Rebel Fragrance (3)
Unlike the gray-painted patrol ship Ruzhuo, the white Italian-built hull of the armed passenger liner gleamed starkly under the hazy moonlight.
"BeckLux, come in. Advance to a distance where you can provide mutual covering fire with the forward patrol ship, at the command center's discretion. Subsequent engagement is at your autonomy. Helicopter squadron, aircraft two and below will now operate under BeckLux command until further notice, alternating refueling as opportunities arise."
No sooner had my orders hit the radio than BeckLux cranked her engines to maximum output. Her razor-sharp prow sliced through the murky black waves like a knife.
As always, it was Suyeon—my de facto number two—running the armed passenger liner's command center. She'd been receiving real-time console data from our side, so her situational assessment was long done.
BeckLux wasn't a proper warship, but her bunker-level refit made her excel in irregular engagements like this—better than any conventional combat vessel. Modern naval guns were optimized for ship-on-ship duels, after all. And in terms of displacement, the liner outclassed the patrol boat anyway.
The patrol ship Ruzhuo threw her engines into reverse, braking hard. At the same time, she nudged her bow slightly to port, opening up her firing arc on the broadside. She needed to maximize her weapon employment.
Spotting this, BeckLux veered starboard to claim the optimal position. Her friendly status had been broadcast well in advance. Officially, she was registered as a civilian armed vessel requisitioned by the Guangzhou Public Security Bureau.
By the time BeckLux reached her station and came about, the chopper I was riding had sealed off the downstream prong of the Black Sea Party's bifurcated assault. We aimed to inflict maximum casualties before their boat flotilla could spill out of the narrow channel.
Vrooooom!
The thunderous roar of nearly four hundred Black Sea Party motorboats—combined from both flanks—drowned out even a bike gang charge. The black currents churned into frothing white foam.
These boats carried anywhere from two to eight men apiece, and the lead elements were pushing past fifty knots—nearly a hundred kilometers per hour. Feints or not, they were a potent threat that could turn main assault at any moment.
The goons aboard pointed up at me in the sky, faces twisted in panic. Our sudden chopper arrival must've been off-script. Their plan was probably to down a bunch with MANPADS and sweep the air clean of police gunships.
I braced myself on the unsteady skid with telekinesis, hoisting a heavy machine gun setup weighing over thirty kilos with drum magazine included. This beast spat grenades stronger than hand-throwers at four or five rounds per second.
Thud-thud-thud!Thud-thud-thud-thud!
The firing bark was nothing like a standard heavy MG. One hand gripped the carry handle, the other clamped the trigger group as I hosed them down unilaterally. The thunderous barrage sent water spouts marching in sequence across a dozen meters, throwing their formation into utter chaos.
One grenade slipped through and slammed into a boat stacked with rocket crates.
BOOM-BOOM!
The shockwave rippled across the river, flashing every wavelet sunset-orange. A gunner hits what he aims at. Already wallowing from evasive maneuvers, several boats capsized in the blast. They cartwheeled dozens of meters on momentum alone, a spectacular show.
The chain-reaction collisions flipped more like skipping stones. Exactly the best-case blockade I'd hoped for, holding the narrow channel solo with the big gun.
"Reload!"
The drum ran dry in seconds—a shame. While I telekinetically swapped it out, Kyung-tae covered the lull on the grenade MG mount.
Boom-boom! Tracer streams like shooting stars. Muzzle flashes and glowing trajectories reflected off the water, turning normal vision psychedelic.
Clack, rattle.
The fresh drum fed a long belt of grenades snaking into the chamber on its own. I telekinetically slammed the cover, racked the charging handle—reload done in under two breaths.
"Damn rats! I'll kill you all!"
The enraged bellow pierced even the rotor wash—an Awakened's lung power. Kyung-tae bellowed a warning.
"Hyungnim! Multiple RPGs (anti-tank rockets)!"
"Got it!"
Too many targets for instant reaction. Amid the small-arms blizzard—hundreds of rounds per minute—seven rockets streaked skyward. I instantly expanded my telekinesis incantation's projection range, nudging their unguided trajectories off-axis.
Invisible pressure from fifty meters out warped their paths wildly. The shrieking winds would fool anyone into blaming the breeze.
'Even Farah Aidid needed over a hundred shots to score two hits.'
Farah Aidid was the Somali warlord who'd beaten the U.S. military. He'd emptied nearly his entire rocket stock to bag two helos, forcing the Americans into horrific sacrifices to rescue the survivors. Underestimating the enemy had bitten them hard.
"Reload!"
