| From: | "Paul J. Adam" <Shadowtk@********.DEMON.CO.UK> |
|---|---|
| Subject: | Boarding Party |
| Date: | Thu, 28 Jan 1999 23:10:03 +0000 |
>>>>>[Episode five of Her Ladyship's exploits. A remarkably eventful
day, it must be admitted...
+++++begin video
Quinn sits in the Captain's chair, fretting and trying not to show it.
She watches the display of the laptop she's holding, a cable snaking
back down into the Operations Room; the display is zoomed in close, to a
range of less than ten miles, and the blue arrow of the _Rorke's
Drift_'s velocity vector points right at a single red V. Three other
yellow contact markers crawl away to the sides, studiously minding their
own business.
"Their radar's approaching detection levels, sir." Tibbs's voice comes
through both on the laptop and up from the Ops Room.
"Any luck with a visual yet, Tibbsy?"
"No, sir. Sea Archer's still not talking and the forward 924's being
cranky. I have radar, but no visual."
"Damn. Hold our intercept course. Stand by all torpedo countermeasures
and the sonar operator better be the best we have."
"He is, sir." Tibbs replies. "Sounds like the _Arabica Joy_, making
turns for twenty-two knots, cavitating like crazy. Biggest problem, if
he fires more torpedoes, he's making so much noise that he'll mask them
for a while."
"Oh, hell. Stream the Sea Siren and set it for full power. All ahead
two-thirds, intercept course. Let's be sure what we're shooting at."
"Aye aye, sir." The frigate's stern digs in under the surge of power,
the deckplates throbbing slightly. Every few moments, Quinn raises
binoculars to her eyes, but they don't help the camera attached to her
web gear at all. All the camera sees is angry green ocean, white horses
dancing on the wave crests as the wind rises.
"Range now fifteen thousand yards, sir." Sublieutenant Tibbs calls up
the ladder from the Operations Room. "I have visual contact on the
_Arabica Joy_. It's her all right, I confirm the contact as hostile."
"Good. Payback's a motherfucker, Tibbsy. Load airburst HE and open
fire." Quinn replies.
The muzzle blast of A Turret's 155mm gun is terrific through the
shattered bridge windows, thick blue smoke jetting sideways from the
muzzle brake and oozing from the fume extractor as the barrel returns to
battery: three seconds after the first shot, the gun fires again, and
again, and again.
"They're returning fire, sir!" Tibbs warns.
"Port ten, reduce to fifteen knots." Quinn replies at once. "Any ESM?"
"No, sir!" Another voice, from whoever's manning the electronic warfare
console. "Just the navigation radar."
"Even better." Four hundred yards off the bow, the sea suddenly leaps
into a white frothy fountain: another, another, another. Five spouts of
water as 57mm shells miss the _Rorke's Drift by a wide margin. At once,
Quinn is shouting "Starboard twenty, increase to two-thirds!"
"Starboard twenty, ahead two-thirds, aye aye sir!" A Turret is still
firing, tracking smoothly as the trimaran heels hard into a turn:
another five waterspouts off the port quarter show where the _Arabica
Joy_'s gunners failed to allow for the course and speed change. They
seem to be aiming, then firing off a five-round burst, and trying and
failing to adjust their fire. Clearly, they're finding a _real_ gun duel
harder going than engaging an unsuspecting ship at point-blank range.
"Port ten, down-" the gun mount booms - " and down fifty RPM." Quinn
calls, by now almost nonchalant. The years of nautical wargames, of
chasing salvoes aboard battleship and cruiser bridges, give her tone a
confidence that brooks no dissent, even encourages a certain faith, and
the frigate seems almost eager as it answers her commands.
There's no third burst. Quinn lets A Turret fire four more rounds, and
throws in a slight alteration to starboard before shouting "Check fire,
check fire!"
"Check fire, aye!" Tibbs replies at once.
"Close in to one mile. Sonar watch, listen for torpedoes, stand by
Mermaid and Basiefish. Man the port cannon mount with someone who knows
the gun, have them cover the Royals as they go aboard."
"Sir!" Tibbs is shouting orders down below, as Quinn keys her wrist
unit.
"Sergeant Moore? Get your men ready for a boarding action."
"Those bastards who shot us up, sir?"
"The very same."
"Rules of engagement, sir?" Moore enquires with elaborate politeness.
"Zero risk, Sergeant." Quinn says firmly. Meaning, 'anyone who looks at
you cross-eyed gets shot dead on the spot', in soldier-speak.
"We'll handle it, sir. Think we'll be able to get an origin?"
"No. The nav system'll be faked and the crew will probably die trying to
fire the scuttling charges. They've got something left to use on us or
they'd have sunk her already. They won't want us to take that ship,
Moore."
"Fuck them, then, sir, it's ours already. We're moving."
+++++pause
Quinn watches the two semi-rigid boats cover the mile between the
battered frigate and the _Arabica Joy_: at this range, the awful
devastation wrought by thirty or forty 155mm airbursts across her decks
and superstructure can hardly be seen, just as the _Rorke's Drift_
probably looks almost untouched from a distance: yet both ships have
been severely damaged.
But where the Royal Navy frigate is injured but still fighting, the
_Arabica Joy_ is all but dead in the water, the 57mm gun on her deck
surrounded by corpses. As before, her decks are empty, as one boatload
of Marines cover the stern and the other uses a grapnel gun and winch to
close and board.
The tiny, DPM-clad figures move about, some sweeping the upper deck
while others vanish into the superstructure. Quinn barely resists the
temptation to listen in, letting Moore handle his boarding party without
interfering.
"Sir?" Several minutes after the RMs vanished inside the rusty
freighter, Moore's voice makes Quinn jump. "Ship secured, sir. Twenty-
nine active crew when we boarded. Nine prisoners, twenty KIA. The
survivors swear that we've got everyone. Scuttling charges found and
secured. They had two torpedoes left, but for sure nobody's launching
those bastards now. You didn't want them for your navy, did you, sir?"
"Nope. Taken care of?"
"Control fins shot off, blades smashed off the props, and I took a
hammer to those sonar whatsits on the nose." Moore sounds positive.
"Don't think you need to worry about them any more."
"Outstanding, Sergeant. How many prize crew do you need?"
"Twelve with small-arms. I'll leave Weston's fireteam aboard and bring
mine back in case you need us." Moore says, in that tone that from a
career NCO is a "suggestion" that an Army first lieutenant ignores at
her peril.
"Make it happen, Sergeant. Did you check the cargo?"
"No, sir, and I suggest that we don't. In fact, I suggest we wire the
scuttling charges back up, put some motion detectors in the hold, and at
the first sign of trouble we blow the guts out of the ship and take our
chances in the lifeboats."
"You're ahead of me yet again, Moore, you ought to be in the Regiment.
Prize crew's on its way."
+++++end video]<<<<<
-- Sir Charles Pendleton <23:14:17/01-28-60>
Centre for Defence Analysis
