“I’m thinking steak,” Chavez said. “But let’s keep our heads in the game. Adara and Dom, you chat up the crew once we land, make some new friends. Midas and I will take a look at the hard drives—”
The pilot’s voice broke over the intercom, interrupting them.
“Looks like you have a welcoming…” He paused for a beat, then said, “That’s not good. I’m seeing smoke… It looks like they’re throwing out life rafts.”
The Chinese MSS operative dressed as a fisherman stood upright in the small fishing boat, shielding his eyes from the sun, watching the Russian helicopter approach. He lowered the cell phone and glanced at his partner, an older man, also dressed in shorts and the stained cotton shirt of a fisherman.
“What shall we do?” the first man asked. “The smoke will convince most of the roustabouts to abandon the rig, but we have always known there could be Vietnamese losses. The inspectors on that helicopter are Americans. That will surely raise a stink.”
The older man toyed with a sparse crop of chin whiskers as he watched the chopper descend toward the landing pad on the superstructure of the drilling rig. The noodles he’d eaten for lunch wriggled in his gut like so many snakes. He hated boats, and wanted this mission to be over so he could step back on firm ground.
“These idiots are not supposed to be here,” he said. “Collateral damage cannot be avoided.”
The younger man punched a number into the mobile phone with his thumb, and then looked up for final confirmation before hitting send.
The senior officer gave a curt nod.
“Do it.”
“Get us out of here!” Chavez barked as soon as he saw what was going on. A half-dozen workers had already taken the fifteen-meter plunge off the rig deck. Others worked their way down three sets of ladders to inflatable lifeboats bobbing in the chop below.
Still two hundred feet above the rig, the chopper pilot increased power and broke quickly to the right.
Adara leaned to get a better look out the window. “There’s a fi—”
A blast wave slammed into the Mi-17’s fuselage, lifting it suddenly skyward as if with a giant hand.
The explosive roar that accompanied the wave covered the pilot’s impotent curse as he lost all control of the helicopter.
Ding’s gut rose in his chest as the helicopter began to fall.
The pilot, still struggling to regain control, spoke over the intercom, his voice surreally calm now, considering that the aircraft was spinning wildly as it plummeted toward the sea.
“Not looking good, boys and girls!” He paused, seemed to regain partial control, and then another piece of the tail boom broke away. “Brace, brace, brace!”
Eleven miles away, the communication officer on the bridge of the USS
“Good job,” Jackson said to the young lieutenant standing watch in his absence, noting their course and speed as soon as he entered the bridge. Captain Jackson was known far and wide as a deckplate officer, a servant leader who mentored and encouraged even his most junior subordinates to show initiative. Toward apparent danger was the right direction to be moving. “What have we got?” he asked, addressing the sailor at the radio.
“Distress call came in four minutes ago, Captain,” the twentysomething radar operator said, his eyes locked to the screen. “I’m picking up broken static that I believe to be someone transmitting from a handheld VHF. Could be people in the water.”
“Very well,” Jackson said. “Let’s get both the Seahawks and the 53 in the air. They can drop rescue swimmers and life rafts, start rescuing any survivors while we’re en route.” He turned to the radar tech. “Anyone else coming to the party?”
“Negative, Captain. I have two PLAN frigates eight miles to the north. Chinese Coast Guard Cutter 3901 is fifteen miles to our east. None of them appear to be making a move toward the location of the distress call at this point.”
