Looking back, it is hard to name a single event that changed the course of history more than the Abyssal war. However, as impactful as the Abyssals were, we still know next to nothing about them. Where they came from and what their exact motives were besides mass wanton destruction. They never attempted to open diplomatic relations and the only words ever spoken with their forces boil down to battlefield taunts and threats. Even the exact date that the war began is largely unknown. We know now that the Abyssals were inexplicably intent on waging a shadow war against global shipping before they began open conflict. Whether their goal was to degrade the capabilities of their soon to be foes, or simply to gather resources from the spoils. It is hard to point to singular events during those early days as indicators of Abyssal action. Especially against the post war trend of blaming every unexplained event on Abyssal action. However, there is one event that marks a clear shift towards total open war. Everything began to go downhill on a dark night in the East China Sea when the tanker Houston Star, rather violently, changed the world.
Excerpt from: Maelstrom Rising: A History of the Abyssal War
-CAPT(ret.) John C. Brightlinger, USN
USNI Press, 2055
East China Sea
27 Jun 2037
MT Houston Star
Everything was quiet when the phone next to Ronald Garcia's bed began to ring. He quickly glanced over at the clock sitting on the bedside table. 2:30 glowed in bright red numbers. He let out a soft groan before falling back onto the bed. Garcia was no stranger to being woken at all hours of the night, he had spent nearly his entire adult life at sea after all, but that didn't mean that he enjoyed the experience. The phone rang again, more insistent this time. Garcia reached out in the dark, only fumbling for a second before he grabbed the offending device. "Captain," he growled, trying hard to keep the sleep out of his voice.
There was only the briefest moment of hesitation before the Second Mate's voice came back, "Captain, it's Francois. The harbor package is ready for your review."
"Right," Garcia replied, unable to prevent a deep sigh from escaping. "I'll be up in a minute."
"Aye sir, we'll put on the coffee." The line went dead with a click, leaving Garcia in silence once more. It was a testament to decades he had spent at sea that Garcia was able to transition from being fast asleep to awake in less than two minutes. After that it only took five minutes for him to stumble over to the stainless steel sink mounted in the corner of his stateroom, shave, and then throw on a clean shirt and shorts. By the time he was ready to walk down the passageway to the pilothouse, the clock read 2:50.
It was really his own damn fault for being up this early. Houston Star was at the end of her two week trans-Pacific voyage and he had told his Second Mate to wake him as soon as all of the pre-docking paperwork was ready. The fact that everything had to be sent offship at least six hours before they were even due to meet the pilot outside of Taipei was mind boggling, but that was just the world they were living in. Everything had to be logged, signed, and sent off on schedule. The fact that the Star's parent company was sixteen hours behind them back in Galveston only added to the headache.
The pilothouse was quiet when Garcia shouldered open the aft door. The only initial response the Star's master received was a curt nod from the Third Mate standing the bridge watch. The able bodied seaman standing lookout was too fixated on his binoculars to even notice his arrival. Garcia silently returned the nod as he strode onto the bridge. Leaning against a work desk mounted to the aft bulkhead was Lucca Francois, the Star's Second Mate. Francois, was a short, stocky man with a swarthy complexion that gave away his French Polynesian heritage. True to his word, a steaming mug of coffee was perched on the edge, next to a two inch thick stack of papers. Garcia tried, and failed, to keep the disgust off his face as he grabbed the mug.
"I swear, that damn stack gets taller every time we do this," he muttered in a low voice.
"Blame Lloyds of London," Francois replied with a shrug. "They've changed their reporting requirements once a week for the last three months. Now they want a full copy of our logs along with the bill of lading and our track data."
"And if the insurers want it, then the home office will want a copy, and throw one to the Taipei port authority as well for good measure," Garcia said, rolling his eyes. "Pretty soon we'll have to do this every two days instead of every port visit."
"It might have something to do with all the missing ships…" Francois trailed off after Garcia shot his Second Mate a dark look.
Garcia was by no means a superstitious man, at least not to the extent as some of the old salts he had run into over the years, but even he preferred not to tempt fate. After a quick breath, his face shifted to a more neutral expression, "I'm sorry, I'm just trying not to think about it. We're at what, six confirmed and two overdue?"
"One of the overdue ones was declared lost a few hours ago, an Indonesian bulker out of Manila," Francois replied, dropping the bridge into an uneasy silence. It was an unspoken subject amongst merchant mariners these days, even if it seemed to be the only thing the news could talk about.
About six months ago a Panamanian flagged tanker had simply vanished somewhere in the middle of the Indian ocean. At first, there was some interest and concern, but it wasn't widespread. Accidents happened onboard deep draft merchants all the time, and this wasn't the first time that a ship had vanished. But then a second ship vanished, and then a third.
