Eguchi frowned. “Spying for the Alliance would be extremely dangerous. But I will say this … One of my relatives was killed during the attack on Okinawa. And I regard Japan as my second country. How would the reporting system work?”
“Let’s say a crew spots what might be the Sea Dragon,” Kelsey said. “They upload an encrypted photo if they can. And they send their position. Then, if the information results in a successful attack on the Sea Dragon, ten million U.S. will mysteriously appear in your bank account. Plus one million for the crew to split.”
Eguchi’s eyebrows rose. “I like that part. But it would be naïve to think that all of my crews are sympathetic to the Alliance. Plus, more likely than not, some of employees are parttime spies. Reporting everything they see to China.”
Kelsey nodded. “I hear you … Perhaps your security people can do some sorting.”
Eguchi nodded. “I think we can come to an arrangement. And—and here’s something to seal the deal. Some of my captains tell me that there are days when most of the Chinese fishing fleet remains in port. And those who are in the South China Sea suddenly return home. My people love that, needless to say. But the question is why?”
The answer was obvious. When the Sea Dragon was going to pass through a particular area the Chinese fishing boats were ordered to remain in port, or return home, lest someone photograph the ghost ship and post pictures online. That would happen eventually, of course. But it appeared that the Chinese government wanted to shroud the cruiser in mystery for as long as possible.
The so-what was that—if the Allies saw China’s fishing boats sitting in port, or all returning home at the same time—it might presage an impending cruise by the world’s most dangerous ship. And that could be helpful.
“Wow,” Kelsey said. “That’s interesting. Thank you. I’ll pass it along. Someone will contact you to work on logistics. He or she will identify themselves with the code name Kratos.”
“Meaning ‘strength?’”
“Yes. Because that’s what it will take to win.”
The meeting came to an end shortly thereafter and the team returned to the Seaplane Base where Howe was waiting for them. The plane was in the air forty-five minutes later, and westbound to Kelang, Malaysia where they stopped to refuel.
The final leg of the journey took them to Yangon, formerly the city of Rangoon, in Myanmar. It was dark by the time they arrived and checked in. Parker Shipping had an office there, but Kelsey didn’t want to advertise her presence, and was happy to order dinner from room service.
Work began shortly after Kelsey got up. Her goal was to find and make contact with a criminal named Mickey Fanon. He was, according to her sources, neither a drug kingpin nor a street dealer. He was a middleman. And that was said to be a profitable slot in the drug dealer ecosystem. Especially in that part of the world.
Myanmar was the world’s second largest producer of illicit opium, and had been a major player since WWII. Largely thanks to China, which had forced opium production south into the Golden Triangle, rather than let it flourish inside the country’s borders.
Fanon’s role was to buy opium from the producers, process it into morphine, and turn the morphine into heroin—large quantities of which were sold to dealers. But like most men and women in his profession Fanon had to move from place-to-place on a frequent basis.
So, Kelsey took her sat phone out onto the balcony. She placed dozens of calls to contacts, and contacts of contacts, before hearing what purported to be Fanon’s voice. “This is Mickey. Leave your message at the tone. Beep.”
Kelsey was ready. “I represent a group of clients who are willing to pay a large sum of money for certain types of information. Please call me.” After providing the long string of numbers required to reach her sat phone, Kelsey broke the connection.
The wait began. Kelsey continued to follow leads as the hours ticked by, but without any luck. Eventually she took a nap, and was sound asleep, when her phone chimed. She rushed onto the balcony. “Yes?”
A male voice read off an address in Mingalor Zay, which he said was in the Mingalor Taung Nyunt Township. That was followed by the words, “Eight tonight.” Then a click.
Kelsey eyed her watch. It was a few minutes past five. That wouldn’t allow enough time to inspect the meeting place ahead of time. Chaney wouldn’t like that.
But Kelsey was determined to make contact with Fanon. By all accounts the middleman ran small boats in and out of ports throughout southeast Asia. And, if she managed to recruit Fanon, his drug runners might be able to provide information about the Sea Dragon’s whereabouts.
Kelsey called the bodyguards to her room for a briefing. Chaney was adamantly opposed and said so. Kelsey nodded. “Everything you say is true, but we’ll have to take the chance.”
