Red Tide, стр. 81
Ryson’s mind was racing. Shit, shit, shit. He couldn’t fight and he couldn’t refuse. But a boarding party would be disastrous. What he needed was a believable excuse.
“Tell them that we would welcome a boarding party,” Ryson said. “Including three or four medical personnel. Tell them to take precautions however, because all but two of our crewmembers have coughs, high fevers and are suffering from diarrhea.”
Five long minutes passed. “They changed their minds,” Qwan said. “We are to proceed at top speed for Hainan, and seek medical attention there.”
“Tell them we will comply,” Ryson said.
A white bow wave appeared as the Yinchuan began to increase power and angled away. No fucking way was the CO about to expose his crew to a communicable disease. “That was close,” Conte said. “Too close.”
“Yeah,” Ryson agreed. “It’s going to be a long day.”
Timing was critical. The Queen was supposed to arrive in the Chinese village of Coloane at 2000 that evening. And Ryson planned to be on time. Not early, because the missile boat might attract attention, and not late or else the triad might fade.
So Ryson worked with Conte to calculate the precise speed, which combined with the prevailing sea state, would put the Camo Queen in Coloane at precisely 2000.
The hours dragged by. Darkness fell. And unlike Manado harbor in Indonesia, Macau’s lights were on. A no-no during WWII.
But now, in the age of computer guided weapons, it didn’t really matter. Missiles and smart bombs didn’t care if the lights were on or off. They would hit their targets regardless. That’s what the Chinese believed. Although other countries were more conservative.
“We’re running fifteen minutes ahead of schedule,” Conte cautioned.
“Throttle back a bit,” Ryson ordered. “It would be rude to arrive at the party early. How ‘bout that Kelsey? Have you heard anything from Mr. Soo?”
Kesey had spent most of the time in her cabin up until then. But now, with the lights of Macau glittering ahead, she was like a race horse at the starting gate. She was fidgety, talkative, and given to bouts of awkward laughter.
Kelsey’s sat phone was their link to triad leader Soo, and she was holding it in her hand. “Nothing yet,” she replied as she eyed her watch. “But there wouldn’t be. The prisoner transfer is scheduled for 1830. The snatch is supposed to take place at approximately 1930, followed by a handoff at 2000.”
Ryson had heard it all before of course. And hoped that Kelsey’s confidence was justified. He tried to imagine how it would go down. A car, maybe two, leaving the detention center in Macau. There would be traffic, but not much due to gas rationing.
At some point a triad vehicle would cut in front of the police car. And, if Ryson was running the operation, another would pull up from behind. Then the first car would brake, forcing the transfer vehicle to slow.
In the case of two vehicles, odds were that the escort car would lead rather than follow. And as a motorcycle pulled up beside it, a passenger would shoot the car’s driver, causing his vehicle to crash or stop.
Meanwhile the second car, the one containing Mr. Pei, would come to a stop. Perhaps the driver and guard would offer to surrender. It wouldn’t make any difference. By killing the policemen, Mr. Soo’s thugs would slow the official response.
At that point Mr. Pei would be extracted from the transfer vehicle, loaded into a rescue car, and spirited away. Assuming everything went well, the triad cars would disappear into traffic. But if something went wrong there would be a gigundo shit show. Perhaps in Coloane.
With that possibility in mind, Ryson gave orders for the Queen to dock bow-on to the village, so the 30mm cannon could be brought to bear. He hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to fire. There would be lots of collateral damage if the autocannon let loose.
The missile boat cut through the water, the lights grew brighter, and time passed. Kelsey was just outside the wheelhouse where her sat phone could “see” the satellite above.
She was antsy as 1930 came and went. Then, at 1942, a call came in. Kelsey thumbed a button and said, “Go.” She listened. “Got it. We’ll be there.”
Kelsey stepped into the wheelhouse. The look of relief on her face was plain to see. “They have him,” she said. “And they’re on the way. But some sort of celebration is underway. And there’s more traffic than usual. They might be a few minutes late.”
Ryson nodded. “Okay, thanks.” The village was straight ahead. In order to reach the public pier, the Type 22 had to avoid the fishing boats which were moored to buoys.
Colored lights reflected off the dark oily water. Beyond the dock, and the street that served it, rectangles of buttery yellow light were visible. Ryson could imagine families getting ready for bed, unaware of the drama about to take place outside. Then the drone arrived.
It was a quadcopter drone with a rounded camera pod on its belly. Red and blue lights flashed as a voice barked words in Mandarin. Chief Engineer Cheng was on the bridge. He was dressed in a Chinese uniform. “It’s the police,” he said. “They want our harbor access code.”
“What the hell is that?”
Cheng shook his head. “I don’t know. It must be some sort of security measure.”
“Go out and tell the drone that we’re having engine trouble and going to dock.”
Cheng did as he was told. But the drone continued to circle the Queen, even as sirens stuttered, screeched and wailed in the distance. Flashing lights appeared on the street.
Ryson spoke into a mike. “The bastards are onto us,” he said grimly. “Prepare to fire on targets of opportunity. It looks like we’ll be forced to depart without our passenger.”
“No!” Kelsey said emphatically. “Not yet … Give them five minutes. She’ll be here by then.”
“Standby,” Ryson said over the intercom.