Several marine regulatory organizations started running around like headless chickens trying to find answers. Lloyds of London, in particular, was throwing money away at a prodigious rate in an attempt to find answers. With little success. All the while transport costs skyrocketed, which drove up the costs of everything, pushing the global economy to a rather dangerous point. And creating a mountain of superfluous paperwork.
Garcia quickly downed the last dregs of his coffee and reached for the first folder on the stack. He was so lost in his work, that he didn't hear the sound of the aft door banging open. "Things are starting to get lively out there, Skipper." grunted Antione LeMasters as he strode into the pilothouse. LeMasters was the Star's Chief Mate and a huge bear of a man with a weathered face and a shock of wild, gray hair. He was also the only man aboard who had spent more time at sea than the Star's Master. "I just did my rounds topside," LeMasters continued as he peeled off a thoroughly soaked rain poncho, draping it over a hook on the aft bulkhead. "The loading rig is secure and all the pier connections are prepped, but that wind just keeps getting worse."
"And the rain?" Garcia waved toward the slowing growing puddle under LeMaster's dripping poncho. There was no rain visible through the forward windows, so whatever had soaked the Chief Mate had already passed, but it couldn't have been too long ago.
"Just squalls, but I got hit at least three times in the last hour," LeMasters replied with a shrug. He nodded to the empty mug sitting next to Garcia, "Got anymore of that?"
"I've got you, Chief," Francois spoke before walking across the pilothouse towards the coffee maker mounted on the bulkhead.
Garcia looked up from the desk just in time to catch the look on LeMaster's face. "Oh don't start that again, he's doing fine."
"Fine for a college boy," LeMasters grunted, keeping his voice just low enough that only Garcia could hear. "But he's been underway for what? Five minutes." LeMasters was a hawsepiper. Like Garcia, he had signed on with his first ship as a deck seaman before working his way up the ranks. Eventually he took the exam to become a licensed mate on his own time. Unlike Francois who had earned his license from Cal Maritime. LeMasters had a hard time hiding his disdain for anyone who hadn't spent time on the decks before making their way to the bridge, and it took awhile before he warmed up to new Mates.
Francois walked back a moment later, either oblivious to or choosing to ignore LeMaster's comment as he handed the Chief Mate a fresh mug of coffee. "So, Captain, are we going to make it on time?"
Garcia grunted, happy for the change in subject. He quickly shuffled through the stack of papers, pulling out a weather forecast sheet after some effort. A strong low pressure system was growing to their south and quickly working its way up to become a full blown typhoon. Its outskirts had already forced the tanker to change course once and everyone was on edge for a possible second diversion. The world of maritime trade was one of strict deadlines and if the Star lost too much time while dodging weather then it was possible that she would miss her assigned pilot pickup time. Without a harbor pilot, she wouldn't be allowed to enter port and would be forced to loiter outside the harbor until a new pilot could be arranged. An event that would mean tens of thousands of dollars in lost revenue. It was safe to say that the entire crew was wary about the weather.
After reviewing the forecast for several seconds Garcia replied, "If it holds this, then we should just about make it. "It's going to get pretty rough tomorrow, though. 5 to 9 foot seas. "
"I'll let our guests know. I still don't know why the head office stuck us with them. It's not like we're anywhere close to pirate country. It's not like a pair of rifles can do much against whatever's eating ships," LeMasters said, shaking his head. The Star had been assigned a pair of security contractors before she sailed from the onloading terminal in Shreveport. While it was not unheard of to take on additional security, it was usually a step reserved for ships transiting near the African coast. The Star would be nowhere near that particular hotbed of pirate activity for this voyage.
"They're not here for us, Chief. They're here so the head office can say they are 'taking steps to ensure our safety in this troubled environment', or some other bullshit like that," Francois said with a shrug.
"Yeah, if something out there can disappear tankers, then that pair of rifles ain't going to do diddly squat," LeMasters said with a derisive snort. "It's turning into Yemen and the Houthis all over again, except this time there's no one to point the Navy at."
"I heard they've stepped up their deployments. They've got two carriers out in our area and who knows how many destroyers. Maybe they'll find something," Francois said in a hopeful tone.
"Don't bet on it," LeMasters said, shaking his head.
Garcia picked up a cargo sheet and asked, "What's the status of the unloading tanks?"
"Warming, they should be up to regasification temp by the time we make up," LeMasters replied. "The transfer valves are free and there are no faults in the loading board. We'll be able to start offloading as soon as Bosun gets all of the hoses connected."
From the outside, the Houston Star was a thoroughly unremarkable ship. At just over 600 feet long, she was just about average size for a tanker of her displacement. Her twin slow speed diesels were capable of propelling her to a maximum speed of 18 knots. Respectable, but by no means record breaking. However, the Star's operator, Star Petrochem out of Galveston, hadn't wanted a record breaking ship. The Star had been designed for the sole purpose of transporting huge quantities of liquified natural gas around the world.
