Seaghost

by William H. Lovejoy

  “Lookin’ good, Kev.” McCory pointed at the dock with his beer can.

  “We should have done it ten years ago, Devlin.” About the middle of his second year in college, Kevin had dropped the “Pop,” and started calling him Devlin. McCory didn’t mind too much, but he kind of missed being “Pop.”

  “Yeah, but ten years ago, we couldn’t afford it. You pay for what you get, then you take it and go home.”

  McCory had paid off the mortgage the year before, then floated a new loan to upgrade the marina. It had gotten so that new paint wouldn’t cover the cavities in old wood. He had lost quite a few long-time renters to the newer and larger marinas. The shorefront lots on either side of him had become too expensive to acquire, but McCory had gotten permission to extend outward. The renovated marina would handle 250 slips, though he was still going to have to raise the slip rentals a little for most of his people. There would be some griping.

  The first mosquitoes of evening moved in. McCory slapped his forearm a couple of times, then said, “Let’s go in.”

  They got up and went inside the building, where Amy Clover was tending the counter. Swede Norlich was buying two cases of beer. Kevin picked up a couple of fresh cans of Budweiser from the display case, and they went back into the private office.

  It wasn’t much of a private office. A battered desk was shoved into one corner. There were three old, straight-backed chairs, a wooden swivel chair in front of the desk, and a stool in front of McCory’s high drawing table. The walls were papered with drawings of ski boats and cruisers. Centered above the drafting table was a full rendering of the SeaGhost. Above the desk in a small, glass-fronted frame was the only Navy memorabilia McCory had kept: his Navy Cross.

  “We need to replace Maintenance Building One, also,” Kevin said.

  “You want to take a cut in pay?”

  Kevin grinned at him. “Only if you do.”

  “You could move back here.”

  Kevin lived in his own apartment. McCory knew he wanted the privacy because of the succession of women that went through it. Unlike his father, Kevin wasn’t a one-woman man. Not yet. anyway.

  “We’ll do it next year,” Kevin said.

  “Sure we will, son. Provided we fill those new docks with people payin’ good money.”

  “Are you talking about the Johnsons and the Wheelers and the Corcorans, for instance?”

  McCory frowned. “Some of those people have been here twenty-five years and more, Kevin. They can’t afford a big boost in their rents. And they can’t afford to go elsewhere.”

  “Their Social Security checks have increased. “

  “Not as much as they should have. “

  “We’re going to have a state of the art marina, with a bunch of faded and damned near sinking Chris Craft museum pieces tied up in it, Devlin.”

  “People have a right to their own lives. I don’t give a shit what their boats look like.”

  “They need to pay, just like anyone else,” Kevin argued.

  “Money ain’t everything, Kev. It runs second place to principle.”

  *

  2115 hours, 36° 13’ North, 71° 22’ West

  “There are some big boys between us and them, Kevin,” Monahan said from the sonar console.

  “How many?” McCory was at the helm, keeping the speed steady at fifteen knots. The digital readout gave him a compass heading of seventy-six degrees, the intercept course upon which he and Monahan had decided.

  Using Monahan’s chart, they had identified the unknown ship on the seventy-one-degree, fifteen-minute track as the Hormuz, then projected her position with a dotted line. If Monahan was right, the tanker had been holding steady at around twelve knots.

  Because of the overcast, the skies had darkened early. The seas were still choppy but hadn’t worsened in the last few hours. McCory figured the naval ships were running without lights. He hadn’t seen a one.

  “The tanker should be about sixteen miles away,” Monahan said. “I’ve got readings for ships at eight-five hundred yards, nine-three hundred yards, and I think, at ten thousand yards. There are a few more of them out there, but I can’t pinpoint them on passive sonar. Somebody is looking for us on sonar. We got pinged a couple times, but I don’t think the return was strong enough to alert them.”

  “Who’s the closest?”

  “It should be the Prebble, just north and east of us.”

  “And closer to the Hormuz?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, hell. I want to be the first one there, Jim.”

  “So do I.”

