Phantom

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 themselves. 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.

“Two patrol boats approaching from astern at high speed, sir,” Laddie informed Hawke. “One to port, one to starboard.”

Hawke instantly saw what the Iranians intended.

They were going to box them in. Then the big frigate lurking off their starboard bow would “cross the T” at the top, sailing directly across their current course line. A standard tactic but an effective one. Since the big, heavily armed corvette would be perpendicular to Blackhawke, only Hawke’s forward guns could be used against that enemy. Despite all her broadside gunnery, Hawke would be at a huge disadvantage against an enemy that could bring all her weapons to bear on the oncoming vessel.

“Increase speed to thirty knots. Maintain course,” Hawke said to the helmsman.

“Maintain course, sir? They’re putting us in the box.”

“We’ll get out of this box when the time is right. Steady on.”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

Minutes later, the identical grey patrol boats were running alongside Blackhawke to either side. Each Iranian crew was at battle stations. Up ahead, the big Thondor missile frigate was heaving into position athwart Hawke’s course in order to block Blackhawke ’s escape.

“These bastards actually think they’re going to hijack us,” Hawke said with a trace of amusement in his voice. “Retract the sails, all three masts; let’s show them a bit of her speed with the gas turbines, shall we?”

On the bow, Stoke had just finished asking Harry a question. “We gonna shoot these damn people or just wave hello at ’em as they sail on by?” when they both felt a sledgehammer of hot air pass directly between them followed by a shrill whistle. A 30mm enemy cannon round had just blown right between their faces.

“Holy shit,” Stoke cried into his battle radio, “somebody just took a shot at us!”

“It was the big frigate. Just a warning shot across our bow, Stoke, but still, it’s time to shoot back,” Hawke said. “Fire as she bears.”

Stoke and Harry ripped the black Kevlar concealment cover off the weapon, hopped into the two gunners’ seats, swiveled the turret in the direction the shot had come from, and opened fire.

The battle was on.

The two patrol boats opened up with everything they had. Heavy machine guns, rockets, and cannon fire. The Kevlar/ceramic plates and triple-laminated composite glass that Blackhawke carried topside deflected much of the damage, just as they were designed to do. Now she would go on the offensive.

“Open all port and starboard gunports,” Hawke said into his radio. “Roll out cannons. That will ruin their day. Let’s give ’em a nice rolling broadside as an opener, lads. Number one bow gun crew initiate. Fire on my signal.”

Along the port and starboard hull sides, the cannon-concealing panels suddenly dropped open simultaneously. The long barrels emerged as the big guns were rolled out into the sun. Blackhawke suddenly resembled nothing so much as a three-masted, twenty-first-century pirate ship.

“Fire at will,” Hawke commanded.

The roar of the big guns commenced at the bow and rolled aft, each crew firing in succession. The sound of the massive cannons, firing at twenty rounds a minute, was deafening and shook the ship down to her bones. Across the water, the effect on the patrol boats was devastating. They tried desperately to veer away. But it was apparent they were no match for Blackhawke ’s devastating firepower. Aboard the patrol boats, fires were breaking out everywhere. Men, many of them afire, were leaping into the sea for their lives. Their ships were literally disintegrating beneath their feet.

The speaker above Hawke’s head suddenly squawked.

“Helm, Sonar, report new contact. Enemy submarine bearing zero-two-zero, speed eighteen knots, periscope depth, range five thousand meters dead astern… forward torpedo tubes just opened and awash… she’s pinging us… rig for damage control…”

Hawke grabbed his radio.

“Fire Control, this is Helm. You’re about to have two enemy fish in the water, steaming right up our arsehole at fifty knots. Immediately deploy two cherry bombs at a depth of three meters, speed thirty knots. Position both at one thousand meters aft of the ship and maintain inertial position. Set to explode as soon as the torpedoes enter their range parameters…”

“Aye-aye, sir. Two bombs already away, sir, that’s affirmative

… two fish are away… they’ve launched, skipper, torpedoes headed directly toward the minefield.”

“Copy. Now put two more in the water. Set their course directly for the sub’s bow. High speed. I want you to send the little buggers right inside their damn tubes before they can shut those forward torpedo doors…”

“Detonation?”

“As soon as they hit something hard.”

The FCO couldn’t muffle his laugh. “Aye-aye, sir, copy that. Something hard.”

Hawke stepped out onto the bridge wing, looking aft.

Moments later, the sea erupted into two geysers of fire and black smoke. The enemy torpedoes had been spectacularly negated by the cherry bombs in their first real battle test. He’d shoot a congratulatory e-mail to the Israeli weapons designer as soon as he got a chance.

He kept his Zeiss binocs trained on the sub’s periscope, trailing a nice white wake behind it. He knew it wouldn’t be long now…

It wasn’t.

The Iranian sub’s bulbous bow suddenly rose straight up out of the water at a ridiculous angle, the explosion of the two bombs inside the forward torpedo tubes lifting the first fifty feet of the hull skyward and then literally blowing the bow right off the sub, taking about a third of the forward hull with it. Through his binoculars, Hawke saw a gaping maw where the sub’s bow had been moments before. Using a sub’s own opened torpedo tubes to get your explosive devices deep within the enemy boat was not something he’d learned at the War College.

His boxing trainer had told him something long ago that had stuck with him:

“The ideal fighter has heart, Alex, skill, movement, intelligence, but, also, creativity. You can have everything, but if you can’t make it up while you’re in the ring, you can’t be great… you bring everything to it, you make it up while you’re doing it.”

He had made it up.

And, by God, it had worked.

The submarine’s bow had been blown to bits, vaporized. When what was left of the fatally wounded sub splashed down, its forward momentum sent a tsunami of seawater rushing into the opened hull, drowning everyone in the forward compartments. Those behind the watertight doors would survive long enough to make the fast, fatal trip to the bottom.

Suddenly, with all the weight forward, her stern came straight up, her screws still spinning wildly. A few moments later she was standing on her head, beginning her slow downward slide.

She sank without a trace.