by Ted Bell
How could it be? There’d been no alarm sirens wailing, no call from the radar station saying aircraft had penetrated the perimeter. Ever since the death of Osama bin Laden, Darius had been terrified of the throbbing beat of approaching helicopters bearing U.S. Navy SEALs. He’d installed more antiaircraft emplacements around the perimeter and doubled the guards. And now there was someone inside his compound shooting?
It wasn’t possible.
Yet the sound of automatic fire seemed to be getting rapidly closer to his residence.
“Darling! Quick! You must hide!” Aphrodite said.
“Hide? Where? They’ve come to kill me. They won’t leave until they’ve found me.”
“But what will you do?”
“The danger of cornering a rat, darling, is that he must bite you to get out. A long time ago I began preparations for this inevitable moment. There is a chance I won’t see another sunrise. I may escape. But if I’m to go out, at least I shall go out in a blinding blaze of glory.”
The long corridor was brightly lit with recessed LEDs, and utterly empty. As they made their way forward, Hawke noticed empty niches on each side of the passage, fairly deep and approximately man-sized. There was one about every ten feet or so, about twenty-five on each side. This is where the guards he had just encountered stood watch over Darius, most probably twenty-four hours a day. A man could sleep quite peacefully with that kind of protection.
Alas, Darius had no protection now.
Hawke could now see two massive bronze doors, closed tight, at the end. They were carved with scenes from Persia’s past glory. There could only be one man behind them.
“Brock, load a grenade round. We’re going to blow those doors,” Hawke said.
“Aye-aye, sir,” Stoke said. His M-16 was equipped to accept 40mm RPG rounds. Grenade loaded, he brought his weapon up to firing position and—
Suddenly, the lights went out.
Before anyone could even light up their powerful weapon-mounted SureFire lights, they could hear the great doors open with a whoosh and a deafening rattle of .50-caliber machine-gun fire. And the object that came flying at them from the darkness behind those doors was nothing but a nightmare of death and destruction for anything in its path. The great doors slammed shut behind it.
As he dove for cover, Hawke thought it was some kind of whirling dervish, speeding toward them, spitting fire and lead in all directions by spinning rapidly, flying about two feet above the floor. No one could survive this thing, whatever the hell it was.
Hawke screamed into his battle radio, “Take cover! Get inside those niches and get down! Heads on the floor. Don’t move an inch until I give the all-clear!”
Hawke, his cheek on the cold marble, eyed the damnable thing as it flew by, the fusillade of automatic fire showering him with chunks of stone as countless rounds chopped up the marble above and behind him. Once it was past, he quick-peeked out of his niche and watched it fly down the long corridor, and, unimpeded by armed resistance, sail through the entrance and out into the night. He waited a few long minutes until he was satisfied the thing was not returning.
“All clear,” he said. “Medical corpsman, attend to any wounded and get them back to the ship safely. The rest, rendezvous on me.”
Stoke was the first to get to his feet and reach Hawke. Hawke was gratified to see the majority of his men on their feet and moving toward him, their SureFire lights wavering in the darkness.
“What the hell, boss?”
“Unmanned aerial vehicle. Never seen anything like it.”
“A flying Gatling gun, spinning like a top.”
“Yeah. Let’s blow those big doors, Stoke, and pray there aren’t any more of those bloody things behind them.”
Red Team proceeded down the rock-strewn passageway until they reached the bronze doors. Stokely Jones stepped forward and aimed his weapon, waiting for Hawke’s signal.
“We go in low, half left, half right. Jones, Brock, and I will cover the center. Based on what just happened, be prepared for anything. On my count, three . . . two . . . one . . . fire!”
A beat, and then, “Go! Go! Go!”
They blasted through the door, prepared, like the commander had said, for anything.
