Phantom

Fifty-eight

Line of battle: Iran’s Thondor class missile craft, which carried four C802 SSM missiles, two 30mm cannons, and two 23mm cannons. The Iranian Navy’s largest vessel, the very fast Vosper MK5 frigate. And, finally, the Bayandor class large patrol corvette. These were the last three things standing between Blackhawke and her escape through the Strait of Hormuz. And they were formidable.

The Iranian naval officers aboard all three warships had witnessed with dismay the utter destruction of the pirates, the two patrol boats, and, most grievous of all, the pride of the Fourteenth Naval Fleet, the recently launched submarine Yunus. Having communicated with each other, they were thus approaching the coming battle with a mere “yacht” with a bit more respect.

“Hard to port, engines all ahead flank,” Hawke said to the helmsman, Laddie.

“Hard to port, all ahead flank, aye.”

The big boat heeled over and carved a tight turn onto a westerly course. It was Hawke’s intention to misdirect the enemy, then make an unexpected starboard tack and come storming at the enemy right out of the glaring sun. He was clearly trying to eke out any advantage he could get.

The mood on the bridge was tense.

Their confidence in the ship’s weapons systems, both offensive and defensive, was complete. But the odds were decidedly against them. Hawke was ex-Royal Navy, but he’d been a pilot, not a seaman. He’d always been an amateur military historian, studying the great naval battles of history since childhood. Still, he felt extremely fortunate to have a seasoned navy man like Carstairs as his number two, and Lieutenant Brian Burns as his fire control officer. These two men would be directing the battle. But this was Alex Hawke’s boat, not the Royal Navy’s.

The closer they got to the enemy’s line of battle, the thicker the tension. Hawke could see Laddie’s thoughts, betrayed by his eyes. His natural intuition was telling him that something terrible was going to happen. His worry was visible in the tensing of his brow and the protrusion of the tendons on the back of his hands where they gripped the helm.

The speaker crackled, and some on the bridge flinched, knowing what was coming.

“Helm, Fire Control, Thondor vessel has two missiles locked on, preparing to launch. Recommend going to the AMMS while taking evasive action.”

Carstairs looked at Hawke before thumbing his radio.

“Fire Control, Helm. Agree. Arm the AMMS. I am putting the helm hard aport, flank speed.”

“Aye. AMMS armed and locked onto Thondor’s missile launcher. I will launch on your signal.”

AMMS was Blackhawke’s antimissile-missile system. It was designed to take out enemy missiles just as they were being launched. They were at their slowest leaving the tubes and their destruction at that critical moment would cause maximum damage to the enemy vessel.

“Fire Control, fifteen seconds to enemy launch.”

“Fire tubes one and two.”

“Missiles away…”

Seconds stretched out to an hour.

“Helm, we have one direct hit and one incoming enemy missile! The second AMM missed the target!”

“Christ!” Laddie said, whipping the helm to starboard in a desperate attempt to But the Iranian missile didn’t miss. It scored a direct hit on Blackhawke. It struck the foremast, the splintering explosion occurring about a third of the way up the carbon fiber spar.

Hawke suddenly grabbed the helm and spun it hard to starboard. He’d seen that the topmost portion of the massively heavy mast would now fall directly aft, crashing down upon the bridge deck, causing massive damage and casualties. The centripetal force caused by the sudden heeling and swerving of the yacht during the split-second change of course saved them. The mast was flung over the port gunwale but not without causing a near catastrophe in the process.

One of the mast’s massive spreaders, the crosstrees that held the sails, slammed through the outboard portside windows of the bridge. Luckily, no one was cut by the flying shards of glass, but a major portion of the communications control panel was demolished. A machinist’s mate with a power hacksaw was summoned. As soon as the spreader had been sawn through, the ruined mast slid harmlessly into the sea.

The machinist smiled at Hawke and said, “I can get new glass in that window in about fifteen minutes, sir. Might keep it a bit drier in here.”

“Get to work then, son. A dry crew is a happy crew.”

“So we’re down one mast,” Laddie said to Hawke.

“Right. Good thing we’ve got two more just like that one,” Hawke said out of the corner of his mouth. He was calculating how best to take out the missile carrier. “Laddie, come left to two-seven-oh. That bastard’s well within our cannon range.”

“Two-seven-oh, aye.”

“Fire Control,” Hawke said, “open the starboard gunports. Concentrate every gun on that Thondor missile carrier. Sink it. Now.”

“Aye-aye, skipper. Commencing fire.”

Hawke eyed the target through his binoculars. The effect of ten 40mm cannon shells, each gun firing two hundred rounds a minute, was devastating. The big warship was literally blown apart. Hawke estimated there’d be very few, if any, survivors.

While they’d all been concentrating on destroying the Thondor to starboard, the patrol corvette had been stalking them, hanging back off their aft quarter, well out of cannon range. Now she was racing at full speed toward them.

