Mack Maloney - Chopper Ops

He could see no lights in between, though. No vessels in the nearby waters. No airplanes flying overhead. This was good. For what he was about to do, he could not have any witnesses.

Certain that the coast was clear—literally—he reached into his pocket and took out a device about the size of a TV remote control. He pressed three buttons in sequence and watched the tiny LCD screen light up. It began flashing the numeral .100 at two-second intervals.

Angel hit a few more buttons, and the numerals changed to .200 and began flashing every second. A few more buttons pushed, and now the screen read .300 and was not flashing at all.

“That was easy,” Angel said to himself.

Now he held down a red button at the base of the device and then looked up. Off to the west, in the thick starry sky, a faint blue light appeared. It was moving very fast. So fast it was over the western tip of Seven Ghosts Key in less than ten seconds. That was when Angel let up on the red button. The deep blue light stopped directly above him, two miles up. He pushed the red button twice, and now the blue light began to descend.

Within fifteen seconds, it was no more than fifty feet above his head and still coming down….

A minute later, Angel was one hundred miles away.

Off the west coast of India

The early morning sun was climbing over the East Arabian Sea.

The small fleet of fishing boats, trawlers, and motorized junks, having departed the west India port of Kordinar just after the midnight tide, was now making good headway as the winds shifted westward.

The vessels—twelve in all—were loaded with a variety of cargo: black-market computers, TVs, silk, American-made jeans and sneakers. A few political refugees. A few escaped criminals. Many families, some going on vacation to the Persian Gulf states. Many had children with them. Some were carrying infants.

They were heading for Oman, a full day’s journey if the seas stayed calm. On arrival, those with merchandise to sell would become rich for a year’s time. Those fleeing the authorities would be free. Those heading for a somewhat perilous shopping vacation would have the malls and sands of Oman, Bahrain, and the UAE awaiting them.

But because their cargo was considered precious in these waters, the small fleet of boats would have been prime pickings for the sea pirates known to ply this part of the ocean, preying on the defenseless. That was why there was a thirteenth vessel in the fleet—in fact, it was leading it.

It was an Osa-class gunboat. It had been hired by the voyagers to provide protection for their trip.

The Russian-exported gunboat was well equipped. It held a crew of sixteen, only four of which were responsible for the forty-four-foot vessel’s operation. The rest were gunners, loaders, aimers, and computer guys. The gunship boasted twin OTO-Melara 76-mm guns both front and back, plus torpedoes with ultra-sound targeting capability. But the gunboat also carried the dangerous Starwind missile, essentially a knockoff of the terrifying Israeli-built Raphael antiship weapon.

The Starwinds were accurate, easy to use, and had an extremely high kill record. One could sink a midsize cruiser; two could devastate an even larger ship. The Osa gunboat had a dozen such missiles on board. As such, its firepower was equal to some of the capital ships of the world’s biggest navies.

The travelers had paid the gunship’s crew handsomely, and were cozy in the knowledge that the money had been well spent. Already during the voyage they had spotted pirate vessels sailing out on the horizon, like jackals shadowing a pack of wildebeests. But the pirates weren’t foolish—they knew their smaller, lightly armed vessels could never take on the kind of firepower that the Osa gunboat carried.

That was why they had paid for a little firepower of their own.

They first heard the noise about ten in the morning.

There was a little wind and the sea was throwing some spray, and that combination made a distinctive sound. The noise caused by the thirteen vessels and their various power plants also made a distinctive noise—but it was rather high-pitched and mechanical.

This approaching sound was deeper, more ominous. As if the sea itself was groaning.

For most of the travelers, it was the last thing they would ever hear.

The airplane came out of the west.

It was flying low, its silhouette outlined by the heavy overcast, displaying its grayish, ghostly image.

The crew of the gunboat saw it first. One of their forward gunners doubled as a lookout, and he had picked up the thing on his binoculars about three miles out. It was little more than a growing speck at that point. Still, it didn’t take long for the lookout to realize what it was.

He turned to sound the alarm, but before he knew it, a long stream of red and yellow fire went right over his head. It came so close to him that for an instant, he actually felt its heat, which was hot enough to short circuit his IF gear.

The next stream of bullets was more on the mark. It hit the lookout and the other three crew members at his gun station dead-on with a quick splash of fire and light. A mere three-second burst—four hundred projectiles in all—destroyed the gunboat’s forward twin weapon, its turret, and one quarter of its crew.

The huge airplane roared over the stricken Osa several seconds later. The wash from its propellers kicked up the sea as no winds could ever do. Those still alive on board watched as the airplane did a long slow bank, passing over the rest of the ragtag fleet and back towards the gunboat again.

Bells rang. Whistles blared. A scramble siren went off. But none of this did any good. The gunboat’s crew was already heading toward their battle stations, but there was nothing to scramble to. The sad truth was, for all the firepower packed in the gunboat, it was useless now. The travelers had indeed spent a lot for money and had spent wisely. No pirate vessel had come within fifteen miles of them.

But no one had expected anything to be coming from the air.

The AC-130 rose slightly in altitude as it approached the gunboat again. Its engines suddenly began screeching louder than before—this was the noise the four propellers made when their fuel was pulled back and they’d been ordered to reduce speed. Engines protesting, the pilots put the big aircraft into orbit about 1200 feet directly above the gunboat. The pilot dropped the left wing, and now all four doors on that side of the fuselage snapped open.

The stream of fire that came out of the gunship now lit up the sea for twenty-five miles around. It lasted no more than twenty seconds, just enough for the big airplane to make one circuit around the hapless gunboat. The violence it visited on the water was so quick, so intense, so heated, that steam enveloped the gunboat. A few of the vapors were blood red. When the smoke and the mist and the sea spray finally cleared, there was nothing left.

The gunboat and its crew were gone.

Its job done, the airplane departed in the same direction from whence it came. It would fly all the way to Bahrain. There it would land at a secret base and pick up a trunk full of dollars. This would be the second installment in its contract with sea pirates. The crew would split fifty percent of the take, and what remained would be sent to a special Swiss bank account controlled by others. The crew would then take off and refuel in the air, before returning to base. If all went well, they would be down and eating dinner by 1800 hours, another day’s work behind them.

As for the travelers—they were now easy pickings. The pirates moved in and methodically attacked and boarded each vessel. Anything of value was taken; the captains and crews were immediately killed. All eligible females were snatched, along with all the guns and radio gear.