LNG is perhaps one of the most dangerous cargoes being transported on the high seas today. Natural gas is highly volatile and is used primarily as a fuel source for power generation. Especially in the power hungry far east. Unfortunately, natural gas can't be transported in mass quantities as a gas. In order to move enough of it to be profitable, it first has to be turned into a liquid. By super cooling it down to negative sixty degrees, it condenses into a liquid that can be backed four times as densely. This whole process requires highly specialized ships to transport the resulting LNG safely. Both to contain the liquid, and to keep it cryogenically cooled for the duration of the voyage. The resulting ship is usually highly computerized and requires a much more technically proficient crew than that of a similar sized crude oil tanker. The Houston Star was by far the most technically complex ship Garcia had ever served aboard, and the reason for at least a good third of the paperwork.
"The pre-unload work is done," LeMasters continued. "Bosun will have the check sheet on your desk within the hour."
"Roger," Garcia replied.
LeMasters drained the rest of his coffee and pushed off the bulkhead, "Well, I for one want to get at least an hour of shut-eye. We're in for a long day tomorrow. By your leave, Skipper."
"Thanks Chief, get some rest," Garcia said with a quick wave. LeMasters was about halfway to the aft door when the pilothouse was filled with the chime of an alert.
All eyes turned to the Third Mate as the watch officer practically ran to the radar console. "CPA limit," he announced. After fiddling with the settings for a minute, he continued, "It just popped out of nowhere. There weren't any contacts close to our track." Then a second chime rang out, this one more strident. "Autopilot disengaged. CPA limit tripped the cutoff."
The Houston Star was fitted with the very latest in electronic navigation systems. For the most part, the ship was fully capable of operating without human intervention. The bridge watch's primary function was to monitor the automated systems, make any necessary adjustments, and to fulfill the legal requirement to maintain a lookout at all times. However, as capable as the system was, it wasn't very flexible. If anything unexpected happened, such as a previously undetected contact suddenly appearing dangerously close, then it would simply shut down and throw the problem back to the bridge crew.
"Lookout, what do you have down bearing 210 true?" the third mate shouted, a note of concern creeping into his voice.
The AB seaman leaned so far forward that his binoculars were touching the glass of the bridge windows. "Nothing. Nothing but dark out there."
"Damn, radar keeps losing the track, but there's definitely something out there. The paint is pretty consistent." Garcia and Francois shared a quick look before the Second Mate crossed the bridge in several quick strides, moving to peer at the radar over the Third Mate's shoulder.
"There, half mile on the port beam," Francois said, tapping the screen.
"Bearing drift?" Garcia asked as moved across the bridge himself.
"Uh, constant," the Third Mate answered.
A second later Francois added, "I agree. Little to no drift."
Gracia grimaced, if whatever was out there held a constant bearing and had a decreasing range, then it was on a closing course with the Star. There were few things that could ruin their day worse than a collision.
"Warship?" Garcia asked, peering at the electronic chart display. "There are no transponders that way."
"The only warships I know of are to our south, about fifteen miles," Francois said.
"If it's the same two I saw before it got dark, then it's one US destroyer and a Chinese destroyer," LeMasters said, joining the conversation. "You thinking trouble?"
"I don't know," Garcia muttered, while idly drumming his fingers against the console. "It may be nothing, but our conversation earlier has me worried. Chief. Why don't you go find our friends, the contractors and bring them up to the pilothouse."
"Pirates?" LeMasters asked, disbelief evident in his voice. "Here?"
"I don't know what I'm thinking," Garcia replied. "But I know it's not anything good. Go below and have our friends with the rifles join us."
"Aye, skipper," LeMasters replied then pantomimed a salute.
"Lookout, come with me," Garcia barked, then he practically sprinted towards the port bridge wing. Wind and rain lashed at his face but he tried his best to ignore them. For Garcia, the only thing that mattered was the dark sea around him and the battered pair of binoculars hanging around his neck. He scanned the horizon several times looking for any signs of another ship, but found nothing. He was about to call it a false alarm, merely a radar ghost when the Lookout began shouting and pointing.
It only took Garcia a moment to spot it, however it took him almost a minute to recognize it. A thin trail of phosphorescent bubbles that were pointed straight as an arrow towards his ship. He had never seen this in person before, but he had read enough history to know what that was. The exhaust trail of a torpedo, an old torpedo. The kind that was fueled by steam and alcohol and guided mainly by skill and luck. He said nothing, instead running back towards the bridge hoping that there was enough time.
He had just thrown open the door, when the entire ship lurched. The men in the pilothouse were thrown off their feet amongst the noise of books, pens, and cups falling all around them. It felt as if a giant hand had slapped the port side.
