Chinese special operations forces, on the other hand, are comprised mostly of two-year conscripts and first-tour lieutenants. Chinese commandos are known for being extremely tough and capable, but young and inexperienced.
Lieutenant Ping was one of these young lieutenants. He was four years into his service as a naval officer. A graduate of the newly formed Special Operations Academy in Guangzhou, he was one of only fifty officers in the South Sea Fleet’s Special Operations Regiment, one of the few Chinese naval SOF units.
While his unit spent most of their time training, Chinese military leadership had recently stepped up SOF deployments. Lieutenant Ping’s regiment had sent teams to various parts of the world in order to better project power and protect Chinese interests. Ping and his group of peers had competed fiercely with one another in order to be selected for one of these coveted deployments. When Ping was chosen, he relished the opportunity to prove himself in a real-world situation.
Ping had been deployed aboard a PLA Navy destroyer and sent to the Middle East on a counterpiracy deployment in the Gulf of Aden. Their mission was to escort cargo ships transiting the Internationally Recommended Transit Corridor in between Somalia and Yemen. Merchant shipping companies had learned from the rash of pirate attacks over the past decade and often hired private security to escort their valuable ships. But acts of piracy still occurred.
Lieutenant Ping had led a team of naval commandos as they retook a Chinese-flagged merchant ship from a band of Somali criminals. Ping had received many accolades from his superiors and earned the respect of his enlisted men. Ping’s men appreciated his cool demeanor and quick decision making. But more than that, the young officer looked out for his troops and demanded from himself a level of performance that exceeded that of his men. He was always the hardest-working, the first one to meetings and the last one to leave the training areas.
But as Ping listened to his orders now, he had many questions. Some of them he would voice to the captain. Others he would keep to himself. In the PLA Navy, a few questions would show intelligence and preparation. Too many, and he might show a lack of comprehension, or worse… that he was questioning the wisdom of his orders.
“Terminate all personnel with extreme prejudice, it says.”
“You have read the orders accurately,” replied the submarine captain.
“Who are these men?”
“Criminals. Drug smugglers, from what the description says.”
Ping looked at his watch, then back at the orders on the screen. “We have two hours to prepare.”
“Correct.”
Ping read over the instructions once more. “May I use the wardroom to go over our mission brief with my men?”
“Of course. Just let me know what you need.”
“Very well. We will study this and spend the next hour planning. This will be an unusually quick reaction time, but we will be ready, Captain.”
“Excellent, Mr. Ping. I wish you good luck.” The captain extended his hand.
The young special operations lieutenant shook the captain’s hand, his eyes fierce.
Ping hurried to the different sections of the submarine where his men were located. Some were working out, others sleeping. Within five minutes of notification, they were all dressed and in the wardroom, looking over a chart. Planning took an hour. They looked at the type of vessel they would be assaulting, how many personnel were on board, expected armament and skill level of enemy forces, and optimal entry points.
Preparations for their underwater exit took another forty minutes.
They divided into four groups of two for the exit. They used the submarine’s two escape trunks, built just inside its hatches.
The outer doors were flush with the body of the submarine. The chamber just inside the outer hatch was the escape trunk. They could fit two people at a time. A submarine crewman operator stood just inside the inner hatch. His job was to make sure that the inner and outer doors were both locked, that the pressure was equalized with the ocean outside the door, and that the hatch was flooded with water and refilled with air at the appropriate times.
Moments later, all eight members were swimming outside the submarine, breathing with the help of their scuba system. Ping and his team swam over two hundred yards to the boat. They broke the surface once, about fifty yards away, to check their bearings.
The moon and starlight reflected glimmers of white off the ocean surface. The smugglers’ boat was a black shadow, pitching and rolling in the sea. The ship was dead in the water — engine off. Ping could hear the occasional sound of voices over the lapping of the waves.
His team was silent, swimming fast with their scuba gear and silenced submachine guns strapped to their wetsuits. Once they were underneath the vessel, Ping had a decision to make. They could use grappling hooks and rope, climbing about five feet above the waterline. But that might be noisy, and it would take a little longer than the alternative. The noise might give away their position as they climbed. The second entry possibility was a small ladder at the aft end of the ship. The problem with that was its proximity to where the boat’s crew was likely to be. They would have to climb up one man at a time. If the smugglers were armed and had numbers, it could end badly for Ping’s men.
Not to mention that there was a propeller right next to that ladder. The motor was off for now, but Ping wasn’t sure how long they would have until the cigarette speedboat arrived. The submarine captain had estimated one hour. Would they start moving once it was within radio range? Or would they stay quiet, afraid to draw the attention of coast guard and navy vessels patrolling the area?
Ping’s men would follow his lead. Sometimes it mattered less whether one made the best choice than whether one made it in a timely manner. He chose to go up the aft end of the ship and signaled his men. They began removing their weights and tanks, tying them off on the ladder.
Ping grabbed on to the metal ladder and pulled himself up, stepping and climbing fast. He was heavy, his tactical gear weighing him down as soon as he was out of the water. He threw himself over the stern of the ship and unstrapped his weapon. He then brought his mask down around his neck, looking and listening for any sign of opposition.
His team was only seconds behind. Each of them followed his movements, preparing their equipment and aiming their weapons forward, trying their best to be quiet in their bulky black wetsuits.
The lights were all off on the ship, and voices could be heard coming from the bridge. Ping and his men each removed a clip-on night vision goggle apparatus from a waterproof chest pocket and snapped it in place. A flick of the switch, and the unit powered up. Night became day, and his men broke into preplanned teams, each silently making their way throughout the vessel.
Ping walked along the port outer deck of the boat. There was a covered bridge ahead. Another team would be walking along the starboard side, and yet another would be heading down the ladder and into the berthing area. It wasn’t a large vessel. This would only take a few seconds.
He heard a shout and rapid Spanish ahead, then the familiar rattle of one of his men’s silenced submachine guns. Then there were many shouts.
Movement ahead. There.
A smuggler appeared in front of him. The man backed out of the bridge, his hands to his sides. Ping pressed his trigger and fired a burst from his machine gun. His target’s body convulsed and then fell to the deck.
“Clear,” said one of his men from the bridge.
More gunfire. This time from belowdecks. Bullet holes in front of him as the floor was peppered from below. Ping ran backwards to get out of the line of fire, his heart beating. More gunfire. Ping could see two of his commandos advancing down the stairs, their weapons glued to their shoulders, firing in short, controlled bursts. Then, silence.