needed.
Blackhawke had been designed with a completely covert section, two lower decks partitioned off, comprising roughly one-third of the ship’s stern. The entry hatchways in the bulkheads to this concealed section carried DANGER/RADIATION/NO ENTRY signs, forbidding in appearance. Beyond them lay an area as large as a good- sized hangar, the centerpiece being the tender/gunship Nighthawke, which was mounted in a sling and winched aboard on a traveling gantry when not deployed.
On the uppermost level, the designers had allocated space for ammunition, firearms, explosives, assault kit and gear-any and all military equipment that would require instant access in the event of conflict. This level also comprised the fighting men’s living and sleeping quarters, toilets, showers, the kitchen, refrigerated food storage and adjacent mess, plus HVAC equipment to maintain comfort for the combatants in any weather. There was a large assembly station from which men could gather prior to an assault or sea battle.
The lower level also provided space for the operational situation room and the sophisticated electronic equipment necessary for both defensive and offensive countermeasures. Adjacent was the battle communications center, where the combat officers would fight the ship.
One of the unique features of the vessel had stemmed from Hawke’s desire to arm the vessel in the manner of pirate ships of old. He wanted broadside cannons along the length of the hull, both port and starboard. But they must be concealed until the very moment of battle. Like his ancestor, John Black Hawke, he wanted his man-of-war to sail into the melee, throw a handle that dropped the exterior panels, expose the multiple muzzles, and then roll the long black barrels out for a vicious broadside.
This meant a concealed space running the length of both sides of the ship, just inside the hull, where the gun crews could easily reach their emplacements, load, and fire. Loaders racing from the ammunition hold would run fore and aft, resupplying the gunners with fresh ammo as needed.
But what kind of cannon? Ultimately he’d decided on the MK44 40mm automatic light cannon, a weapon capable of firing two hundred rounds per minute. It was a “chain gun,” which meant very few moving parts. Two distinct rounds could be fired by these guns at the flick of a switch from the fire control system, an armor-piercing round or a high-explosive round. These twenty-first-century weapons would provide Blackhawke with the ability to loose a devastating and withering broadside against any aggressor on land or at sea.
The kind of weaponry in Blackhawke ’s arsenal had not been approved by any committees on Capitol Hill or in Whitehall. What she carried were simply the most advanced and effective war-fighting systems available to anyone who could afford them.
Hawke, who could afford them, knew he was in for a fight.
And he never went into a fight he didn’t stand at least a ghost of a chance of winning.
Forty-eight
Saudi Arabia, Persian Gulf
The sun peeked over the eastern rim of the world. Streaks of flaming red shot across the ruffled sea. Hawke, up at first light, stood on the foredeck of Blackhawke, his mammoth creation, a steaming mug of coffee to hand, loving the feel of warm teak beneath his bare feet. The Saudi harbor at Ad Dammam was already teeming with activity, fishing boats plowing through the building waves toward the harbor mouth, headed seaward.
Hawke had just completed his morning swim, four miles in open water. This was the time when he felt most keenly alive, his body literally humming with energy. As the desert to the west heated up, a freshening easterly breeze sent white-capped waves marching off toward the horizon. A fifteen-knot breeze, he estimated. It promised to be a good day for a yacht race, especially for a boat as enormous as his new Blackhawke.
Hawke was going to war, but first he had to do battle with the Saudi king, Abdullah, and his yacht, Kingdom. He had little interest in the outcome of the match itself. He was far more interested in other things. For one, seeing how his new Blackhawke performed under sail in a real blow. The weather during the sea trials on the Bosporus had been insufficient to put her through her paces; light winds punctuated by periods of dead calm had provided endless frustration for the megayacht’s new owner. He had wanted to see her heeled hard over, charging forward into the teeth of the wind.
And he was still turning over the details of how he would take this leviathan to war, sail her in harm’s way, and get her safely home.
His captain, Laddie Carstairs, appeared beside him at the rail. He was a tall fellow, all sinewy strength, close-cropped grey hair, and flinty grey eyes. He had the well-tanned hide of a man who’d spent his life at sea, the deeply lined visage of a fellow who’d long been storm tossed by sea, battle, life.
“Morning, sir,” the coxswain said.
Hawke replied, “Morning, Cap. Sleep well?”
“Like a babe in his mother’s arms. Always do, the night before a fight.”
Carstairs had commanded a light cruiser during the Second Gulf War and was one of the most decorated men in the Royal Navy. Then he’d retired and come to work for Alex Hawke. He’d resided in Istanbul during the entire period of the new yacht’s build-out, from conception through construction. His nautical experience and intellect played a key role in turning Blackhawke from a luxury toy into a fearsome fighting ship. Hawke had felt very lucky to have such a man now signed on as skipper.
“I saw King Abdullah out doing a bit of tacking to windward yesterday afternoon, sir. Beautiful white yacht, with that enormous golden sword on her transom just below her name. Kingdom. She looks formidable enough, I must say.”
Hawke said, “Right. Her sloop rig will most likely allow her to sail closer to the wind than us. Close-hauled, she’ll have an edge on us for sure, Laddie. But on the reaches and downwind, she’ll be in our wake, falling farther behind, I’d wager. Not that anyone has ever raced a high-tech three-masted square-rigger against a traditional sloop rig before, so who the hell knows.”
“You seem fairly sanguine about the whole thing, sir. Not your usual competitive obsession with the finish line.”
“We’re not headed for the finish line, Laddie.”
The man’s face fell, surprise and dismay in his eyes.
“Sorry? We’re not? Where are we headed then, for God’s sake?”
“Iran.”
“ Iran? With all due respect, sir, may I ask why?”
“To find and kill a phantom.”
“A phantom?”
“Yes. An evil force whose presence you can feel, but cannot see or hear.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“This is a spec-ops CIA-Red Banner mission, Laddie. I was forbidden to tell you about any of this until this moment. An Iranian scientist named Darius Saffari is the target. He’s got a hilltop fortress on the Iranian coast, the Ram Citadel, about fifty miles south of Bandar-e Bushehr. That’s why we’re headed to Iran. We’re going to infiltrate that citadel and kill him. In many ways, he’s a far bigger fish than either Bin Laden or Ghaddafi.”
“Good God, I’ve never even heard of him.”
“You’re now part of an extremely small circle. I’ve got the Citadel’s precise coordinates, when you’re ready.”
“I’ll get the navigator right on it, then.”
“Laddie, forgive me for not bringing you into the loop sooner. I hate to drop all this on you at the last minute. I know this last-minute stuff is tough. But we’re operating strictly black-out under orders from the CIA. Black ops of the utmost secrecy due to ‘political sensitivity,’ as they call it in Washington. Two squads of U.S. Navy SEALs are arriving this afternoon to augment our own assault forces. Also Stokely Jones and Harry Brock, whom you know.”
“And the race?”
“A cover story. To explain away our inexplicable presence here in the Gulf. Even though the boat’s got a Maltese registration and Valletta as the hailing port on her transom, this is a high-profile yacht. Her presence in the
