Ted Bell - Phantom

“Helm, maintain course,” Hawke said. He wanted to find out who’d blink first.

“Maintain current heading, aye.”

“Sonar, is this typical naval military traffic in the approach to the strait?” Hawke said.

“Sir, it’s hard to say. There’s nothing typical about Iranian military behavior. Especially the navy. But based on what I’m seeing, I’m guessing they know who we are, what we’ve been up to, and why we’re coming.”

“Sound General Quarters,” Hawke said quietly.

The sirens began wailing throughout the ship. Gun crews scrambled forward, manning the ten cannon placements on both the port and starboard sides. Protective covers remained on deck cannons, rocket launchers, depth charges, and heavy machine guns fore and aft. When the cannons rolled out, the covers would come off, too.

Stollenwork moved rapidly about the covert combat quarters in the stern of the yacht, shouting orders to his naval combat crew for the coming fight. Inside the narrow concealed corridors running from stem to stern, gun crews were loading the cannons with both high-explosive and armor-piercing rounds. The crews were pumped. Ten guns lined each side of the vessel, and all fired at a rate of two hundred rounds a minute. That meant the starboard gunners alone would be throwing lead at two thousand cannon rounds every single minute.

Stunning firepower, by any standard.

Blackhawke was going to war.

And, by God, she was ready.

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.