by Ted Bell
“So who pays the ransom when the tankers get hijacked?” Stoke said.
“Uh, the insurance companies.”
“Oh. Now I get it,” Stoke had said, shaking his head.
The pirates were about four miles out and rapidly closing the distance. In the midst of them was the “mother ship,” enclosed for protection. Sirens aboard Blackhawke sounded General Quarters, and gunners climbed up inside their turrets, wheeling about on their ring mounts to face the threat aft. Threat is maybe a teensy bit too strong a word for these assholes, Stoke thought. Pests, maybe? Spray ’em with Raid, he told Harry, that oughta do it. Or get one of those bug zappers. These pissant pirates chasing after a high-tech warship like Nighthawke? Oughta get their turbans out of their asses.
The longboats, incredibly fast with their three-hundred-horsepower outboards, were gaining on them rapidly.
“Boss?” Stoke said into his radio. Hawke was on the bridge radio, talking to Carstairs aboard Blackhawke, discussing the best approach to the Strait of Hormuz as soon as the team was finally back aboard their own mother ship.
“Go ahead, Stoke.”
“You know those new antiship mines we rigged in the aft tubes?”
“Yes.”
“This pirate attack might be the perfect opportunity to battle test them, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely. Good idea. Deploy as the scows move into range. Our ETA for the rendezvous with Blackhawke is twenty minutes.”
“Affirmative.”
“What mines?” Harry asked Stokely.
“Made in Israel. They’re cherry red. GPS equipped. They’ll go anywhere you send them, any depth you send them. Explode on direct contact, or by timer, or when the enemy enters a preset sonar range. Forgot the real name for them. I call ’em cherry bombs. Here’s the portside tube, the other one is over there to starboard. Each tube loads a dozen mines. You deploy them from the fire control center of this fire control panel right here. I figure we only need about four, two from each tube.”
“What are those thingys sticking out?”
“The little fins? Diving planes and rudders. And the entire surface is embedded with tiny propulsion jets. Send the little bastards anywhere you want. But they don’t have to be anywhere near the bad guys. Each cherry bomb has a blast range of a half mile. Anything inside that circle? Gone.”
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah. So anything traveling within a two-mile radius of four cherry bombs is going to be turned into fine sawdust and microscopic metal filings. You know how when a nuclear bomb first explodes, it rolls out that big ring of fiery-ass shock-and-awe shit before it turns into a mushroom cloud?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, that’s kinda what they do.”
“Don’t tell me they’re nuclear?”
“Hell, no, they’re not nuclear. That technology’s so outdated. This is new technology, baby. Far superior. Those Israelis have got their shit together, trust me.”
“Yeah, well, these 30mm cannons work pretty good, too,” Harry said, removing the cover and getting into firing position on the small seat behind the breech. He put his eye to the rangefinder.
“What are you doing?”
“See that big mother ship hiding in the middle of the pack?”
“Yeah.”
“Watch this, pal. One fuckin’ shot.”
Harry yanked the cord and the big gun fired. It was a direct hit. Most of the mother ship’s topsides were destroyed and a fire was raging at the stern. She was badly damaged, but still maintained her course and speed as the crew desperately tried to extinguish the fire.
“Nice shot.”
“We do what we can.”
The main body of the pirate fleet held back out of range, but the pirate captain sent a dozen or so of his longboats racing full speed ahead and soon they were swarming around the big yacht, pirates standing now and firing their AK-47s. A few even nudged right alongside the yacht and flung grappling hooks over the rail. The young pirates, chains of gold dangling from their necks, their heads wrapped with red turbans, started scrambling up the lines with amazing agility. They had curved knives clenched in their teeth and they were clearly excited about this huge prize they were about to take.
Until, that is, the Navy SEAL snipers positioned on the topmost mast began picking them off with precision head shots. Those who’d reached the rail in an attempt to board died first, dropping like so many stones into the sea. Next the pirates coming up the lines, and finally those brave souls with their AKs, manning the longboats. It was all over in about five minutes.