"What the fuck was that," LeMasters shouted. "Did we hit something?"
"No," Garcia replied, then pointed a suddenly shaking hand at the bridge window. Five sets of eyes followed his raised hand just in time to see a massive column of water dimly lit by the Star's running lights. It hung motionless above the deck for several heartbeats before gravity pulled it down to crash against the ship.
"Was that a mine?" Francois asked a note of fear rising noticeably in his voice.
"Torpedo," Garcia replied, swallowing hard to calm his suddenly shaky voice. "I saw the trail."
"Who the fuck would be dumb enough to shoot a torpedo at a floating bomb like this tub," LeMasters spat. Garcia was raising his voice to reply when the lights, screens, and gauges in the pilothouse suddenly snapped off. Then, a second later, the familiar rumble of the Star's engine faded out, leaving the ship shrouded in an eerie silence.
"Whatever that was," Francois spoke up, completely unable to hide his wavering voice now. "It hit us aft. Right near the engine room."
"Chief," Garcia barked, his voice growing firmer now that he knew what they had to do. "Go find the Engineer or one of his Mates. Then put a damage control detail together. We may have flooding below." LeMasters didn't reply, instead giving Garcia a quick nod before he disappeared through the aft door into the darkened corridor beyond.
"Someone find that mystery contact," Garcia said to the other men standing in the pilothouse. "I think it's safe to say that there is something out there after all."
"Aye, skipper," the Third Mate shouted before scrambling to the window.
Garcia didn't wait for an answer, instead he grabbed the bridge to bridge. The radio had its own battery backup and was just about the only thing in the pilothouse still illuminated. Taking a breath, he spoke the words he never wanted to say, "Mayday mayday mayday, this is the Tanker Houston Star. We are…"
Garcia never saw the orange glow of the shell. The only indication he got that things had taken another turn for the worst was a sudden panicked shout from the Able Seaman who still had his binoculars pointed out the window. A fraction of a second later the bridge was rocked by a sharp crack as burning fragments whizzed through the space throwing everything into disarray. The last thing Garcia perceived before everything went dark, was the sharp noise of shattering glass.
A Z-9D
The helicopter sped through the moonless night. Its black painted fuselage was nearly invisible against the low hanging clouds. The only thing indicating its presence was the flashing red anti-collision light mounted on its tail. Lieutenant Xue Fong would have preferred to make the flight tonight without the lights giving his position away, but military aircraft were still subject to civilian air traffic regulations, at least during times of peace. Fong was flying his aircraft at one hundred fifty knots, barely one thousand feet above the darkened sea. He could have flown much lower and faster, but the last time he had done that had resulted in a tongue lashing from his captain. There were far too few aircraft in the People's Liberation Army Navy and even fewer pilots to fly them, or words to that effect.
The Z-9 was an old design. A somewhat licensed copy of the French Dauphin, it had first entered Chinese service in the late 90's, receiving various updates through the years as technology advanced. But the base airframe still had two turbines driving a three bladed rotor and the distinctive ducted tail rotor. Fong's Delta variant was the preferred airframe of the Chinese Naval service, serving double duty as both a light utility helicopter and an anti-submarine warfare platform. The anti-submarine mission was why they were flying tonight.
Fong had lifted from the deck of his Type 052D destroyer about thirty minutes prior loaded down with sonobuoys. A single ASW torpedo was slung from the helicopter's port pylon, while an extra fuel tank hung from the starboard. No one knew if there was actually an American submarine lurking in the area, but the intel officer claimed that there was. Fong wouldn't be shocked if that damned flunky wasn't just making up reports, again. It didn't matter anyway. He would still fly a search pattern, dropping buoys at specified intervals, while the sensor operator in the back poured over sonar data. Maybe they found a submarine and maybe they didn't, it didn't really matter to Fong. His only concern was having to fly back to the destroyer in an hour for gas, and land on a tiny, pitching deck with only night vision and a signalman to guide him in. He loved every minute he got to spend in the air, but landing on a ship at night still made his knuckles go white.
They were about ten minutes from the first leg of the search pattern when the marine radio crackled in Fong's ear. "May… ayday… tank… ouston Star…" He couldn't make much out, but the call for Mayday was distinctive.
He turned to glance at the ensign flying as his copilot, "Did you get that?"
"Sounded like a mayday call. From something Star?" the junior man replied.
Fong nodded, he had heard the same. Keying the intercom, he said, "Sensor operator, do you have any transponders for a merchant vessel with the name Star?" The sensor operator seated behind the pilots could bring up all sorts of information on his screen, including the feed from the surface search radar mounted under the helicopter's nose and a feed showing all active AIS transponders in the area. There were several pieces of information required by law to be transmitted by a ship's transponder, but the most important for them at that moment was the ship's registered name.
