But then the crane cabin tore apart in yet another thunderclap, shards of metal slicing through the air like throwing stars that tore into the patrol boat's hull and pilothouse as a dragon's breath of fire spread over the deck, igniting crew members who staggered to the rails and threw themselves overboard.
Tanner's placement of the C-4 was sheer artistry. While the debris continued slamming into the patrol boat, the crane's massive boom blew loose from its support fitting and slowly came down with a screech and groan as piercing as it was foretelling.
And if timing was everything, then Tanner's delay had been intentional, because that boom caught the forward corner of the patrol boat's pilothouse like a sledgehammer on a loaf of white bread.
Metal peeled back amid flurries of sparks and flames licking along the surfaces, but the boat's twin diesel engines kept on, dragging and bending the boom with it, waves suddenly rising up over her sides under all that added weight. Suddenly, her bow became entirely submerged, the water streaming up to her antiaircraft guns.
'Captain, I know fireworks,' cried Hume. 'And the navy's putting on one hell of a show!'
Not a second after Hume finished, the ammo stored in ready lockers on the patrol boat's stern deck began cooking off in dozens more pops, cracks, and bangs that lit up the shattered boat like a rock concert.
The bursting of more fuel drums on the pier, the roar of the still-burning fuel barge, and the creaking of the toppled crane, along with the patrol boat's exploding ammo, combined to form a brilliant beacon of devastation easily seen and heard for kilometers, especially by those situated along the powerless coastline.
And those in the air.
'There he is!' cried Diaz, as they sailed directly opposite of the burning pier. The marksman had already taken aim with her secondary rifle, the Cx4 Storm SD.
'Got him,' replied Mitchell, spotting the helicopter, whose doors had been removed to allow gunners to hang out either side.
The chopper's searchlight painted a gleaming puddle in the harbor as thick smoke wafted through its beam. Mitchell squinted as the light momentarily blinded him.
And then, just as the beam shifted, two helmeted soldiers lifted their rifles.
'Weapons free, fire!' ordered Mitchell, cutting loose with his own MR-C, Diaz's weapon rattling a second after his.
The pilot reacted immediately, banking hard left and pulling up, the chopper's belly gleaming with ricocheting rounds for a few seconds until the pilot finally ascended out of the fire.
'Give him more lead, more lead,' cried Mitchell, seeing how much faster the chopper was than his team had anticipated.
Jenkins, who was still at the wheel, turned the boat left, bringing them past several long piers crowded by old sampans and a few junks with crimson sails waiting to be unfurled. A trio of more modern ferries was moored behind them. Jenkins made one more turn, now heading directly toward the gap between Haicang and Gulangyu Island.
'He's not coming back,' said Smith, lowering his rifle. 'What the hell?'
The downlink channel appeared in Mitchell's HUD. 'Better step it up, son,' warned General Keating. 'Remember,
'Can't you go any faster?' hollered Beasley.
Jenkins shook his head.
'Aw, man, look at that!' cried Ramirez.
As Mitchell turned toward the bow, Keating appeared once more in the HUD. 'All right, Mitchell. You don't have one chopper to deal with — you got two.'
And Mitchell didn't need that new intel now. The second bird swept in behind the first, and now both soared back toward their boat, noses pitched forward, gunners taking aim.
If the Ghosts survived this, there was a great lesson to be learned: Never bring an old fishing boat to a helicopter battle.
He cursed then shouted, 'Alpha Team, target left chopper. Bravo, take the right. Diaz, go for the pilots. And Smith? Hold fire and deploy my drone!'
Smith dove to the deck and sloughed off his pack. He withdrew the MAV4mp Cypher and tossed it hard like a Frisbee over the side, while the others began firing at the choppers.
Mitchell took control of the drone with his wireless controller and steered it directly toward the chopper on the right.
'Keep up that fire!' he ordered as both helicopters swooped down to strafe them.
Shifting the drone's camera to a forward view, Mitchell took the UAV into a dive, then came right up toward one of the gunners leaning out his open door.
The gunner looked up, frowned, as Mitchell throttled up and slammed the drone directly into the guy's head, even as he continued on, bringing the Cypher inside the chopper.
He thumbed a button.
The drone exploded inside the chopper with a small flash and subsequent puff of smoke. Despite the relatively small charges, the self-destruct was still powerful enough to take out both gunners and blind the pilot, who suddenly pulled up, breaking off in an erratic turn.
'Put your fire on him!' ordered Mitchell.
But he'd failed to realize that the second chopper had dropped like a hawk, talons extended to snatch a fish from the water. Streaking now off their port side, the chopper edged closer, the gunner opening fire as Beasley and Smith answered in unison with their MR-Cs, while Diaz released a salvo at the cockpit window.
Ramirez, one-handing his MK14, directed his bead at the smoking chopper, automatic fire chewing into glass and metal.
'Joey!' shouted Smith.
Mitchell craned his head as Ramirez took a round to his left side, near his waist, a round that punched him back, over the gunwale, and into the waves.
'We lost Ramirez!' cried Beasley, his words nearly drowned out by the chopper off their port side, the gunner there now dead, the pilot wheeling off hard to the right.
SEAL Chief Tanner lay on his belly near the last cluster of trees before the long, sandy beach washing out behind them. Phillips was at his side.
The six sailors from the Chinese patrol boat who had launched in the Zodiac must have either spotted them or decided that the infiltrators had used the spit for their exfiltration, because all six of them, armed with pistols and rifles, had come ashore and were combing the forest.
Tanner imagined what must be on their minds. They had just witnessed the destruction of their beloved patrol boat. They had watched their comrades die. Their hearts were hard and aching for revenge.
And damn, Tanner wished he didn't have to confront them, but he and Phillips had no choice. Tanner had thought that they could don their Draegers and simply hide in the waves while these men searched the spit, but if Mitchell was going to double back and bring the fishing boat around to the east side of the spit to pick them up and take them past the gap (well beyond their own swimming capabilities), then these Chinese sailors needed to die here and now; otherwise Mitchell would have yet another firefight on his hands.
Of course, given the radio transmissions Tanner had been monitoring, there was a good chance that Mitchell and his Ghosts would not make it, stranding the two SEALs.
At that point, the best Tanner could hope for was to kill the Chinese sailors, don their gear, and swim out till they ran out of oxygen.
Higher's insistence that nothing be left behind to indicate this was an American operation worked in their favor. However, Captain Gummerson would still ultimately decide whether a security breach was worth risking his crew and his multimillion-dollar submarine.
Phillips lifted his chin, then gave Tanner a hand signal: movement ahead.
Tanner tensed as two Chinese sailors eased forward, not a meter apart, just three trees away.