But it didn’t stop the rest of pirate fleet from making a run on the yacht. It was just too glittering a prize to give up on.
“Okay. Here come the rest of those assholes. Show me.”
“Bombs away,” Stoke said, and pressed each of the big red Fire buttons two times.
Four red mines, about the size of large cannonballs, instantly deployed, arcing up into the sky, two from each tube.
Harry raised his binoculars. He could see the swarm of pirate scows, and the digital rangefinder in his lens had them at three miles dead aft and closing on the minefield.
The explosion was so brilliant in his lenses he had to turn away. It was as if a massive circular section of the sea itself had just become one giant explosive device, annihilating everything on the surface in one blinding instant. A second later, the shock wave hit, staggering Harry, who grabbed a stanchion and held on.
“Damn, Stoke.”
“Something else, huh?”
The two men stood and watched as the floating sea of fire gradually extinguished itself and the smoke dissipated, leaving the ocean as it was before, free of debris, pristine and beautiful in the sunlight.
“That’s some serious shit right there,” Brock said.
“You know what I’m thinking about right now, Harry?” Stoke said, a look on his face Harry could only describe as wistful.
“God only knows.”
“No, not only God; I know, too. It’s my damn idea, Harry.”
“Okay, okay, tell me. Jesus.”
“Back in Moscow I started to get into this Hollywood shit, y’know? So. What if I bought me an old movie theater in downtown Mogadishu? Put posters up around town of local Somali kids in Johnny Depp costumes. You know, Pirates of the Gulf of Aden with Captain Abdullah ‘Jack’ Sparrow, kinda thing. But get this. Every young Somali in town gets in free! Right? Free popcorn, candy, nachos, wings, Diet Coke, pig eyes, crow’s feet, you know, whatever the hell they like over there. And then I’d show them the movie. We open. It’s midnight. The sea is black and empty except for a huge white yacht. Look! Here come the brave pirates! Close up on all their little baby-Depp faces hiding beneath the gunwales of the longboats, AK-47s clenched in their hands, ready to attack the big bad yacht. But then, what? Omigod! A blinding flash of light, the big bang, ear-shattering explosion in surround sound, right, all that smoke and fire on the water. Closing shot of the empty sea, all the brave little pirates gone to the bottom. Fade out. What do you think? Seriously. Would you invest in an idea like that? I’d give you an Executive Producer credit, man.”
Harry Brock, for once in his life, could think of absolutely no reply.
Blackhawke lay some two miles in the distance.
The Strait of Hormuz is a narrow, strategically critical waterway between the Gulf of Oman in the southeast and the Persian Gulf. It is inarguably one of the world’s most dangerous choke points. On the north coast lies Iran, Hawke’s recent point of departure. On the south coast are the United Arab Emirates and Musandam, an enclave of Oman. On an average day, about fifteen supertankers carrying roughly seventeen million barrels of crude oil pass through the strait—or roughly 40 percent of all the world’s seaborne oil shipments. Every single day.
Hawke, finally back aboard his yacht an
d standing alongside Carstairs on Blackhawke’s bridge, looked at the maritime chart of the strait for the tenth time.
When the next war starts, it will start here, he thought to himself. And when it did—
“Helm, Sonar. New contact, sir. Bearing two-zero-eight.”
“Sonar, Hawke. What’ve you got?”
“Midsize vessel, sir. Not a tanker. Approaching from the strait, I’d say she’s an Iranian Bayandor class, large patrol corvette. They operate two of them in these waters, the Bayandor and Admiral Naghdi.”
“Armament?”
“She carries four C-803 antiship missiles, a single 76mm DP naval cannon, one dual 40mm antiaircraft, and two triple 324mm torpedoes.”