"Sir, I have a contact about fifty miles away to the north. Name is Houston Star," the operator replied. A symbol flashed on the navigation display as the operator pushed the details.
"Very well," Fong replied then turned to his copilot. "I am diverting the aircraft to investigate. Any objections?"
"I have none, but what will the ship say?" the Ensign asked.
"What if we just don't tell them," Fong muttered.
"But, comrade Lieutenant, they are watching our sensor feeds."
"Fine," Fong grunted, then keyed the transmitter, "Home base, this is Helicopter one, we are diverting to investigate a possible mayday call. Bearing 355 relative thirty miles from my position."
"Received, wait for confirmation," came the terse reply, it was all the junior officer working helicopter direction was allowed to say.
"Understood," Fong replied, trying very hard not to scream. It would be at least another fifteen minutes before someone woke the party hack in command of the destroyer and got the okay to actually do something. "Ensign, I am going to start making my way toward the vessel in distress. If the ship comes back with different orders I will cancel and return."
"I concur," replied the copilot.
Fong reached over to the center console and clicked his headset over to marine channel 16, then spoke in English, "Motor Tanker Houston Star, this is Chinese Navy Helicopter inbound to your position. What is the nature of your emergency?" Leaning back, he switched back to Chinese, "Now let's see if we can make it through tonight without getting screamed at." The sudden beeping of the radar warning receiver provided a welcome distraction.
"Ah, we've been picked up by the Americans," announced the sensor operator. "Hits are consistent with a SPY-1 in track."
"Great, just great," said Fong, "Let me know if you get fire control hits. Maybe they'll leave us alone. One can only hope."
USS Fletcher (DDG-150)
East China Sea
The wardroom was empty when Lieutenant Junior Grade Samantha Wright pushed open the door. That made sense, it was nearly 0300 after all, and the mess attendants wouldn't start bringing up breakfast for another hour at least. At least someone had filled the coffee pot recently. She had been forced to refill it herself after finding it cold and stale on more than one occasion. It was either that or steal a cup from central control, but that was two decks down and what the engineers usually drank was best described as black sludge. With a shrug, she grabbed a protein bar out of the cabinet and filled a mug from the carafe. It wasn't much, but hopefully the snack would be enough to tide her over until the end of her watch. Three hours, she just had to make it three more hours. Then she could sleep, at least for a bit.
Wright stepped back into the passageway and grabbed her cover from one of the hooks lining the bulkhead. It was her yellow one, the one that had OOD embroidered across the back. With a breath, she walked to the ladderwell and made her way up two decks to the Fletcher's bridge. Stopping just past the airlock, she raised a hand in salute, "Request permission to enter the pilothouse?"
"Granted, Ma'am," BM2 Gray, the Boatswain's Mate of the Watch, unconsciously returned the salute.
There were no lights on in the pilothouse. With only the dim glow of the various consoles, it was hard to make out the watchstanders milling about. After a few seconds of letting her eyes adjust, Wright was able to make out the tall figure of Lieutenant Dan Carver standing at the front of the space. The Fletcher's Damage Control Assistant was hunched over the navigation radar, totally engrossed with whatever was being displayed on the green monochrome display. Wright slowly worked her way past the helm console and the bored looking helmsman. Stepping up next to Carver, she announced, "So, how we looking?"
Carver jerked up, then nodded when he saw who was standing next to him. "We'll we're going where no ship has been before, the engineering plant may or may not be on fire, and I think the XO wants to do a man overboard drill in five minutes." Carver was the current Officer of the Deck, and was looking forward to catching a few hours rest as soon as he turned the deck over to Wright.
"We're still in the steam box?"
"Yes, we are, in fact, still in the box," Carver said with a sigh. "You never let me have any fun, Sam."
"I wouldn't call man overboard drills at 0300 'Fun'," Wright said then stepped up to the console next to Carver. "What's up?"
"Well not MOB, that one was cannexed, something, something protected sleep," Carver said with a wave. "Chinese are still off the port quarter, big surprise there. We've got this box until 0600 tomorrow when we may or may not move to a different box twenty miles to the west. And the greater Taiwan fishing association appears to have parked themselves right in the middle of said box." Carver tapped the radar screen as he listed off every contact around the Fletcher, then pointed to the electronic chart display where a box had been drawn with a dashed, orange line. "Any questions?"
"Nope, sounds good. I relieve you," she said before raising her arm in salute.
"I stand relieved," Carver said, then raised his voice so the entire pilothouse could hear. "Attention in the pilothouse, this is Lieutenant Carver, Lieutenant Junior Grade Wright has the deck."
