“Got 'em, Ready, keep 'em coming!” He'd pulled on the triggers slowly, forcing himself to ignore his excitement, the first time he'd fired in anger at human beings. Karl tracked the line of shells that appeared to the right of the boat, a touch in front of them, what he'd wanted. Closing, they were easier to see every tense second. The long gun barrels, their elevation controlled by his team member Bettina, crept higher – making their continuous salvo walk into the first boat. He didn't think of them as people in boats, only dangerous targets speeding towards him.
Channeling his Nordic Berserkr blood, he wouldn't stop firing as he choked back a howl, peppering Bogie One with a few good hits was only the beginning. Unexpectedly the loud gun's breeches clicked back, empty, making his attendant crew of loaders race up to refill the curved magazines on the top of the twin guns, taking a few seconds. They'd missed their first re-load, like a bunch of greenhorns on their maiden voyage cruise at sea, distracted by the destruction the Bofors cannons delivered to the first speed boat, Bogie One, a few hundred meters away.
Karl scowled at them – somewhere between rage and a death threat. He felt himself fighting the smile beneath his angry look, knowing they'd been watching the twin forties shred the first boat in seconds instead of doing their only job – quickly refilling the diminishing supply of shells in the gun's hopper to insure he'd never run out. As Lee had said at Gettysburg, 'It is well that war is so terrible, or we should grow too fond of it'. Seeing desperate, furious men blown to pieces cannot be described, nor can you look away, especially when you are doing it.
“Keep loading you lazy bums!” his language less salty than usual, showing his sensitivity to his fellow female gunner who rolled her eyes, making him feel very old. “Well fucking move your fat asses!” That was better. He got a quick nod from Betts that made his smile take over at last. Reloaded they both returned to their deadly work seconds later.
His big guns jumped again making the aiming mask bang his forehead. The recoil tapped him good, like a rubber hammer because he'd let his head drop back instead of being mashed into the rubber rim around the aiming frame. Distracted as they reloaded, he'd been looking around the clumsy night vision scope that was proving unnecessary at this close range, even as dark as it was outside. The white bow waves on the speeding boats made them stand out on the dark sea. How could you miss that? The guns went silent and his chastened loaders topped him off, confused that he'd stopped shooting, everyone zipping around like squirrels.
Cursing his beginner's mistake, he watched the water spouts produced by his precious rounds, loving the geysers that shot up as he'd tracked right, blasting a path through the water – wasteful but beautiful. In less than a half second he leaned back into the aiming mask after rocking his head up to stare at the night vision display. Wriggling closer, his upper shoulders pressed into the large padded stocks of the Bofors forties. The narrow view the night vision created was peppered with the last few tall, green water spouts – strange plants spearing up, coming alive like Jack's magical bean stalk. He pulled the triggers again, spitting out the heavy, explosive rounds. The ear splitting roar of the twin Bofors shot out two explosive lines walking back toward the first boat that somehow kept moving, keeping up with its mates to its port side. It didn't compute. He'd already hit it at least three or four times.
Karl stiffened his body, pressing harder into the curved metal stocks, unconsciously trying to stabilize the old guns. His other firearms training was entirely on the fully automatic FN FA assault rifle, the NATO standard. Gunner's mates shot missiles these days or automated 5 inch cannons with a joystick. The fully automatic FN would rise up if on full auto, what all automatic weapons do, emptying their magazines in seconds. But the old Bofors guns' elevation was run by PO Betts at the other station, while he controlled Azimuth or direction in the horizontal plane, with his foot pedals, as well as pulling back on the ganged triggers. The big twins required a team approach that made accuracy very difficult at first then magically sure as their minds worked as one. They'd become a polished pair of like minds in a week, sailing across the Med, doing nothing else. Karl had practiced with Betts for hours, dry firing alternated with live rounds, every day, preparing for these few, precious minutes of actual warfare.
Now, with real boats to blast, he fired his blazing guns at the four targets approaching the side of the ship. If they got too close he wouldn't be able to shoot. That was his only real worry – that he wouldn't hit all four quickly enough or worse, that one or two might get away. He moved his tense body with precise deliberation. Merging with the metal framework, he felt the guns turn and point – a pitiless war god dispensing blood justice on mere mortals. The steaming 40 millimeter barrels swung like they were alive, matching the synchronized ballet of their operators' legs and arms. They both strained to make each shot perfect, joined by their loaders who didn't miss a beat.
He unconsciously urged Betts to drop the barrels lower, make the rounds fall in front of the next boat in the line. When Karl felt his guns correctly positioned, both gunner's mates shook as the big 40 millimeter shells erupted, perfectly placed ten meters or so in front of the boat's bow. Spot on. She elevated them quickly so the rounds stepped out of the water, landing on top of the dancing shape – explosive boots walking from bow to stern. He willed them to strike something vital – knock them out – his job during the opening barrage. The fact the ships were filled with young armed men didn't register, it couldn't.