  McCory punched the throttles.

  *

  2119 hours, 36° 16’ North, 71° 20’ West

  “Safari Echo, Deuce Two.”

  “Go, Deuce Two,” Perkins said.

  The CIC felt hypersensitive. The technicians manning the consoles leaned forward in their chairs in anticipation of something, anything.

  Norman stood near the plot, watching the shifting symbols. Target Two, the Hormuz, was eleven miles away. The group with Knox was seventeen miles north of the tanker. Safari Delta was coming up fast from the south, just over six miles out.

  “Echo, Two has a Target One on infrared at Baker Two, five-nine, eight-one, bearing seven-six. We make the speed at six-two knots.”

  “Copy that, Deuce Two,” Perkins said, turning to look at Norman.

  One of the console operators keyed the data in, and a new, red symbol appeared on the plot.

  “She’s closing on us,” Norman said.

  “Yes, sir. And fast. Less than six minutes away. Do I alert the gun and missile stations?”

  “Yes, Al. Do that.”

  While Perkins spoke into his microphone, Norman studied the plot. He looked up to the bulkhead where repeaters registered the Prebble’s speed and heading. They were making thirty knots on a heading of eight-four degrees. Both the destroyer and the stealth boat were aiming for the Hormuz. At her speed, the Sea Spectre would pass them and reach the tanker first.

  Unless Norman released a couple of missiles.

  On the command net, he heard one of the Oliver H. Perry’s ASW helicopters reporting a sonar contact.

  On his last day in the Navy, Devlin McCory stood in front of Norman’s desk, holding his baby boy in his arms, and grinning that big, Irish grin. “I’m sure as hell going to miss the Navy, Mr. Norman, but I’m proud to leave it in your hands.”

  “We are prepared to fire on your command, Captain,” Perkins told him. He did not sound happy about it.

  Barry Norman did not know Devlin McCory’s kid, and it would not have mattered if he had. His orders were to blow either of the stealth boats out of the water.

  His duty was to protect the United States of America, including its ships. If that was Badr out there, Mini-Harpoons could be flying at any second.

  The blip showing on the plot could be Badr heading for his support ship, or it could be McCory and Monahan.

  He reached out for Perkins’s headset, and the commander handed it to him quickly.

  “Give me Tac-Three.”

  “Aye aye sir,” a technician told him.

  “Night Light, if that’s you, I want a barber shop set of clicks.”

  Dut, dut-dut-dut-dut-dut…dut-dut.

  Norman returned the headset to Perkins, spun away from the plot, and headed for the hatchway. “Secure weapons, Commander. I’ll be on the bridge.”

  As he entered the light trap, he heard one of the console operators reporting, “The Perry’s launched missiles.”

  Norman did not think he would get a battleship. And he would probably lose his destroyer, too.

  *

  2122 hours, 36° 12’ North, 71° 15’ West

  The missile bay doors were open, and Badr, Kadar, Heusseini, and Rahman were in the bay, groping for the tanker’s lifting cables.

  Abdul Hakim leaned over the railing above, grinning down at them. “The news on the radio is glorious, Colonel,” he yelled.

 
Badr nodded. He had been listening to the newscasts, also. The reports from Norfolk and Langley Air Base were gratifying. The fatality count was high. There would be fewer soldiers to harass Allah’s believers.

  “You know, of course, that American ships surround us?” Hakim yelled.

  “I know that, Captain. It is not a concern.”

  “They are headed toward us.”

  That was new information. Though Heusseini had begged, Badr had not let him activate the radar in the last few minutes.

  Badr was about to ask Hakim if his ancient radar had determined the speed of the ships, when he heard an explosion to the southwest.

  Then, quickly, two more.

  He spun around, peering into the darkness, but he could see nothing. Salt spray whipped over him.

  Amin Kadar gripped the top edge of the missile bay door to steady himself against the surge of the sea. He stared out into the night. “They are coming, Colonel. We will die.”

  “If we die, Amin, it is Allah’s will. But we will take many American devils with us.” Badr released the cable he was holding.

