On the flight deck, the NH90’s rotors reached full speed, the downwash creating a localized storm of spray. The boarding team leader gave a thumbs-up to the deck officer.
“Sir,” the communications officer interrupted. “Flash traffic from MARCOM. Rules of engagement confirmed. We are authorized to use all necessary means to prevent damage to critical infrastructure.”
“About time,” Dahl muttered. He keyed the intercom. “Flight Deck, Bridge. You are cleared for launch. Execute hostile boarding. Stop that vessel.”
“Flight Deck, aye. Launching.”
At 0608 hours, the NH90 lifted off in a thunder of rotors, banking sharply toward the fleeing freighter. Through his binoculars, Dahl spotted the six-man team checking their fast-rope equipment. Lieutenant Jonas Eriksson, the boarding team leader, was one of Sweden’s best. If anyone could stop the
“Sir,” Algotsson said quietly. “If they resist?”
Dahl didn’t lower his binoculars. “Then we do whatever it takes to protect that cable. The diplomatic fallout will be someone else’s problem.”
The helicopter raced across the gap, closing on the Chinese vessel like a predator swooping on prey. In the morning light, Dahl could see crew members on the
Forty minutes to the cable.
The race was on.
Within four minutes of lift off, the NH90 was hovering twenty meters above the freighter’s deck, rotor wash sending loose debris skittering across the containers. Lieutenant Jonas Eriksson gave the signal — two fingers pointed down — and his team began their descent.
Petty Officer Lars Andersson slid down the rope fast, boots hitting the deck hard. He immediately moved left, his B&T carbine up, covering the approach from the bridge.
Corporal Nina Holm dropped beside him, sweeping right toward the container stacks. The Karlsson twins, Erik and Magnus — landed simultaneously, spreading the perimeter. Petty Officer Mikael Lindqvist rolled behind a ventilation housing, scanning for threats.
Eriksson grabbed the rope, ready to follow his team down. Through the helicopter’s open door, he could see Sergeant Johan Svensson preparing to descend after him.
The first muzzle flash came from the bridge wing.
Three rounds punched through the NH90’s thin aluminum skin. Eriksson heard them impact — sharp metallic cracks that made his blood freeze. Then came the sound every soldier dreaded: turbine failure.
The engine coughed, then sputtered. Black smoke billowed from the exhaust port.
“Taking fire!” the pilot shouted over the intercom. “Engine hit! Losing power!”
There were more muzzle flashes. The shooter had an AK-pattern rifle, firing short bursts with trained precision. Bullets sparked off the helicopter’s fuselage, spider-webbing the cockpit glass.
Eriksson dropped. There was no time for the rope — he hit the deck hard, rolling to dissipate the impact. Pain shot through his left ankle, but he forced himself up, weapon ready.
Above him, the NH90 lurched sideways, the pilot fighting dying controls. Black smoke poured from the engine compartment in thick, oily clouds. The helicopter spun, its tail rotor struggling to maintain authority.
“Get clear!” Andersson screamed.
The boarding team scattered as the NH90 descended in a barely controlled crash. The pilot managed to level out momentarily, trying for the open deck space between container stacks. For a heartbeat, it looked like he might make it.
Then the main rotor clipped a container edge.
The blade shattered with a sound like breaking thunder. Composite fragments exploded outward in a lethal cloud. The helicopter pitched violently, rolling onto its side as it slammed into the deck.
Metal screamed. Glass shattered. The fuel tank ruptured.
The explosion came a half second later — a ball of orange flame that climbed thirty meters into the morning sky. The shockwave knocked Eriksson flat, heat washing over him like a physical blow.
“Contact left!” Holm’s voice cut through the chaos.
Two figures emerged from behind a container stack, rifles raised. Chinese military — not crew. They moved with tactical precision, using the smoke and flames as cover.
Eriksson’s team reacted instantly. Trained reflexes took over. B&Ts barked in controlled bursts, the disciplined fire of professionals. The first Chinese soldier spun and fell. The second dove behind a cable spool, returning fire.
“Bridge shooter still active!” Lindqvist called out, then grunted as a round caught his shoulder plate. The armor held, but the impact drove him to one knee.
More automatic fire erupted from the superstructure. How many hostiles? The intelligence had said civilian crew, maybe a small security detail. This was a military operation.
“Andersson, Magnus — flank right!” Eriksson ordered, ignoring the spreading flames from the crashed helicopter. “Everyone else, suppress that bridge position!”
