Steve Abbott - Devil's Gambit

Guide lines thrown down to the four waiting men uncoiled with a hiss in the air. The cargo crane wasted no time. It began to hoist the first box of its cargo up and over the side of the ship. Each man at the hatch grunted with effort as they fought the swaying motion of the crate. Each crate contained eight hundred kilos of mass. It was a true struggle to bring them down. The first made it to the hatch unscathed and disappeared into the forward torpedo room.

Flight Lieutenant Martin Weaver scanned the water forward and below his helicopter as it battered its way through the rough air of the Indian Ocean. A freighter of North Korean registry had, according to the ship’s intelligence officer, slipped out of the port of Cape Town six nights previous with a suspected cargo of embargoed military supplies. So far it had eluded the search efforts of himself and Tom Blackthorn, his navigator.

They had just turned to a heading that would bring them on the fourth of six, fifty kilometer long legs of their three hundred mile search pattern. The powerful Sea Spray Mark One Radar Set, capable of spotting the thin shaft of a periscope, was giving back nothing but wave clutter. Even the “Sea Owl” thermal imaging system was virtually useless in this muck.

Weaver looked at his fuel state. He had little over two hours’ worth left. Just enough for two more legs and a hasty landing on the Bloodhound if the weather held up. He peered through the drizzle-spattered windshield. That did not look too likely. He could see the gray line of a squall approaching on an intercept course from the south. Weaver brought the Sea Lynx onto the new heading. Time to let Flight Ops know what was going on.

“Bravo one to Fox-trot Oscar, over.”

The answer was riddled with static, a sure sign of deteriorating weather conditions. “Fox-trot Oscar, go ahead Bravo one.”

“No joy this run. Starting next leg, over.”

“Meteorology reports an increase in storm activity. Request you return now, over.”

“Weather situation is manageable here. We’re still dry. Request return at my discretion, over.” This time he had to wait for a reply.

“Captain says it’s your funeral. Good hunting. Fox-trot Oscar out.”

Weaver looked at the place where the Heads Up Display used to be. A good thing Flight Ops didn’t know it had packed it in on the last run. The weather was a good lot fouler than he had just said. The horizon of sky and sea were blending into a solid wall of slate gray. Rain pelted across the windscreen. A dangerous situation. Lose place with where you and your machine were, and you could find yourself swimming. Weaver and his navigator had been briefed on the freighter’s possible cargo. Even if they ended up swimming back to Bloodhound, it was worth it to keep the search going.

With the HUD out, Weaver was on instrument flight. He keyed the intercom to talk to his navigator. “Tom, looks like we’re only going to get in one leg before this lot really lets loose.”

“Roger skip. Radar is still giving me nothing. We should have spotted the damn thing on our last pass. I say the Foreign Office has us on a wild goose chase. I say we should pack it in and have another go once conditions have improved.”

The Sea Lynx shuddered, caught in a sudden updraft. Weaver gritted his teeth as he fought through it with his power and collective controls. “Nobody said it was going to be easy.”

Tom was right, and Weaver knew it. The freighter would be a wallowing tub at the best of times in good weather. In crud like this, she would be slower. All right angles and flat planes, rocking back and forth like a mirror in the sun. Easy picking. The Sea Lynx’s radar should have picked her up. Tom had the set at maximum width and full power. Still nothing.

The rain started to drum with purpose on the windshield. Heavy enough now that the wipers could not cope with it. Forward vision went to hell. Weaver always felt windshield wipers on a helicopter designed to go over two hundred miles an hour were a bit extraneous. He took them even lower into the murk, so they could at least see the ocean.

“Hang on, I’ve got something.” Tom bent closer to the eye cover over the radar set and adjusted the power and gain settings, trying to get a clearer reading on whatever it was. “Solid return! Steer one nine two, and drop your airspeed when I tell you.”

Weaver might be the pilot, but on a mission like this, Tom was the eyes.

Tom shook his head, “Not sure what it is. The storm is starting to play merry hell with my set, but the returns are strong and angular.”

Weaver shot a look at his fuel pounds. They were well under the two hour mark. Must be stronger winds than he first thought. “Better make this quick, Tom, or we’ll be rowing the last bit home.”

The Captain watched the whole process with pride in his crew and their abilities. Each man on the Leader’s bow would receive a commendation, he would see to it. All was going well until the third crate. As the men were lowering it, the freighter was hit by a bad swell. The movement was too sudden and violent for any of the sailors to control the sudden swing of the crate. The box slammed into the side of the Nung with a hollow thud. The crane operator lowered his cargo faster, in a desperate attempt to decrease the period of the swing. It worked, but not before the crate struck the side of the freighter again, with enough force to splinter its transport container. At last it too disappeared below deck.

“Airborne search radar!” The cry came from the freighter. Loud enough that even the Captain heard it. So had the men on the Leader’s bow. The guide lines of the cordon were quickly cut and pulled into a ball, which was then thrown through the still-open loading hatch. Out came the stanchions. They went over the side. Three of the men then dropped, one by one, through the hatch.

As the fourth man, the same one who had made the first walk to the bow, turned to make his way back to the sail, the loading hatch began to close.

The Captain eased the sub away from the freighter. He would not panic and submerge. Never would he leave one of his men at the mercy of his eternal enemy, the sea. The Captain of the Nung began to turn into the waves. The Leader was being robbed of the protection of its lee side while there was still a man on deck. The Captain watched in horror as the freighter began to make full steam.

His man made it to the hatch and closed it just as a huge swell broke past the stern of the Nung and ripped across the bow of the Leader. The Captain tore off his headset, threw it into the small watertight locker and slammed the small door shut. He turned to the two men on his bridge.

“Gentlemen, to your stations.” The signalman saluted and disappeared through the man way. The political officer had regained his composure with the securing of his all-important cargo. He unzipped his jacket and reached inside. The Captain half expected to see a gun, but reason prevailed this was his crew. They would tear this man limb from limb if he was harmed. Instead, the apparatchik produced an envelope with the seal of Kim Jong Un, the Supreme Leader himself.

“I was ordered to give this to you upon completion of the loading of the cargo. I apologize for my earlier conduct. Our great country profits from you and your crew’s expertise. Considering the present circumstances, it may be best if you read this now.”

The Captain took the letter and looked at the freighter as it struggled to distance itself from the Leader. “If you don’t mind, comrade, I will read this below.”