  “We will attack the ships now?”

  “We will attack the ships. You will load missiles on the launcher.”

  “At once.”

  Rahman joined him eagerly as Badr and Heusseini headed back into the cabin.

  Six minutes later, Ibrahim Badr turned away from the tanker and picked up speed toward the southwest.

  “I may go active?” Heusseini asked.

  “Yes. Choose your targets wisely, Omar.”

  *

  2124 hours

  “Son of a bitch!” Monahan had yelled. “Hard to starboard! Kill the engines!”

  McCory wasn’t good at taking orders, but he took those immediately, slamming the wheel over to the right, reaching out to stab the ignition defeat on each engine.

  The SeaGhost heeled over, was battered upright by an oncoming wave, and began to lose speed. She bounced hard in the troughs.

  White arrows streaked overhead. One, then two more.

  McCory didn’t see the impacts, but he felt the concussion of the explosions as they echoed through the sea and against the SeaGhost’s hull.

  “They had us targeted on infrared,” Monahan said. “Light ’em up, again.”

  “Where in hell did they come from?” McCory asked as he started the engines.

  “Safari Delta.”

  “Your boss means business.”

  “He usually does. But I’d bet that Andrews is pressing him on this, citing technicalities. Andrews tends to be a regulations man.”

  “It’s still lethal.” McCory spun the helm back and picked up speed. “You want to risk the speed again?”

  “Hell, I don’t…”

  The command net channel sounded off. “Safari Echo to all units. Echo has two incoming missiles. Delta, you’ve got two headed your way.”

  “That’s him!” McCory yelled.

  “Full bore,” Monahan shouted back.

  McCory shoved the throttles in. “Open the cargo doors.”

  “Shit, Kevin,” Monahan said, “you’ve fired one of these before. I haven’t.”

  McCory rose from his seat, and Monahan slid behind the helm. McCory dropped into the center chair, activated the armaments panel, and saw four green LEDs. He punched the pad for the doors, then raised the launcher. He felt an urge to go aft and check on them, but suppressed it.

  Through the windshield, he saw two missiles cross the horizon ahead of them, headed south.

  The command net was overrun with excited, but orderly, reports. Ships dodging missiles, mounting missile defenses.

  “Maybe Safari Delta will forget about us?” McCory said.

  “Don’t count on it.”

  The SeaGhost took the choppy seas easily. By the time she had reached fifty knots again, the up-and-down rhythm had steadied.

  McCory’s screen was on night-vision video, but no ships or boats were visible. He tried infrared. Nothing. Well, no. A small red dot. Probably an aircraft.

  Thumbing the keypad, he switched the radar to active and selected the thirty-mile scan. The screen immediately lit, and the scan displayed fourteen solid targets within the thirty-mile diameter. Three tiny, fast-moving blips would be missiles. Where was the fourth? “MITS,” “PRBL,” and “PERR,” were still identified, remembered by the computer.

  McCory picked out the Hormuz. The other stealth boat was not shown.

  On the radio, one of the ships in Safari Charley reported a missile hit on the fantail.

  Another reported a new active radar.

  “I’m going to eliminate Badr’s support ship,” McCory said.

  Monahan hesitated. “Hell, why not? I don’t think any of the others will do it.”

  Activating the radar-targeting link, McCory manipulated the orange target blossom until it was centered on the tanker’s blip, then keyed the target lock.

  “LOCK-ON” appeared on the screen.

  He pressed the launch keypad.

  The computer launched immediately.

  WHOOSH.

  “Goddamn,” Monahan said as the solid booster ignited and kicked the missile off the rail. The white flare burned McCory’s night vision.

  Safari Echo and Safari Charley ships reported the last three hostile missiles destroyed.

  “New launch! New launch! From Target One. I think.”

  As his vision returned, McCory checked the screen. He blinked and checked it again.

  Two moving dots.

  “I’ve got incoming,” he said. The adrenaline was pumping through him, but he felt like he was settling in. Another night exercise. He was onstage, and the butterflies had flitted away.

