As for air support, they were still too far away from Manado, and would have to handle the situation by themselves. Would Chinese planes take part in the ambush? That was a scary thought.
Ryson could see the fishing boats through his binoculars by that time. The Chinese trawlers were nearly identical. Each had a white superstructure, a blue hull, and a high flared bow. The boats were deployed in the way Christian said they would be. Except for one thing— two trawlers were traveling toward each other from opposite sides of the U-shaped formation. After a careful examination Ryson realized that the boats were dragging nets! Why?
There was only one possible answer: the Chinese had anticipated Ryson’s plan, and hoped to ensnare one or more Allied boats by fouling their propellors. A plan that would bring the Armindales to a stop and, if things went well, allow the enemy to board and take more POWs! Thereby transforming what would have been a propaganda disaster into a propaganda victory.
Ryson turned to Christian. “Pass the word … The flotilla will form a line abreast. All Stinger teams will target the trawler to port … Which is to say the one moving east to west with a net in tow. Fire when ready.”
Christian looked surprised, brought his binoculars up to confirm the net, and passed the order to the other boats. The Rockhampton’s crew was already at battle stations so it was a simple matter to send the Stinger teams forward.
The distance between the Armindales and the trawler was closing fast. Missiles lashed out, six in all, and most were on target. Ryson saw a flash on the superstructure, just aft of the bridge, another on the hull and two near the waterline.
The second flight of Stingers was even more effective. All of the missiles hit. Including two that slammed into the bridge. Ryson could imagine the slaughter inside. The blood-splattered bulkheads, the bodies sprawled on the deck, and no one at the wheel.
But there was no further time to consider the trawler’s fate as the rest of the Chinese fishing boats swarmed the Armindales. The net strategy had failed. But the enemy had sheer numbers on their side. And, by pressing in and around the Allied vessels, the Chinese could immobilize them as effectively as a fouled prop would.
Jets of black smoke issued from exhausts as boats vied with each other to reach the Armindales. Just as Christian predicted, some of them were armed with pop-up machine guns which immediately opened fire on the Australian vessels. “RPGs! Stingers!” Ryson shouted over the din. “Kill those guns!”
Meanwhile, the auto cannons mounted in the bows of the Armindales, plus their recently installed .50 machine guns, were hard at work. Fishermen, some armed, but most not, were cut down by the dozen. Grenades exploded, fires appeared, and boats were holed.
But even that wasn’t enough. Fishermen in aluminum skiffs and rubber rafts jostled each other in a crazed competition to board the enemy patrol boats first. “This might come in handy, sir,” Master Chief Jenson said, as she gave him a twelve-gauge pump gun and a bandolier of ammunition. And she was correct.
Ryson heard a sailor yell, “They’re about to come over the port side! We need help over here.”
Ryson stepped out of the wheelhouse, saw a face appear over the bulwark, and fired. The blast of double ought buck blew half of the boarder’s skull away and threw his body back onto a much-abused tender.
More boats were coming alongside. Ryson fired seven rounds into the nearest skiff and saw three men fall. Then it was time to step back, get reoriented, and reload. A sailor lay dead on the deck. Christian had taken the helm himself, and was shouting encouragement to his crew. “Kill the bastards! Kill them all!”
A quick check confirmed that the other patrol boats were still side-by-side next to the Rockhampton, using their fifties to good advantage, and leaving a trail of broken boats and dead bodies bobbing in their wakes. “The stern!” someone yelled over the intercom. “They’re coming over the stern!”
“I’ll go,” Ryson said, leaving Christian to con the boat. Ryson arrived in the stern to find that Sub-Lieutenant Devin was already there, pistol in hand, firing at a fisherman armed with a wicked looking knife. A .9mm bullet hit the man between the eyes and he toppled over backwards.
But more men were swarming up to replace him. The stairs, Ryson thought. They were critical to getting the POWs aboard quickly, and now they’re working against us.
Ryson fired the shotgun again and again. Boarders fell but were soon replaced as more fishermen appeared. That was when a basso voice said, “Make way for the second commando.”
A huge soldier appeared. He was armed with what would normally be a crew served machine gun, but looked like a toy in his arms. And when he fired a hail of bullets wiped the stern clean of intruders.
“That’s how it’s done, son,” the commando said to a teenage sailor. “Now lend a hand. Let’s take a peek over the stern railing.”
Ryson couldn’t see what the two of them saw. But after firing some long bursts, the commando gave a thumbs up. “They won’t be bothering you again, sir … This lot is finished.”
The commando’s words were prophetic. The boats broke free of the trap at roughly the same time and continued south. None suffered major damage. But there had been casualties, and Ryson wasn’t looking forward to the butcher’s bill. Still, he thought, as he looked back at the burning fishing trawlers: We won. And that’s what we’re supposed to do.
CHAPTER NINE
Yulin Naval Base, Hainan Island, China
Senior Captain Peng Ko eyed himself in the mirror. His uniform was perfect. A horizontal row of ribbons represented each of his major achievements. That was one of the many things Ko liked about the military. A single glance was enough to assess what another officer had accomplished