"This is JG Wright, I have the deck," Wright said, then listened as the helmsman reported the ship's current course and speed. Carver gave a quick nod, then stepped back to the Quartermaster to review the logs. A few minutes later he gave Wright a final nod before stepping off the bridge. Wright grabbed a pair of binoculars off the work table and walked back to the front of the space. After spending nearly a year underway, Samantha Wright had come to the conclusion that there were three types of watches. Boring ones, busy ones, and ones that started off boring until they suddenly weren't. Thankfully, it sounded like tonight would be a boring one. All she had to do was keep the ship inside an imaginary box while dodging fishing boats and a Luyang class destroyer.
Unfortunately, fate had other plans. The bridge to bridge radio suddenly crackled to life. "May… ayday…. moto… Houston… ar."
"Did you hear that?" Wright said, speaking to the entire bridge team.
Ensign Clearwater, her Junior Officer of the Deck, spoke up, "It sounded like a mayday from a Houston, something."
"Find who sent that," Wright said, pointing a finger toward the radar. She reached for the internal phone. "Combat, bridge we just heard what sounded like a mayday call over bridge to bridge. Did you hear anything down there."
The reply came quickly. Good, the surface coordinator was on top of it tonight, "Combat aye, we heard it, but it was to garbled to make out the point of origin. We're looking down here."
"Bridge aye," Wright replied, distracted by Clearwater waving his hand in her face.
"I've got it, merchant 330 at fifteen miles. Their transponder has them labeled as the Houston Star," the JOOD announced.
"Thanks," Wright replied then turned back to the phone. "Combat bridge, we've tentatively identified the ship in distress as the Houston Star. Request you have EOSS slew to 330."
"Combat," was the only reply before one of the screens mounted in the overhead shifted. The EOSS-a powerful camera mounted on top of the superstructure-panned over as the operator down in combat searched for the mystery ship. All eyes on the bridge looked up, transfixed on the scene as the Houston Star came into view. All Wright could make out was that it was a tanker, and while it appeared to be listing, there were no other apparent signs of distress.
She was reaching for the bridge to bridge handset when it suddenly crackled again. "Motor Tanker Houston Star, this is Chinese Navy helicopter inbound to your position. What is the nature of your emergency?"
Clearwater shot Wright a surprised look. "There was a Chinese helo up?"
"Apparently," she replied with a shrug. "I think the ship may be without power. Look, you can't see any navigation lights. That and the fact that they've said nothing since the first mayday call. Combat, request you shift to thermal."
"Looking for engine heat?"
"Exactly." The screen shifted again. The stricken ship was easier to make out now. The heat of its structure showed in sharp relief against the colder ocean around it. There was a slight glow under its superstructure where the engineering spaces should be, but it was dim and there was no haze of heat shimmering at the top of her stack. Whatever had happened, the ship was drifting, dead in the water.
Wright was startled when Clearwater swore, "Oh shit, that's not good."
"What?" she asked, confused.
"That's an LNG tanker, you can tell by the shape of the deck," the JOOD explained. "Look above her main deck."
The ship was utilitarian in her shape. A long hull with a tall superstructure aft, just like the majority of tankers Wright had seen. However, insead of a flat deck running the length of the ship, this one had a raised tank that was nearly as tall as her bridge structure. Interspersed along the tank at regular intervals, were growing black plumes. They roiled and floated like smoke from a campfire, before falling back to the ship's deck.
"Those are cold, much colder than the surrounding air," Clearwater continued. "Natural Gas has to be supercooled in order to remain in liquid form."
Realization dawned on Wright with a sudden force. "You think it's gas?"
"Her cryo plant is down, those have to be relief valves venting gas as it boils."
It took several long seconds before Wright was able to find her voice, "That is not a ship anymore, it's a floating bomb."
MT Houston Star
Ronald Garcia came back to consciousness slowly, and quickly realized that things had gone horribly wrong. The pilothouse was in shambles. Wires dangled loose from the overhead, and the deck was littered with shards of broken glass, amongst other things. The dark form of a body lay pinned under a structural member, and Garcia had no idea who it was. The space was pitch black and the only illumination came from a handful of emergency backups. The ship was also listing badly to port. He knew in his bones that his ship had been mortally wounded.
Garcia snapped his head around at the sound of someone banging on the aft door. A fallen conduit had jammed the access shut. It took quite a bit of effort before Garcia was able to pry it free, and he nearly fell on his ass when it suddenly gave way. The door banged open revealing LeMasters, his face streaked with grease and who knew what else. "Skipper?"
"I'm here," Garcia croaked. "Barely."
"Come on, we have to move," LeMasters said with urgency clear in his voice. "The engineering plant is gone, whatever hit us ripped a ten foot gouge in the side and we're filling up fast."
"The crew?" Garcia asked as he slowly shuffled towards one of the still forms lying on the deck.
"I've been grabbing everyone I can find, but pretty much everyone who was on watch below was gone. Concussion from whatever hit us," LeMasters said quietly.
