Ted Bell - Phantom

“I would, thank you for offering,” Hawke said. Laddie stepped aside and Hawke took the wheel.

“You have the conn, sir.”

“I have the conn,” Hawke confirmed, as tradition dictated.

“Conn, aye.”

“Gun crews ready,” Hawke said into the command radio. “Fire as she bears.”

“Ready, aye.”

“Come left on my order.”

“Ready about, then, gentlemen.”

“Ready about, sir.”

“Hard aport,” Hawke barked, spinning the big wheel hard left so lightly though the tips of his fingers it seemed a blur, effortless. Carstairs watched this performance in awe. Here was a seaman in action. Here was a true warrior.

Blackhawke ’s massive bowsprit missed the hull of the enemy vessel by no more than a foot before finally falling off to port. It was as fine a piece of seamanship as Laddie Carstairs had ever witnessed in a lifetime at sea. The big black yacht rounded up into the wind and lay alongside the enemy at her stern quarter, slowing and matching her speed and course; Hawke’s devastating guns were now at the closest possible range. The Iranian destroyer’s big guns were now totally out of the picture, as their elevations would not allow for a target this close to their hull.

But Blackhawke ’s powerful Bushmaster 44 cannons were just six feet above the waterline.

Hawke’s plan all along, Carstairs thought, thinking of all the lives aboard this ship that had just been saved by the man’s natural naval battle instincts.

Get inside a man’s range and pull a gun.

The secret to close work, and by God Hawke knew it, on land or on sea.

At that exact moment, a SEAL team sniper fell from high in the rigging, landing on the deck just in front of the bridge windows, splayed out, a small fountain of blood bubbling at his belly, and clearly dead. Hawke was not looking at him, for he was looking at the enemy with total concentration.

“Starboard gun crews, fire as she bears, gentlemen.”

“Firing as she bears, aye.”

“Navy Six, Helm.”

“Navy Six, go ahead, sir.”

“Mr. Stollenwork, are your snipers in position for gun action?”

“Affirmative. SEAL Six is go.”

“I want suppression on the enemy automatic weapons who’ll be firing down on us from the rails. Kill them or keep them away from the gunwales, aye?”

“Aye-aye, skipper. Wilco.”

“Stoke, Helm. You okay up there by yourself?”

“I got a loader up here now. I’ll fire number one, then move to two while he reloads. How’s Harry?”

“He’ll live. He’s lying down in sick bay yelling at everyone. I’ll say this for him. He likes a fight.”

“I do too. Do what you got to do and don’t worry yourself about me.”

“We’re on it.”

And by God, they were.

The heavy cannons were pouring rounds into the Iranian destroyer right along the waterline. They were literally slicing through the hull and exploding on the far side, opening up her starboard side to the sea.

“All ahead one-third,” Hawke said.

Blackhawke began edging forward, the thunderous roar of her cannons and the result of that fire slicing the Alvand ’s hull open like a tin can.

The enemy vessel came to a dead stop. Her decks were awash. Her propellers blown off.

And then the most amazing sight anyone on board Blackhawke had ever seen.

She literally started sinking before their eyes. She was just going down, not at the stern or the bow. The whole damn boat was sinking at the same rate.

“What the hell?” Laddie said. “Amazing.”

“Yeah,” Hawke said. “We sliced her bloody keel off. All that lead just plunged to the bottom. There’s no more boat beneath the waterline. She’s wide open from stem to stern.”

Laddie just looked at him, his lower jaw threatening his collarbone.

“This is one for the books, sir.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Loose lips sink ships?”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Hawke replied.

Alvand sank without a trace within seconds.

The Strait of Hormuz now lay wide open before them.

They were going home.

Home, Hawke thought.

England.

My beloved son.

Hawke, in the following moments, was silent, still as a photograph. There was no jubilation, no exultation of triumph or evincing the thrill of victory. He was simply paying tribute to his dear father and all the wisdom that great good man had imparted to his son before his parents were brutally murdered.

The much-decorated naval hero had said it best: War is never about what’s in front of you, Alex. It’s always about what’s behind you.

And it was the truth.

Bermuda

It had been cold the previous night, unseasonably cold. The chill wind howled around Alex Hawke’s tiny Teakettle Cottage on Bermuda’s southern coast, whistling down the chimneys and round the window sashes, clawing at the rattling shutters, insistent and noisy as an angry mob of banshees seeking revenge.

Hawke recognized it as that cold sea air, filled with the bottomless chill that lies at the cloistered heart of ghost stories.

Alexei had come running into his father’s bedroom to say good night just as Hawke was slipping his loaded. 45 into the drawer of his bedside table. He always slept with it nearby now, even though the boy’s bodyguard, Nell Spooner, was just down the hall, sleeping in the child’s room.

Hawke felt the boy was safer in Bermuda than anywhere else, but still, he was taking no chances.

At that precise moment came a deafening boom of thunder, one that rattled the seaward windows and was quickly followed by a blinding flash of lightning that lit up the room brighter than the brightest day.

Little Alexei’s eyes widened with delight and the three-year-old leaped onto his father’s bed.

“Oh, Papa, this is a real storm. I love storms!”

“His father’s son, isn’t he?” Nell Spooner said, entering the room to collect her charge. “Now I know two very odd men who much prefer bad weather to good.”

Hawke smiled at her and then his son, who now had his thin little arms clasped around his father’s neck and was hugging him as hard as ever he could.

“Good night, Alexei,” Hawke said, kissing the boy’s forehead. “Promise me you’ll get a good night’s sleep because Daddy’s taking you out sailing tomorrow.”

“Sailing! On Stormy Petrel, Papa?”

“Of course we’re taking Petrel. Now, you go with Nell and don’t forget to say your prayers.”

Petrel, unlike Hawke’s massive megayacht, Blackhawke, was a simple forty-foot Bermuda ketch. But she was lovely, built of mahogany over oak planking, teak decks, sitka spruce spars, and a gleaming varnished cabin house. Her hull was painted jet black with golden cove stripes along her sides.

“I never forget God, Papa. He watches over me, just like Nell does.”

“I know he does. I love you, boy.”

“I love you even more, Papa.”

Nell swept Alexei up into her arms and carried him away. Hawke watched the two of them disappear down the dimly lit hall, aware of that overwhelming sensation of gratitude for his little family. It was as powerful as anything he’d ever felt.

And he remembered what his late father had said about the true meaning of war.

This, he knew, this was what lay behind him when he went off to battle.

A fter a lullaby or two, Alexei fell fast asleep in his bed. Nell Spooner reentered Hawke’s tiny bedroom, arms wrapped around herself, shivering. She spied the fire Pelham had laid in the brick fireplace.

“Please light the fire, Alex. I’m so cold. To the bone.”

Hawke put down his book and looked up.

“You know what Ambrose Congreve told me once?”