Red Tide, стр. 69
There were Chinese holdouts in the stern. And Ryson could hear sporadic gunshots, as he slung the shotgun, and carried the box out to the point where willing arms waited to receive it.
The Combat Systems Officer was in charge of document/computer retrieval. His name was Cassidy, and he’d been hit, judging from the bandage on his left arm. “I think we’re in good shape, sir. Unless you want us to search the engine room.”
“No,” Ryson replied. “That won’t be necessary. Get your people off. Be sure to count heads.”
“Aye, aye sir,” Cassidy replied. “Or, we could take the 22 with us.”
The thought hadn’t occurred to Ryson. But why not? Odds were that the Intel people would love to strip search a Type 22.
“That’s a good idea, Lieutenant. Assuming that we are in full control of the boat. Belay the first order, and get me a sitrep.”
Jet engines screamed as a Chinese Chengdu J-20 fighter swept over the boats. It didn’t fire on them however. And that was a blessing.
Once aboard the Arcus Ryson went straight to the bridge. He arrived in time to see a Stinger crew send a missile after the Chengdu. It failed to catch up and had to self-destruct. “Single up the lines,” Ryson ordered. “And prepare to break contact. Cassidy is checking the feasibility of taking the 22 with us.”
Moy looked surprised. “Yes, sir.”
Engines roared as the second Chengdu passed overhead. Then Cassidy spoke in his ear. “This is Seadog Four-Four. Eleven enemy personnel were killed in the fighting. Four are alive. Both engines are operational, and she responds to the helm. Over.”
Ryson looked at Moy who shrugged. “This is Six,” Ryson replied. “How many personnel do you have? And how many do you need? Over.”
“I have six,” Cassidy replied. “I have a corpsman. Send me an EN (Engineman) and an ET. I’ll put two deckhands back on the Arcus. Over.”
“Done,” Ryson replied. “And I’ll send Stinger Team 2 as well. Keep those prisoners under lock and key. Do you read me? Over.”
“Five-by-Five sir. Over.”
The jets circled as personnel went back and forth between the two vessels. Then the Chief Bosun’s mate and a deck ape severed the remaining lines.
That was a good thing and a bad thing. Good, because Moy’s crew had what they’d been ordered to get. And bad, because the Chinese fighter pilots had no further reason to withhold fire.
The jets circled wide as they prepared to attack. “Take evasive action,” Moy ordered. “Prepare to fire chaff. Prepare to fire missiles.”
Ryson figured that, since the jet jockeys didn’t know the 22 had been captured, they would leave it alone. For the moment anyway. All he could do was grit his teeth and wait. Moy had done an excellent job so far, and it was his responsibility to defend the boat.
The Arcus was on foil by then, “flying” south at top speed, and leaving the 22 to fend for itself. The theory being that the pilots would assume it remained under Chinese control.
Ryson stood with feet spread so he could shift his weight back and forth to accommodate the evasive maneuvers that the helmsman was putting the PHM through. “Fire chaff,” Moy said laconically, as a jet chased them. “Fire missiles when ready.”
Moy’s timing was excellent. The Chengdu fired two missiles. Chaff drew one of them away while the other exploded short of the hydrofoil’s stern.
A Stinger missile lanced upwards, found its target, and exploded. Chunks of flaming wreckage cartwheeled through the air. They were still spinning when the second fighter flew through the cloud of debris.
The Chengdu seemed to shudder as a piece of wreckage was sucked into the port engine. Perhaps some fan blades were broken. Or maybe it was something else. But whatever the cause, a trail of black smoke followed the plane as the pilot turned north towards Mischief Reef. A reedy cheer went up. Luck, Ryson mused. So much of war is luck.
His thoughts were interrupted as one of the ETs spoke over the intercom. “Forward Operating Base Samir is under attack! They’re requesting assistance!”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Ang Nam Ngum Reservoir, Laos
Mickey Fanon was dead. Shot down in the Lucky 7 bar. Which, on reflection, was the worst shit show Kelsey had ever been part of. She and her team had survived untouched. But an opportunity to expand the Allied intelligence network had been lost.
And after stopping at the hotel, the team had gone straight to the plane where the pilots were waiting. The Seastar took off shortly thereafter and made a beeline for Laos. The sun rose two hours later.
Candy Wride turned the Dornier Seastar floatplane south over a broad expanse of sparkling blue water. The vast one hundred and fifty-five square mile Ang Nam Ngum Reservoir was located more than fifty miles north of the capital city of Vientiane. And, because the Vietnamese city of Da Nang was eight hundred and three miles to the east, Wride wanted to refuel.
As Kelsey stared out the window to her left, she saw azure water, green clad islands, and tiny fishing boats. It was all very beautiful. But her mind was focused on a woman in the Vietnamese port city of Da Nang.
According to what she’d been told, Madam Bian Nguyen had been a successful human trafficker prior to the war. Just one of the traffickers who smuggled an estimated eighteen thousand Vietnamese into Europe each year.
However, profitable though the business was, it all but dried up once the war began. But Nguyen was a resourceful woman. So, rather than sit around and bemoan her losses, Nguyen turned to smuggling cigarettes.
It was a well-established profession and a profitable one. Forty-five percent of the Vietnamese population were