  “Go passive,” Monahan ordered, turning hard to the right and reducing speed. He counted aloud to ten, then turned left again.

  The missiles passed overhead.

  “Bet they were Harpoons,” Monahan said, “targeting on our active radar. What’s our range to target?”

  “I read it as five miles.”

  “Badr’s close by, judging by the launch.”

  “He doesn’t know we’re around, though,” McCory said.

  “Probably not.”

  The Safari command net reported four more missile launches and gave Baker Two grid coordinates for the launch point.

  “That doesn’t help us a damned bit,” McCory complained.

  A sudden explosion brightened the darkness. A yellow-white globe appeared on the northeastern horizon.

  “Hot damn!” McCory said. “That’s got to be the tanker.”

  “Was.”

  The reports coming over the command net confirmed their strike.

  “Maybe that will spook Badr,” McCory said.

  It may have. Either that, or Badr was running from his last launch point. The Tac-Three channel came alive. “Night Light, Echo.”

  Monahan grabbed his microphone. “Go.”

  “My choppers have got him on IR at three-six, one-one, seven-one, one-four. He’s heading home at six-zero knots.”

  McCory switched the armaments panel to infrared targeting.

  “The ships will never catch him,” Monahan said. “There’s no coverage to the east.”

  “What about the choppers?”

  “If they get close, Badr will just shut down. He can outlast their fuel.”

  “Let’s have some more turns, Jim.”

  Monahan shoved the throttles all the way in. “Plot it.”

  “Plotting,” McCory said, pulling the chart from the top of the instrument panel. He found the coordinates Norman had given them, estimated Badr’s speed and their own position, then said, “Take it to eight-four degrees.”

  “Turning now.”

  Switching the monitor to the infrared, McCory scanned it for any sign of the other stealth boat. There was a heat source to the right edge of the screen, but he thought it was likely created by a ship in Safari Delta. Another red spot was high and probably an aircraft.

  �
�CINCLANT, Safari Echo.” Command net.

  “Echo, CINCLANT.”

  “CINCLANT, I’m prepared to provide positive ID on both Sea Spectres. My helicopters have both of them targeted. Request that firing on the western boat cease.”

  After a momentary hesitation, a new voice came on the air. “Echo, your request is approved. All Safari elements, cease fire on the western boat.”

  “That’s my boss,” Monahan said.

  A minute later, McCory heard another new voice on Tac-Three. “Night Light, this is Deuce One. I was told to contact you on this channel.”

  Monahan pressed his transmit button. “Go, Deuce.”

  “I’m closing on Target One.” The pilot provided the coordinates.

  McCory plotted them. “Three and a half miles away, Jim.”

  “We won’t catch him, if we’re both making the same speed, Kevin.”

  “How do we slow him down?”

  Monahan went back to his microphone. “Deuce, Night Light. Can you drop a torpedo on him?”

  “Affirmative, Night Light. Checking with Echo.” After a pause, the pilot reported, “Dropping a Mark-46.”

  McCory hoped no one would shoot at him and activated the radar. He found the chopper ahead of them on the first sweep, but the stealth boat wasn’t visible. The ships of the Safari task forces were falling behind.

  “He’s taking her hard starboard, evading the fish,” Deuce reported.

  Monahan eased his wheel to the right. If Badr maintained a southerly heading for a while, they would close quickly.

  The seconds ticked away.

  “Two miles,” McCory reported.

  “The fish exploded, fuel depleted,” Deuce reported. “He’s too fast for them.”

  “Try the infrared,” Monahan said. “By now, Badr knows he’s got another stealth boat after him.”

  McCory switched over.

  And the center of the screen held an orange glow. A hot red spot to the upper left was the chopper.

  “Got him. I’m launching. Watch your eyes.”

  McCory brought up the infrared targeting circle, centered it, then launched all three of his remaining missiles, one after the other.

  He shut his eyes until they were all away.

  “Coming your way, Deuce,” Monahan said on the Tac-Three channel. “Better back off.”