The corvette had plenty of firepower, including a 30mm cannon, but the thing that was worrying Alex Hawke at the moment were the four 324mm high-explosive torpedoes she carried. There weren’t many places Blackhawke was vulnerable, but below the waterline, a powerful torpedo could send her to the bottom. Hawke saw the Iranian warship throttle back to idle speed, hanging just beyond the range of Blackhawke ’s furious cannon fusillades.

“Laddie,” Hawke said, studying the enemy vessel through his binoculars, “I don’t like the looks of that corvette. She’s stopped beyond the range of her own guns. I think she’s setting herself up to launch a spread of torpedoes.”

“I agree.”

“Fire Control, Helm. You tracking that corvette?”

“Aye-aye, sir. Designate new target Tango Charlie. We’ve already got it dialed in. Spinning up weapon systems. Awaiting orders.”

“He’s circling, trying to get the best angle of fire on us. Let’s take him out now. We’ve got two JDAMs in the forward tubes. Now’s the time to use one. Light up a stogie, FCO.”

The fire control officer’s one weakness was the Cuban cigar known as a “torpedo”; thus his nickname for the JDAM antiship missile was “stogie.”

“Roger that, Helm.”

“Smoke ’em if you got ’em,” Hawke replied.

“Launch portside JDAM when enemy target acquired, affirmative. Initiating prelaunch checklist… weapon powered… autotrack engaged… master arm is hot… weapon status… ready, sir.”

“Fire at your discretion.”

Hawke saw the instrument on the panel above marked “Port Tube One” flash yellow for about thirty seconds and then flash red continuously. This meant the door of the forward torpedo tube on the port side was open. The tube was now flooded.

The fish, which was kept stowed in the tube, was away.

The JDAM is the most powerful antiship missile in existence. Two of them can take out a small aircraft carrier. Hawke saw the frothy white wake of the missile as it sped mercilessly toward the threatening enemy corvette. The corvette went to flank speed and began making evasive maneuvers. The skipper was obviously unaware that you can’t evade a bloody JDAM’s autotrack system. Nothing that floats can.

Hawke raised the high-powered Zeiss glasses to his eyes.

The explosion was massive. A bright white flash amidships that quickly turned yellow-orange and flaming red. Flames and black smoke climbed into the darkening sky. Everyone on the bridge was using their binoculars. A cheer went up when the smoke cleared enough to assess the damage to the corvette.

Its back had been broken, blown apart.

The missile had literally blown the vessel in two. There was now a bow section and an aft section, both afire and still afloat, although canted at weird angles, with sky clearly visible between them. Crewmen could be seen leaping from the rails of both sections, desperately but unsuccessfully trying to outswim the pool of burning oil that was spreading rapidly on the surface surrounding the doomed vessel. Hawke turned away, sickened by the sight. He touched Laddie’s shoulder and the two men left the bridge.

They needed to talk through the last remaining obstacle.

The huge Iranian Vosper MK5 destroyer escort with massive firepower that blocked Blackhawke ’s escape.

“H ere’s the problem, Laddie,” Hawke said once they were alone in the captain’s quarters. “My view, at any rate. You think I’m wrong, speak up. That destroyer skipper is no fool and he’s got us in a box. He knows his big guns have much longer range than our cannons. He knows our missiles probably can’t do enough damage to a vessel his size to stop him. He’s just witnessed what a JDAM can do, but he has no idea of its range. So he just sits out there and waits us out.”

“I’m not sure just one stogie could sink him, anyway,” Laddie said. “But that’s all we’ve got left.”

“If we can hit him amidships below the waterline we could get lucky. But we’ve got to go inside his range radius to have a decent shot.”

“What choice do we have, then, skipper? We go in, light a stogie, and get the hell out of Dodge. Right?”

“It’s all we’ve got. I’ve got an idea. Please hand me that battle radio on the bulkhead.”

“SIGINT, this is Hawke, do you copy?”

“Aye, sir, Signal Intelligence copies loud and clear,” the young officer, on loan from the CIA, said.

“Tell me about this Vosper MK5 that’s in our way.”

“The Alvand. British built, delivered before the Iranian revolution. Originally there were four. One, Sahand, was sunk by U.S. forces during Operation Praying Mantis in 1988. It fired on an A-6 Intruder flying off the USS Enterprise. It was then struck by Harpoon missiles fired by the damaged A-6 Intruder, and then sunk by a coordinated Harpoon attack from its wingman and a nearby surface ship.”

“Armament?”

“Four C-802 antiship missiles, one 114mm Mark 8 gun forward, two 35mm cannons fore and aft, two 81mm mortars, two. 50-caliber machine guns, one Limbo ASW mortar, and three triple 12.75 torpedo tubes.”

“Roger that. SIGINT, you think Langley’s got any aerial sat photos of this thing?”

“Scrapbooks full of ’em, sir.”

“Thanks. I need to see them up here on the bridge ASAP. I want to get a very close look at what we’re up against.”

“Consider it done, sir. I’ll have them on the helm monitor within five. Over.”

Hawke then thumbed the command radio and contacted Stokely Jones, who was still manning one of the two 30mm cannons on the bow.