It took far longer than he expected, with the boats veering off instead of staying in their nice line, racing toward them. The one he hit first finally stopped, dropping away from its fellows, engines blown to pieces in a wonderful gasoline fireball. Terrified, the others scattered, spreading apart. Two banged each other in confusion and panic. Ignoring their antics, the heavy rounds cut through the fiberglass hulls and bulkheads like they weren't there. The explosions sliced through hulls, blasted off transoms, made men disappear – 'poof' – blowing off body parts to arc away and sink into the sea.
One boat had succeeded in making about, tracing a long desperate circle, never slowing down. The one coward in the group ran away, realizing their attack on the heavily armed freighter was a lethal mistake. Straightening out, the small motorboat gunned its twin high horsepower outboards, accelerating quickly, trying to race away from the death dealing ship. His initial success made him the last remaining target, drawing the heavy guns' fire. Explosions chased after the boat – lightning bolts thrown by a angry God. The Bofors 40's easily lofted their shells far across the flat sea – over four miles in seconds – their prey could never outrun them. All it took was one or two hits to disable him.
The old forties were designed to fire nearly 7000 meters, straight up in their role as a first engagement anti-aircraft weapon. In their anti-shipping mission they had extended range over the sea where the round didn't have to fight gravity to gain altitude. Karl lowered his shoulders, a sign Betts noticed, making her reflexively raise the gun barrels. Then suddenly the banging stopped, their forties silent, out of ammo – again!
“Out!” he shouted as they did they part, lowering the twin breeches and their magazines to speed reload – tilting up the big guns to point at the sky. Tired after three intense minutes, both Karl and Betts relaxed. Their adrenaline made their fingers tingle with electricity while around them their loaders raced to refill the four round magazines on top of both guns. Karl was uncharacteristically silent. Staring off, he knew they were angry at themselves for watching the explosive storm the forties had produced among the small group of boats, then the heightened drama of the one boat desperate to get away.
Petty Officers all – gunner's mates to boot – none of them had ever produced a shot fired in anger, only thousands of training rounds foaming up the cold, dark Northern sea, blasting targets. The brilliant rage of real war had once more drawn them in. It was impossible to stop watching the terrible grandeur of real death and destruction.
They moved quick and quicke
r, driven by shame and disgust, far faster than practice. Expressing their frustration, each of them kicked empty casings over the side as they heaved the fifteen pound clips, each with four shells. Standing in place, two men twisted their upper bodies, dropping down to pick up a set of fresh rounds off a rack welded to the deck. They passed the clip of four shells to the next man who stacked them in the empty magazine. Done, gunners slammed the new shells home. “Ready!”
“Up!” Karl yelled, loading his gun. He leaned in, taking position this time, mashing his face firmly in the aiming mask before he fired. On the other side of the twin forties Bettina banged her magazine to make sure it's shells were seated, not crooked in the guides, shouting “Up!” as she'd mashed her foot lever that banged the breech forward to pull a round off her stack. Both were locked and loaded.
Pulling back on the arming lever, Karl boiled inside. The reloading had taken too long – six seconds start to finish after he'd run out of shells the second time. He pulled the triggers, ignoring the waste of shells that tore into the dark water. They all watched explosions chasing the remaining boat, pulling away, starting to make speed, trying to get out of range. They never had a chance. His guns growled – a cat teasing a mouse, trying to run away.
The pirates were as helpless as their previous victims. The tall, skinny fighters usually fought unarmed mariners. The pirates were armed with machine guns that intimidated and RPG's that could hull their prey if they dared fight back. It normally never went that far. A misplaced RPG could catch a ship's fuel or cargo on fire, making both sides cautious. Now the tables were turned. During the lull as the Bofors were reloaded, the terrified pirates had sped off, their boat bouncing higher and higher as long lines of waves smashed into their bow. The armed men turned back in terror, watching the reloaded Bofors kick up tall precise spouts of water – moving closer and closer. Draining their hopes, they watched death charging up their wake. Their high speed escape made a spreading white foam 'V' pointing at their racing boat. Both sides knew it was impossible to miss.
Karl thought it might be easier to hit something vital from the backside. Reducing their already slim chance to escape, the panicked pirate skipper forgot to weave side to side, letting the twin anti-aircraft cannons close the distance rapidly. Their powerful outboards and rows of gasoline tanks – stored near the transom, ready to switch when one went dry – were a dangerous target for the men on board. A single 40 millimeter warhead, nearly half a foot long, penetrated the thin fiberglass stern and entered a spare tank full of gasoline. Exploding, its destruction expanded – making a gasoline explosion fireball.
The boiling yellow and orange flame spread like napalm – a wave of burning gasoline that covered every man, spreading forward out over the bow. It turned them into human torches, burning head to foot. Screaming, they jumped or fell overboard, trying to quench the raging fire covering their bodies. The boat, filled with flames, continued, slower, on one engine, creeping to the right. With no one at the tiller, it slowly turned in a wide circle. Most of the men were dead or near death, all blown into the ocean. Among them was the father of Kadeem and Mansur, Ali bin Ali Rustafa.
