She spoke to her wingman again, advising her status and fuel state. “Eleven is ramps up. Ten-point-eight.”
“Twelve is ramps up. Ten-point-six.”
Captain Denny used her left thumb to set the nacelles on either wing to 90 degrees, then turned to the sailor on deck. The sailor, who’d received instructions from Admiral Peck, saluted. Denny returned the salute and increased power to eighty percent to pick up into a hover. She checked to ensure that her gauges were in the green, then looked out her cockpit window directly at the sailor on deck. He pointed forward. Cleared for takeoff, she input left cyclic and full thrust control lever to slide out over the water.
The instruments looked good. She still had commo. Relieved, she set the nacelles to 75 degrees, then checked the airspeed indicator.
“Gear is up,” she said. “Lights out. Doors closed. Cleared fast.”
Aboard USS
Chavez got the number for the sat phone and hung up, turning to Commander Akana.
“You know anyone on the
“I know the XO.”
Chavez passed him the satellite phone and then tapped the Faraday bag. “Sounds like this baby has infected their boat.”
Akana did not need to be told what he needed to do. He punched in the number Chavez had written down and called IT2 Richwine over.
“I’ll get them on the horn,” Akana said. “Then you talk your counterpart through what he or she needs to look for in order to fix their ship.”
Captain Goodrich had no flight computer to calculate the distance to the Chinese fishing trawler from USS
“One hundred and seven miles!” Captain Denny turned in the cockpit and looked at him as she spoke over the intercom like she was reading his mind. She must have seen him drawing imaginary triangles on his knee. “ETA sixteen minutes.”
The SEALs were already up, ready to follow the rigid hull inflatable off the ramp when they reached the two-mile mark. The crew chief had already rigged a thick 120-foot fast-rope to the trapeze above the rear ramp, and had it secured out of the way so the SEALs could egress.
Captain Scooter Denny wished she had one of those belly-mounted mini-guns on board. The Interim Defense Weapon System could lay down three thousand rounds per minute firing from the rear cargo hole, but it was a weight thing. At eight hundred pounds, the IDWS added a lot of weight. The scenario that involved attacking an enemy Chinese fishing vessel that had stolen a U.S. anti-ship missile had obviously been overlooked by her superiors.
They started to take small arms fire from a half a kilometer away. It wasn’t effective, but she could see the tracers flashing past. Both Ospreys had their ramps open now, GAU-21 .50-cals banging away as they flew past, gunners careful not to shoot toward each other.
“That’s like no fishing trawler I’ve ever seen,” Denny said into the intercom. “Looks like armor plating around the wheelhouse. No sign of the missile, but the crew is all making for the fortified wheelhouse.”
“Copy that,” Goodrich said. “Do you have the Chinese gunboat on radar?”
“Thirty-five miles southeast of us,” Denny said. “And closing. I don’t know if they can see him on the ship, but he’s just over an hour out, probably in contact with the trawler and coming for the missile. Wouldn’t be surprised if we start to see Chinese fighters any minute.”
“This is a shit show,” Goodrich said.
“Indeed,” Denny said. “SEALs should be on station anytime. I’ll make one more pass with the gun to clear the decks and then pull up into a hover. My wingman will keep anyone on the bow occu—”
A loud hiss, audible over the roar of the Osprey, streaked by the aircraft.
There was a sudden thud, like someone kicking a metal barn, and then a muffled explosion.
“RPG!” Denny yelled in the intercom. The pilot of the second Osprey responded that they’d been hit and they were about to get wet.
