A huge rusty trawler chugged slowly across the open ocean. It ran low in the water as if carrying an impossibly heavy cargo. The bridge was well lit and a single man stood at the wheel. Lights were mounted to shine down on the deck but most were either out or flickering, clearly on their last legs. The entire rusty heap stank of neglect. Pale moonlight did nothing to improve matters. Faded paint on the bow read “Brezhnev” matched with a faded Russian Federation flag flying on the stern.
A pair of twin one-man helicopters skimmed across the ocean bearing down on the trespassing ship. Its course remained unchanged. The pilots, new recruits calling themselves Lars and Snorii, allowed themselves the moment of triumph to wash over them, smiling behind armoured plastic canopies.
Lars commented on a secure channel that the trawler looked like a fat aging whale, while they were sleek sharks moving in for the kill. His wing man’s laughter was cut short in a squeal of static. The Lars slammed his fist against the control panel cussing at the American mechanic and his lack of skill.
Neither pilot saw fibreglass panels fall away from the sides of the trawler to reveal launch tubes. Neither did they notice the flickering deck lights dowse themselves and dark shape move up out of cargo bay doors that moved with a fluid swiftness that belied their apparent neglect.
The attack pattern replicated itself as it had the last time: Snorri took his chopper and went high, while Lars hugged the ocean. Rockets were launched and answering fire leaped from the deck of the trawler. Twin flares of light illuminated the inky seas as both rockets from the choppers were harmlessly destroyed while in the air.
A second attack run, and Snorri fired both of his remaining rockets to take out the bridge. One was taken down by the trawler’s missile defense system. The other scored a hit low down on the bridge superstructure. The detonation blew out glass to reveal an empty room, and video projector which projected a beam of flickering light out over the deck suddenly illuminating a hi-tech gun array tracking his chopper’s movement.
Lars wasn’t so lucky. He banked his aircraft after the first rocket attack failed, intending to make a second run. The launch tube flashed and a light on his instrument board began angrily flashing and screaming a warning. The leisurely bank turned into a flight for his life as the heat-seeking missile closed swiftly.
The last thing Lars saw was the flash of high calibre gunfire mixed with tracer rounds eminating from the deck of the ship, and Snorri’s chopper falling out of the air like a stunned baby bird.
Fire control and secondary bridge of the Brezhnev was located below decks. The room was modelled on a submarine bridge with dim lighting allowing the black uniformed crewmen to read instruments.
“Report.” an American voice barked.
“Two birds down, sir Minimal, cosmetic, damage to decoy bridge.”
“Did they radio in?”
“No sir, radio jamming blanketed the entire spectrum.”
“Good work. Stay alert and be on the lookout for our primary target now their guard is down.”
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