The other boats nearer the freighter had stopped, one burning brightly, the others had submerged so their fires winked out. Their partial hulls, lit in the orange glow, would make easy targets for the hand held anti-tank rockets – nothing fancy, standard TOW missiles, older wire guided ones the Danish Army was happy to part with, keeping the newer radio controlled BGM-71E TOW 2A versions. Each spun out a thin wire that linked the flying missile with its operator. Looking through their optics, each held their reticle on target until they saw a flash followed by a satisfying 'boom'. They were the other 'lucky' NCO's, parsed into three paired teams. One man or woman to aim, fire then guide the missile to target – the other to reload, if needed.
Chief Petty Officer Skannisson gave out a very nonmilitary whoop of joy, telling the 40 millimeter gun crew to cease fire, their job done. None of the small targets on her acquisition radar were moving, except the one farthest out, still making a giant loop bringing it back to their ship.
“Engage and destroy all four targets with AT.” Holding her other comm button down, the now reserved Senior Chief spoke in short clipped words, releasing the missile crews. This was their second, close in punch. Massive overkill, their commander had explained why it was needed.
“I mean to erase all trace of these armed men and their boats. Nobody survives, so there won't be any troublesome witnesses to complain about the Danish Navy's rough treatment of prisoners.” He paused, smiling at his countrymen and women, “because there won't be any.” The entire audience had risen, breaking into cheers and hand slaps, taking a few minutes to settle down for the rest of their final briefing.
Their countrymen, kidnapped a year before by pirates like these, had lost their daughter, a young high school girl who'd been abused by her captors, used like a toy for their pleasure then tossed back with her parents, dying from blood loss and infection of her torn up genitals over the next week. She'd fought back, enraging the men who'd expected her to be submissive, like their local females when taken roughly. She'd suffered the entire time, beaten about her face so much her death photo was unrecognizable. The military had agreed with the Prime Minister's orders, an example must be made – this sort of barbarity would not be tolerated. The Commander had insisted his crew see the grisly pictures, part of their briefing after they'd volunteered. It was a final gut check, insuring they'd do their duty without hesitation when the time came.
“Ready, port of three!” the gunner's mate shouted. These men, naval ratings, were preferred for this job instead of the onboard Marines. They were regularly trained to fire the missile normally used by infantry against enemy armor. The Marines were shock troops – not experienced in complex weapons like the advanced TOW missiles like their regular Army comrades, leaving anti-armor roles to close air support helicopters and jets or their own armored vehicles. The huge, clumsy TOW tubes would slow them down without adding to their combat effectiveness in assault.
“Ready middle of three!” shouted the gunner's mate next to him, then they both called out 'Fire!' at nearly the same time. Their triggers pulled, they both waited for the system inside the long tube to ready the missile, less than two seconds that felt like an eternity. Both men worked to counter the slow rock of their ship in the mild sea, each keeping their reticle grid centered on their target, to guide their individual missile home. At last the small charge to eject the missile from the tube fired off. The tiny blast rocked them back as their missiles sped out.
In a little less than sixty feet the rocket motor fired up, as the motion sensor in the warhead detected movement and acceleration, arming the warhead. Burning through its fuel quickly, it completed its two second rocket firing, all the time needed to speed it up to three hundred meters a second. Flat, stubby wings popped out in front then a second pair on back. These surfaces turned slightly to steer its course while each worked with the others to provide lift to keep the missile level as it flew on, hurtling at very high speed purely on impetus built up the by its powerful two second burn.
The missiles covered the distance to the boats in less than a second, their rocket motors still burning, so fast it took longer for each missile to arm in the tube than it did to reach out and strike its target off the beam of the ship. There were no misses at this range – murder and revenge intermixed – generating cold smiles of satisfaction. It took no skill to blast the foundering boats disabled by the Bofors twins. From weapons release to explosion on the drifting targets took less than six seconds. Two explosions boomed up to rattle the rigging, making the men wince against the heat and concussion, the missile explosions almost too close to the ship, risking injury or damage from the attendant shrapnel. Two hits left one of the three still floating aimlessly with the waves battering it's shattered hull, already sinking, while the last who'd run off kept circling, empty and burning, its final revolution bringing it closer
.
Without being hit, the last moving boat suddenly erupted into a fireball, a second gasoline roar that stopped it's last motor. A second later another explosion welled up as the last gas tank reached ignition temperature, lit by a small shrapnel puncture. There wasn't much left when the smoke cleared a few seconds later. All fifty eyes were locked on a long strip of fiberglass that quivered then fell to the side, a comic touch, but no one laughed. They were scanning the water for bobbing heads, their last task and price to extract – many lives for one innocent girl.
Hell To Pay Page 39