Garcia nodded slowly, he had suspected as much. He leaned down next to the prone form of Francois. The Second Mate was breathing, but he had a large splotch of blood staining his face. "Help me with him." LeMasters nodded and reached down to hoist the still unconscious Second Mate up onto his shoulder. Garcia turned back to search the pilothouse for the rest of his crew. He found one body buried under a structural member, but it was clear that whoever it had been, was gone. He continued the frantic search, desperately trying to find more of his crew.
His body stiffened when LeMasters grabbed his shoulder. "Captain, we need to go."
"Right, right," Garcia muttered. He knew he should feel something, anger, grief, but instead he just felt numb. He turned to follow LeMasters off the bridge, but barely made it two feet before his traitorous legs gave out. LeMasters grabbed Garcia before he fell, pulling the man back to his feet with a grunt, while showing no signs of strain at the weight. They slowly made their way through the superstructure working their way aft towards where the Star's single lifeboat was held in its cradle.
Once the door to the weather deck opened, Garcia heard it. The deafening roar of escaping gas. He looked forward searching for the source, but the bulk of the Star's superstructure blocked his view of the forward deck. However, he didn't need to see it to know what was causing that sound. The thin streamers of white fog curling their way across the deck confirmed it. "We're venting gas," he had to shout to be heard over the din.
"I know," LeMasters shouted in reply. "I think the aft tank was ruptured. That and the loss of the cryo plant, the cargo's definitely boiling. I heard one of the relief valves pop before I got you."
"We need to get off now," Garcia replied in an urgent tone. "Before that gas finds a spark."
A Z-9D
"They're listing," Fong's copilot announced. "And are without power."
"Do you see any survivors?" Fong asked as he yanked on the cyclic. The helicopter bounced as he pulled the nose up, stopping their forward motion. Fong then brought it back and stomped on the anti-rotation pedal to swing them around, eventually bringing the aircraft into a hover above the tanker.
"A few, on the aft deck. I can pick out their heat," the copilot announced. He had his head down staring at the feed from the helicopter's infrared camera. Normally Fong would pull it up on his own screen, but keeping them steady close enough to render aid was tricky flying and required his full attention. "I think they're trying to abandon. Their lifeboat has not been deployed."
"Right," Fong grunted. "Home base, this is helicopter one. Vessel is in distress, we see crew onboard attempting to abandon. We are moving in to provide assistance. He didn't even wait for the response before leaning the aircraft on its side. They slid sideways working their way even closer. "Operator, get that winch out back there," Fong barked.
"Aye sir."
Fong was focused on keeping his aircraft steady, but nearly lost control when the copilot swore vehemently. "There's another ship."
"What do you mean another ship? I don't see anything," Fong growled as he fought to maintain control.
"It's not making much heat, but it showed up when we got closer. I think it's a warship."
"What?" Fong looked down at the camera feed now. All he could see was a dark form with only two small heat plumes to identify it. It was definitely moving towards the stricken tanker. "Fuck this," Fong swore. "Bastard wants to hide, hit it with the light." A second later the powerful spotlight mounted under their belly snapped on. What Fong saw caused him to freeze in shock.
It was a warship, the multitude of guns littering its deck proved that, but beyond that it was like nothing the Lieutenant had ever seen. It was obsidian black, so dark that it almost seemed to drink in the light. Almost like it wasn't actually a ship, but rather a ship shaped hole in the ocean. But above everything else, Fong was struck by a sudden feeling of wrongness, like whatever this was shouldn't exist. He was so transfixed by the sight, that he never heard the copilot's shout or saw one of guns raise without a single crewman to direct it and point directly at them.
He did see the stream of tracers a half second before the helicopter shook. Even with little warning, Fong reacted quickly, jerking the cyclic to the side in an attempt to slide out of the line of fire. Landing a hit on an aircraft from an unstabilized gun mount on a moving ship is always a difficult proposition. However, the Z-9 was in a hover and relatively motionless. Three rounds from the initial volley struck the helicopter's tail before Fong's evasive maneuver took them out of the line of fire. One put a hole in the skin before passing harmlessly out the other side. The second severed a secondary hydraulic line. The third, fatal round struck halfway down the number four blade of the tail rotor.
A millisecond later, the blade snapped in two, sending shards of aluminum and composite flying throughout the tail duct. One other blade was damaged and the control linkages were severed. That in itself would have produced a fatal loss of control, but things were far from over. The now unbalanced tail rotor began to vibrate violently, and barely two seconds later, the other blades snapped at their roots, tearing apart the tail. Without the force from the tail rotor to arrest the momentum generated by the main rotor, the helicopter began to spin out of control. Despite Fong's valiant efforts to restore control to his aircraft, there was nothing he could do. The Z-9 lurched sideways, then slipped onto its side. Falling towards the dark water below. In a final act of defiance, Fong keyed his radio, "Home base, helo one we are under attack and going down. Repeat we are under attack…" It was at that point when they ran out of altitude directly over the deck of the Houston Star.
