“Collision! There has been a collision!” the startled talker bleated in the Flag Plot of the Teluk Surabaya. “The battle force flag reports that the point frigate Fatahillah has collided
with a merchant ship!”
“What?” Ketalaman snapped. “How can that be? What’s happened?”
The systems operator manning the Plot radar repeater buried his face into the
eyepieces of the black scope hood. “There are two unidentified targets in the vicinity of the Fatahillah!”
The task force commodore charged across the Plot room. Shoving the radar
operator aside, he peered into the radar screen. “In Allah’s name, there aren’t two new targets out there! Fatahillah has been cut in half!”
“What happened?” Ketalaman repeated, recognizing fully how stupid he sounded.
“There’s a distress call from the merchant ship!” the radio room talker interjected. “They’re reporting a collision and are asking for assistance …”
The decks of the big landing ship shuddered lightly, a series of faint multiple thuds leaking through the hull plating.
“Bridge reports missile boat Rencong is under attack! Heavy naval gunfire!
Rencong is hit! Rencong is hit! She’s burning!”
“Where’s the fire coming from?”
Before anyone could reply to the Admiral’s demand, the next layer of disaster dropped onto the task force. “Air contacts to port! Hostile air contacts! Missile alarm! Missiles incoming!”
“Commence firing! All ships commence firing!” It was the Commodore calling the desperate command. Admiral Ketalaman simply stood, staring unseeing at the chart table.
They had been waiting.
There had been a trap.
*
“Helm, are we answering?” Amanda cried.
“We have full steering control, captain. Rudders are answering!”
“Then come hard left! Steer two seven zero!”
“Steering two seven zero!”
“Damage control, this is the bridge! Report!”
“No flooding alarms in forward spaces, Captain. Stress gauges indicate no frame
displacement. We didn’t even scratch the paint, ma’am!”
“Very good. Engine room, report!”
“Bridge, this is main engine control,” Chief Thomson’s steady voice replied. “We got a slight vibration in the starboard propeller shaft. I think we nicked a
blade.”
“Can we maintain turns?”
“For a while. Nothing’s shaking apart yet. But slack her off as soon as you can.”
“Understood, Chief. Keep it coming!”
Beyond the windscreen, the Shenandoah’s bow was already starting its swing across the bow of the next frigate in the battle line, the helmsman supplementing the wheel with a hand on the bow thruster controller, the big commando carrier pivoting with ponderous agility.
Amanda intended to weave an S-shaped course through the line of Indonesian frigates. It was unlikely that they could catch another of the smaller nimbler vessels in a second ramming attack, but it was still critical that they stay in close.
Amanda became aware of a credible imitation of an hysterical Greek shipmaster shouting broken English into the Talk-Between-Ships radio.
“You hit us! You hit us! You stinking bastards run us down! You sink us! We sue! We sue!” It was Harconan, the pirate adding his own useful two cents into the confusion of the moment. He was also sounding as if he were enjoying himself enormously.
Build on the panic. Build on that confusion. Every second stolen before the Indonesians could react was precious.
“Bridge, this is the CIC.” It was Admiral MacIntyre, subservient to Amanda at the moment. “Flanker forces are engaging the transport group!”
One down and two to go, and they’d taken all of their free shots. Now the real fight was on.
“Very well, CIC,” Amanda ordered. “RBOC launchers, fire full chaff patterns! Initiate full spectrum jamming. Stand
by to clear casemate mounts! All guns and launchers train to starboard and
prepare to open fire!”
Harconan clamped a hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. “You have guns on this monster as well?”
“We’re a Q-ship aren’t we?” Amanda replied. “What would a Q-ship be without hidden gun mounts?”
*
Stone Quillain found being perched in the treetops amidst a ferocious autocannon
barrage not the most comfortable of places to be. “Goddamn! The sumbitch figured it out!”
“No shit, leatherneck?” The Ranger NCO gritted, trying to crawl into his helmet amid the flying wood and metal splinters.
The second of the convoy flankers on their side of the transport formation had also been a German-built Lurssen FPB gunboat. In the greater scheme of things, it had been rated as a secondary threat because it lacked anti-ship missiles – but it did rate a formidable battery of 57 and 40-millimeter cannon and a sharp captain and crew. When the hidden mortars on the nameless islet had opened up on its column leader, someone aboard the Lurssen had either heard the firing discharges or had made a good guess as to their point of origin. The gunboat had instantly lashed back with everything it had, making up for precision targeting with sheer volume of fire.
“Shift target!” Stone yelled. “Kill that little bastard before he chops this friggin’ tree down!”
