She said there wasn’t. Dan cleared his throat and spat over the side. “Well, we have our orders.”
“Shall I answer?”
“I don’t honestly know… not sure what a message like that actually means.” He furrowed his brow. “Um, how far away is she? The Chinese destroyer?”
“Wait one… about an hour’s steaming time.”
He eyed the men loading into the inflatable. His current team wasn’t as highly trained as they’d been aboard Horn, mostly because marine interdiction wasn’t Savo’s primary mission. They were in black gear: helmets, flash hoods, coveralls, tactical vests, life jackets, steel-toed boots. They carried flashlights and radios as well as weapons. Aft, on the flight deck, Red Hawk’s turbines were whining into life, a higher note above the deep whoosh of the ship’s own intakes and exhaust. “Thank Wuhan for his interest. Tell him we’re proceeding with the boarding and ask him to stand clear. And let Fifth Fleet know about the exchange. Over.”
She acknowledged and signed off. Mytsalo’s fresh young face glowed with windburn. “Max, no unnecessary risks,” Dan told him. “Stay alert for weapons. Stay in touch on your radio. Do a thorough search, but don’t split up into more than two teams, and don’t let anyone wander off alone.” The ensign nodded eagerly. The boatswain on the davit eyed them, and Dan nodded. “Get ’er in the water!” he yelled, as behind him the rotors accelerated and the noise abruptly became deafening. The SH-60 lofted off and her long dragonfly shape passed black above him, climbing for the clouds, then tilting and drifting toward the battered ship a quarter mile distant. Having a helo pointing a machine gun at your bridge usually returned sanity even to uncooperative captains. Not only that, if there was hostile activity along the decks, they could warn the boarding party.
Which, a few minutes later, pushed off. The engines roared as the inflatable peeled away, throwing up a rooster tail as it bounded across the seas. Mytsalo rode with knees bent, clutching the center console, helmet bobbing as they hit each wave. Dan watched with both envy and relief, remembering his own days as a boat officer. Mytsalo had a Beretta, while Peeples, Benyamin, and VanDuren cradled shotguns and carbines. But their main means of intimidation, obviously, were the big guns of the warship behind them. He’d sent Kaghazchi along to translate if necessary, though whoever the sea lawyer had been spoke good English. Peeples was there to tend the engine and keep things running while the rest were aboard. The backup team would follow, standing off in the second RHIB unless needed.
He sucked smoky air. Had he been pushed into something he’d regret? A casus belli, like the Agadir incident? Why were the Chinese getting involved? At last he headed for his own station, up on the bridge.
Nothing about the boarding went according to plan. As the RHIB neared its stern, the freighter sheered away again, as it had the night before. The helo, hovering over its foredeck, reported men on the port side aft, but saw no weapons among them. Dan sent another sharp warning over the VHF. Then, losing patience, he fired a live five-inch high-cap round into the water a quarter mile ahead of the fleeing ship.
The crack and boom of high explosive, the burst of black smoke and white spray, seemed to have an effect at last. The old freighter slowed, slewed sideways, and lost way, starting to roll. The RHIB circled, then nestled in like a hungry piglet. A rope ladder dropped down to it as the bridge receiver crackled, “U.S. Navy warship Savo Island, this is Motor Vessel Patchooli. Once again, I submit you are in violation of international law. I am heaving to under protest. I am requesting assistance. Legal action will follow.”
“Be my fucking guest,” Dan muttered to Cheryl Staurulakis. She was staring out at the other ship, arms folded. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “What?” he asked her.
“We’ve got another player on the board.” She pointed off to port.
Through his binoculars the sky glowed off paint so much lighter, paler, than the haze gray the U.S. Navy favored that it looked almost white. The destroyer was still far off but had a bone in her teeth and, to judge by her aspect, would soon be on them. The wide-set bridge extended across the whole beam. Above it a pyramidal mack climbed like a ziggurat. A massive radar antenna rotated slowly at its apex. The smooth flattened way the superstructure met the hull told him it was designed with elements of the stealth the newest U.S. ships were bringing into the fleet.
Beside him the exec, the OOD, and the quartermaster all had their binoculars up too. “Get the photographer up here,” Cheryl told Nuckols. “This is the first time they’ve deployed this class.”
Dan passed down that he wanted electromagnetic intelligence, too, though no doubt the EWs and cryppies had already been on that for hours. Then he clicked his Hydra to the boat freq and went out on the wing for a clear line of sight. The helo was circling, trailing exhaust haze against the pearlescent cloud cover. The RHIB rode off the freighter’s port side. “Matador One, this is Matador. Progress report?”
Mytsalo’s slightly amped voice. “We’re aboard. They seem to be cooperating. Over.”
“Any sign of weapons?”
“No sir, not yet. But we’ve only checked the papers, haven’t really started the search yet.”
“What’s the cargo? According to the bill of lading?”
“Uh, let’s see… dried fruit… bolted cotton fabric, cotton yarn, tanned leather, and rice. And something called ‘miscellaneous manufactures.’” A pause, then, “We’ve got a really pissed captain here too. This turkey’s hopping mad. Over.”
“Who’s the woman? The one who speaks English?”
“Uh, I guess that would be the supercargo? Or she might be married to the captain — I’m not clear yet exactly. She’s arguing with Kaghazchi in I guess Urdu.”
Dan told him to start the inspection as soon as possible. “Remember to look for the signs of hidden spaces. Fresh paint. Recently moved equipment. Watch the crew, and give them a chance to talk to you alone if you can.”
Mytsalo said “Wilco” proudly, as if for the first time. For an ensign, being a boat officer was your first taste of what command might be like. The high — and the anxiety, too.
“Breakfast, Skip?”
Longley, with a covered tray. He peeled back the napkin like a prestidigitator. Ham slices, hash browns, toast, sunny-side eggs. And coffee, of course. “Put it on the chair,” Dan told him. “I’ll have it out here.”
“Bridge, sigs.” The old signalman rate was gone, but a quartermaster still manned the signal bridge. Pardees hit the key. “Go ahead.”
“Signal in the air from destroyer type to starboard.”
“Go ahead.”
“Flag signal… X-Ray. Kilo. Numeral, two.”
The OOD peered out onto the wing. Dan looked back at him, a piece of jam-smeared toast suspended in the air. “Maritime code?” Pardees murmured, looking embarrassed.
The quartermaster leaned down from above, looking disturbed. “Flag hoist breaks via maritime code to read, ‘Cease your present activities. Communicate with me by loud hailer.’”
Dan frowned, both at the peremptory tone, which was never used between ships of different navies, and at the means of delivery. NATO ships maintained a flag bag, but they were seldom used, except for displaying call signs, and decorating during festivities or ceremonies. He didn’t understand.