What they were not prepared for was a naked woman, sprawled across a vast bed, her thighs spread open to them, a very seductive smile on her face. He’d never seen such a sublime specimen of womanhood in his life. Her eyes were an ethereal blue that defied description. Hawke forced himself to look away. It appeared there was no one else to be found in the cavernous bedchamber, but his men were searching every closet, every nook and cranny.
“All clear,” he heard Stoke say.
“Good. Post a guard outside the door.”
Hawke leveled his weapon on her and advanced to the edge of the rumpled bed strewn with silk and satin pillows.
“Who the hell might you be?” he said, unable to keep his eyes from straying.
“Me? I’m the goddess Aphrodite,” she replied in a crisp, upper-class British accent.
“My God, you’re English.”
“No, actually, I’m not. I’m simply mimicking you.”
She smiled at all the young men surrounding her, staring at her, slack jawed, their eyes feasting hungrily upon her. She suddenly pulled a black silk duvet up under her chin, covering her torso, her breasts.
“What are you doing here?” Hawke said.
“Well, until you and your boys so rudely interrupted, I was making love.”
“Making love with whom?”
“A brilliant chap named Darius Saffari. He may have passed you in the hall.”
Fifty-two
“Navy Blue, this is Big Red One, over.”
“Go ahead, Big Red One.”
“We located the target. He got by us. Seen anything unusual out there?”
“Uh, roger that, Big Red. We saw some kind of a UAV zipping around the backstreets and alleys of the villages. Damnedest thing you ever saw.”
“Could you pinpoint his direction, Stony?”
“Repeat, did you say ‘his’?”
“Roger. His. The aerial vehicle you saw is not unmanned. It’s our target. We’re out of the residence and headed across the piazza. Taking light fire, but nothing we can’t handle alone. Where was the target headed?”
“Looked like it was headed for the marina.”
“Stony, you’ve got to get there as fast as you possibly can. I think I know why he’s bound for the marina.”
“Why, over?”
“The big white yacht on the pier across from the fuel dock. Cygnus. Has to be his escape route.”
“On our way, Commander.”
“Listen carefully before you approach the target. That vehicle is armed with multiple fifty cals capable of firing simultaneously in three-hundred-sixty-degree rotations. Lethal fire in all directions.”
“Roger. Hold on, sir. One of our rooftop snipers has just spotted him. He’s definitely headed in the direction of the marina gate. He’s in a fucking flying wheelchair!”
“Has your sniper got a shot?”
“Negative. He’s disappeared into the backstreets.”
“Blue and Red teams converge at the gate. If Blue gets there first, keep going. Fight the fight, don’t fight the plan. Try and take him with an RPG. Maybe we’ve got time to board the yacht before he escapes.”
“Affirmative, Big Red One. We’ll get him, before or after he boards the yacht.”
Hawke and the Red Team made it across the piazza and into the confused maze of narrow streets. Hawke had memorized the fastest route to the gate in case it all went bad and they had to escape in a hurry.
Red Team arrived at the gate to find Blue Team pinned down under heavy fire. Saffari’s men had erected steel barricades to cover the man’s escape. They were p
ouring fire into the street where Stony’s men were taking whatever cover they could find. Hawke found Stollenwork emerging from an alleyway and into the street. He had an RPG attached to the muzzle of his M-16. He fired it at the center barricade and ducked back into the alley.
When the smoke cleared, Hawke could see that the damn thing had barely been dented. Hawke had a quick word with Stokely and Brock and then ordered his men to take whatever cover they could find and return fire. Then he ducked into the alley where he’d seen Stony disappear.
“Stony,” he said, crouching beside the man. He was jamming another mag into his assault rifle.
“Shit. That flying bastard is getting away.”
“Maybe not.”
“Tell me.”
“I’ve sent my two best men up to the rooftops of this building and the one across the street. From that height, they can put fire on the enemy behind the barricades.”
Stony didn’t say anything, just smiled.
“Meanwhile, we can pick off as many of these guys as possible,” Hawke said, stepping out into the street and opening up with his M-16.
