Phantom

Forty-nine

The Persian Gulf

Blackhawke was steaming five miles off the Iranian coastline. Every square foot of sail had been retracted into the four masts. She was now under power, relying on two massive gas turbine engines that could propel the behemoth at over thirty-five knots. At present, she was barely making way, just enough speed to keep her moving forward through the rough seas.

A cold front had moved in and, with it, high winds and six-foot seas. The sun was lowering in the western skies, a hazy grey disc behind the clouds. Hawke, Stoke, Brock, and Stony Stollenwork, the rugged, thirtysomething SEAL commander, were in the aft part of the ship. This is where luxury and glamour gave way to no-nonsense accommodations for assault teams, weapons storage, machine shops for maintenance, a military communications post, a satellite uplink station, a large wardroom for battle planning, and a combat command center.

Should Blackhawke come under attack, this is where the team of radar and sonar operators and a fire control officer would coordinate the defense of the ship. All under the command of former Royal Navy officer Captain Laddie Carstairs, who would relinquish his station on the ship’s main bridge to his second in command and relocate to the combat command center for the duration of the battle.

The entire assault team, both SEALs and Red Banner commandos, had just completed an exhaustive review of the strategic plan for the final time. The walls of Hawke’s seagoing office were covered with sat photos of the Saffari compound, Ram Citadel, at different hours of the day and night. They knew the guard rotation schedule by heart. And they had identified the most likely residential building. The only thing they didn’t know was the location of the ultra-intelligent machine that had been wreaking such havoc and destruction these last few months.

Both the SEAL team and the Red Banner team were gathered below, well prepared to go ashore, kitted up in their assault gear and itching to go into battle. They had easy access to the main deck, ready for debarkation. The team leaders could feel the men’s keen anticipation. They were highly motivated. The madman they were going after was directly responsible for the deaths of countless hundreds of innocent men, women, and children in America, the Caribbean, and London.

They were, however, not aware of the fact that this same man had also tried to take out the president of the United States and his family en route to a funeral in California aboard Air Force One. The incident was an official state secret. No one beyond the White House and the U.S. Air Force pilots involved in the attack had any knowledge of it.

Revenge is a powerful motivator.

Thanks to Brick Kelly, director of the CIA and Hawke’s close friend, many of the fighting men assembled aboard Blackhawke today had been part of the proud SEAL Team Six that took out Osama bin Laden in Pakistan. Their confidence after that heroic and historic raid was justified and well earned, and Hawke and his men were proud just to be fighting alongside them as comrades in arms.

In addition to the main force, two SEAL snipers with IR scopes were currently up on the highest deck, having taken concealed positions. No uninvited guests would be boarding Blackhawke this evening, or any other time. A five-mile defensive perimeter had been established around the ship.

Operation Trojan Horse, as Hawke had named it, would be a hit-and-run raid. It had been decided that the team of nine Red Banner spec-ops commandos would go ashore first as a “reconnaissance team.” Should there be an Iranian Revolutionary Guard’s “reception committee” waiting for them, Hawke’s security team would sanitize the landing site. When it was secure, they would give the all-clear signal to the SEALs. Then the two U.S. Navy squads would storm the compound, identify the target, and take him out.

The nine Red Banner members would be split into three groups, Red, White, and Blue Squads. Hawke, Stoke, and Harry would be squad leaders. In addition to helping the SEALs clear the compound of enemy combatants, they had a special mission. They had nicknamed themselves the “Ghostbusters,” and it was their job to locate and destroy the “phantom,” the machine whose advanced technology had been behind the recent horrific attacks on the West. Once both missions were accomplished, the entire assault team would regroup and return to the mother ship and run like hell for the Strait of Hormuz.

“What’s it actually look like, boss, this damn phantom or whatever you call it?” Stoke had asked. “Will we know the machine when we see it, or what?”

“Good question, Stoke. But I can’t answer it. Nobody’s ever seen one of these things before. I could say it will look like a giant computer, but I have no idea.”

Brock said, “That’s why they call it a ‘phantom,’ Stoke. You can’t see it, but it can see you.”

“I still don’t know why we can’t just blow that huge electrical power plant in the compound and shut the damn thing down, wherever the hell it’s located.”

Hawke said, “Stoke, I told you why. I’m sure this thing, whatever it is, has been fully prepared for any emergency attack. It’s got to have auxiliary power supply, massive generators, to keep it going until the power plant can be rebuilt. And our job is to destroy this machine. Not just disable it. We take out the one guy on the planet who knows how to build another one. And we take out the machine itself. That’s how this movie ends, Stoke. There are no alternatives. Hold on a second-”

Hawke’s direct line to the bridge was blinking red.

“This is Hawke.”

“Commander, Carstairs here. Radar has just picked up a patrol boat. An eighty-footer. Big and heavily armed. One of the many such vessels the Iranian Navy purchased from China, North Korea, and Russia. She’s penetrated our radius, about five miles out and on a heading directly for us. The rough seas are slowing them down a bit, but I think you should be on the bridge.”