“Keep an eye on her.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
Hawke raised his battle radio. “Stony, Hawke, we’re approaching the strait, bearing one-eight-zero. We’ve already picked up an enemy contact. I thought we might get lucky but it looks like we might have to fight our way through. I’m sure there are more surprises out there waiting for us. I want you to prepare the ship and battle crew and wait for my signal to go to General Quarters. Unless we’re attacked first, we do not, repeat, do not, show our true colors until we’re right in the middle of them. Aegis picking up any suspicious air traffic?”
“Negative, Commander. Nothing airborne inside our defensive perimeter.”
“Good. Stay tuned. Things could get very spicy in a hurry.”
“Helm, Sonar, new contact, bearing two-seven-zero. Estimate vessel is a Thondor-class missile craft, operated by the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps. She carries four C802 SSM missiles, two 30mm cannons, and two 23mm—sir, sorry, new contact bearing two-six-zero, big one, Vosper MK5 frigate, very, very fast.”
“How fast?”
“Very fast. Engine turns for thirty-nine knots as we speak, sir; she’s got boost gas turbine engines. If she maintains course, current bearing will intercept ours in approximately twenty minutes.”
“Helm, maintain course,” Hawke said. He wanted to find out who’d blink first.
“Maintain current heading, aye.”
“Sonar, is this typical naval military traffic in the approach to the strait?” Hawke said.
“Sir, it’s hard to say. There’s nothing typical about Iranian military behavior. Especially the navy. But based on what I’m seeing, I’m guessing they know who we are, what we’ve been up to, and why we’re coming.”
“Sound General Quarters,” Hawke said quietly.
The sirens began wailing throughout the ship. Gun crews scrambled forward, manning the ten cannon placements on both the port and starboard sides. Protective covers remained on deck cannons, rocket launchers, depth charges, and heavy machine guns fore and aft. When the cannons rolled out, the covers would come off, too.
Stollenwork moved rapidly about the covert combat quarters in the stern of the yacht, shouting orders to his naval combat crew for the coming fight. Inside the narrow concealed corridors running from stem to stern, gun crews were loading the cannons with both high-explosive and armor-piercing rounds. The crews were pumped. Ten guns lined each side of the vessel, and all fired at a rate of two hundred rounds a minute. That meant the starboard gunners alone would be throwing lead at two thousand cannon rounds every single minute.
Stunning firepower, by any standard.
Blackhawke was going to war.
And, by God, she was ready.
Fifty-seven
The sun rose into skies dominated by towering rain-heavy clouds, the sea a vast flat pool, but gently heaving, and nearly colorless; it was the dead color of lead. Just after midnight, an electrical storm brewing up from the south had moved over the boat. The clouds carried a squall and the crew prepared for a soaking. But just before the storm struck, the tips of the gun barrels and the ship’s antennas buzzed with St. Elmo’s fire, blue sparks and streamers of static electricity discharging into the heavy night air.
A portent of things to come, Hawke thought.
The crew had spent the long rainy night preparing for battle: serviced weapons, tied down loose items, secured hatches, restocked medical kits, and readied damage control and firefighting gear.
Now Hawke stood alone at the highest point of Blackhawke’s towering superstructure, a 360-degree round observation tower mounted on a hydraulic piston. Intended for spotting, range-finding, and directing fire for the ship’s primary gun batteries, this was the first time it had seen use. Normally, it was lowered inside the superstructure, completely concealed.
He raised his old Zeiss binoculars to his eyes and studied the array of enemy vessels in the misty distance, lying in wait for him, standing between him and the Strait of Hormuz. Like the crew now standing at GQ stations, he’d been wondering what would be waiting for him. Now he knew.
The number of enemy vessels lurking at the entrance to the strait had grown during the night.
Sleek grey wolves, circling, hungrily licking their chops, diesel hearts pounding below decks, red bloodlust in their feral eyes . . . or . . . perhaps that was just their portside navigation lights? So easy to get carried away when he was in this heightened state of war readiness.
No matter, he knew the feeling and welcomed it.