Now Kyung-tae's drum was empty. I resumed hosing with the grenade MG while blindly shoving an unopened heavy MG drum his way. Effectively, I was doing the work of three: grenadier, assistant grenadier, and heavy MG ammo bearer.
No spell shield could quantify the manpower edge on a helo. Matching the boat charge speed while blasting away, we soon neared the mouth spilling into the broad river.
I banked hard, positioning so the boat assault and upstream patrol ship were both in view. Now the upstream fight had kicked off. Cannon roars echoed—far beyond handheld firepower.
These were autocannons spitting shells the width of a man's thumb index finger. Lead boats from their flotilla shattered one per second.
On our end, the boats finally burst from the narrows—battered, but still a handful. Another drum empty, I reloaded the third time, scanned wide toward the patrol ship and BeckLux, then radioed a heads-up.
"BeckLux, heads up! Large enemy force approaching from south shore! Brace for thunderclap cannon barrage!"
As the fresh belt unspooled with a ratchet, comparable thunder erupted haphazardly from the south bank upstream. The peasant rebels' drum-barrel guns—the thunderclap cannons—were back, fresh from their long detour evading the water buffalo rampage.
The trailing helo squadron reacted, but sheer numbers made suppression impossible. The barrage curved in from cover, hammering the patrol ship and her police boats. A shotgun storm of gravel and scrap.
Not enough to sink hulls, but perfect for smashing exposed antennas, sensors, and optics. Fire control systems included.
Sure enough, after a tens-of-seconds drumming that sparked off the decks, the patrol ship's cannon fire cut out like a lie. Over half their upstream boats still floated.
'Their coordination sucks.'
If I were Black Sea Party command, I'd have held the boats till the thunderclap guns arrived. Less likely they were idiots; more probable frontline SNAFU from a botched plan.
Proof: Properly armed grunts now showed on the south shore, in sequence. Automated fire control would've shredded them horizontally.
Meanwhile, BeckLux had barely skirted the barrage zone. Suyeon, planted on the bridge, hadn't ordered fire yet—and she passed for a pleasure cruiser at a glance, no target priority.
That let her ambush the exposed shore force. Smart foresight, waiting without a heads-up. Exactly what I'd expected when delegating autonomy. The baseline.
"Fire!"
The curt radio command barked. Savage salvos erupted from porthole gunports. Twelve heavy MGs per side outgunned the patrol ship's close range alone. Add handheld rockets and recoilless rifles? No contest.
Backblast accommodations let them fire even in tight confines—like an old ship-of-the-line broadside. AP rounds shredded armor; thermobarics pulped guts with overpressure. The south shore force dissolved into routed rabble in under ten seconds.
Even as Kyung-tae, boat-hunting, side-eyed the shore massacre in awe.
"Whoa—sister's got it! Hot damn, hot damn!"
His pinpoint fire wrecked boats regardless. Boom-boom-boom! Every three-to-four burst claimed one: engines gutted, fuel tanks blooming fire, cockpits painted red.
Even as the survivors into the broad channel jinked full-tilt evading.
Shreeek!
Sporadic rockets flew wilder now—fired from pitching decks dulled their aim. The initial shotgun-rage small arms had lost steam too. Morale cratered from the carnage.
'Leave an escape route?'
From this downstream vantage, the westbound boats felt less assault, more fleeing my bird. Accelerate ahead, and they'd likely scatter, aborting attack. No time for ifs—the patrol ship teetered on being overrun by coke-fueled berserkers.
I acted instantly.
"Reload!"
Practice speeds this up. Drum swap, belt seated, bolt racked—one breath. Magic's gift birthing more magic.
"Reload!"
The heavy MG, spitting brass like mad, timed out too. Covering Kyung-tae's swap, I dumped a full drum in one burst. Water spouts marched; every boat in the kill zone spasmed into turns.
Three flipped from sharp banks or spout collisions. None looped back from the successful evaders. Onlookers fragmented witnessing the retreat.
Kyung-tae's fire split them fore and aft. The assault lost all fight.
But upstream matters worsened.
Boom-boom-boom-boom-boom!
The patrol ship, switched to manual aim, hosed shells maniacally. Two rounds per second. I scowled fiercely.
"Those idiots...!"
Looks overwhelming, but it was panic—or brainless—gunners mag-dumping. Where was the gunnery officer? Even aimed shots were iffy; this just burned ammo.
Worse: overheating. Thirty seconds in? Cannon silenced again. Safety cutoff. My Golden Age's Eye pierced the barrel's heat glow clearly.
Chinese knockoff Russian guns—I knew the originals' limits. That turret was benched for half an hour.