“Give me one minute,” Hawke said and hung up, looking from Stokely to Harry Brock.

“Patrol boat en route, five miles out. As Congreve might say, ‘The game, gentlemen, is afoot.’ Let’s go to the bridge and prepare to extend the warmest welcome possible to our Iranian friends.”

H awke and his team entered the main bridge and went directly to the captain, who stood gazing up at the nearest radar screen. Hawke saw the patrol boat’s blip drawing nearer and said to Carstairs, “Laddie, we need Ascarus up here now. Somebody notify him. Stony and I decided we want him on the radio when they get within a two-mile radius.”

“Consider it done, Commander.”

Chief Petty Officer Cyrus Ascarus was a U.S. Navy SEAL interpreter fluent in Persian Farsi. He’d grown up outside of Tehran, then moved to the United States as a teenager to care for a sick grandmother. After attending UCLA, he’d joined the navy. He would be an integral part of the SEAL team going ashore. His job: interrogate any prisoners to get intel on the location of the human target and the whereabouts of the “mystery machine,” as Stoke now thought of it.

“Commander Hawke, sir,” Ascarus said with a snappy salute, appearing on the bridge a few minutes later, “reporting for duty.”

“Good to have you aboard, son,” Hawke said.

Hawke handed the man his high-powered binoculars.

“There is a heavily armed patrol boat flying the Iranian flag off our starboard beam, approaching us at thirty knots. She’s about eighty feet long. Ship that size, I’d estimate a crew of about twenty. I’ve no doubt her captain will radio us soon with a warning that we are in Iranian waters and need to leave immediately.”

Ascarus, looking through the binos, replied, “I’m sure of it, Commander. That’s the Hamzeh, an IRGC boat, the maritime arm of the Islamic Revolutionary Guards Corps. Back in January, five of those boats made high-speed runs toward and around three U.S. warships transiting the Strait of Hormuz. The USS Port Royal got a radio call from one of them. ‘We are coming for you… you will explode in a few minutes.’ All the navy ships went to General Quarters, prepared for a fight, but it was just a provocation. Their preferred method of doing business is shoot first, ask questions later.”

“They’d be ill-advised to shoot at us, Mr. Ascarus, I can assure you. When they contact us, I want you to say we’ve suffered catastrophic damage to our rudder and our vessel is unnavigable.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Depending on their response, I’ll guide you through the balance of the communication. Clear?”

“Crystal, sir.”

Hawke inserted the earpiece of his Falcon battle comms radio before speaking to the SEAL commander who’d remained below with his men.

“Captain Stollenwork, Hawke. Patrol boat en route. Big one, eighty feet. Are your men properly positioned for emergency egress?”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

“Snipers?”

“In constant contact. They’ve already acquired the approaching target.”

They didn’t have to wait long to hear from the enemy.

There was a burst of static from the bridge speakers, and then they all heard a very unfriendly voice speaking in Farsi. Ascarus listened carefully and then used the VHF microphone to acknowledge receipt of the communication in perfect Farsi dialect.

“What’s he saying?” Hawke asked.

The interpreter muted the mike and said, “He has informed us we are operating illegally inside Iranian waters. Leave immediately. I responded that we’d suffered rudder damage and were unable to maneuver.”

Another loud blast of impatient Farsi from the speakers above.

“Now what?”

“He wants to know what flag we sail under, sir.”

“Tell him Malta. We are the private yacht Blackhawke out of Valletta.”

Ascarus responded and got a reply.

“He demands we come to a full stop. His guards intend to board us and inspect the vessel. To verify that we’re not invading spies. He wants a boarding gangway on our port side amidships. Once he’s examined our papers and he’s satisfied we’re telling the truth about our loss of rudder control, he will tow us back out into international waters. Otherwise, we’ll be arrested and the ship impounded.”

Hawke said, “Agree. Be friendly. Tell him we’re slowing to full stop. We’ve nothing to hide. We welcome him aboard. Allahu Akbar, or whatever the hell he needs to hear to feel comfy.”

T he big grey patrol boat cut a wide curving loop, slowed, and approached Blackhawke from astern on the port side. Hawke could see the armed Iranian guards gathered at the stern rail and ready to board. Luckily, the patrol boat’s wheelhouse had large windows and the skipper and crew members inside were clearly visible, even at this distance. In a few minutes the Iranians arrived alongside, and a gangway was extended from Blackhawke down to her rising and falling deck. The rough seas made it more difficult, but soon the boarding plank was secure on the patrol boat’s foredeck.

Hawke said, “Chief, tell them the owner has granted them permission to board.”

Ascarus did so, and the uniformed armed men immediately began the ascent up to the main deck of the gigantic yacht. Hawke counted fifteen of them, all carrying automatic weapons and sidearms.

