Chapter 13 - The Manila Convergence
Z
The first volley of automatic fire chewed into the steel bulkheads behind me, sending hot sparks and jagged metal splinters showering across the companionway. I dove sideways behind a row of heavy hydraulic fluid drums, returning three controlled bursts that punched through the chest plates of two approaching mercenaries, dropping them instantly onto the grated deck.
Above us, the heavy gantry crane shuddered violently as the auxiliary power cut out—Eli had successfully killed the main electrical grid from the engine room. Emergency amber sirens began to pulse overhead, painting the smoke-filled cargo hold in rhythmic flashes of orange and shadow.
The man in the trench coat—identified in our dossiers as Viktor Ramos, a former maritime intelligence officer turned high-ranking fixer for the Iron Syndicate—scrambled toward the secondary control panel on the catwalk. He pulled a manual release lever, attempting to drop the multi-million-dollar acoustic array straight through the ship's open bottom moon pool into the abyssal trench below.
"Not today," I growled.
I broke from cover, sprinting through the crossfire as ricochets pinged off the steel floor around my boots. A third mercenary lunged from behind a container, raising a combat shotgun. Without breaking stride, I redirected his barrel with my left forearm, jammed the muzzle of my MCX under his chin, and fired once. He crumpled instantly.
Ramos had the release lever halfway engaged when I cleared the metal staircase leading to the catwalk. He drew a custom heavy-caliber automatic from beneath his coat and fired two rapid shots. One round punched cleanly through my left shoulder armor plate, the blunt kinetic force knocking the breath from my lungs and slamming me back against the railing.
Pain flared white-hot across my collarbone, but the ceramic armor had held.
Ramos smiled, leveling the weapon for a kill shot to my head. "Give my regards to your father in Florence."
Before he could squeeze the trigger, a single high-velocity rifle round shattered the catwalk window behind him, penetrating Ramos’s right shoulder and spinning him around like a ragdoll. Eli had reached the upper gantry, his sniper rifle smoking in the rain.
I closed the distance before Ramos could recover his dropped weapon. I kicked the gun off the catwalk into the black water churning in the moon pool below, seized him by his collar, and drove his head into the steel control console.
The metal groaned. Ramos slumped against the panel, bleeding heavily from his shoulder, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Where is the offshore command node?" I demanded, pressing the barrel of my weapon directly into the wound on his collarbone. "Who is Chen, and where is the primary satellite link operating from?"
Ramos spat blood onto my combat boots, his lips twisting into a bloody, defiant sneer. "You... you think you stopped something here? The Caspian Queen was just a field test. The primary grid... it's already operational. Chen is hosting the auction tonight in Manila. The acoustic keys to the Pacific Fleet are being sold to the highest bidder in less than six hours."
"Where in Manila?" I pressed down harder.
Ramos gritted his teeth, his face turning gray from shock and blood loss. "The Grand Solis Hotel... penthouse suite... during the ASEAN defense summit gala. Every corrupt general in Southeast Asia is in that room... you'll never touch him."
"Watch me," I said.
Eli dropped down onto the catwalk beside me, his rifle slung across his chest. "Engine room is secured. We set thermite charges on the ship's primary steering rudder and communications array. The Caspian Queen isn't going anywhere except circles until the Philippine Coast Guard boards her at sunrise."
"Grab the transponder hard drives from that cylinder," I ordered, tying Ramos's wrists with heavy-duty zip-ties and securing him to the catwalk railing. "We take the extraction chopper directly to the tactical safehouse in Makati. We have four hours to infiltrate the Grand Solis before Chen sells the Seventh Fleet."
Ten minutes later, the unbadged MH-60 Black Hawk from Task Force Reaper hovered low over the container ship's aft deck, its winch cable descending into the blinding rain. Eli and I hooked in with the captured encrypted drives, lifting off into the stormy night sky as the Caspian Queen drifted aimlessly in the heavy swells below.
Inside the Black Hawk's cabin, I cut away the ruined Kevlar over my left shoulder, applying a field dressing to the heavy contusion and flesh burn left by Ramos's bullet.
The secure satellite screen mounted to the bulkhead lit up. Vice Admiral Kathryn Sloane’s face appeared, illuminated by the tactical displays of the Pentagon’s subterranean command center in Washington.
"Maya, report," Sloane commanded, her voice crackling slightly over the encrypted transpacific link.
"The maritime array is neutralized, Admiral," I said, leaning back against the vibrating fuselage as the medic bandaged my shoulder. "But Ramos gave up the primary architect. His name is Director Chen—operating out of the Grand Solis Hotel in Manila tonight under diplomatic cover during the ASEAN defense gala."
May you like
Sloane’s expression darkened. "Director Chen Zhen. Former head of foreign intelligence procurement, now running the Iron Syndicate's private data brokerages. He has full diplomatic immunity under the treaty delegation, Maya. If you kick down that door in uniform, it triggers an international incident that will drag the State Department into a catastrophic political standoff."
"Then I won't kick it down in uniform," I said, looking at the city lights of Manila beginning to glow through the clouds ahead. "Arthur built this network using corporate corruption and high-society galas. It’s time we play by his rules."
