Ghost Ship

FORTY-TWO

Paul’s urgent warning reverberated across the deck. The crewmen, who had recently scrambled for cover, got back on their feet and charged toward the rope ladders that led to the launches below.

“Go,” Paul said, helping people over the edge. “Quickly.”

As they scampered down the ladders, Paul glanced around. The helicopters were swinging around, strafing the tugs first and then the Condor. At the same time, the torpedoes they’d dropped were tracking slowly inbound.

The torpedoes were running toward the Waratah at just over thirty knots, and with a mile between them, it gave the crew nearly two full minutes to abandon ship and move out of harm’s way. It was just slow enough that something extraordinary began to happen.

In the distance, the red hull of the FRC flashed into the picture, racing at full speed and dropping in behind the charging torpedoes.

Paul grabbed the radio. “Duke, what on earth are you doing?”

“Intercepting the torpedoes,” Duke replied. “Seems like an awful shame to let that old rust bucket go down now. Especially when she’s just recently returned from beyond like this.”

Paul watched as Elena went over the side and down the ladder. Gamay was next. But the chief was still down below.

“You’re damn right it is,” Paul said into the radio. “Do what you can.”

Duke had been halfway back to the Condor when the helicopters appeared and launched their attack. He saw the strafing run and watched the torpedoes drop, realizing quickly that the Waratah, for whatever reason, was the target.

Instead of continuing on toward the Condor, Duke had slammed the throttles forward and spun the FRC’s wheel until it was tracking back toward the old derelict. His first thought was that he might be needed to help get the crew off the ship, either before or after it was struck. But as the speedy little boat raced toward the hulk of the old liner, it quickly came across the trail of bubbles from one of the torpedoes and, in that moment, Duke came up with a different plan.

“Pull the guns out of the weapons locker,” he shouted to the other divers.

Ahead of them the broad flank of the Waratah loomed, growing larger in his sight with each passing second, but they were gaining rapidly on the second torpedo.

“Don’t hit the warhead,” Duke shouted to his gunners. “We’ll be blown to pieces. Hit the prop or the motor or the fins. We just need to get it off course.”

The men nodded and switched off the safeties on their weapons. They had only handguns to work with. But if Duke got them in close, it would be enough.

Skipping across the surface at full speed, they came up alongside the torpedo. It was a light gray color beneath the water, running at a depth of five feet.

“Take it out,” Duke shouted, matching the torpedo’s speed.

The divers began firing, drilling holes in the water with the Ruger pistols. Duke would have given a year’s pay for a rifle, but two of the rifles were on the Waratah with Paul and the rest were back on the Condor.

Despite both weapons being emptied at the target, the torpedo continued on undeterred. It was no more than thirty seconds from impact.

“It’s too deep,” one of the gunners said.

“Reload,” Duke shouted. “I’m going to try something.”

He gunned the throttle and crossed in front of the torpedo and then back over it again. By the third pass he could see the torpedo bucking up and down like a Jet Ski crossing the bow wave of a passing cabin cruiser. It nosed down and then came up, breaching the surface momentarily. At that moment the divers opened fire, plunking the rear casing with several direct shots. Whatever they’d hit, the torpedo dove out of control, twisting to the right and spiraling down.

Duke cut the wheel to the left and had covered a hundred yards when there was a flash beneath the water. A concussion wave hit next and a ball of white water erupted, blasting up into the air and raining down in a wide circle.

“One down, one to go,” Duke shouted, turning back to the right, looking for the other torpedo trail.

“It’s too far ahead,” one of the divers shouted.

“I’m not giving up,” Duke insisted. But even as he got the FRC back on track, he could see it was too late. They were racing headlong toward the Waratah’s stern. The space between them would be used up faster than they could hope to catch the fleeing torpedo.

“Duke, peel off!” came a shout over the radio. “That’s an order.”

Duke followed the command and cut to the left as two streams of gunfire came from the deck of the old ship.

Paul and Gamay were standing at the rail, firing down at the incoming torpedo with the two AR-15 rifles. At a range of a hundred feet, one of them hit the warhead just right. A new shock wave erupted and a column of water exploded upward from the surface of the sea like a geyser. Heat and flame chased the water, burning some of it to steam in midair.

Up on Waratah’s deck, Paul and Gamay were thrown backward by the shock wave. They landed together amid a pile of weeds that the deck crew had yet to clear.

Paul opened his eyes as mist from the torpedo’s explosion drifted down on them. His ears were ringing. He glanced over at Gamay, saw that she was all right, and sighed with relief. “Pretty good shooting, if I do say so myself.”

Gamay propped herself up on one elbow and stared at him. “How do you know it wasn’t my shot that did the trick?”

“You were wide left,” he said. “I could tell from the start. Wind correction.”

“Those were your bullets going left,” she insisted.

Paul laughed and got to his feet. He looked around for the attacking helicopters, hoping they wouldn’t make another run. Thankfully, they were heading back to the north.

They left behind two patches of churning water, a smoking tug, and a bewildered group of people who wondered what could be so important about a derelict ship that someone would want to sink it.

Paul found the radio that had been knocked from his belt. He picked it up and made sure it was working. “Thanks for the help, Duke. You must be half crazy, but it’s much appreciated.”

“You’re welcome, Paul, sorry I couldn’t get them both. Nice shooting, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Paul and Gamay said in unison and then glanced at each other.

Duke signaled that he was heading back to the Condor and Paul acknowledged the message before reaching out to the Condor.

“Condor, this is Paul,” he said. “I need a damage and casualty report.”

“Mostly cosmetic,” the voice replied. “Two crew were injured by shrapnel. Another seems to have a nasty bump from diving into a bulkhead. But no major injuries or fatalities.”

“Sounds like we got off lucky,” Paul replied. “Contact the tugs and get me a report. I see a lot of smoke coming from the Drakensberg.”

“Roger that,” the crewman said.

“And get in touch with HQ,” Paul added. “We need some protection out here. I haven’t the foggiest idea why someone would try to sink an old derelict like this, but there’s no denying that’s what they wanted to do. Until we figure out who they are and what they want, we can’t put it past them to try again.”

As the Condor signed off, the chief called in from down below. “What the heck is going on up there?”

“Believe or not, we almost got torpedoed,” Paul explained. “Torpedoed?”

“I realize it makes no sense,” Paul said. “Just trust me. It was close but we seem to have survived intact.”

There was a long pause before the chief radioed back. “Maybe not,” he said grimly. “The shock wave must have buckled the old plating. We’ve got water coming in down here.”