The Emperor's Revenge

THIRTY-TWO

After pushing the engines to the limit so that the Oregon could catch up to the Narwhal, Max had been content to have the ship dawdle behind the Dutch cargo freighter as if it were heading for the same destination.

Then, out of nowhere, the Achilles appeared as if it had been waiting for them. It was still fifteen miles away, but the unique outline was unmistakable. Max had Linda put it on the main view screen, with the Narwhal inset beside it.

“What’s Antonovich doing?”

“You think he’s planning to take the column off the Narwhal before it reaches port?” Linda asked from her position at the radar and sonar.

“He can’t,” said Eric, who manned the helm. “No cranes on either ship.”

Murph, sitting at the weapons station, chimed in, “Looks like there’s a helicopter deck, but no way they’ve got a chopper that can lift thirty tons.”

“Maybe he just wants to board to get a look at the column,” Linda said.

Hali said, “But that wouldn’t keep us from taking a look at it once it reaches port.”

“Any radio communications between them?” Max asked.

Hali checked the radio for chatter, then shook his head. “Nada.”

“I don’t like this. Something’s wrong with this scenario.”

Max peered at the screen and saw an odd protuberance on the Achilles’s deck.

“Linda, zoom in on the yacht as much as you can.”

Because the yacht was so far away, the picture was blurry, but there was definitely a gray object on top of the yacht that didn’t fit in.

Then to Max’s surprise, it rotated.

A turret. And now the gun barrel was obvious.

“What the…”

A flash of light erupted from the barrel.

By the time he finished yelling, “Battle stations!” the Narwhal’s superstructure had blown apart in a fiery explosion.

The timing didn’t make sense. The explosion on the cargo ship happened much too fast after the shot was taken.

“Murph, how long from shot to explosion?”

“A little more than two seconds, by my calcs.”

“The projectile traveled five miles in just over two seconds,” repeated Max. “That’s impossible!”

The muzzle velocity of a typical shipboard gun was 2,600 feet per second. The round should have taken ten seconds to cross that distance.

The Achilles’s gun fired again. This time, he counted to himself. Two seconds later, another fireball erupted from the Narwhal.

There was only one type of weapon that could launch rounds at that speed.

Murph beat him to it. “My God, they have a railgun.”

The Narwhal was being systematically taken apart. Most likely the crew was already dead. Another few rounds and the ship would be in pieces.

The Oregon’s gun would be useless at this range.

“Mr. Murphy, ready an Exocet.”

The ship-to-ship missile was one of the deadliest in the world. A single one fired by the Argentine Navy during the Falklands War sank the Royal Navy destroyer Sheffield.

“Exocet ready!”

The Achilles launched another round.

“Fire!”

“Missile away!” The Exocet rocketed from its tube.

At the same time, the railgun shell tore at the foundering Narwhal, which was awash in flames.

The missile skimmed across the water at seven hundred miles an hour. At that speed, it would cover the fifteen miles in a minute.

It would be too late for the Narwhal, but seeing how the railgun was systematically dismantling the cargo ship, Max was now more worried about the Oregon.

“Mr. Stone,” Max said, “put us bow on to the Achilles. I want us to present as small a target as we can.”

“Coming around,” Eric said. With the two magnetohydrodynamic engines thrusting at full power in opposite directions, the Oregon could practically rotate on its own axis. The camera focused on the yacht compensated for the turn.

The Narwhal was already sinking at the stern. The Jaffa Column would be at the bottom of the Mediterranean in minutes. Now all Max could do was watch the flaming tail of the Exocet as it streaked toward the Achilles.

As with its namesake, the replica Narwhal didn’t stand a chance against the railgun, and Golov was finding the attack somewhat routine. Next, he’d turn his attention to the Nogero. It was larger than the feeder ship, but he’d sink it all the same.

“We have a missile launch!” the radar operator shouted.

“What? From where?”

“From that tramp freighter. One minute to impact.”

“You must be mistaken. Is there a warship behind it?”

“No, sir.”

“Aircraft in the region?”

“None detected, Captain.”

Golov felt his adrenaline surge. Now he had a challenge. He put the image of the missile on his console. Smoke trailed it as the missile he now recognized as an Exocet raced toward him.

“Activate the LaWS.”

“Activating LaWS.”

The dome over the laser weapon system retracted, exposing the telescope-like laser.

“Forty seconds to impact!”

“Target the missile.”

“Targeting missile.” Red crosshairs lined up on the missile.

“Fire!”

Unlike the recoil from the railgun, the laser functioned with little more than a faint whine.

The nose of the missile glowed red for a fraction of a second. Then, without warning, the missile shattered as its warhead and fuel detonated.

“Another missile launched, Captain! Now two torpedoes in the water!”

“So our adversary has a few surprises,” Golov said. “Ready the mini-torpedoes. Target the second missile with the laser.”

Sirkal liked to quote Sun Tzu’s The Art of War. So did Golov, and one of his favorite lines was “What the ancients called a clever fighter is one who not only wins but excels in winning with ease.”

“Turn the railgun on the Nogero,” he ordered, and then smiled at his cleverness.

Golov was going to win this battle with ease.