“Okay,” Chaney said reluctantly. “But I want Justin on the team. He can drive and protect our vehicle.”
“Agreed,” Kelsey said. “Let’s gear up and get going.”
The decision had been made to use one of the team’s two vehicles. The van had seats in the back, but no windows, which was just as well.
Kelsey couldn’t see much. But she could catch glimpses through the windshield. Most of the buildings were western in appearance and five or six stories tall. Traffic was heavy. Motorcycles roared as they wove in and out of traffic. A chaotic maze of power, telephone, and TV cables crisscrossed each other thirty feet above the street.
A sickly sun was hanging low in the sky by the time the van passed through the prosperous part of the Taung Nyunt Township, and entered a seedy area dominated by bars, thinly disguised brothels, and dilapidated hotels. Kelsey leaned forward. “Find a place to park, Justin. You know the drill.”
Justin Smith was even featured, had dark skin, and was sporting a two-day growth of stubble. He knew that “the drill” meant a spot where it would difficult to block the van in, there was good visibility, and he could pull straight out. “Roger that, boss. Your destination is coming up on the right.”
Kelsey was watching as they passed a garish bar called “The Lucky Seven.” A couple of what might have been lookouts were lounging out front. They turned to watch as a young woman in a short skirt entered.
A delivery truck pulled out into traffic and Smith wasted no time sliding into the empty parking slot. It was at the end of the block which meant he could pull straight out.
Kelsey had made her way forward by then and was sitting next to Smith. Most of the pedestrians were locals. But she saw Europeans too. Men mostly, looking for sex or drugs. But a scattering of couples were visible too. And that was a good thing if the team was going to fit in. “Okay, Ronda … We need to split up. What would you suggest?”
“I’ll pair with the Hulk,” Chaney replied. “And that puts you with Pretty Boy. You’ll make a great couple.”
Kelsey made a face. “I don’t date guys who smell better than I do.”
She looked at her watch. “It’s 7:45. Let’s de-ass the van and enter separately. Mickey is an Australian aborigine. He’s about 5’8’, and he’s got a thing for tropical shirts. According to what I was told he’ll have bodyguards with him. Questions? No? All right. Donnelly and I will enter first. The dynamic duo will follow two minutes later. Keep your eyes peeled Toolz … If you see anything iffy holler.”
Each team member was packing a radio, a tiny wireless microphone, and a pair of ear buds. Smith grinned. “No prob, boss lady. I’ve got this.”
Kelsey and Donnelly left the van through the curbside sliding door. Both wore jackets, jeans and sneakers. Kelsey’s were red. The first thing Kelsey noticed was the smothering heat. Even though the sun had set, the temperature was still in the mid-eighties.
The second thing Kelsey noticed was the throat clogging smell. Not a single scent, but many odors mixed together, creating a fuggy mix of drifting cigarette smoke, rotting vegetables, human urine, roasted peanuts, and the betel nut juice that both adults and children squirted into the street.
And that was to
say nothing of the cacophonous street noise which consisted of motorcycle engines, pop music that drifted out of bars, and the wail of a distant siren. None of that was surprising and the input served to sharpen Kelsey’s senses. She was entirely in the moment, with every sense activated, and her mind racing.
Men stared. Why? Because she was a Euro? Because they wanted to fuck her? Or both?
Donnelly pulled the door open. Cool air waited to greet her. The lighting was dim. Tables occupied the area in front of her. A bar ran down the righthand wall. People turned to look. Some stared. Others lost interest. Fanon. Where was Fanon? Was it some sort of trap?
Donnelly placed a hand on Kelsey’s back, as if to guide her, and she shook it off. Only a few of the empty tables had been bussed. Kelsey chose to sit with her back to the wall with a glowing “7” mounted on it. A position that would enable her to watch the front door.
So Donnelly sat with his back to the front door which gave him a view of the “7” and the exit located next to it. Between them they had both points of entry-egress covered.
Kelsey watched Chaney and Howe enter, look around, and take a table near the entrance. She eyed her watch. It was 8:03. Fanon was nowhere to be seen.
