Chapter 51: Cataclysm (1)
'.50 cal rounds aren't exactly in unlimited supply.'
Gathering every last one he could find in the cabin, Cheol-woo clicked his tongue. They were big, heavy bastards, so he hadn't ordered a ton back in Korea to begin with. He'd figured most of them would go for sniping anyway—never dreamed he'd be chewing through them with a machine gun like this.
Cheol-woo yanked all the rounds out of the Barrett magazines and shoved them at Yuri.
"What? Why? What am I supposed to do with these?"
"See these metal links? You cross-thread them one by one and slot the rounds in like this. Makes a belt feed."
"Uh, okay. And?"
"Pack about fifty in there, and you've got one belt. Just make me two. Right now."
"What? A hundred rounds?"
"Hurry. We're in a pinch."
Cheol-woo dumped the .50 cal rounds and links in front of Yuri in a clattering heap, slung the incendiary belt over his shoulder, and headed up to the deck.
The fishing boats, spread out in a loose encirclement before, were now packed tight like a rugby scrum, closing in.
Each one was a puny dinghy on its own, but clustered like this, they had the mass of a decent freighter. If that bulk slammed into the yacht? Firepower gap or no, they'd be swimming with the fishes for sure.
"Unidentified fishing vessels, reduce speed. Fire if you don't comply."
[...]
"Fuck this shit. Not even a warship, and I gotta warn 'em?"
After yelling into the radio a few times, Cheol-woo gave up. What the hell was he even doing? They'd come picking the fight first, hadn't they? If they meant no harm, they should've explained themselves—and sure as hell not given any reason for misunderstandings.
Distance closing to about a nautical mile now. Drag it out much longer, and they'd be in rifle range.
Cheol-woo ground his teeth, loaded the incendiary belt, and yanked the charging lever.
"Die, you fucks."
Thud-thud-thud-thud—
The M2 Browning belched flame, a searing red tracer stream lancing forward.
Arcing in straight parabolas, the incendiary tracers slammed into the fishing boats.
Crack-crack-crack!
Splinters flew as one boat turned into Swiss cheese in seconds, soon followed by the ones flanking it shredding apart.
But the scrum charged on undeterred, no drop in speed. A busted rudder or two on a couple boats? No big loss.
Cheol-woo emptied the hundred-round belt and let out a ragged breath.
"Any second now..."
From what he'd seen up close flying from Korea to Hong Kong, these fishing boats were mostly wood. Which meant they burned hot once lit.
So what happens when a hundred-plus incendiaries punch into a packed wooden flotilla?
Flames flickered to life one by one in the cluster, answering his question loud and clear.
"Burns like a motherfucker."
What started as small sparks spread uncontrollably in moments, engulfing the boats. Even the unscathed ones caught fire from the spread.
The boats hurriedly broke scrum, peeling away—but most were already hellscapes of flame.
"They're still charging like that...?"
Yet on they came, bows straight at the yacht, no turn away. Flames cloaking them head to toe, men visible to the naked eye clambering up with tools, ready to board.
Cheol-woo whipped around—and there was Yuri, hauling up belts slung over her shoulders.
"Cheol-woo! Belts are done!"
"Good job. Gimme."
These were sniper rounds pieced together—all armor-piercing. He fed the belt into the M2, charged it, and squeezed the trigger.
The gun roared anew, .50 cal AP rounds thundering out.
Targeting hulls where they kissed the sea. No tracers to track, but Cheol-woo had the ballistic arc memorized cold.
Crack-crack-crack!
AP rounds riddled keels with fist-sized holes; boats slowed, listing as water poured in.
Belt spent, gun fell silent.
No—ten minutes slaving over those belts, gone in ten seconds flat?
Yuri's face hardened.
One person to load, another to shoot. Division of labor.
"Sis. Prep for close quarters."
"Ugh..."
Eight boats fully gutted and adrift. Four holed and sinking. A dozen-plus still closing amid flames.
Plenty left, but scrum broken—no more ramming threat. Melee might save ammo and simplify things.
'Finally got my yacht, don't wanna scratch her up...'
But he hated dings on his prize ride. Better to engage at range if possible.
Why conserve? Once in Aussie ports, they'd confiscate all weapons anyway, force him to sell. Might as well burn through 'em.
"Lower sails. Sis, hit the deck."
"Move. I'll do it."
Hull was armored, no sweat—but sails weren't. Protect those.
Sails down, and rifle fire erupted from all sides.
Cheol-woo prone on deck, MGL grenade launcher ready, waiting for boats to close.
Close enough to lock eyes with the lead boat's captain—boom, he triggered 40mm grenades in rapid pops.
Direct hits: WHUMP! Lead boat bisected in a blast. Follow-ups shredded next, bows vaporized, sinking fast.
"Reloading. Cover me."
"Got it!"
As Cheol-woo dumped the mag and reloaded, NewTontonMan stepped in front, shielding him. Bullets thudded harmlessly off the suit.
