Maden Mike - Tom Clancy Firing Point

“Extreme danger, Sergeant. Better warn your men.”

The dour infantryman put the glasses to his eyes and scanned the deck, then broke out into a grin.

Three young women lay sunbathing on chaise lounges in string bikinis, leaving little to the imagination.

Perhaps this boarding won’t be so bad after all, Phan thought, taking back the glasses for a second long look at the young women.

—

Fifteen minutes later, lines had been secured and the two boats were lashed together, separated only by the Don Pedro ’s heavy bumpers that squeaked with friction as the two ships bobbed in the gently rolling sea.

Lieutenant Commander Phan jumped the short distance between the vessels. He was followed by the sergeant and three more armed naval infantrymen with AK-74 rifles strapped to their chests. Phan and his men were greeted on deck by Captain Järphammar, who led Phan and his four men to the Don Pedro ’s spacious bridge, equipped with the latest navigational equipment.

Järphammar introduced Guzmán as the ship’s owner. Guzmán offered up a friendly smile, an unopened bottle of Jack Daniel’s Black Label, and glasses.

Phan’s flint-faced demeanor softened slightly at the sight of the Jack Daniel’s. “No, we can’t while on duty, but thank you.”

“I understand,” Guzmán said, cracking open the bottle.

At that moment, two of the statuesque young women Phan had seen sunbathing earlier, one blonde, the other brunette, appeared in the cabin doorway carrying a huge ice chest between them. They were now both dressed in clean coveralls and introduced as the Don Pedro ’s cooks. Both were taller than the Vietnamese men standing on the bridge.

They set the ice chest down on the deck and the blonde opened the lid. Thick slabs of pink tuna steaks and bottles of chilled Filipino Red Horse beer sat on top of the crushed ice.

“Japanese sushi chefs say that the southern bluefin is the best tuna for sashimi,” Guzmán said. “I prefer mine grilled with butter and pepper over a pit barbecue.”

“What is this?” Phan asked. It was enough food and drink for each member of his crew.

“The benefit of being a fishing boat is that we catch a lot of fish. Please accept this small token of our appreciation for keeping the oceans safe and allowing us to do our jobs and feed our families.”

The commander’s eyes fell on the tuna steaks. His mouth watered. “That is very generous of you. But I must inspect your ship.”

“We insist on it,” Järphammar said. “We need your documentation to prove that we are operating legally in these waters, unlike the goddamned Chinese .”

Phan’s jaw clenched when he heard “Chinese,” the name of his nation’s ancient mortal enemies with whom they’d been warring for a thousand years. His father had fought against the Americans in what the Vietnamese called the American War. But even his badly wounded father saw the Chinese as far worse enemies of his people than the American invaders, despite the millions of Vietnamese who had perished in that war.

Phan nodded his appreciation. “Then I thank you for your generous gift.” He turned to his sergeant. “Have your men carry this back to the ship.”

“Excuse me, sir,” the blonde said in accented English, shutting and securing the lid. “But we have a very special way we’d like to prepare the tuna if you will allow us to do so.” The two strong young women picked up the chest with ease. No need for smaller men to do it.

Phan exchanged a conspiratorial glance with his sergeant.

“We look forward to it,” Phan said. “I’ll inform our galley that you are on the way.” He turned back to his sergeant. “You and two of your men will begin the inspection, the other will escort these ladies to our galley.”

The sergeant smiled, turned, and barked his orders.

The youngest Marine led the way off the bridge with a smile as the two tall women bearing gifts followed behind him toward the stairs. The sergeant and the two other enlisted Marines exited the bridge as well to begin their inspection.

Phan turned to Järphammar. “Your papers, sir?”

Järphammar heard the Marines’ boots clanging on the steel steps as he pulled a thick leather folio from a nearby desk and handed it to him.

Guzmán brought over a glass of smoky bourbon to Phan, then handed one to Järphammar.

The Vietnamese officer glanced up, annoyed.

“Since we’re alone now.” Guzmán winked. He lifted his glass in a toast. “To the sea, and all that she gives.”

“Oh, what the hell.” Phan smiled. “To the sea!” He threw back his shot. It burned in the best kind of way, warming him all the way down his throat.

“Another?” Guzmán asked, holding up the bottle.

“No, thank you. That is quite enough.”

“A cigar?” Guzmán held out a thick Cuban Cohiba.

Phan wavered, then gave in. “Perhaps for later.” He accepted the cigar and pocketed it.

Guzmán reached under Järphammar’s desk and pulled out an unopened box of Cubans and handed it to the commander. “For you and your men, of course. Perhaps after dinner.”

Phan took the box and tucked it under one camouflaged arm. “The men will enjoy this.” He turned serious, suddenly remembering his duty. “Now, shall we proceed to our inspection?”

Järphammar nodded. “Follow me.”

—

Järphammar led Phan and Guzmán down the stairs toward the main deck, following the path the Vietnamese Marines took.

Guzmán saw that the Marines were sniffing around bins and holding tanks, pulling up tarps, checking equipment lockers. Nothing too aggressive, but thorough. His men were disciplined enough to cooperate enthusiastically, even joking with the soldiers as they worked.

Järphammar pointed out the features of his vessel to Phan, his voice booming with pride. He described its speed and endurance characteristics, the amount of fresh fish cargo it could hold in ice thanks to its onboard CO 2refrigeration system, and a host of other nautical features Guzmán couldn’t care less about.

Neither Phan nor his men paid attention to the women following the young Marine as they crossed over to the Vietnamese ship and headed into the bowels of the patrol vessel with their ice chest.

—

“Shall we head belowdecks so that you can inspect our equipment?” Captain Järphammar asked.

Phan waved the sergeant and his two Marines over to join him, then turned back to the beefy Swede. “Lead the way, Captain.”

Järphammar headed down the steel stairs first, followed by the three enlisted men, then Phan, and finally Guzmán. The smell of diesel and hydraulic fluid wafted up the staircase as they descended.

Järphammar stopped on the first level and pointed down the hallway. “Crew’s quarters.”

“How many?”

“Eighteen souls, all good seafaring men—and women, as you saw.” Järphammar laughed and winked, and gently punched the much smaller Vietnamese.

Phan nodded, nearly blushing.

Järphammar pointed to the descending staircase. “This way, gentlemen.”

Phan led the way, followed by his men. Guzmán and Järphammar were the last down. The Vietnamese commander heard and smelled the workings of some kind of machine shop, which struck him as somewhat odd. When he reached the lowest deck, he stopped, taken aback by what he saw. His men stood to one side. Järphammar and Guzmán stood close behind them.

More fighting-age men and a few women in great physical shape, including the third sunbather he’d seen earlier, were at their respective stations. Some were soldering motherboards, others constructing electronic equipment with fine tools. Still others sat at various computer screens monitoring AIS ship traffic, radar tracks of ships and aircraft, weather patterns, and other data. It looked like a combat information center. In the middle of the room was a twenty-foot-long steel table, and lying upon it was something out of a science fiction movie.