Phantom: An Alex Hawke Novel (43 page)

Fifty-seven

T
he 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.

T
hey 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.

L
ooking 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.

Fifty-eight

L
ine 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.