Five minutes later, they were storming the barricades, shooting the few remaining survivors on their way to the gate and then, the marina. When they emerged from the tunnel on the other side of the wall, they were cheered by the sight of the big white yacht, still moored to the pier to their right.
They raced down the central dock until they came to the “T” at the end. Left was the fuel dock and the captured patrol boat, right was Cygnus, moored at the end of the dock.
“Let’s move,” Hawke shouted, sprinting the length of the long steel pier.
He arrived first, staring up at the white hull of Saffari’s yacht. The first thing he noticed was that there were no mooring lines securing the yacht to the dock. And no crew casting off, yet the yacht remained in place, despite current and wind. The only possible explanation was that the hull was somehow attached to the pier underwater.
The second thing he noticed were lights up on the bridge deck. He could see figures inside the wheelhouse, and black smoke was pouring out of the two big red stacks amidships. No sign of Darius Saffari and no gangplank available for him to board the ship.
“Gangway must have retracted into the hull,” Hawke said to Stony and Stoke, who’d arrived first. “See that section that looks like a very large hatchway in the hull? Has to be it.”
“Yeah,” Stoke said, “but explain why there’s no crew on the deck, heaving lines ashore, casting off, getting under way.”
“Good question,” Stony said. “Let’s get aboard and find out.”
“Get aboard how?” Stoke said.
“SEALs carry grapnel hooks now, old-timer. We can get aboard anything.”
“Old-timer? Shit. Son, my SEAL team in the Mekong Delta was carrying grapnel hooks before your mammy met your pappy.”
“Sorry, sir. You’re an ex-SEAL? I didn’t know. No excuse. I apologize.”
“No time to apologize. Just get your hooks up on the gunwales and let’s get aboard this damn ghost ship.”
Four grappling hooks flew into the air simultaneously, easily catching the gunwales high above.
Stoke looked at Stony and smiled. “All is forgiven,” he said.
With four lines dangling down the side of the hull, it didn’t take long before every man was aboard, assembling on the foredeck and awaiting further orders from Hawke.
Hawke stood in the center of them, staring up at the illuminated wheelhouse on the bridge deck. He could see men up there behind the windows, but there was no movement, nor any movement anywhere. The big ship felt deserted, devoid of any crew at all. A ghost ship. Something was clearly wrong with this picture. But Stony had seen Darius flying down the pier toward the yacht.
He was either aboard.
Or he’d elected suicide over capture and was now at the bottom of the sea.
“Spread out,” he told the men. “We search this ship from stem to stern, every inch of the damn thing. Unless our little flyboy decided he was better off in paradise, he’s on board this yacht. We’re going to find him, and we’re going to kill him. That’s a direct order. I’ve no intention of taking him alive. Go.”
Hawke grabbed Stoke’s sleeve.
“Stick with me. We’re going directly up to the bridge. I want to check something out.”
There was an exterior metal staircase, four flights, that led directly up to the bridge wing outside the entrance to the wheelhouse. Hawke, followed by Stokely, took the steps two at a time.
They reached the top and burst inside, weapons at the ready.
“Cardboard cutouts,” Stoke said.
“Yeah.”
There were five of them. One at the helm, and two on either side.
“He’s playing for time,” Hawke said, disappearing down an illuminated staircase that led to the interior of the deck below. “C’mon, old-timer!”
The staircase ended at a small corrugated steel platform, semicircular with a railing. More steps led down from it. It was virtually pitch-black, with a faint reddish glow visible far below.
“Say something, Stoke. Loud.”
“Something!” Stoke shouted as loudly as he could.
The word reverberated, echoing loudly within the steel hull.
Hawke snapped on the powerful light on his M-16. Stoke did the same. The two brilliant white beams pierced black nothingness beyond and below. He’d known there was something odd about the vessel the instant he’d seen it. Now, he knew. Cygnus was an empty shell and nothing more. But why? What was the point?