USS Fletcher
After the fact, Wright had no idea if it was fate, providence, or luck that had led her out onto Fletcher's bridgewing. Things had calmed down somewhat after the first mayday call. Wright had called Captain Matthew Dover to report, but as soon as he heard the words mayday and LNG he had hung up. Two minutes later, he flew up the aft ladderwell wearing only trousers and a coyote t-shirt. He had pulled himself up into his chair and was currently embroiled in a conversation with the TAO down in combat about coordinating rescue efforts.
Whatever actions they would take, they had some time. The HSM-51 det 3 crew was working frantically back aft to preflight one of the two MH-60R helicopters, but it would be at least another half hour before it was ready to fly. Fletcher was seven miles away from the stricken tanker, and at twenty knots closure, she would be in range to launch a small boat within twenty minutes. Clearwater had things in hand in the pilothouse and the Captain had taken charge of directing things outside the skin of the ship when Wright decided to take a look for herself.
Even at seven miles, it was hard to make out details through the bridge windows with her binoculars. The big eyes mounted on the bridgewing provided a somewhat better view, but it was still hard to make things out through the darkness. Then the Chinese helicopter had swooped down through the clouds and shined a spotlight on the situation. By luck, she had the big eyes pointed at exactly the right spot to see it lit up. She had no idea there was a second ship out there. Neither the Fletcher's radar or the EOSS had detected its presence. But there it was, brightly lit for all to see. Wright's hands began to shake as an icy chill ran down her spine. Whatever that thing was, it wasn't natural, it wasn't right. It looked like a destroyer, an old destroyer. The type of ship that had sailed back when the most dangerous thing on the seas were battleships and opponents had to see their targets in order to kill them. However, that was where the similarities ended. It was coal black and almost seemed to shimmer under the light, like sunlight reflecting off an oil slick. There were no people visible on its deck and yet it seemed to move with a singular, deadly purpose.
A stream of pulsating red sparks rise from the ship arcing off into the darkness. Wright feels herself gripped by a sudden, intense feeling of deja vu. Those were tracers from an anti-aircraft mount. Despite never having seen one before, she knew that. Why did she know that? A fragment of a memory flashed into her head. It was a dark and humid night. Gunfire and explosions strobed in the distance, but she couldn't remember who was shooting or where exactly it was. Instead, she was gripped simultaneously by feelings of dread and grim acceptance as she charged towards the guns. Her friend was hurt, she had to… had to.
The sudden flash snapped her back to reality. The tracer fire had sparked off of something, exploding high in the air. There was no explosion, no indication that the Chinese Helicopter had been hit, but the spotlight disappeared and then she could make out something falling. As Wright looked on in horror, a snap of light flared Houston Star's foredeck. The quick fireball only lasted for a brief second before it was engulfed in a massive column of flame. Faster than she could process, the fireball grew before disappearing in a brilliant flash as the motor tanker Houston Star detonated. The black ship was framed by the light for a split second before it was consumed by the fireball. Two seconds later the shockwave rumbled overhead carrying enough force to crack one of the destroyer's windows. Soon the only indication that there had been a ship there moments before were scattered fires casting eerie shadows against shattered pieces of stood frozen, her knuckles white as she gripped the handles of the big eyes.
"OOD," Clearwater's call broke her stupor. "The Captain wants you."
She nodded silently trying desperately to process what she had just seen. Clearwater disappeared back through the door, leaving Wright alone for a moment. She turned to walk back when she saw her, a tall figure wearing a gray blouse and a red skirt. Someone that Wright had never seen before, and they had been underway long enough that Wright was fairly confident she could at least recognize everyone onboard, but this girl was completely unknown.
"Who the hell are you?" Wright barked more out of surprise than anger. Wright had no idea if she made a response because after jerking in surprise, she vanished into thin air, leaving Wright alone once more. The flash of distant memory suddenly came back as she looked out and caught sight of the burning tanker. The column of fire rising into the night. The sudden appearance and disappearance of the mystery woman. Somehow she had seen all of this before, but she just couldn't seem to figure out why. With a grunt she shook her head vigorously. She was still on watch after all, and she still had a lot to do. Wright bounded back into the pilothouse in a single stride, trying her best to ignore the eerie red glow being cast through the bridge windows.
A/N: Well, here we go again. After five years of coming up with ideas, writing half a chapter, and then scrapping it; I finally managed to work through my writer's block. As it turns out, all I needed was a boring night CIC watch with nothing to do but jot ideas into a notebook.
Semi-regular updates to follow, however I will be delayed for a few weeks while I work on PCSing out of Japan, and all the fun paperwork that entails.