time, until they could rendezvous with the Slow Company and the Suzy Bee between Lawak Island and Flat Island.

  The two trawlers had been joined by one of the support bulk carriers and two yachts converted into torpedo boats. Drones circled overhead, and if Hank was making out the little fixed wing designs right, they were some of the purpose-built counter-drone interceptors coming out of one of the enclaves in Kansas. Vetter was clearly concerned about surveillance. The presence of the low, dark gray silhouette of the BRP Antonio Luna went a long way toward explaining the reason for the counter-drone interceptors’ presence.

  He also didn’t want to discuss the plan over the radio. “Come over to the Slow Company.” That meant launching a Zodiac, motoring over, and getting lifted into the Slow Company’s hold. It was already after dark by the time Hank, Chan, and Smythe joined Vetter, Manchin, Sotero, and Hobbes in the Slow Company’s command center.

  “Hope you guys got some rest on the way out here, because we’re going tonight.” Vetter didn’t look like he’d gotten a lot of sleep, but Hank had no doubt that he’d be right there with them. He spread out the chart of Lawak Island, Flat Island, and the nearby ocean, and started putting markers down. He was going all the way old school with this brief.

  “There are fifteen Chinese fishing trawlers sitting ten nautical miles off Lawak Island. Now, the Chinese claim that ‘Nanshan’ Island is a part of Hainan Province, never mind that it’s almost five times farther away from Hainan than Palawan. That means that they’re well inside the twelve nautical mile limit that defines international waters.” Vetter pointed to the smaller markers, then to the bigger one. “They’re being escorted by a CCG patrol cutter, the Haijing 1302. That’s why the Antonio Luna is here.” He looked around the compartment, making sure that each man was focused, despite the long trip to get there. “Now, pay attention, because we don’t have time to go over things twice.”

  ***

  Here we go again.

  The wind wasn’t as strong as it had been on the night that they’d sunk the Fortunate, but that was probably going to change, if the squall line to the south was any indication. Hank couldn’t see it now, but he’d been watching it build most of the afternoon as they’d been heading for Lawak. The storm was still a good distance away, but if it hit within the next couple of hours, they could be in for a very interesting night.

  If the storm hit, they might have to simply pull back and reset for another time. Vetter might be all gung-ho to make this happen tonight, and all the pieces might be in place—Hank wondered about that; he’d never seen an op where all the pieces really were in place when and where they were supposed to be—but that wouldn’t do any of them any good if they were getting lost or capsized in a tropical storm.

  The Antonio Luna might be able to ride it out, but the Triarii Zodiacs wouldn’t, even if it was just a little gale.

  They were getting closer to the fishing fleet. The trawlers had racks and strings of brilliant lights hanging out on their flanks, shining down into the water. From the intel reports, the lights were to attract squid. There was nothing sporting about the Chinese methods of deep-sea fishing. They were there to harvest as much as they could, and if they completely stripped the local waters, they really didn’t care. Apparently, the South China Sea wasn’t the only place they were doing it, either.

  Those lights were going to create problems. But only if the People’s Armed Forces Maritime Militia aboard the fishing vessels were paying attention. And Hank hoped that they’d all be looking the other way in the next few minutes.

&n
bsp; The wind stiffened, a gust throwing spray off the wavetops into the boat. That storm was still coming. Maybe if the weather gets just bad enough, but not so bad that we capsize, they’ll turtle for the night and go inside. After all, they’ve got an escort. Why shouldn’t they take the night off, if the weather sucks?

  He knew he was being a bit overly optimistic, but this was going to be tricky enough as it was.

  Then the Antonio Luna came around the south end of Lawak Island and started to move into position, between the island and the Chinese cutter.

  Game time. Hank cranked the throttle just far enough to get the Zodiac moving toward the nearest fishing trawler. To his right and left, the rest of the section’s boats followed.

  They didn’t close in quickly. There was still the first act to wait for. But they were drifting toward the blazing lights of the fishing trawler, while the Antonio Luna moved closer and closer to the Zhaoyu-class cutter.

  Hank had his radio on, as waterproofed as he could get it, plugged into his Peltor headset under his helmet. He also had it on scan, between the Triarii net and the naval guard frequencies used between ships at sea. So, he could hear the exchange that followed. It was technically in “Seaspeak,” but since English was the base for Seaspeak, he could still follow along.

  “Attention! You are entering a Chinese security exclusion zone! Please turn around immediately!” The Chinese clearly had a script for this sort of thing, never mind the fact that they were well within the twelve nautical mile limit around an occupied Philippine outpost.

  “Negative. You are within Philippine Economic Exclusion Area. Your presence here is a violation of international law of the sea and a violation of Philippine territory. Leave at once or be fired upon.” The Antonio Luna’s skipper wasn’t screwing around.