windward. And they stood in awe as they watched Blackhawke parallel Kingdom ’s heading. She could sail just as close to the wind as the sloop-rigged boat!
Suddenly, Kingdom tacked back to starboard. Now, a crossing situation between these two colossal yachts was about to unfold. The slightest misjudgment by anyone on board either boat, or even a wind shift, would result in a catastrophic collision. Hawke, like every competitive sailor, loved those times when two yachts, sailing at maximum speed, crossed each other’s paths with mere inches to spare.
Kingdom now had the privileged position as she was on starboard tack. But Blackhawke was ahead by three boat lengths. Hawke had a decision to make. He had to cross his opponent’s line now. If he didn’t, and Kingdom had to alter her course to avoid a collision, an infraction would be assigned to his boat, a 360-degree penalty turn that would cost him significant time and distance.
As the boats closed it was clear that Blackhawke was ahead and the proper tactic would be to cross and then almost immediately tack onto starboard and have the dirty air in the wake of his sails slow down Kingdom. Precision was the key. Tacking too early could cause a penalty for interfering with Kingdom ’s heading. Tacking too late would allow Kingdom to have clear air.
Sadly enough, it didn’t matter anymore.
“Boys, we’ll have to fall off and go below the king,” he shouted. “We must be in a lull. At any rate, we can’t cross now. Too late.”
Kingdom slid by, looking magnificent in the afternoon sunlight.
The sails were eased and Hawke put the helm hard over to port. Blackhawke crossed, well behind Kingdom. Three minutes later he tacked onto starboard, leaving the race course to Kingdom, and headed directly for the Iranian coastline. His blood was up-he wanted like hell to win, to beat this damn boat to the finish line-but he was at least content to know that he could beat her.
He picked up the VHF radio transmitter’s microphone.
“ Kingdom, Kingdom, Kingdom, this is the yacht Blackhawke. We have suffered a catastrophic hydraulic rigging failure and will be unable to continue to compete. I repeat, we are officially withdrawing from the race. Our captain will notify the Race Committee that we have conceded. I will update you with further information. At this point we need no assistance. Blackhawke over, standing by on Channel 16.”
He went to standby and replaced the transmitter.
“ Blackhawke, Blackhawke, this is Kingdom. Sorry to hear about your misfortunes. The king wishes to convey his sympathies and regrets to Lord Hawke. Please notify us if we can be of any assistance. Over.”
Hawke logged his heading for the mission insertion point into the GPS navigation system. He stood for a moment at the helm, watching his adversary gradually become a mere speck on the horizon. Then he turned the helm over to the boat’s captain, Carstairs, and got ready to inform the frustrated sailing crew why they were abandoning the fight. He was not looking forward to that conversation.
Before he went to talk to his men, he put his binoculars to his eyes and looked at the plains of Iran stretching down to meet the Gulf. The color was a delicate light brown, like the velvety coat of a young gazelle. On the hills, copses of poplars swayed in the wind. Dhows, single-masted vessels of another age, stood out to sea. It looked positively inviting.
He smiled.
As always, duty called.
Forty-nine
The Persian Gulf
Blackhawke was steaming five miles off the Iranian coastline. Every square foot of sail had been retracted into the four masts. She was now under power, relying on two massive gas turbine engines that could propel the behemoth at over thirty-five knots. At present, she was barely making way, just enough speed to keep her moving forward through the rough seas.
A cold front had moved in and, with it, high winds and six-foot seas. The sun was lowering in the western skies, a hazy grey disc behind the clouds. Hawke, Stoke, Brock, and Stony Stollenwork, the rugged, thirtysomething SEAL commander, were in the aft part of the ship. This is where luxury and glamour gave way to no-nonsense accommodations for assault teams, weapons storage, machine shops for maintenance, a military communications post, a satellite uplink station, a large wardroom for battle planning, and a combat command center.
Should Blackhawke come under attack, this is where the team of radar and sonar operators and a fire control officer would coordinate the defense of the ship. All under the command of former Royal Navy officer Captain Laddie Carstairs, who would relinquish his station on the ship’s main bridge to his second in command and relocate to the combat command center for the duration of the battle.
The entire assault team, both SEALs and Red Banner commandos, had just completed an exhaustive review of the strategic plan for the final time. The walls of Hawke’s seagoing office were covered with sat photos of the Saffari compound, Ram Citadel, at different hours of the day and night. They knew the guard rotation schedule by heart. And they had identified the most likely residential building. The only thing they didn’t know was the location of the ultra-intelligent machine that had been wreaking such havoc and destruction these last few months.
Both the SEAL team and the Red Banner team were gathered below, well prepared to go ashore, kitted up in their assault gear and itching to go into battle. They had easy access to the main deck, ready for debarkation. The team leaders could feel the men’s keen anticipation. They were highly motivated. The madman they were going after was directly responsible for the deaths of countless hundreds of innocent men, women, and children in America, the Caribbean, and London.
They were, however, not aware of the fact that this same man had also tried to take out the president of the United States and his family en route to a funeral in California aboard Air Force One. The incident was an official state secret. No one beyond the White House and the U.S. Air Force pilots involved in the attack had any knowledge of it.
Revenge is a powerful motivator.
Thanks to Brick Kelly, director of the CIA and Hawke’s close friend, many of the fighting men assembled aboard Blackhawke today had been part of the proud SEAL Team Six that took out Osama bin Laden in Pakistan. Their confidence after that heroic and historic raid was justified and well earned, and Hawke and his men were proud just to be fighting alongside them as comrades in arms.
In addition to the main force, two SEAL snipers with IR scopes were currently up on the highest deck, having taken concealed positions. No uninvited guests would be boarding Blackhawke this evening, or any other time. A five-mile defensive perimeter had been established around the ship.
Operation Trojan Horse, as Hawke had named it, would be a hit-and-run raid. It had been decided that the team of nine Red Banner spec-ops commandos would go ashore first as a “reconnaissance team.” Should there be an Iranian Revolutionary Guard’s “reception committee” waiting for them, Hawke’s security team would sanitize the landing site. When it was secure, they would give the all-clear signal to the SEALs. Then the two U.S. Navy squads would storm the compound, identify the target, and take him out.
The nine Red Banner members would be split into three groups, Red, White, and Blue Squads. Hawke, Stoke, and Harry would be squad leaders. In addition to helping the SEALs clear the compound of enemy combatants, they had a special mission. They had nicknamed themselves the “Ghostbusters,” and it was their job to locate and destroy the “phantom,” the machine whose advanced technology had been behind the recent horrific attacks on the West. Once both missions were accomplished, the entire assault team would regroup and return to the mother ship and run like hell for the Strait of Hormuz.
“What’s it actually look like, boss, this damn phantom or whatever you call it?” Stoke had asked. “Will we know the machine when we see it, or what?”
“Good question, Stoke. But I can’t answer it. Nobody’s ever seen one of these things before. I could say it will look like a giant computer, but I have no idea.”
Brock said, “That’s why they call it a ‘phantom,’ Stoke. You can’t see it, but it can see you.”
“I still don’t know why we can’t just blow that huge electrical power plant in the compound and shut the damn thing down, wherever the hell it’s located.”