Then grapples flew from astern, snagging the rail; thugs swarmed up the ropes.
"Raaagh!"
One slash from Yuri severed every line; screams as boarders plunged into the sea.
Reload done, Cheol-woo hosed nearby boats with grenades—direct hits pulped thugs, gore spraying everywhere.
"Don't let 'em ram! No fires on the yacht!"
Boats reduced to wreckage, Cheol-woo cranked the throttle, gripped the wheel.
No boat fires—especially not the sails!
A flaming boat bore down on the stern; Yuri's pupils quivered.
This speed? No dodge. Collision wrecks engine and rudder.
"Nngh!"
Decision instant: Yuri hurled herself forward.
Just before impact, NewTontonMan's leg extended, absorbing the crash with her body. Grunting with effort, she shoved the inferno aside; yacht surged ahead.
Cheol-woo wove through floating debris like a demon, zigzagging clear.
Only when wreckage faded to haze did they exhale, tension draining.
"Haa... We lived."
"Thought the boat was toast..."
Truly insane? Even hardcore fishermen scatter under machine-gun fire. Charging while burning alive for mutual destruction? What the fuck?
Pirating every outbound ship on orders? Fucking creepy bastards anyway.
No more tangling with the Chinese—ever. Cheol-woo vowed through gritted teeth.
"Really over now?"
"Yeah."
"Hold my hand. Still shaking."
"It's done. Relax."
"What we do in Oz?"
"Dunno. Secure a place first. Got cash—someplace remote but livable..."
"Remote?"
"..."
"Cheol-woo?"
"Sis. Hold up. Look at the sky."
Tension snapped back into his voice; Yuri dreaded glancing up. Drones now?
Steeling herself, she looked—and her jaw dropped.
"What the...?"
A sight beyond Cheol-woo and Yuri's comprehension unfolded overhead.
"It's open...!"
Rumble-rumble—
Seal broken, lab bulkhead slid aside.
Ah! How many hours had Han Si-yeon waited for this? She let out an involuntary cheer, rushing inside.
Target: virus samples. Humanity's worst—the kind that made COVID look like a toy.
China already a powder keg inside and out. Leak this research? Game over.
Unless the Party caved to her demands, they'd never risk finding out.
'Don't need anything else. Just my CEO seat back.'
All the bombings, missiles, assassins to kill her? Forgotten clean slate.
No joke—dead serious. What could she do if they didn't? Han had no fight left in her against the Party, no guts or will.
Grant her one humble dream, and things reset to normal.
Clutching that hope, she threw open the lab door—and froze.
"What the hell...?"
Smashed sample vials. Biohazard klaxons blaring nonstop.
Didn't take long to piece it together.
Han pawed desperately through shattered glass barehanded for intact vials—nothing.
"No... No! They have to be here! They have to...!"
All samples broken, leaked out. Nothing left?
Scanning frantically, her eyes caught a blood-smeared note.
"Ah...!"
'All samples destroyed'—a despairing groan escaped her lips.
No virus left? Researchers' corpses looked a month dead at least; hosts gone, virus died off long ago.
So she'd chased ghosts, split from Min Cheol-woo for nothing?
"Aaaargh!!!"
Rage boiled over; she screamed till her throat burned. No relief.
But couldn't stay forever. Han wiped tears with bloody hands, stood.
"Gotta run. Recipe alone's a win..."
Virus would've sealed it, but recipe could still bargain with the Party.
Grab it, escape clean. Sure, no greed for virus meant Cheol-woo's escort out safe—but water under the bridge.
Shoving 'what ifs' down, she fled via emergency passage.
"Hngh!"
Scaling sheer cliff slow—foot slipped, tumbling down. Rolled till slamming into something; stopped.
Sensing nearby presence, Han lurched up fast. Leg snapped somewhere, head gashed and bleeding—but no stopping.
Chinese shouts closing from behind.
"Please... please...!"
If God existed, listening? Grant a miracle? Maybe Min Cheol-woo bursts from bushes, wipes pursuers?
Clutching that last hope, she crashed through foliage—and a sheer drop loomed.
No surviving this cliff. Pain stabbed her broken leg; she collapsed in place.
"Ah..."
"Found her! There!"
"Han Si-yeon?"
"Looks like."
"Orders say shoot on sight. What now?"
"Capture if no resistance."
Troops swarmed, encircling her instantly. Photo match: face confirmed.
As they moved to bind her arms, they noticed her stare fixed skyward, dazed. Eyes followed.
One by one, soldiers gawked upward, jaws slack.
"What the fuck is that...?"
Rumble-CRACK!
Eerie roar as sky fissured, splitting wide.
Beyond comprehension—sanity snapped.
Fissure yawned into a massive maw overhead.
From within, pitch-black dust rained like snow.
Bright day turned midnight dark.
"Ahahaha!"
Troops frozen—Han burst into mad laughter.
Recipe drive in her hand crunched to shards.
Useless junk now.