As he listened for the acknowledging clicks over the tactical net, he doffed his K-Pot helmet and pulled his antigas hood out of a harness pouch, drawing it on over his head. All of the other boarders did likewise, except for Tran, who would have need of a free and unmuffled voice for a short time longer.
With no further reason to delay and many not to, Stone touched the tactical Transmit key once more. “All boarder elements, execute flush now!”
Up and down the length of the Parchim-class frigate, a storm of hand grenades were hurled through doors, down hatches, and into ventilators as fast as the pins could be pulled, resulting in a veritable barrage of flash bangs, smoke, and riot gas.
The flashbangs had the first effect: A fusillade of explosions reverberated through the length of the frigate’s hull, like firecrackers dropped into an oil drum, jarring the watch-standers at their stations and startling awake the sleepers in the bunk rooms. Clouds of choking vapor poured into the interior spaces at almost the same moment.
Stone aimed a finger at Nichols and she reached up and ran a thumb down the row of alarm buttons. A cacophony of jangling bells and shrieking Klaxons joined in the confusion. Unsatisfied with the chaos she had unleashed, the SB woman hauled down on the cord for the ship’s air horns, adding its hoarse bellow to the chaos.
Stone aimed his finger at Tran. The Inspector held down the button on the interphone handset and yelled into the receiver in Bahasa Indonesia: “Fire in the magazines! Fire! Fire! All hands! Abandon ship! I say again, abandon ship! This is not a drill! This is not drill!”
With the steel around them ringing with detonations and the air inside the hull solid with eye- and lung-searing smoke, the Sutanto’s crew was willing to take the statement at face value.
Topside, the frigate turned across the wind. The gas streaming from her deck hatches served as a windsock for the CH-60 transport helos moving in over her bow and stern. Held steady by the sure hand of Labelle Nichols. the frigate received the fastropes from the hovering Ocean hawks, followed by a double stream of Marine reinforcements.
There was nothing in the way of active resistance. Unarmed, stunned and half blinded, the majority of the Indonesians at first thought the boarders were rescuers rather than invaders. Deftly separating the officers and CPOs from the enlisted personnel, the Americans prolonged the fiction for as long as they could. Corpsmen began washing out eyes and treating the cuts and bruises incurred from the panicked evacuation topside.
In the meantime gas-masked Marines began a systematic compartment-by-compartment search belowdecks for holdouts.
“Ship’s arsenal secure, Bridge. Weapons racks and ammo stores are still locked. It appears all arms accounted for.”
“Officers’ country clear.”
“Berthing spaces clear for’rard.”
“Main engine rooms secure. Plant appears to be intact and functioning, but we could do with a real black gang down here, along with somebody who can translate the control markings.”
“Stand fast, Engine Room. Mr. Tran is on his way down and we have Wave Three coming aboard now. All hands! Open all deck hatches and scuttles! Ventilate the ship!”
The frigate had a small helipad aft, not large enough to handle a full size Oceanhawk, but adequate for the skids of a Seawolf Super Huey. Again, Admiral MacIntyre acknowledged Amanda Garrett’s wisdom in her choice of aircraft.
Ducking low, he and half a dozen volunteer ratings scuttled out from under the turning rotor arc of the UH-1Y. Once they were clear, Marine guards herded the first of the Indonesian navy personnel to the doors of the idling helicopter. The Sutanto’s new crew was shuttling aboard while her old one was bound for temporary incarceration aboard the Carlson.
Stone Quillain, the camou paint sketchily wiped from his face, awaited the admiral at the aft end of the deckhouse.
“Ship’s status, Stone?”
The leatherneck grinned. “We got her, sir. Ship’s in one piece and so’s the crew. Pretty much, anyway.”
“Well done. I’ll see you and your men get a commendation.” Then MacIntyre added wryly, “In whatever navy we may end up serving in.”
The first Seawolf lifted off and the second came in, discharging its passengers. The next cluster of Indonesians was urged forward, numbered among them a wild-eyed man in an officer’s khaki pants and a white T shirt. He noticed the stars on the shoulder boards of Maclntyre’s Windcheater.
“I protest,” he yelled over the rotor roar. Lunging to stand in front of the admiral, he raged on: “This is my ship! This is illegal seizure! Piracy! This is against all international law!”
“I agree with you, Captain,” MacIntyre replied, tilting his cap back. “This is indeed most irregular on our part. I apologize to you and your crew and I am certain further reparations will be made by my government, both to you personally and to the Indonesian navy. However, I regret necessity mandates that we… acquire your vessel for a time. I also regret we likely will not be able to return it to you in pristine condition. Again, please accept my apology.”
Captain Basry lost track of his shipmaster’s English in his fury, and his follow-up volley of expletives was lost in the lack of translation. The Marine guard standing behind the Indonesian officer lightly bumped him with the action of his SABR, steering him on toward the waiting Huey.
“Nice try, sir,” Stone commented, “but I don’t think that gentleman is really goin’ to be too good a sport about this.”
MacIntyre shrugged. “Well, some people are like that. I’ll be on the bridge if you need me.”
By 0100 hours, the crew transfer was complete. With American-born engineers at her Korean-made diesels, the Sutanto was ready to get under way as a unit of the Sea Fighter Task Force. In addition to her prize crew, the Parchim carried the entire 1st Marine Raider Company crowded below her decks. The last cross-decking payloads had consisted of several pallets of arms and ammunition, the boarding party swapping out their nonlethal weaponry ammunition for their more traditional tools of war.
“Bridge, aye,” MacIntyre said, scooping the buzzing interphone out of its cradle.
“This is the radio shack, sir, Chief Haldiman. We have our commogear installed and operational. We have SINCGARS and satphone links established with the rest of the task force.”
“Very good, Chief. How are you coming with the Indonesian systems?”
“No sweat, sir. It’s all over-the-counter stuff we downloaded manuals for. Lieutenant Selkirk has the encryption gear sorted out and he says the code keys in the system are good for at least the next twenty hours. We’ve sent out our first phony position report and got a routine acknowledgment from Jakarta Fleet HQ. As far as they’re concerned, we’re still heading south on course for Darwin.”
“Excellent, Chief.”
“Captain Carberry and Captain Hiro both report boats, aircraft, and prisoners secure and that they are ready in all aspects to get under way. Drone and radar search indicates we have clear water out to eight miles on all bearings. Awaiting orders, sir.”
“Stand by.” Eddie Mac glanced at the statuesque black woman who still held sway at the helm station. “How about it, Exec? Ship’s status?”
“Ship is secured for sea. Engine room reports ready to answer all bells.” Her smile flashed white in the darkness of the wheelhouse. “This old kraut can’s a bit creaky in the knees, but she’ll get us there.”
“Then let’s proceed, Lieutenant. We have business on the New Guinea coast. All engines, ahead full. Make your course zero nine four ”