“Keep your eyes open,” he said to everyone on the bridge. He tugged at his left earlobe and added, “When you see this signal, execute the plan. Mr. Ascarus, please come with me.”

Hawke, wearing a worn pair of sailing shorts and a faded blue cotton shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, left the bridge and quickly descended the two flights of metal stairs to the main deck. The interpreter was directly behind him. Hawke met the first man to board and saw captain’s insignia on his uniform.

“Please follow me,” he said. “I am the ship’s owner.”

Ascarus translated, and the Iranian guards followed as Hawke led them to a wide-open space on the foredeck. Five more decks loomed high above them. The guards’ eyes rose to the top, clearly uneasy.

“Ask him if he’s in command of these men,” Hawke told Ascarus.

“He says yes. His name is Captain Shahpur. He wants to know if we have any weapons aboard. If so, he wants them all brought topside and turned over to him.”

“Tell him we have very few weapons aboard, only for use against Somali pirates. They are under lock and key. They are not worth his time.”

Shahpur erupted in anger when he heard this, shouting at Ascarus but glaring at Hawke. The guards began to rattle their sabers, bringing their weapons up into firing position.

“He wants all the weapons aboard turned over to him immediately so he may begin his search.”

Hawke smiled and made a slight bow to the irate captain.

“Tell him he is aboard my vessel as a courtesy. I don’t take orders from him or anyone else for that matter.”

“He says his men are under orders to shoot anyone who impedes his search of this vessel.”

“Tell him his ungentlemanly conduct has caused me to change my mind about any search of my ship. I want him and his men to leave immediately.”

Hawke was watching the captain’s right hand as this was translated to him. Predictably, the Iranian’s hand moved toward the sidearm holstered at his waist. Hawke quietly told Ascarus to pretend to be walking away and dive for cover behind the steel structure where two Zodiac tenders and a large davit were mounted on the foredeck. There was an AR-15 assault rifle waiting for him there and Ascarus picked it up and raised it to firing position while still hidden.

With his left hand, Hawke tugged at his left ear. With his right, he drew the SIG pistol tucked into the waistband of his shorts from under his shirt. He shot the captain in the head, a double tap, one in the forehead, the other between his eyes. Then he stepped backward two steps and dropped down through the hatch just as the cover was being opened for him. Two crew, waiting below, caught him, breaking his fall, and then the three of them raced up two decks to join the fray.

At that same moment, three shots rang out from the highest deck. All the glass in the wheelhouse of the Iranian patrol boat imploded and the three men who had been standing there fell to the deck dead. More shots rang out, and all the radio and communications antennae atop the Iranian vessel were destroyed completely. No news of this confrontation would reach enemy ears. At least that was the plan.

The Iranians, not knowing where the shots had come from, began running in all directions, firing wildly. It was then that Hawke, Stollenwork, and the two SEAL squads appeared at the rail of the deck above them and opened fire on the scattering enemy. The rattle of automatic weapons was deafening.

The firefight didn’t last long.

Three SEALS had taken bullets, none of them lethal thanks to the Kevlar body armor and helmets they all wore. Even now, the medical corpsman was stitching them up.

Captain Shahpur and his fourteen men were all dead, victims of precision head shots by the SEAL sharpshooters.

“Blue Squad,” Hawke shouted down to Stokely Jones. He’d suddenly appeared on deck with his three-man team. “Board and clear the enemy vessel.”

Stoke and his men bounded down the gangway and leaped aboard the patrol boat, disappearing into the wheelhouse. A minute or two later there was a brief exchange of gunfire. Then Stokely reappeared on the stern deck.

“Two dead enemy; they were hiding in the mess hall. All clear.”

Half an hour later, Operation Trojan Horse commenced. The fighting men from Blackhawke had boarded the patrol boat. Nine of them, Hawke’s team, were wearing the official uniform of the Iranian Frontier Guard. So was Chief Petty Officer Ascarus. Hawke cranked up the ship’s engines and signaled the men on deck to cast off the lines that secured the boat to Blackhawke.

He looked at Stoke and Brock as he shoved the throttles forward and headed for the marina at Ram Citadel. He grinned broadly at both men as the big Iranian vessel, now with Hawke at the helm, accelerated rapidly toward Iran’s coastline.

“I hate the expression,” Hawke said, “but so far, so good.

“Damn straight,” Stoke said, smiling.

“Bad luck to say so, though,” Harry Brock said. “At least in the Marine Corps.”

Hawke glared at him. “Harry, try, really try, to be positive. It seems every mission with you is more evidence that you’re getting well past your sell-by date.”

Brock stared back blankly. “Huh?”

“Never mind, Harry, just keep your eyes open and your mouth shut until we clear the jetty. Does that work for you?”

Twenty minutes later, the lighted channel buoys marking the entrance to the marina at Darius Saffari’s Ram Citadel loomed up in the fading and dusky light. When Hawke had first seen the aerial satellite photos of the compound, and the marina, he knew a waterborne attack was the only realistic way inside the enemy compound.