As the smoke swirled around, he spotted movement through the windows near the forward deckhouse. Two figures dressed in civilian clothes looked like they were bashing some sort of equipment with hammers. Then he spotted a flash mixed with sparks. He realized whoever was inside the deckhouse was there for sabotage. Then he spotted a second flash, then a third.
“Lieutenant! It looks like they’re trying to destroy equipment!” Holm shouted, tracking the new targets.
Eriksson knew if those were thermite grenades, the ship was in for much worse trouble than the fire currently burning on its deck. A thermite grenade generated a chemical fire that burned at over 2500 degrees Celsius, hot enough to melt through steel, certainly hot enough to reduce computers and hard drives to slag. The real problem, Eriksson realized, was how they would put it out once they had secured the ship.
Another burst of rifle fire from the bridge forced Eriksson down behind a bollard. Rounds sparked off the metal inches from his head. The Chinese had turned their merchant vessel into a kill box, and his team was caught in the middle.
Behind him, ammunition in the crashed helicopter cooked off — small explosions that sent tracers arcing across the deck in random directions. The fire was spreading, feeding on spilled aviation fuel that ran in burning rivers between the containers.
Screams came from inside the wreckage. Someone was still alive in there. Eriksson’s heart clenched — the pilots, maybe Svensson if he’d been caught in the crash. But there was no way to reach them through that inferno.
The ship’s deck had become a vision of hell — flames, smoke, the sharp crack of gunfire, and the acrid stench of burning metal and flesh. And somewhere beneath it all, that cable still dragged through the water, counting down the minutes until it reached GosNet-1.
Time was running out.
Eriksson’s earpiece crackled through the gunfire. “Jonas, this is Lulea Actual. Priority message.”
He pressed deeper into cover as another burst from the bridge showered him with paint chips. “Go ahead, Actual!”
“You need to reach the pilothouse immediately. Turn that ship — she’s twelve minutes from the cable. Whatever it takes, Jonas.”
“Copy that.” Eriksson quick-peeked around the bollard. They were twenty meters away from the superstructure. The bridge was two levels up and there was at least one shooter still active up there.
“Moving to bridge!” he shouted to his team. “Holm, Lindqvist — base of fire on that shooter. Andersson, twins — we’re going up the starboard ladder. Move!”
The team reacted instantly. Holm and Lindqvist opened up with their ACP556 PDWs, the Swiss-made weapons chattering in precise bursts. The compact 5.56mm carbines were perfect for shipboard operations — short enough to maneuver in tight spaces but packing enough punch to penetrate cover.
“Go, go, go!”
Eriksson sprinted across the open deck, his team tight behind him. Rounds cracked past, but Holm’s suppressing fire was doing its job. They reached the external ladder and started climbing, taking the steps two at a time.
A figure appeared at the top — a Chinese sailor with a rifle. Magnus Karlsson’s ACP556 barked twice. The man tumbled backward.
They burst onto the bridge wing. Through the windows, Eriksson could see two men at the helm, one wrestling with the wheel while another worked frantically at a laptop. The bridge shooter spun toward them, bringing his rifle around.
Eriksson fired through the glass. The window exploded inward, his rounds catching the gunman center mass. The man crashed into the chart table and went down.
“Bridge secured!” Andersson called out, sweeping the space with his weapon.
But Eriksson was already moving to the helm. The Chinese helmsman backed away, hands raised. The officer with the laptop made a final keystroke, then threw the computer over the side through the shattered window.
“Off! Everyone off!” Eriksson commanded in English, gesturing with his carbine.
Through the forward windows, he could see their salvation — a rocky outcropping marked on the chart as Rute Misslauper Sälområde. It was maybe three kilometers away.
Eriksson spun the wheel hard to starboard. The freighter responded sluggishly, its sixty thousand tons of steel reluctant to change course.
“Engine telegraph to stop,” he ordered Karlsson. “Kill the engines.”
The twin fumbled with the controls for a moment due to the Chinese labels — then found the right lever. The vibration beneath their feet changed, then ceased. Momentum would have to carry them now.
Fire had spread across the main deck. The crashed helicopter was an inferno, and the thermite-ignited blazes in the deckhouse were merging into a single conflagration. Black smoke poured from ventilators and hatches.
“Sir!” Holm barked through his earpiece. “The fire’s spreading below decks. We’ve got maybe five minutes before this whole ship goes up!”
