Hawke said, “Stoke, I told you why. I’m sure this thing, whatever it is, has been fully prepared for any emergency attack. It’s got to have auxiliary power supply, massive generators, to keep it going until the power plant can be rebuilt. And our job is to destroy this machine. Not just disable it. We take out the one guy on the planet who knows how to build another one. And we take out the machine itself. That’s how this movie ends, Stoke. There are no alternatives. Hold on a second-”
Hawke’s direct line to the bridge was blinking red.
“This is Hawke.”
“Commander, Carstairs here. Radar has just picked up a patrol boat. An eighty-footer. Big and heavily armed. One of the many such vessels the Iranian Navy purchased from China, North Korea, and Russia. She’s penetrated our radius, about five miles out and on a heading directly for us. The rough seas are slowing them down a bit, but I think you should be on the bridge.”
“Give me one minute,” Hawke said and hung up, looking from Stokely to Harry Brock.
“Patrol boat en route, five miles out. As Congreve might say, ‘The game, gentlemen, is afoot.’ Let’s go to the bridge and prepare to extend the warmest welcome possible to our Iranian friends.”
H awke and his team entered the main bridge and went directly to the captain, who stood gazing up at the nearest radar screen. Hawke saw the patrol boat’s blip drawing nearer and said to Carstairs, “Laddie, we need Ascarus up here now. Somebody notify him. Stony and I decided we want him on the radio when they get within a two-mile radius.”
“Consider it done, Commander.”
Chief Petty Officer Cyrus Ascarus was a U.S. Navy SEAL interpreter fluent in Persian Farsi. He’d grown up outside of Tehran, then moved to the United States as a teenager to care for a sick grandmother. After attending UCLA, he’d joined the navy. He would be an integral part of the SEAL team going ashore. His job: interrogate any prisoners to get intel on the location of the human target and the whereabouts of the “mystery machine,” as Stoke now thought of it.
“Commander Hawke, sir,” Ascarus said with a snappy salute, appearing on the bridge a few minutes later, “reporting for duty.”
“Good to have you aboard, son,” Hawke said.
Hawke handed the man his high-powered binoculars.
“There is a heavily armed patrol boat flying the Iranian flag off our starboard beam, approaching us at thirty knots. She’s about eighty feet long. Ship that size, I’d estimate a crew of about twenty. I’ve no doubt her captain will radio us soon with a warning that we are in Iranian waters and need to leave immediately.”
Ascarus, looking through the binos, replied, “I’m sure of it, Commander. That’s the Hamzeh, an IRGC boat, the maritime arm of the Islamic Revolutionary Guards Corps. Back in January, five of those boats made high-speed runs toward and around three U.S. warships transiting the Strait of Hormuz. The USS Port Royal got a radio call from one of them. ‘We are coming for you… you will explode in a few minutes.’ All the navy ships went to General Quarters, prepared for a fight, but it was just a provocation. Their preferred method of doing business is shoot first, ask questions later.”
“They’d be ill-advised to shoot at us, Mr. Ascarus, I can assure you. When they contact us, I want you to say we’ve suffered catastrophic damage to our rudder and our vessel is unnavigable.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Depending on their response, I’ll guide you through the balance of the communication. Clear?”
“Crystal, sir.”
Hawke inserted the earpiece of his Falcon battle comms radio before speaking to the SEAL commander who’d remained below with his men.
“Captain Stollenwork, Hawke. Patrol boat en route. Big one, eighty feet. Are your men properly positioned for emergency egress?”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
“Snipers?”
“In constant contact. They’ve already acquired the approaching target.”
They didn’t have to wait long to hear from the enemy.
There was a burst of static from the bridge speakers, and then they all heard a very unfriendly voice speaking in Farsi. Ascarus listened carefully and then used the VHF microphone to acknowledge receipt of the communication in perfect Farsi dialect.
“What’s he saying?” Hawke asked.
The interpreter muted the mike and said, “He has informed us we are operating illegally inside Iranian waters. Leave immediately. I responded that we’d suffered rudder damage and were unable to maneuver.”
Another loud blast of impatient Farsi from the speakers above.
“Now what?”
“He wants to know what flag we sail under, sir.”
“Tell him Malta. We are the private yacht Blackhawke out of Valletta.”
Ascarus responded and got a reply.
“He demands we come to a full stop. His guards intend to board us and inspect the vessel. To verify that we’re not invading spies. He wants a boarding gangway on our port side amidships. Once he’s examined our papers and he’s satisfied we’re telling the truth about our loss of rudder control, he will tow us back out into international waters. Otherwise, we’ll be arrested and the ship impounded.”
Hawke said, “Agree. Be friendly. Tell him we’re slowing to full stop. We’ve nothing to hide. We welcome him aboard. Allahu Akbar, or whatever the hell he needs to hear to feel comfy.”
T he big grey patrol boat cut a wide curving loop, slowed, and approached Blackhawke from astern on the port side. Hawke could see the armed Iranian guards gathered at the stern rail and ready to board. Luckily, the patrol boat’s wheelhouse had large windows and the skipper and crew members inside were clearly visible, even at this distance. In a few minutes the Iranians arrived alongside, and a gangway was extended from Blackhawke down to her rising and falling deck. The rough seas made it more difficult, but soon the boarding plank was secure on the patrol boat’s foredeck.
Hawke said, “Chief, tell them the owner has granted them permission to board.”
Ascarus did so, and the uniformed armed men immediately began the ascent up to the main deck of the gigantic yacht. Hawke counted fifteen of them, all carrying automatic weapons and sidearms.
“Keep your eyes open,” he said to everyone on the bridge. He tugged at his left earlobe and added, “When you see this signal, execute the plan. Mr. Ascarus, please come with me.”
Hawke, wearing a worn pair of sailing shorts and a faded blue cotton shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, left the bridge and quickly descended the two flights of metal stairs to the main deck. The interpreter was directly behind him. Hawke met the first man to board and saw captain’s insignia on his uniform.
“Please follow me,” he said. “I am the ship’s owner.”
Ascarus translated, and the Iranian guards followed as Hawke led them to a wide-open space on the foredeck. Five more decks loomed high above them. The guards’ eyes rose to the top, clearly uneasy.
“Ask him if he’s in command of these men,” Hawke told Ascarus.
“He says yes. His name is Captain Shahpur. He wants to know if we have any weapons aboard. If so, he wants them all brought topside and turned over to him.”
“Tell him we have very few weapons aboard, only for use against Somali pirates. They are under lock and key. They are not worth his time.”
Shahpur erupted in anger when he heard this, shouting at Ascarus but glaring at Hawke. The guards began to rattle their sabers, bringing their weapons up into firing position.
“He wants all the weapons aboard turned over to him immediately so he may begin his search.”
Hawke smiled and made a slight bow to the irate captain.
“Tell him he is aboard my vessel as a courtesy. I don’t take orders from him or anyone else for that matter.”
“He says his men are under orders to shoot anyone who impedes his search of this vessel.”
“Tell him his ungentlemanly conduct has caused me to change my mind about any search of my ship. I want him and his men to leave immediately.”
Hawke was watching the captain’s right hand as this was translated to him. Predictably, the Iranian’s hand