Kelsey scanned the room for security cameras but didn’t see any. Maybe that was one of the reasons why Fanon liked the place. There might be hidden cams of course. That was a chance she’d have to take.
A teenage waitress arrived. She was wearing too much makeup and not enough clothes. Her English was rough but serviceable. “What you want?”
Donnelly was the team’s beer snob. “Two beers. Myanmar Black Shield please.”
Like most females the girl had eyes only for Donnelly. “You bet. Any else?”
“Nope,” Pretty Boy said. “That will do it. But make them cold please. Real cold.”
“So, you’ve had Black Shield before?” Kelsey inquired.
“Never. But I did my research,” Donnelly said. “And according …”
“There he is,” Kelsey interrupted. “Coming in the front door. He has one, two, three, four, five people with him. Four men and a woman. I think she’s arm candy rather than a shooter. But hey, you never know.”
There was a stir as waiters hurried to bus a large table and Fanon sat down. A pair of reflective sunglasses were parked above the drug dealer’s forehead. His eyes scanned the room; they found Kelsey and stopped. Did Fanon know who she was? Or was he guessing?
Kelsey stood and made her way over. “Mr. Fanon? I’m the woman who left the message. Can we talk?”
Fanon looked her up and down as if inspecting a side of beef. He had an Australian accent. “Sure, sweet stuff. We can talk, and you can take a ride on my stiffy. Have a seat.”
Fanon’s girlfriend had to move in order for Kelsey to sit down, and was far from pleased. Kelsey had just settled into the empty chair, and was getting ready to make her pitch, when Smith spoke into her ear. “Six, repeat, six armed men just arrived. And they’re headed for the front door.”
“Get down!” Chaney ordered. “We’ll form on Donnelly and exit through the back.”
“Two men entering through the back,” Donnelly warned. “I see a gun!”
Then the shooting began. Fanon was the target. Kelsey scrabbled across the floor, as the gunmen entered from the street, and opened fire. Two of Fanon’s bodyguards and his girlfriend jerked spastically as bullets struck them.
Fanon was on his knees, returning fire with a pistol, as his surviving bodyguards did the same. Then Chaney joined the battle, along with Howe. And their fire sent the attackers diving for cover.
Kelsey had the baby Glock in her right hand, and was aiming at the men at the back of the room. They were firing at Chaney and Howe by then. But not for long as both Kelsey and Donnelly opened fire. The gunmen were caught by surprise.
Kelsey saw blood spray as her bullets tore through a man’s throat. He stumbled backwards, fell, and hit the floor hard. Thanks to Donnelly his buddy was down too. The body jerked as Pretty Boy shot him again.
The other battle was still underway. And as Kelsey turned in that direction, she saw bodies sprawled all about. Fanon was wounded, but on his feet and firing when a bullet struck his head. Gore flew and his body toppled.
Two of the invading gunmen were still vertical and one was armed with a machine pistol. The auto fire forced Chaney and Howe to duck as bullets tore splinters out of their table. That was when Smith entered the bar with the 12-gauge leveled in front of him. He fired one barrel, followed by the other, killing both men instantly.
Then, like a duck hunter in the field, Toolz broke the weapon open. Shook two empties onto the floor, and replaced them. “Anybody need a ride?”
***
The island of Samir, in the South China Sea
The PHM Arcus was roughly a hundred miles north of Samir Island, on foil, and making a good 47 knots. Ryson was on the bridge along with the boat’s skipper Charlie Moy, and the duty helmsman. That meant the boat was burning about one-thousand gallons of fuel per hour. And given the fourteen-thousand gallons of fuel left in the boat’s tanks it was necessary to be careful. The goal was to catch up with a radar blip generally referred to as “Asshole,” as in “Look at that asshole run.” And the distance was closing.
It was hard to know what kind of target they were onto, other than the fact that it was fast, which suggested a Chinese Type 22 missile boat. They were, according to data retrieved by the CIC, about 140 feet long—making them comparable to the Arcus in terms of size.
If the enemy vessel was a Type 22, it was similar in another way as well, because she was armed with eight anti-ship missiles. Three of which had already been fired at the Arcus over the last half hour, and lured away by the infrared decoys launched from the hydrofoil’s Mark 36 mortars.
