“Original plan was four units per platform, ten platforms total.” She adjusted the display. “New plan: two units per platform, twenty platforms. Harder to find, harder to destroy all at once.”
“More trips,” Captain Koh observed. “More exposure.”
“But better survivability,” Sun added. “I like it. Defense in depth.”
Ensign Lin studied his tablet. “I can modify the mesh network protocols. Each pair of USVs will create a local node. Destroy one, the other adapts.”
“Do it.” Elena turned to the deployment teams. “Check your equipment. We launch in thirty minutes.”
The warehouse erupted in controlled chaos. ROC sailors wheeled USVs toward concealed trailers. Each unit was wrapped in fishing nets and tarps, disguised as aquaculture equipment. The Zealot’s angular hull disappeared beneath convincing camouflage.
Elena inspected each unit personally. The USVs were engineering marvels — four meters long, semisubmersible, carrying four naval Hellfire missiles and a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound warhead for terminal attack. But it was their AI that made them truly lethal. Each could identify, track, and engage targets autonomously or in coordinated swarms.
“Ma’am?” A young sailor approached nervously. “Unit Seventeen shows a fault in its IFF transponder.”
Elena checked the diagnostic display. The Identification Friend or Foe system showed intermittent failures. “Pull it. We don’t deploy anything that might target friendlies.”
“But that leaves us with thirty-nine units…”
“Better thirty-nine reliable wolves than forty with one rabid.” She marked the unit for repair. “War’s about trust, sailor. We trust these machines to kill the right targets.”
Chief Chang reappeared, smartphone in hand. “Coast Guard radar reports Y-9 surveillance aircraft, fifty nautical miles west. Routine patrol pattern so far.”
“So far,” Sun echoed darkly.
Elena considered their options. The Y-9’s sensors could detect unusual activity, but the rain and sea state would degrade their effectiveness. Still…
“We adjust timing,” she decided. “Launch in three waves, mixed with regular fishing traffic. Ensign Lin, can you slave some USVs to fishing boat navigation?”
“Already done.” The ensign showed her his screen. “They’ll mirror fishing vessel movements until activated. Anyone watching will see normal traffic patterns.”
“Outstanding.” Elena felt a flutter of pride. These kids were good. “Captain Koh, which boats are ready?”
The old captain consulted a handwritten list. “Six boats first wave. All with veteran crews. My nephew commands the lead vessel — five years in the Navy, knows these waters like his own palm.”
“Perfect. Master Sergeant, I need your marines dispersed among the boats. If we have mainland assets watching…”
“Already planned,” Sun interrupted. “Two-man teams per vessel. Civilian clothes, concealed weapons. Anyone tries to board, they’ll meet resistance.”
Elena nodded. The plan was coming together despite the complications. Outside, rain intensified, drumming against the warehouse roof. Through the murk, she could see oyster platforms stretching into the gray dawn — perfect hiding spots for mechanical predators.
“Movement,” one of Sun’s marines reported. “Vehicle approaching from the north. Not local plates.”
Everyone tensed. Elena moved to a window, peering through the rain. A white van approached slowly, headlights probing the darkness.
“Weapons ready,” Sun ordered quietly. His marines faded into shadows.
The van stopped fifty meters away. A door opened. An elderly woman emerged, followed by two younger men carrying boxes.
Chief Chang laughed. “Breakfast delivery. Mrs. Chen’s famous rice porridge. She comes every morning.”
Elena exhaled slowly. “Christ. This place has my nerves wound tight.”
“Good,” Captain Koh said. “Nervous keeps you alive. Complacent gets you killed.”
Mrs. Chen’s crew distributed steaming containers. Elena accepted a bowl gratefully, the hot porridge warming her core. Around her, sailors and marines ate quickly, fueling for the work ahead.
“Five minutes,” Elena announced. “First wave launches.”
The warehouse doors opened. Rain slashed horizontally, driven by the monsoon winds. Six trucks emerged, each pulling covered trailers. To any observer, they looked like standard aquaculture transport.
Elena climbed into the lead truck with Ensign Lin and two ROC sailors. Captain Koh’s nephew, a compact man named Zhao, took the wheel.
“The oyster platforms are two kilometers out,” Zhao explained as they drove. “We’ll use the service channels. Local boats only — mainlanders wouldn’t know the routes.”
They descended toward the harbor, windshield wipers fighting the downpour. Budai’s fishing fleet bobbed at moorings, crews preparing despite the weather. Elena counted over forty vessels — perfect concealment for their operation.
