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.
Fifty-eight
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.
“Hard to port, engines all ahead flank,” Hawke said to the helmsman, Laddie.
“Hard to port, all ahead flank, aye.”
The big boat heeled over and carved a tight turn onto a westerly course. It was Hawke’s intention to misdirect the enemy, then make an unexpected starboard tack and come storming at the enemy right out of the glaring sun. He was clearly trying to eke out any advantage he could get.
The mood on the bridge was tense.
Their confidence in the ship’s weapons systems, both offensive and defensive, was complete. But the odds were decidedly against them. Hawke was ex-Royal Navy, but he’d been a pilot, not a seaman. He’d always been an amateur military historian, studying the great naval battles of history since childhood. Still, he felt extremely fortunate to have a seasoned navy man like Carstairs as his number two, and Lieutenant Brian Burns as his fire control officer. These two men would be directing the battle. But this was Alex Hawke’s boat, not the Royal Navy’s.
The closer they got to the enemy’s line of battle, the thicker the tension. Hawke could see Laddie’s thoughts, betrayed by his eyes. His natural intuition was telling him that something terrible was going to happen. His worry was visible in the tensing of his brow and the protrusion of the tendons on the back of his hands where they gripped the helm.
The speaker crackled, and some on the bridge flinched, knowing what was coming.
“Helm, Fire Control, Thondor vessel has two missiles locked on, preparing to launch. Recommend going to the AMMS while taking evasive action.”
Carstairs looked at Hawke before thumbing his radio.
“Fire Control, Helm. Agree. Arm the AMMS. I am putting the helm hard aport, flank speed.”
“Aye. AMMS armed and locked onto Thondor’s missile launcher. I will launch on your signal.”
AMMS was Blackhawke’s antimissile-missile system. It was designed to take out enemy missiles just as they were being launched. They were at their slowest leaving the tubes and their destruction at that critical moment would cause maximum damage to the enemy vessel.
“Fire Control, fifteen seconds to enemy launch.”
“Fire tubes one and two.”
“Missiles away…”
Seconds stretched out to an hour.
“Helm, we have one direct hit and one incoming enemy missile! The second AMM missed the target!”
“Christ!” Laddie said, whipping the helm to starboard in a desperate attempt to But the Iranian missile didn’t miss. It scored a direct hit on Blackhawke. It struck the foremast, the splintering explosion occurring about a third of the way up the carbon fiber spar.
Hawke suddenly grabbed the helm and spun it hard to starboard. He’d seen that the topmost portion of the massively heavy mast would now fall directly aft, crashing down upon the bridge deck, causing massive damage and casualties. The centripetal force caused by the sudden heeling and swerving of the yacht during the split-second change of course saved them. The mast was flung over the port gunwale but not without causing a near catastrophe in the process.
One of the mast’s massive spreaders, the crosstrees that held the sails, slammed through the outboard portside windows of the bridge. Luckily, no one was cut by the flying shards of glass, but a major portion of the
