“Bogie Two destroyed,” declared the computer.
Turk banked back in time to see the UAV disappearing in a fireball.
“All UAVs destroyed,” he radioed Danny.
Cowboy saw a figure running near the rail on the starboard side of the cargo ship as he approached. Just as Greenstreet cleared the ship’s stern, the man stopped. Something flared from the rail — the man had fired an RPG at Basher One.
It was an act of complete futility, as the F-35 was well beyond the reach of the rocket-propelled grenade. But it also sealed the man’s fate. Cowboy, his gun selected on the armament panel, pressed the trigger and danced a few dozen bullets into the side of the ship and the enemy standing there.
He was past the spot before he could see what happened. Greenstreet radioed, asking what was going on.
“You had somebody firing on your tailpipe,” replied Cowboy. “Little grenade launcher.”
“Did you get him?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“We need to run in again before we clear the Ospreys.”
“Roger.”
Cowboy followed his flight leader into a wide arc that took them back around to the bow of the cargo container. Smoke was rising from several areas on the ship, and there was now a gaping hole and mangled metal where the man with the RPG had been.
“No threats obvious,” said Greenstreet as they cleared.
“Roger.”
Rising back in the sky after the pass, Cowboy tried to sort out what he’d seen. He didn’t feel bad about having killed the man — he was an enemy, and had obviously been trying to kill him. He did, however, feel a certain touch of sadness or maybe regret that he had to do that.
“Whiplash, Marine Force, container ship is on fire,” radioed Greenstreet. “You have people on deck on both ships. No missiles seen. Machine guns and launchers down.”
“Acknowledged,” said Danny.
13
The captain of the Chinese PT boat was a short, thin man in his early fifties with a wispy moustache. Nearly bald, his forehead bulged forward, and with his head at least a size too big for his otherwise diminutive body, he looked almost like a bobble-head doll. He spoke excellent English, much better than the man who’d handled the bullhorn, and it was clear from his manner that he was not a man to be taken lightly.
“You are a prisoner of the Chinese People’s Liberation Army Navy,” he told Braxton after two sailors lifted him aboard his PT boat. “You will comply with my orders.”
“N
h
o,” said Braxton, saying hello and adding that he and his companion were in international waters.
The Chinese commander ignored Braxton’s attempts at Mandarin. “You are in territory claimed by the Chinese government,” he said in an accent that made him sound like a world-weary American. “You are carrying weapons of war. You are now my prisoner.”
A man in civilian clothes stepped out from the cockpit area. Dressed in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, he was in his mid-twenties. But though he was the only man aboard the small boat who wasn’t in uniform, he had the swagger of a commander, and even the boat’s captain gave him a deferential glance as he came forward.
“You are Braxton,” said the man, whose En-glish pronunciation was as polished as the captain’s but several times more energetic. He was tall, and towered over not only Braxton and the boat captain, but everyone else on board, including Talbot. “We have been seeking you out for a long time. My name is Wen-lo.” He smiled and extended his hand.
Braxton eyed it warily, then shook it. The man’s grip was strong, firm though not oppressive. Wen-lo stood about six feet tall; the loose sweatshirt couldn’t quite hide the fact that he was on the plump side. His skin was very pale, several shades lighter than the captain’s.
“I’ve read your manifestos and admired your work for a long time,” said Wen-lo. “I studied your first papers at Stanford and have followed you ever since.”
If the remark was calculated to make Braxton like Wen-lo, it backfired badly — he hated Stanford and everyone associated with it. He also realized not only that he was being flattered, but that the flattery was a thin veneer intended to ease Wen’s conscience about whatever violence would ultimately follow. Because that was what government goons always did: lied and then forced you to do their master’s will.
Nonetheless, Wen’s phony eagerness told Braxton there was hope of escape yet.
“It’s good that we met,” he told the young man. “We might cooperate in many ways.”
“Yes,” said Wen-lo brightly.
“Right now the Americans are attacking my ships,” said Braxton. “I need them to stop.”
“It’s unfortunate that’s happening,” said Wen. “But it’s none of my business, nor of my country’s.”
“You could intervene,” said Braxton.
“That is impossible,” interrupted the captain. “We are under orders not to engage the American force. We can take no action against them.”
Wen-lo responded sharply in Chinese, and the two men began to argue. They spoke too fast for Braxton to understand more than the bare gist of what they were saying. The captain had been ordered directly by Beijing — that part was repeated several times — not to engage the Americans unless fired upon or given orders from the carrier task force. Wen-lo, meanwhile, emphasized that the captain was not in charge of the operation, that he, too, had orders from Beijing, and that he would be the one who decided what was done — even by the carrier group.
“My forces can fight for themselves,” said Braxton finally. “I can use these aircraft.”
“How?” asked Wen-lo.
“I have launchers on the island. I’ll turn everything over to you after the attack. As long as my people are saved. Without your intervention,” he added, speaking directly to the captain.
The captain wasn’t impressed. He and Wen-lo began arguing again. Wen-lo finally took out a satellite phone.
“You speak Mandarin?” the Chinese boat captain asked Braxton, glancing at Wen-lo.
“Not very well,” said Braxton.
“I hope well enough to realize that I will not be fooled by you,” said the captain. “I know this is a trick.”
“You wouldn’t try to get your people freed? If they were attacked, you wouldn’t help them?”
“My men will shoot you if you try to escape. We are not friends.”
“I don’t want to be friends. Temporary allies is more than enough.”
The captain gave him a sour look.
Wen-lo held the phone out to the captain triumphantly. The older man waved his hand at it, in essence surrendering.
“Proceed to the island,” Wen-lo told the captain, ending his call. “The fleet is going to respond to your distress call and intervene, Mr. Braxton. In exchange, you will cooperate with us to the fullest extent.”
“Do I have any other choice?” asked Braxton.
14
“We go in fast and hard,” Danny told his team of Marines and Whiplash troopers. “They’re armed and hostile. If they surrender, good. Otherwise, we do what we have to do.”
There were a few thumbs-up; the rest nodded cautiously. It was a professional response, but Danny missed Boston and his enthusiastic, Let’s do it!
The Whiplash Ospreys, both heavily armed, rode in first, one skimming near the tug and the other toward the bow of the cargo vessel. Orders were broadcast over the standard marine channels and the loudspeakers, telling the captains they were going to be boarded and warning them that force would be met with force.