Ted Bell - Phantom

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.

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.