Ted Bell - Phantom

“What are those thingys sticking out?”

“The little fins? Diving planes and rudders. And the entire surface is embedded with tiny propulsion jets. Send the little bastards anywhere you want. But they don’t have to be anywhere near the bad guys. Each cherry bomb has a blast range of a half mile. Anything inside that circle? Gone.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah. So anything traveling within a two-mile radius of four cherry bombs is going to be turned into fine sawdust and microscopic metal filings. You know how when a nuclear bomb first explodes, it rolls out that big ring of fiery-ass shock-and-awe shit before it turns into a mushroom cloud?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that’s kinda what they do.”

“Don’t tell me they’re nuclear?”

“Hell, no, they’re not nuclear. That technology’s so outdated. This is new technology, baby. Far superior. Those Israelis have got their shit together, trust me.”

“Yeah, well, these 30mm cannons work pretty good, too,” Harry said, removing the cover and getting into firing position on the small seat behind the breech. He put his eye to the rangefinder.

“What are you doing?”

“See that big mother ship hiding in the middle of the pack?”

“Yeah.”

“Watch this, pal. One fuckin’ shot.”

Harry yanked the cord and the big gun fired. It was a direct hit. Most of the mother ship’s topsides were destroyed and a fire was raging at the stern. She was badly damaged, but still maintained her course and speed as the crew desperately tried to extinguish the fire.

“Nice shot.”

“We do what we can.”

The main body of the pirate fleet held back out of range, but the pirate captain sent a dozen or so of his longboats racing full speed ahead and soon they were swarming around the big yacht, pirates standing now and firing their AK-47s. A few even nudged right alongside the yacht and flung grappling hooks over the rail. The young pirates, chains of gold dangling from their necks, their heads wrapped with red turbans, started scrambling up the lines with amazing agility. They had curved knives clenched in their teeth and they were clearly excited about this huge prize they were about to take.

Until, that is, the Navy SEAL snipers positioned on the topmost mast began picking them off with precision head shots. Those who’d reached the rail in an attempt to board died first, dropping like so many stones into the sea. Next the pirates coming up the lines, and finally those brave souls with their AKs, manning the longboats. It was all over in about five minutes.

But it didn’t stop the rest of pirate fleet from making a run on the yacht. It was just too glittering a prize to give up on.

“Okay. Here come the rest of those assholes. Show me.”

“Bombs away,” Stoke said, and pressed each of the big red Fire buttons two times.

Four red mines, about the size of large cannonballs, instantly deployed, arcing up into the sky, two from each tube.

Harry raised his binoculars. He could see the swarm of pirate scows, and the digital rangefinder in his lens had them at three miles dead aft and closing on the minefield.

The explosion was so brilliant in his lenses he had to turn away. It was as if a massive circular section of the sea itself had just become one giant explosive device, annihilating everything on the surface in one blinding instant. A second later, the shock wave hit, staggering Harry, who grabbed a stanchion and held on.

“Damn, Stoke.”

“Something else, huh?”

The two men stood and watched as the floating sea of fire gradually extinguished itself and the smoke dissipated, leaving the ocean as it was before, free of debris, pristine and beautiful in the sunlight.

“That’s some serious shit right there,” Brock said.

“You know what I’m thinking about right now, Harry?” Stoke said, a look on his face Harry could only describe as wistful.

“God only knows.”

“No, not only God; I know, too. It’s my damn idea, Harry.”

“Okay, okay, tell me. Jesus.”

“Back in Moscow I started to get into this Hollywood shit, y’know? So. What if I bought me an old movie theater in downtown Mogadishu? Put posters up around town of local Somali kids in Johnny Depp costumes. You know, Pirates of the Gulf of Aden with Captain Abdullah ‘Jack’ Sparrow, kinda thing. But get this. Every young Somali in town gets in free! Right? Free popcorn, candy, nachos, wings, Diet Coke, pig eyes, crow’s feet, you know, whatever the hell they like over there. And then I’d show them the movie. We open. It’s midnight. The sea is black and empty except for a huge white yacht. Look! Here come the brave pirates! Close up on all their little baby-Depp faces hiding beneath the gunwales of the longboats, AK-47s clenched in their hands, ready to attack the big bad yacht. But then, what? Omigod! A blinding flash of light, the big bang, ear-shattering explosion in surround sound, right, all that smoke and fire on the water. Closing shot of the empty sea, all the brave little pirates gone to the bottom. Fade out. What do you think? Seriously. Would you invest in an idea like that? I’d give you an Executive Producer credit, man.”

Harry Brock, for once in his life, could think of absolutely no reply.

Blackhawke lay some two miles in the distance.

The Strait of Hormuz is a narrow, strategically critical waterway between the Gulf of Oman in the southeast and the Persian Gulf. It is inarguably one of the world’s most dangerous choke points. On the north coast lies Iran, Hawke’s recent point of departure. On the south coast are the United Arab Emirates and Musandam, an enclave of Oman. On an average day, about fifteen supertankers carrying roughly seventeen million barrels of crude oil pass through the strait-or roughly 40 percent of all the world’s seaborne oil shipments. Every single day.

Hawke, finally back aboard his yacht and standing alongside Carstairs on Blackhawke ’s bridge, looked at the maritime chart of the strait for the tenth time.

When the next war starts, it will start here, he thought to himself. And when it did “Helm, Sonar. New contact, sir. Bearing two-zero-eight.”

“Sonar, Hawke. What’ve you got?”

“Midsize vessel, sir. Not a tanker. Approaching from the strait, I’d say she’s an Iranian Bayandor class, large patrol corvette. They operate two of them in these waters, the Bayandor and Admiral Naghdi.”

“Armament?”

“She carries four C-803 antiship missiles, a single 76mm DP naval cannon, one dual 40mm antiaircraft, and two triple 324mm torpedoes.”

“Keep an eye on her.”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

Hawke raised his battle radio. “Stony, Hawke, we’re approaching the strait, bearing one-eight-zero. We’ve already picked up an enemy contact. I thought we might get lucky but it looks like we might have to fight our way through. I’m sure there are more surprises out there waiting for us. I want you to prepare the ship and battle crew and wait for my signal to go to General Quarters. Unless we’re attacked first, we do not, repeat, do not, show our true colors until we’re right in the middle of them. Aegis picking up any suspicious air traffic?”

“Negative, Commander. Nothing airborne inside our defensive perimeter.”

“Good. Stay tuned. Things could get very spicy in a hurry.”

“Helm, Sonar, new contact, bearing two-seven-zero. Estimate vessel is a Thondor-class missile craft, operated by the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps. She carries four C802 SSM missiles, two 30mm cannons, and two 23mm-sir, sorry, new contact bearing two-six-zero, big one, Vosper MK5 frigate, very, very fast.”

“How fast?”

“Very fast. Engine turns for thirty-nine knots as we speak, sir; she’s got boost gas turbine engines. If she maintains course, current bearing will intercept ours in approximately twenty minutes.”