“Where the hell is everybody?” Stoke said.
“Locked out. I’m sure all the hatches and doorways are sealed shut. Just in case somebody got curious. Let’s go down and find out where that red light is coming from.”
Fifty-three
“Navy Blue, this is Big Red One,” Hawke said. “Call off the search. The only way inside the hull is an internal staircase inside the wheelhouse. This entire vessel is an empty shell. No decks, no propulsion, no systems, no crew, no one aboard. We’re going down to the bilges. There’s some kind of light down there we want to check out. Post guards on deck all along the portside rail. The bad guys aren’t done yet. They might well be gathering inside the wall for an assault on this vessel. Stony, come down here and take a look. Ask Mr. Brock to keep me informed of any unpleasant developments within the citadel.”
“Affirmative. Five minutes.”
Hawke and Stoke each put fresh mags in their M-16s before they began their descent. There could well be an unfriendly reception committee waiting down in the bowels of the ship. Hawke didn’t mention it to Stokely, but he was also concerned about the possibility of IEDs, pressure-sensitive explosives under one or more of the metal steps they were descending. Every step they took could mean instant death. Or, not.
In any case, there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
Reaching the bottom of the staircase safely, they found themselves in a darkened room. The SureFire lights on their weapons revealed a sizable space full of all kinds of equipment. A massive, humming generator dominated one bulkhead. A large air compressor was still running, and there was a control panel where numerous systems could obviously be monitored.
“Damn,” Stoke said.
“What?”
“I just tripped over something.”
Hawke lowered his beam to the deck. Covering the surface was a mass of writhing snakes, thick black cables of all shapes and dimensions that disappeared around a bulkhead to their left.
“You thinking what I’m thinking, boss?”
“No doubt. Let’s see what’s at the other end of these cables and I’ll be able to answer your question more definitively.”
They moved cautiously around the bulkhead and discovered a long dark corridor. The cables r
an along the floor and disappeared through an open hatchway.
Red light was emanating from whatever lay beyond.
The two comrades quickly moved toward the light and ducked their heads to step through the hatch.
“Holy shit,” Stoke said.
“Precisely my thinking,” Hawke said.
It was a submarine pen. An empty submarine pen.
A large rectangular opening cut into the keel in the bottom of the hull, with black seawater sloshing up onto the surrounding deck, the deck strewn with countless disconnected but live cables, hissing and spitting fire in the dampness.
The submarine was gone and Darius was aboard it.
“Lost him, boss. I’m sorry.”
“Maybe not,” Hawke said, ripping the battle radio from the Velcro on top of his black battle helmet.
“Blackhawke, Blackhawke, Blackhawke, this is Big Red One.”
“This is Blackhawke, First Officer speaking; go ahead, sir.”
“Is Captain Carstairs on the bridge?”
“Affirmative, sir. He’s standing right here beside me. Hold on.”
“Carstairs.”
“Laddie, Hawke. Target slipped the noose. You now have a minisub in the water; judging by the size of the pen and the electronic support systems, she’s a Koi class Chinese two-man, no more than twenty meters long. Powered by proto-lithium batteries so you won’t pick up her screw signatures. You have our coordinates. The sub is probably on a heading from the mouth of the marina en route to the Strait of Hormuz and out of the Gulf. Alert the sonar officer. Tell him the minisub will present a very small, faint picture on his screen. Easy to miss. If you get a contact, initiate hot pursuit. The second he’s within torpedo range, destroy him.”
“Affirmative. What’s your exfil situation? Do you require assistance?”
“Negative. We have taken minimal casualties. We have not yet found the machine. We will continue search-and-destroy mission. We’ve posted guards on the patrol boat. If we need a hot extraction, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Understood. Blackhawke, standing by on channel eleven, sir, over.”
“Good God,” Stollenwork said, making his way into the pen. “An escape sub. Of course. Rather clever, actually.”
