That was when the metal stairs on the stern of each patrol boat would prove their worth. Once the commandos and POWs were aboard it would be time to recover the RIBs, strap them down, and haul ass. Ryson spoke into his headset. “Radar … What have you got?”
***
The radar tech was a sailor named Sykes. He turned to the tech next to him and rolled his eyes. The American commander was like a teenager on his first date. If Sykes saw something worth reporting he’d sure as hell say so. “We have a target that looks like a northbound container ship off to the west, sir … And plenty of fishing boats. None of which are headed this way.”
***
Ryson frowned. The report was too good to be true. After losing scores of troops at the prison, not to mention a couple of helicopters since then, the Filipinos were sitting on their hands? He didn’t believe it.
Ryson raised the binoculars. The RIBs were underway. Spray flew away from their blunt bows as they muscled their way through the waves and began to close with the patrol boats. That was when the first artillery shell fell. The explosion threw a fountain of water up into the air, and a RIB roared through the briny spray, on its way to an Armindale.
“They’re wasting ammo,” Christian observed calmly. “Artillery isn’t designed to track and hit fast moving targets.”
“True,” Ryson replied. “But the Rockhampton isn’t small, nor is it moving. It’s the Armindales I’m worried about.”
Ryson opened his mike. “This is Seadog-Six. All RIB boats are to head west until further notice. The Armindales will get under way and follow. Over.”
A shell exploded off the Rockhampton’s port bow and water droplets hit the windshield like a hard rain. The Rockhampton shuddered and began to increase speed. “How far can they lob those shells?” Ryson asked of no one in particular.
A good thirty seconds passed while Christian’s XO consulted her laptop. Her name was Tracy Devin. “They have a range of approximately seven miles, based on the assumption that the shore batteries consist of U.S. made M101, or M102, 105mm towed howitzers.”
“Thanks, Sub,” Ryson replied, and spoke into his mike. “All units will rendezvous eight miles offshore, load passengers, and secure the RIBs. Over.”
A flurry of acknowledgements was followed by the steadily dwindling thud of artillery as the RIBs and the Armindales drew further away from land. It took the better part of twenty minutes to transfer the passengers and retrieve the RIBs. And it was during that time that Greer, along with three gaunt looking strangers appeared on the bridge. “I thought you’d like to meet the POWs,” Master Chief Jensen said.
Greer made the introductions and Ryson shook hands with Ames, Symons and Wix. Their expressions were somber. “Thank you, sir,” Ames said. “We’re sorry about all of the casualties.”
“And we’re very glad that their bravery paid off,” Ryson replied. “Thank you for your service to our country.”
Jensen led them away. Greer paused. “That was nicely said, sir. They’ve been through hell. Symons is going to need a lot of help.”
Ryson nodded. “What you accomplished was truly remarkable, Commander … I have it on good authority that Admiral Nathan plans to hang some sort of Australian gong on you … And I’m sure our people will do likewise.”
Greer started to reply, but Ryson interrupted. “I know you’re a modest man, Commander. But the brass will have their way with you. Look at it this way—the rescue will make news all over the free world—and inspire millions of people. And that’s a good thing.”
Greer came to attention and saluted. Ryson returned the gesture and the pilot left the bridge. Stage 1 is over, Ryson thought. But Stage 2 is just beginning. And Indonesia is 1,000 miles away.
***
On the island of Samir, in the South China Sea
The sky was blue, a light breeze was blowing, and three flags snapped from their poles. One each for Austrailia, Indonesia, and the United States.
Progress had been made. But FOB Samir was vulnerable. Lieutenant Commander Linda Vos was standing on top of the newly designated headquarters building looking north toward Mischief Reef. It was a race. Who would arrive at the island of Samir first? The Chinese? With planes and ships? Or the tugboat Hercules which was towing a barge loaded with weapons? Please God, Vos thought. Make it the Hercules.
God wasn’t listening. That’s how it seemed as two Chengdu J-7 fighters swept in from the north and opened fire.
Vos hurried to vacate the roof and Squadron 7 personnel scattered in every direction as they searched for places to take cover. Gravity bombs fell. And, judging from the size of the explosions, they were large. Something like a thousand pounds each. One scored a direct hit on the barracks building and blew it to smithereens. Sections of aluminum siding took flight, reached apogee, and slip-slid to the ground.
Rockets arrived next. The wharf took hits as they came sleeting in, as did the building that housed a fishing boat. There were near misses too … Lots of them. Including one that exploded only yards away from the warehouse where the detachment’s supplies were stored.
Gun runs followed. Vos didn’t know what kind of cannons the planes had. Only that the strafing attacks didn’t seem to be well targeted. A fact for which she was extremely grateful.
After clearing their racks, and expending all the ammo from their cannons, the jets banked away. The attack was over. Lieutenant Chin was the first to arrive at Vos’s location. “So much for the welcome wagon,” he said. “This is a tough neighborhood.”
“No kidding,” Vos replied. “Did we take any casualties?”
“No,” Chin replied. “Not so much as a scratch. And I have some good news for you.”
“Which is?”
“The Herc and the barge are about two hours out.”
‘That’s wonderful,” Vos replied. “Let’s get everyone fed. We’ll have a lot of work to do once the barge arrives.”
Time passed
