Ted Bell - Phantom

“Aye, sir.”

“Where are Stokely and Brock?”

“They remained down on the dock. First line of defense, Brock told me.”

“What!”

“Aye, they’ve taken up a defensive firing position behind some stacked steel barrels. They’ve both got M-60 heavy machine guns. Chopping ’em up pretty good, sir.”

“Damn it! Get them aboard immediately. That’s suicide. They’ll be overrun by this mob in seconds, hacked to pieces with bayonets and scimitars. Have you still got a grapnel line down?”

“All aboard save one.”

“Get on the radio. Have them grab that damn line and haul them aboard as fast as you can. Give them covering fire while they’re exposed coming up the side of the hull.”

“Roger, it’s happening as we speak.”

Hawke saw Brock and Stoke safely hauled aboard and shouted, “Here those bastards with the ladders come, Stony. I’ve wanted to say this since I was six years old: Repel boarders!”

The jihadist warriors, AK-47s in their hands and curved Arabian knives clenched in their teeth, began to position the ladders against the hull and started scrambling up like jabbering monkeys. Hawke’s men waited, then shoved the ladders away from the rail and sent them tumbling back down into the midst of the howling mob or splashing into the water on the far side of the pier. But ladders were going up the entire length of the hull, faster than Hawke’s men could shove them away. The fire was murderous and Hawke knew he was taking unacceptable casualties.

“D ivers still down?” Stony asked, joining Hawke as they both poured fire into the masses of warriors climbing the ladders. Far too many were getting aboard. And more were still streaming through the gate. This battle was going one-sided fast, Hawke realized. A strategic retreat was called for and the patrol boat for their escape wasn’t exactly seaworthy at the moment. It was nonexistent.

“Where the hell’s my UDT squad?”

“No sign of them, Stony,” Hawke said, looking at his watch. “They’ve been down there twenty minutes. We need to get the hell off this damn boat. Now.”

“Good God, Alex, you’ve been hit!”

“Somebody got lucky. A round penetrated my body armor beneath my arm. Nothing vital, I assure you, despite the fountain of blood.”

“I’ll get a corpsman up here immediately.”

“No. There are men below who need attention far more than I do. Somebody can stitch me up when the seriously wounded have been attended to. Now, enough of that; what is our situation?”

“I’m afraid the bastards have got us trapped, sir. We’re already vastly outmanned and outgunned and our escape plan just went up in smoke at the far end of the pier.”

“That was Plan A,” Hawke said, grimacing in pain and mowing down a tightly bunched group of black-turbaned fighters trying to sneak aft from the bow and flank them on the starboard side. “It’s time for Plan B.”

“Ah, good. But tell me what the hell is Plan B again?”

“Plan B is steaming at flank speed up the channel right now. Look behind you.”

A strange ship was approaching at a high rate of speed. It looked like no waterborne craft Stony had ever seen before. Her flat-angled planes were matte black, austere, and her sharp prow looked like the blade of a battle axe.

“Good God, what the hell is that thing? Looks like a floating stealth bomber.”

“She’s called Nighthawke. She’s the tender to Blackhawke, built in Italy at the Wally yard. Fifty feet of armor-plated gunship to the rescue. She’s been circling offshore. I ordered her in when the patrol boat was taken out. Wait-got you, you little raghead-that’s why I ordered the grapnel lines moved to the seaward side. We’re getting the hell off this empty bucket. I want an orderly retreat from the port side over to the starboard side, Stony. Not all at once, nothing perceptible from the shore. Make them think we’re still defending the port side until the last possible moment. I’ve ordered Nighthawke to pull along our starboard side to receive us as we come down the grapnel lines.”

“I like this plan.”

“ Nighthawke ’s got enough firepower to discourage anyone from trying to follow us in those pirate scows.”

“Aye-aye, sir,” Stony said with a wide grin. He saw the Nighthawke ’s twin Browning. 50-caliber barrels protruding from a ring-mounted armored turret swivel 180 degrees on the foredeck and start spitting lead at enemy fighters threatening to ascend to higher decks from the stern of the big white yacht. Another gunner, operating a similar turret on the stern, opened fire. The loud chatter of the two big guns gave rise to Hawke’s hopes that the main body of his force might actually survive. At least three of his Red Team members fighting off the boarders had not been so lucky in the brutal firefight. Many more were injured and needed immediate medical attention.

Stony said, “I’ll go below and give the order to move to starboard now. Post a rear guard to fire and scramble, from as many positions as possible, to give the illusion of a larger force to disguise the retreat.” Hawke looked at him, thinking fast.

“Give me your gun and ammo first. Shooting with two hands is better than one. With any luck, I’ll see you on board Nighthawke. Tell your men to scramble. Down the lines, then just drop to the tender’s deck, head for the nearest open hatchway, and get the hell below.”

“What about my four divers?”

“Don’t worry, Stony. We’re not leaving without them.”

Dead and wounded were being lowered in makeshift slings down to the decks of Nighthawke and swiftly carried below to receive medical attention. The armored tender’s heavy firepower, fore and aft, was keeping the enemy down, covering the rapid escape as Blue Team and Red Team rappelled down the starboard hull of Cygnus, most just dropping the last ten feet to her deck and scrambling for cover, before returning fire at the suicidal Iranian fighters who appeared at the rail, raining fire down from high above.

Hawke was the last man to leave Cygnus.

Stoke was standing below on the foredeck hatch cover, watching his descent, waiting anxiously to receive him, having seen the bloody chest wound Hawke had received covering the retreat of the bloodied combatants. Hawke only had the use of his left arm to descend. The pain was merciless. When Hawke was halfway down, Stoke saw his head slump forward. Then he lost his grip. He dropped the last thirty feet into Stoke’s arms. Stoke caught the one-hundred-eighty-pound man, staggered a step, but held on, cradling Hawke against his own massive chest. He looked at his friend’s face, a pale grey, his body weak with blood loss.

“You okay, boss? You don’t look so good…”

Hawke managed a forced smile and a ragged reply.

“Stoke. What have I always told you about pain?”

“Pain is just weakness leaving your body.”

“Right.”

“Yeah, I know, boss. Just another pretty little scar to add to your collection.”

Stoke hurried his wounded comrade under the cover of the steel-roofed wheelhouse. “Corpsman!” he shouted and a navy medic came running to attend to Hawke’s injuries. He examined him quickly and expertly.

“Shoulder wound, sir,” the young corpsman said. “And clean flesh. No bone, no arteries. The round passed straight through. I’ll stitch him up and he’ll be on the mend straightaway.”

Ten minutes later, Hawke was resting quietly in the sick bay, his entire chest strapped with surgical tape and his right arm in a sling. His color was coming back and Stoke could see in his eyes that there was one hell of a lot of fight left in him. He was down, but he wouldn’t be down long. Weakness was leaving his body.

H awke looked up at the starboard rail above him and saw that the enemy had abandoned the field of battle, at least for now. He immediately headed for the stern, looking for the four SEAL demolition divers. Nighthawke had a wide, teak-decked boarding platform protruding from beneath her stern. It was raised and lowered hydraulically and could lift anything from the four heavily armed Jet Skis that were stowed just forward of the platform to four navy divers kitted up in very heavy dive suits and equipment.