Screams came from inside the wreckage. Someone was still alive in there. Eriksson’s heart clenched — the pilots, maybe Svensson if he’d been caught in the crash. But there was no way to reach them through that inferno.
The ship’s deck had become a vision of hell — flames, smoke, the sharp crack of gunfire, and the acrid stench of burning metal and flesh. And somewhere beneath it all, that cable still dragged through the water, counting down the minutes until it reached GosNet-1.
Time was running out.
Eriksson’s earpiece crackled through the gunfire. “Jonas, this is Lulea Actual. Priority message.”
He pressed deeper into cover as another burst from the bridge showered him with paint chips. “Go ahead, Actual!”
“You need to reach the pilothouse immediately. Turn that ship — she’s twelve minutes from the cable. Whatever it takes, Jonas.”
“Copy that.” Eriksson quick-peeked around the bollard. They were twenty meters away from the superstructure. The bridge was two levels up and there was at least one shooter still active up there.
“Moving to bridge!” he shouted to his team. “Holm, Lindqvist — base of fire on that shooter. Andersson, twins — we’re going up the starboard ladder. Move!”
The team reacted instantly. Holm and Lindqvist opened up with their ACP556 PDWs, the Swiss-made weapons chattering in precise bursts. The compact 5.56mm carbines were perfect for shipboard operations — short enough to maneuver in tight spaces but packing enough punch to penetrate cover.
“Go, go, go!”
Eriksson sprinted across the open deck, his team tight behind him. Rounds cracked past, but Holm’s suppressing fire was doing its job. They reached the external ladder and started climbing, taking the steps two at a time.
A figure appeared at the top — a Chinese sailor with a rifle. Magnus Karlsson’s ACP556 barked twice. The man tumbled backward.
They burst onto the bridge wing. Through the windows, Eriksson could see two men at the helm, one wrestling with the wheel while another worked frantically at a laptop. The bridge shooter spun toward them, bringing his rifle around.
Eriksson fired through the glass. The window exploded inward, his rounds catching the gunman center mass. The man crashed into the chart table and went down.
“Bridge secured!” Andersson called out, sweeping the space with his weapon.
But Eriksson was already moving to the helm. The Chinese helmsman backed away, hands raised. The officer with the laptop made a final keystroke, then threw the computer over the side through the shattered window.
“Off! Everyone off!” Eriksson commanded in English, gesturing with his carbine.
Through the forward windows, he could see their salvation — a rocky outcropping marked on the chart as Rute Misslauper Sälområde. It was maybe three kilometers away.
If we could beach the ship there…
Eriksson spun the wheel hard to starboard. The freighter responded sluggishly, its sixty thousand tons of steel reluctant to change course.
Come on, come on!
“Engine telegraph to stop,” he ordered Karlsson. “Kill the engines.”
The twin fumbled with the controls for a moment due to the Chinese labels — then found the right lever. The vibration beneath their feet changed, then ceased. Momentum would have to carry them now.
Fire had spread across the main deck. The crashed helicopter was an inferno, and the thermite-ignited blazes in the deckhouse were merging into a single conflagration. Black smoke poured from ventilators and hatches.
“Sir!” Holm barked through his earpiece. “The fire’s spreading below decks. We’ve got maybe five minutes before this whole ship goes up!”
Eriksson checked their heading. The rocky shore of Rute Misslauper Sälområde was dead ahead, growing larger. They were two kilometers away. He calculated how long it would take to get there at their current speed.
He made the hardest decision of his career. “All call signs, abandon ship!” he ordered. “I say again, abandon ship. Rally at the stern, starboard side. Move!”
He gave the wheel one last adjustment, lashing it in place with a length of rope from the flag locker. The ship would hold this course now, driving itself onto the rocks.
The team gathered at the stern rail, the heat from the advancing fire growing intense. Below them, the Baltic stretched cold and dark. Eriksson could see the Lulea racing toward them, maybe eight hundred meters out.
“Inflation on my mark,” he commanded, hand on his life vest’s CO2 cartridge. The team lined up along the rail. Through the smoke, he glimpsed Chinese crew members doing the same on the port side — the fight forgotten in the face of the growing inferno.
“Mark!”
They jumped.
The Baltic in January hit like a sledgehammer. Even through his dry suit, the cold was paralyzing. Eriksson pulled his inflation toggle. The vest expanded with a sharp hiss, yanking him back to the surface.
“Sound off!”
“Andersson!”
“Holm!”
“Erik here!”
“Magnus — good!”
“Lindqvist — wow, that’s cold!”
Five, thought Eriksson with sadness. They’d lost Svensson in the helicopter crash, along with both pilots. Three good men were dead. But five had survived.
It was 0633 in the morning when Eriksson finally turned in the water to see the ship they’d just abandoned. The Hai Qing 678, trailing flame and smoke like a dying comet, drove itself onto the rocks of Rute Misslauper Sälområde with a grinding screech of tortured metal. The bow lifted, crumpling, and the vessel shuddered to a halt, hard aground, flames reaching into the morning sky.
Had they not diverted the Hai Qing when they did, it would’ve reached GosNet-1 and severed a critical communication link connecting Gotland and the Nordic States to the Continent. Now, the cable was safe, but it had cost the lives of three Swedish sailors — sailors with families who were about to be notified in the coming hours their loved one had paid the ultimate price in the protection of their freedom. It was a price those families would now feel, and Eriksson and his survivors would carry with them for the rest of their lives.
As Eriksson floated in the water, waiting to be picked up. He hoped for all of their sakes their leaders in Stockholm would understand the sacrifice they’d just paid and send a message to Russia and their Chinese cronies this type of behavior would not stand.
Turning to the sound of motors approaching, Eriksson saw the Lulea’s RHIB was bouncing across the waves toward them. Squinting against the morning light, Eriksson could see Captain Dahl on the corvette’s bridge wing, watching through binoculars as the ship moved closer.
Soon, hands were pulling him from the freezing water. Eriksson allowed himself one moment of satisfaction. The cable was safe. The mission, despite everything, was complete.
But three empty spaces in the boat were a reminder of the cost of freedom.
“The Swedish government expresses profound regret for the loss of life during the incident involving the Chinese-flagged vessel MV Hai Qing 678 in the Baltic Sea on Tuesday. However, we firmly assert that our naval forces acted decisively and lawfully to protect critical national and European infrastructure. The vessel was intercepted based on credible intelligence indicating an attempt to damage the GosNet-1 undersea fiber-optic cable, a vital artery for Sweden’s communications network. When the vessel refused to comply with lawful orders and subsequently fired upon our NH90 helicopter, resulting in the tragic loss of three Swedish servicemen, our forces took necessary measures to neutralize the threat, prevent further damage, and redirect the vessel away from sensitive infrastructure. We commend the bravery of our personnel, who, despite significant risk, ensured the safety of our nation’s strategic assets.