Red Tide, стр. 68
“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 turn 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.”
“That’s bullshit,” Ryson replied. “There’s nothing for me to do here. Keep an eye on the sky, Charlie … We’re well within range of Mischief Reef, and you know what that means.”
The rate of reciprocal fire increased as the distance between the ships decreased. Someone called for a corpsman, and fenders gave, as the vessels made contact.
Ryson was outside by then. Bullets pinged off metal as a Chinese sailor shot at him. There was a prodigious boom when Ryson fired the Benelli. At least half the load of 00 Buck struck the sailor’s chest and threw him back. Blood splattered the Type 22’s superstructure.
Ryson jumped down onto the main deck where lines and grappling hooks bound the ships together. A Chinese sailor was sawing on a rope with a sheath knife when the Arc’s X0 shot him. “We’ll have none of that,” she said crossly. “Follow me!” And with that she jumped the gap between the vessels only to be killed by a sailor swinging a fire ax.
Ryson fired another blast, made his way across, and came face-to face with an officer. A blow from the shotgun’s butt broke the man’s jaw and an American sailor finished the job.
“Find their CIC!” Ryson ordered. “And check the bridge. I want charts, binders, laptops, phones, and the command-and-control computers. Cut the cables. We don’t have time to fuck around.”
An announcement from Moy served to underline the order. “Two, repeat two, enemy aircraft inbound from the northeast. Prepare to engage.”
Ryson was in the Chinese CIC by then. Two sailors