The two RIBs appeared at the bottom of the screen, converging on the stern of the Indonesian frigate. Deftly skirting the edge of the larger vessel’s prop wash, the raiders merged their own foaming wakes in with that of the larger warship, while keeping their hull uncontrasted against dark, unbroken water.
Stone Quillain saw the angular stern of the Parchim-class frigate loom out of the darkness. At his station along the inflated starboard gunwale, he lifted the heavy anchor pad off the Fiberglas decking, fumbling a little as the powerful magnets tugged at the metal in his MOLLE harness.
This night in addition to a wide assortment of gas bombs and flash bangs, he carried a pair of Taser shock pistols at his belt and a SABR slung across his back. The magazine well for the rifle half of the composite weapon was empty, however, while the grenade half had been stoked only with teargas and jellybag stun loads.
The remainder of the boarding party was similarly armed. This night’s mission must be totally nonlethal. If this operation was to cling to the rags of legitimacy, no Indonesian sailor could be killed or even seriously harmed.
At the helm station, Labelle Nichols stared fixedly at the side of the ship that towered above them, commanding her coxswain with the slight quick gestures of a hand outlined in the faint glow of the binnacle light.
The RIB slid in closer. Bucking over the frigate’s hull wash, it bumped its rubberized Kevlar flank against the steel of the larger ship. Stone socked the rubber-coated magnetic bosses of the anchor against the plating, as did the three other hands along the starboard side. The drag of the magnets alone would not be enough to hold the RIB in place, but they would make station-keeping easier for the coxswain.
The Marines and sailors along the portside swung their preassembled titanium and Fiberglas boarding ladders up to the lip of the frigate’s deck, hooking their rubberized ends over the scuppers, the entire docking procedure taking only a matter of seconds.
Stone heard Nichols’s voice whisper through his com headset. “Raider One, docking accomplished. Ready to board.”
A few seconds later a second voice whispered out of the night: “Raider Two docked. Ready to board.”
With that declaration, command of the operation passed to Quillain. “Boarding parties! Board! Board! Board!”
Stone hit one ladder, Labelle Nichols the second, swarming up the thin, quivering yet immensely strong rungs to the frigate’s deck. He was just short of the deck lip when Christine Rendino hissed in his ear, “Hold! Hold! Hold! You have activity on deck!”
Stone froze, hanging from the ladder rungs. Three feet away, Nichols did the same, a shadow smeared against the gray hull paint. Overhead they could hear a clattering, a scuffling of feet, and an illegible whining mutter. A faint, foul stench tainted the clean sea air.
Cook’s Striker Achmed Singh swore to Shiva under his breath as he struggled to hoist the heavy slops can over the rail. Every night the same. He was always the one anointed to carry out the garbage. He knew that Chief Pangururan had it in for him because he, Singh, was the only Balinese Hindu in the galley gang, but still, every time?
Singh wouldn’t have even minded so much if it were daytime, but damnation, it was dark out here on the fantail at night. Singh wasn’t enough of a sailor yet to be confident at the rail with the luminous wake boiling furiously at his feet. Even in the face of the humiliating jests aimed at him by the other galley hands, he always donned his life jacket before beginning his nauseating task.
With a final heave he lifted the overflowing can to the top cable of the railing and tilted the garbage over the side, being careful not to spill anything on the deck. No sense in inciting the rage of that snot-nosed deck division ensign.
The can was just emptying out when Singh felt a powerful hand close on his life-jacket collar and a second on his belt.
“Y’all want a hand there, sport?”
Cook’s Striker Achmed Singh, garbage can and all, shot over the stern rail to plunge into the frigate’s wake, his startled scream temporarily gagged by a mouthful of seawater.
“We have a local in the water astern,” Labelle Nichols whispered into her headset. “Drone Control, keep a fix on him. Raider One, drop back and pick him up.”
Stone gave the grinning black woman a thumbs-up sign and they headed forward.
The remainder of the sixteen-person boarding party was on deck and ready to deploy. Moving silently on foam boot soles, the black-clad assault force flowed up either side of the Sutanto’s deckhouse. Following the ops plan, men peeled off at each hatchway and deck ventilator, grenades coming out of harness pouches.
Half a dozen boarders remained to edge up the ladderways to the bridge wings.
“Lieutenant Kodi, the Americans are launching helicopters.”
The watch officer had already seen the lights of the first aircraft lifting from the helipads of the LPD. He also observed that it was swinging back in the direction of the Sutanto. This was clearly an event worthy of the Old Man’s interest. Reaching for the interphone, Kodi buzzed the captain’s sea cabin.
Before he could speak into the handset, however, an odd scuffling thud sounded from the starboard bridge wing, a similar disturbance starting to port an instant later. Night-colored figures rushed the wheelhouse from either side, silhouetted in the back glow from the CRT screens. Grunts, curses, and muffled exclamations followed, along with the smacking of leather-sheathed fists striking blows.
Kodi opened his mouth to yell just as a Taser pistol hissed. He felt the twin metal fangs of the stunner electrodes bite through his shirt, then he lost awareness of the proceedings.
A few feet aft, Captain Basry listened to a peculiar jumble of sounds issuing from the interphone. “Kodi… Kodi… Bridge, what’s going on?” he demanded. “Bridge…? Bridge?”
The interphone connection broke with a click.
Swinging his feet to the deck, Basry started for the wheelhouse, not bothering to stuff his feet into his shoes. Flinging the door of his sea cabin open, he found the doorframe completely filled by a towering nightmare in black battle harness.
“Hello,” it said. Then a massive fist engulfed the front of Basry’s singlet, and he was yanked into the corridor.
Stone Quillain deposited the comatose Indonesian captain in an out of-the-way corner of the bridge.
Lieutenant Labelle Nichols stood at the wheel over the body of the helmsman. “Ship is under control and answering,” she reported crisply. “Engine control is on the bridge and responding.”
“Radio shack and chartrooms secure as well, sir,” another Special Boat crewman added. “All systems intact and functional, including the encryption station. The day’s codes appear to still be set and valid.”
Stone nodded approvingly. “All right. Looking good, ladies and gentlemen. ’Belle, stand by to put her across the wind. Mr. Tran, how are you coming?”
Tran looked up from the interphone deck. “I believe I have this set for what you would call the 1-MC, Captain.”
“’Belle, you found the ship’s alarm board?”
She pointed to a row of buttons on the overhead. “General quarters, fire, general alarm, and collision. Which one should we use?”
Stone shrugged. “Hell, why not all of ’em.” He keyed the command circuit on his Leprechaun transceiver. “Wave Two, Wave Two. This is Wave One. Bridge is secure. All hands in position. Situation is nominal. Ready to execute flush and ready to bring you aboard.”
“Understood, Wave One,” Admiral Maclntyre’s voice sounded over the thudding of helicopter rotors. “Proceed.”
“Understood. Proceeding.” Stone switched back to Tactical. “All elements mask up! Mask up and stand by!”