He had to wonder if the Iranian Navy really had somehow discovered Blackhawke’s role in the attack on the citadel. Even though Blackhawke had been drifting five miles offshore feigning mechanical difficulties, it was a possibility to be considered. Had a member of the crew of the patrol boat that boarded them alerted them? No, they were all dead. Perhaps Perseus, yes, Perseus, in a final act of revenge, when he realized that his doom was imminent?
If his ruse de guerre had indeed been uncovered, Hawke thought Perseus the most likely perpetrator. A machine filled with rage at its final, defenseless impotency against an implacable enemy? An enraged machine lashing out in a fury as the divers prepared to destroy him? Hawke pushed such thoughts aside. He might have gotten lucky, but his gut said he was in for a fight.
He glanced at the observation post’s small instrument panel. They were cruising at a stately ten knots, engines muffled. Blackhawke, under power, was capable of an explosive forty knots, but he wanted that speed held in reserve should push come to, as it usually did, shove. He raised his battle radio and said, “Helm, this is Hawke. Maintain course and speed, Laddie. So far I’m seeing no overt signs of aggression. But you can sense every eye is upon us.”
“Maybe we get a pass?”
“Something deep inside me says no.”
“Aye.”
“Tell me Sonar hasn’t picked up any Iranian subs lurking around here.”
“No, no subs, skipper.”
“You scared, Laddie?”
“Hell, no, sir, I’m terrified.”
“May the sun continue to shine upon us all.”
“Inshallah, sir.”
“Indeed.”
Hawke felt both exposed and impatient.
They sailed into the very thick of it.
All her canvas was spread aloft, the three towering masts turning in place, making minute trim adjustments based on speed, course, and wind computers far below. They had a fresh blow out of the north and she was running before the wind at about fifteen knots. The idea was to use the sails as long as possible, adding to the illusion that this was a rich man’s toy, not a warship. Blackhawke was flying a Maltese flag at her masthead, red and white with the George Cross. Just as in days of old, they’d wait for the very last minute before revealing their true colors.
The massive sails would be retracted inside the masts, as she went to power propulsion using the massive gas turbine engines with their explosive power and speed.
Hawke kept waiting for the smaller Iranian picket boats, the missile boat, or the large frigate to open fire but none came. It was as if the big wolves wanted this one all to the
mselves. The smaller pickets were so close they could have bumped into them if they deviated one degree off course. You could see the Iranian officers up on the various bridge decks, bug-eyed with binoculars trained on the enormous black sailing yacht.
“I’ve seen enough,” Hawke said, thumbing the button that lowered the platform back down inside the superstructure, just aft of the bridge. He wanted to be standing next to the helm in the thick of it. But first he had a job to do. He raced down three flights of stairs to his stateroom amidships where the vessel was beamiest. He ran to the locker at the foot of his bed, opened it, and pulled out a long tube made of rough canvas. Then he sprinted back to the uppermost deck where a signalman was standing at the base of the mainmast. The young ensign snapped off a salute.
“At ease, sailor. It’s time to show the bad guys our true colors.”
“Aye-aye, sir!” he said, snapping off another salute.
He was plainly one of those young seamen who was never at ease. Hawke smiled at him and said, “Strike the colors!”
“Strike colors, aye!”
The boy turned immediately to the flag halyard secured to the mast, eased the lines, and began hauling down the red-and-white Maltese flag. It took a very long time to descend. When he had it in his hands and had disengaged it from the halyard, Hawke unzipped the long canvas tube.
The young sailor’s eyes went wide with delight when he saw what Hawke intended.
“Our true colors, son,” he said, and handed him the new flag. “Haul it to the masthead, smartly, if you please.”
“Aye-aye, sir!” the seaman said, almost shouting it.
Some minutes later, the two of them stood smiling up at the great black-and-white flag snapping in the breeze at the very top of the mast. Blackhawke was at last flying her true colors.
The skull and crossbones of the Jolly Roger.
Looking forward through the pilothouse windows, he saw Stoke and Harry Brock on the bow, ready to man the twin .33 cannons, still under wraps and unrevealed to the enemy.
