Chapter 27 A Deadly Weapon Right Under Your Nose

After departing the Southeast Asian port, the modified medium-sized freighter did not immediately head at full speed toward its final destination.

Like an experienced old hunter, it patiently circled the high seas several times. Only after repeatedly confirming there were no suspicious tracking vessels on its route did it turn its bow overnight on the third night, plunging into one of the world's busiest and most complex waterways—the Strait of Malacca.

Under the cover of night, the Strait of Malacca was teeming with ten-thousand-ton giants, like a flowing city. Merchant ships, oil tankers, and freighters from various countries converged here, and the light spots on the radar screen were dense, resembling a crowded galaxy.

This inconspicuous freighter blended into the mix, like a leaf in a forest, completely unremarkable.

It sailed unhurriedly, strictly adhering to international maritime regulations and maintaining a safe distance from surrounding vessels. It was not until midnight, when it reached a specific coordinate in the middle of the strait—where radar signals were already prone to numerous blind spots due to complex terrain and ocean currents—that it began to quietly slow down.

On its route, a ten-thousand-ton ocean-going freighter flying the flag of a small African nation, with legitimate shipping records, had already extinguished most of its deck lights and was waiting quietly.

The two ships did not engage in any radio communication, simply approaching each other slowly in an extremely tacit manner. The captains were both experienced veterans; they precisely calculated ocean currents and wind speeds. Ultimately, on the high seas, the two ships completed a nearly perfect side-by-side docking, with their hulls separated by no more than a few meters, the waves stirred up not even wetting the other's deck.

The night was the best cover, and the vessels constantly passing by became their perfect backdrop.

The transfer operation began immediately.

The crew of the medium-sized freighter nimbly lifted the camouflage tarpaulin on the cargo hold, revealing the containers stamped with Li Family Toy Factory. The ship's crane was activated, and amidst the low drone of engines, the containers were lifted one by one, crossing the pitch-black sea between the two ships, and lowered into the cargo hold deep within the hull of the ten-thousand-ton giant, which had already been prepared.

The entire process was tense and efficient.

However, they did not know that less than five nautical miles away, a grey behemoth was silently cutting through the surface of the sea.

It was an Arleigh Burke-class guided-missile destroyer belonging to the Ugly Country Navy's Seventh Fleet.

...

The USS Connors, Combat Information Center (CIC).

This was the brain of the entire warship, filled with the low humming sound peculiar to electronic equipment in operation. The ghostly blue radar screens and tactical displays cast a cold light on the faces of every duty officer.

The radar petty officer, a young Black man named Tom, was staring at his screen with some boredom. They had been patrolling these waters for several days, and aside from tailing the movements of an Eastern Country submarine, the days had been utterly dull.

Suddenly, he noticed two light spots very close together at the edge of the screen that were somewhat unusual. Their relative positions barely changed, which was a very rare occurrence in the busy shipping lanes of the Strait of Malacca.

"Commander, anomaly detected in Sector B-7. Two civilian vessels are suspiciously sailing parallel at sea with very low speed; it is suspected they are conducting a cargo transfer." Following standard procedure, he immediately reported to his direct superior, Duty Captain Hank.

Duty Captain Hank, a white officer in his thirties, walked over lazily, holding a steaming cup of coffee. He glanced at the screen, skillfully operated the console a few times, and pulled up the AIS (Automatic Identification System) information for both ships.

"A Panamanian freighter and a Liberian freighter, both in the public shipping lane, moving very slowly." Hank looked at the data and curled his lip dismissively. "Smugglers again. Cigarettes, diesel, or some other junk. This kind of thing happens every night in this area, Tom; you're overreacting."

He had absolutely no interest in such trivial matters. Their warship was meant for deterring major powers and maintaining hegemony, not for catching petty thieves.

Just then, the Commander of the CIC, the Captain of the destroyer—a man with graying hair and a stern expression—spoke up: "Hank, any new developments with the Chinese's fish?"

The Captain's attention was entirely focused on that red strategic target in another area of the sea.

"Report, Commander, the target is currently very quiet, maintaining its submerged depth, and its course has not changed. Our sonar department is continuing to track it." Hank immediately stood at attention and replied.

"Very good, continue monitoring." The Captain said without looking up; to him, this was the core of this patrol mission.

Hank turned back, preparing to tell the radar operator to ignore the two petty thieves and stop wasting everyone's time with such trifles.

However, the lookout on the bridge reported the same situation again via the internal communication channel at this moment.

"CIC, this is the bridge lookout. Visual confirmation, bearing 3-1-5, distance approximately 4.8 nautical miles. Two freighters are conducting an overnight maritime transfer. The operation is very professional, and the transfer speed is fast."

Hank frowned. Although he thought it was a minor matter, since the lookout had confirmed it, he had to handle it according to protocol.

He reported to the Captain again: "Commander, the lookout has also confirmed the activity of those two smuggling ships. Do we need to launch a Seahawk helicopter to go over and issue a warning to disperse them?"

The Captain finally looked up from the nautical chart. He glanced at the two light spots huddled together on the screen, his face showing a hint of impatience and undisguised arrogance.

"Hank, I'll repeat myself: Our mission is to monitor the strategic movements of the Eastern Country navy, not to act as babysitters for the coast guard in this region. There are more smugglers in Malacca than fish in the sea; we can't manage them all, and there's no need to."

He waved his hand and issued the order.

"Our Seahawk is for hunting submarines; its fuel and the pilot's energy are more valuable than the lives of those smugglers. Record their course and ship numbers, pass this report to the joint patrol team in Xingzhou, and let them deal with the headache. We are not intervening."

"Yes, Commander!" Hank immediately acknowledged the order.

The order was quickly relayed down.

On the bridge, the sailor in charge of the lookout looked through high-powered binoculars and watched as the two ships, having completed some kind of transfer, quickly separated. One of them soon accelerated, headed toward the Indian Ocean, and disappeared into the night.

He always felt that the few minutes of the transfer process had been unreasonably fast and excessively professional. But he was just a lookout; orders were like mountains. He could only suppress his doubts, record the observation in the log, then turn his binoculars away to continue observing targets in other areas of the sea.

He did not know that just a moment ago, he had witnessed a batch of deadly weapons capable of changing the course of a local war slip away right under his nose.