The “Arc” could have answered with Harpoon missiles, and it might come to that, but Ryson had hopes of something else. He wanted to catch up with the Chinese boat and board it. Because maybe, just maybe, the Asshole was carrying intelligence that could help the Allies locate the Sea Dragon.
“We’re closing,” Moy said, and that was true. The Arcus was doing 52 knots at that point, while the enemy vessel was making forty. So, the hydrofoil should win. But the Spratly Islands were to the north, as was the Mischief Reef air base.
How long would it be before Chinese fighters arrived? Not long, Ryson reasoned. And that’s why the Arc’s Stinger missile teams were on-deck and prepared to engage.
“Contact!” a lookout shouted. “Off the port bow at ten o’clock!”
Ryson brought his binoculars up for a look. The enemy vessel was stern-on at first. But then it turned and came straight at them. And yes, she was a Type 22. White water curled away from the ship’s bow and formed waves.
Ryson lowered the binoculars and turned to Lieutenant Commander Moy. “Destroy the bow gun, but don’t sink her unless you have to. The rest is up to you.”
That was the right thing to say, even if Ryson was dying to take command. Moy nodded. “Aye, aye, sir. Hang on.”
“We are about to engage,” Moy announced over the intercom. “We will run straight in, swing to port, and pass within three-thousand feet of the enemy. At that time Stinger 1 will fire on the enemy’s bow gun. If that effort fails, Team 2 will take a shot. The objective is to capture the boat, not sink her.”
Ryson was impressed. Moy was thinking out of the box. Though intended for airborne targets, there was no reason why the new FIM-92As couldn’t be used against surface targets—so long as they had an IR source to home on—and the target was more than 660 feet away.
But what would the infrared seeking missile go for? The bow gun? Or some other part of the boat? Moy was betting on the gun.
Puffs of gray smoke appeared as the autocannon mounted on the missile boat’s bow began to fire. Geysers of water leapt into the air as Moy responded in kind. “Keep it high,” Moy cautioned. “Above the waterline.”
“Standby for a sweeping tu
rn to port,” Moy said. “Turn.”
What happened next depended on the helmsman. When foilborne the PHMs “flew” via ACS, or Automatic Control System, which relied on computers, gyros and accelerometers to steer the boat. So, when headed for a specific point, an island for example, it was a simple matter of entering the proper coordinates and letting the ACS do its thing.
But close-quarters combat was different. The helmsman had to intervene and there were no coordinates to enter. So as the Arcus entered a sweeping turn, and the deck began to tilt, Ryson knew that the petty officer was battling the ACS for control. And successfully too, judging from the smooth ride.
“The gun will cease firing,” Moy said. “the Stinger teams will standby. Fire when ready.”
The boats were going to pass each other in a few seconds. That meant Team 1’s operator would have a very short amount of time in which to react. And, if her missile missed, Team 2 would have to wait their turn. Ryson held his breath, as the boats opened fire on each other with small arms, and the first Stinger took off.
It was impossible to say whether what happened next was the result of luck or skill. The Type 22 fired chaff, the Stinger was drawn off target, and exploded in the air.
Moy was unperturbed. “Give me a turn to starboard. Team 2 will fire when ready.”
Ryson felt the Arcus skid into the turn. The PHM rounded the Type 22’s stern and surged forward. The second Stinger flew straight and true. There was a bright flash as the missile hit the Chinese turret, followed by a loud boom.
The enemy vessel slowed, but didn’t stop. Moy gave orders to go hullborne lest the Arcus pass the enemy vessel. The hydrofoil lost speed and made a smooth transition, as the helmsman matched speeds. “Well done,” Ryson said. “Suppress fire and put us alongside.”
The Arc’s starboard fifty thumped as lighter weapons chattered. Meanwhile the Chief Bosun’s Mate gave orders for his people to “Drop fenders, prepare grappling hooks, and get ready to fight.”
Commands like that had been common 250 years earlier, but were seldom heard anymore. Ryson’s pistol was ready as was the Benelli M4 semi-automatic shotgun. A look of alarm appeared on Moy’s face as Ryson prepared to depart the bridge. “Your place is here, sir.”
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