The answers came quickly. “This is Six,” the Kalbarri’s skipper said. “We’re in contact with approximately six Jet skis. They’re carrying two men each—a driver plus an armed passenger. Engaging. Over.”
By that time Ryson could hear the rhythmic thud, thud, thud, of the Kalbarri’s fifty caliber machines interspersed with automatic fire from the jet ski riders. After getting word of the attack on the prison someone in the Filipino chain of command had the good sense to wonder if the invaders had arrived by sea and dispatched a unit to investigate.
Maybe the jet ski armada already existed. Or maybe some enterprising officer threw it together on the fly. But it was dangerous either way. He turned to Christian. “Try to contact the Eucia,” Ryson ordered. “And offer assistance if you raise her.”
Then he snatched the bridge mike off its hook. “This is Seadog-Six. Be careful with the fifties. What we don’t need is casualties from friendly fire. All units will rally around the Rockhampton. Execute. Over.”
That was when a half dozen jet skis arrived. One came so close that the port fifty couldn’t depress far enough to hit it. A Molotov cocktail sailed through the air, landed on the flat surface forward of the bridge, and shattered. The resulting fire spread quickly, but was extinguished by two sailors with fire extinguishers.
Ryson opened his mouth to give orders, and forced himself to close it. He was responsible for the squadron. But Christian was in command of the Rockhampton, and should be left to fight the enemy as he saw fit.
“The missile teams will prepare to engage the enemy,” Christian said formally. “Do not, I repeat, do not fire in the direction of a friendly, because you will probably hit it. Choose targets with care. Fire at will.”
Ryson knew that each boat had two Stinger missile teams, and that the Stingers were fire-and-forget weapons equipped with passive infrared seekers. That meant the weapons should be able to target the heat produced by a jet ski engine.
It also meant the Stingers could identify the heat produced by a patrol boat as well. And, if an Armindale was in line with a jet ski, a Stinger was likely to choose the hottest target. That meant Christian was placing a great deal of faith in his missile teams.
The gamble paid off. A sailor waited for a Jet ski to pass on the starboard side and fired. The Stinger took off, achieved lock on, and hit the watercraft dead-on. The resulting flash of light was accompanied by a clap of thunder. The Jet ski disappeared.
Three of the other patrol boats had closed in around the Rockhampton by then, forcing the attackers to change their tactics. Now, rather than pass between the Armindales, strafing them as they passed, the Jet skis were circling all three boats in a clockwise direction.
Flares fired by the Armindale crews reflected off the oily black waves as they lit up what looked like a scene from hell. Jet skis threw water sideways as they wove in and out, and continued to spray the gunboats with small arms fire.
But that was a mistake, because it allowed the Australian sailors to fire their weapons without fear of hitting a friendly boat. Ryson watched as a series of watercraft ran into fifty-caliber fire and were torn to shreds.
Then, as quickly as the battle had begun, it was over. Is that it? Ryson wondered, as the surviving Jet skis roared away. Or is the worst yet to come? He feared the latter.
But the battle was far from one-sided. Because by that time the Eucia had sunk.
After lobbing a Molotov cocktail aboard the unsuspecting boat, the attackers managed to attach an IED to her hull, and detonate it from afar. That meant Lieutenant James Atworthy was dead, along with all of his crew.
How many people has Dancy lost by now? Ryson wondered. To free three prisoners? Does the whole thing make sense?
No, he decided. Not logically. But, in some other way, it makes perfect sense. For morale? Yes. But for some ineffable reason as well. Something which can be felt, if not fully rationalized.
“Get a message off,” Ryson ordered. “Eucia lost to enemy fire. Enemy repelled. Holding station. Over.” It wasn’t much of an epitaph. But it would have to do.
***
Creech Air Force Base, Nevada, USA
The first Simba had been destroyed in the fighting, killing two commandos, and wounding another. Now the surviving Simba was leading the 6x6 trucks west toward the town of Bagao where RIB boats would be waiting to take both the soldiers and the POWs off the beach.
Cat-Four knew that much. What she didn’t, couldn’t, know was what it felt like to be sitting in a truck with a bunch of Australian commandos racing for the west coast of Luzon. Because weird though it might be, she was sitting in a high-backed leather chair, in a secured building on Creech Air Force base in Nevada.
Cat’s job was to fly the drone. Her sensor operator, call sign “Samsonite,” was in charge of monitoring the Reaper’s infrared and night vision sensor systems.
They were seated side-by-side with ten monitors arrayed in front of them and a console in between. Cat’s controls consisted of a keyboard, joystick, and throttle plus switches that controlled everything from transponder codes to flap deployment. It was difficult to master all the technology at first. But after a year of training, plus three months experience, flying the Reaper was second nature.
Later, after completing her shift, Cat would head home to a rented condo where she would attempt to decompress. That involved watching children’s cartoons while downing two gin and tonics. Never less, and never more, because men and women all over the world were counting on her.
Cat’s drone couldn’t match the convoy’s relatively slow ground speed without falling out of the sky. So, she was flying circles overhead watching
