Phantom: An Alex Hawke Novel (42 page)

“You guys didn’t tell us we were blowing up the Emerald City!” Lieutenant Ryan White said, rubbing his eyes. “What the hell is that place, anyway? Freaking lightning crackling around inside this big tower and, at one point while I was finishing rigging the charge at the base of the central tower, lighting started racing faster and faster in circles around the six towers on the perimeter. Damnedest thing I’ve ever seen! I thought we were about to get our asses fried!”

“Tell them about the music, Lieutenant,” a diver said.

“Oh, yeah. All the towers started broadcasting this weird music,” Ryan White said. “I thought I had narcosis, but the other guys could hear it, too. It was making us sick, so we shut down our acoustics.”

“Good thing,” Hawke said, knowing they’d all dodged a deadly bullet.

Stokely helped the third diver out of the water. He got to his feet and removed his helmet. The diver looked at Ryan White and said, “Lieutenant, I’m sorry I had to shut my combat radio down. I started hearing this very weird music in my earpiece. Made me crazy. Something like narcosis, you know? Did you guys hear it, too?”

“Hell, yeah, we all heard it. Next thing I knew I was tugging at my regulator, trying to rip it loose. Just before I blacked out, I turned the volume down and got my head straight again. What the hell was that all about?”

“Perseus was attempting to save himself by convincing you four men to commit suicide,” Hawke said.

“Perseus? Who the hell is he?”

“The computer you just rigged.”

“Wait—that’s—those black glass towers—are a
computer
?”

“It’s a long story,” Hawke said. “More than a computer, really. An empire of the mind. How long did you set your detonation timers for, Lieutenant White? We need to be getting out of here before they start lobbing mortar shells at us.”

Ryan White looked at his dive watch and then back at the water off
Nighthawke
’s stern.

“Right about . . . now, Commander Hawke,” he said.

A shock wave rocked the boat from below just as seven mushroomlike mounds of foaming white water appeared on the surface. They expanded to about five feet in diameter and then dissipated, leaving no trace of the catastrophic destruction that had just occurred below. Hawke couldn’t even imagine how much high-explosive Semtex it took to create even a ripple a thousand feet above the ocean floor.

Hawke stared at the undulating surface of the black water, thinking about the staggering implications of what he had just done. More important, he was wondering if he had the right to do it.

Had he even done the right thing?

All the giant leaps forward in scientific achievement, the unimaginable medical advances, reverse aging, a cure for famine, or even a—

To hell with it.

He realized he would never really know. Maybe someday mankind could produce something like Perseus. A superintelligent machine, but one that could be kept in check. One with hardwired incapacity for doing harm, or evil. A force that was only capable of doing good, solving insoluble problems, making the world a better, safer place.

But Perseus had not been that machine.

Ironically, Perseus’s true value, and Professor Waldo Cohen’s enormous contribution to the evolution of science, would be that Cohen had somehow strayed down the wrong path.

And that, Hawke knew in his heart, might ultimately make the right road far, far easier to follow in the future.

He turned to the man he could always lean upon.

“Stoke, it’s finished. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Great. Leave Iran without even getting to taste the caviar. Story of my life.”

Hawke looked at Brock with undisguised admiration.

“Harry?” he said.

“Yes?”

“You and I have never been close.”

“Right. Because you hate me.”

“Right. But I feel a bit differently about you now. After all you did back there. A lot of men would have died without you and your M-60.”

“Yeah? So?”

“I’d like you to join me and Stokely. Leave CIA, sign a contract with Red Banner. Pays a lot better, Harry. Less paperwork in the mercenary business than inside the Beltway.”

“Really? So—that means you, what, you like me now?”

“I didn’t say that, Harry. I paid you a far greater compliment.”

“Lemme think about it awhile.”

“Take as long as you want.”

“I’m in.”

“Yeah!” Stoke said, wrapping his massive arms around Harry and bouncing him up and down like a ragdoll. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

Lines were heaved aboard, throttles were engaged, and
Nighthawke
moved swiftly out into the channel.

The Trojan Horse had left the barn.

Fifty-six

Strait of Hormuz

T
he sky was remarkably clear under a lantern moon.

“Mosquitoes,” Stoke, looking over his shoulder, said to Harry Brock. “Look at ’em swarm. Gotta be fifty of ’em at least.”

Harry’d come out on the stern deck for a smoke. He’d been the first to hear the snarling outboard motorboats, a vast flotilla of them, racing across the flat black sea to converge on
Nighthawke
’s stern. They were pirate scows, some of them forty feet in length, the longboats Somali pirates used to board and capture defenseless behemoths off the coast of Africa. Harry once tried to explain to Stoke that the reason the tankers didn’t have armed crews had to do with the insurance.

“So who pays the ransom when the tankers get hijacked?” Stoke said.

“Uh, the insurance companies.”

“Oh. Now I get it,” Stoke had said, shaking his head.

The pirates were about four miles out and rapidly closing the distance. In the midst of them was the “mother ship,” enclosed for protection. Sirens aboard
Blackhawke
sounded General Quarters, and gunners climbed up inside their turrets, wheeling about on their ring mounts to face the threat aft. Threat
is maybe a teensy bit too strong a word for these assholes,
Stoke thought.
Pests, maybe?
Spray ’em with Raid, he told Harry, that oughta do it. Or get one of those bug zappers. These pissant pirates chasing after a high-tech warship like
Nighthawke
? Oughta get their turbans out of their asses.

The longboats, incredibly fast with their three-hundred-horsepower outboards, were gaining on them rapidly.

“Boss?” Stoke said into his radio. Hawke was on the bridge radio, talking to Carstairs aboard
Blackhawke,
discussing the best approach to the Strait of Hormuz as soon as the team was finally back aboard their own mother ship.

“Go ahead, Stoke.”

“You know those new antiship mines we rigged in the aft tubes?”

“Yes.”

“This pirate attack might be the perfect opportunity to battle test them, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely. Good idea. Deploy as the scows move into range. Our ETA for the rendezvous with
Blackhawke
is twenty minutes.”

“Affirmative.”

“What mines?” Harry asked Stokely.

“Made in Israel. They’re cherry red. GPS equipped. They’ll go anywhere you send them, any depth you send them. Explode on direct contact, or by timer, or when the enemy enters a preset sonar range. Forgot the real name for them. I call ’em cherry bombs. Here’s the portside tube, the other one is over there to starboard. Each tube loads a dozen mines. You deploy them from the fire control center of this fire control panel right here. I figure we only need about four, two from each tube.”

“What are those thingys sticking out?”

“The little fins? Diving planes and rudders. And the entire surface is embedded with tiny propulsion jets. Send the little bastards anywhere you want. But they don’t have to be anywhere near the bad guys. Each cherry bomb has a blast range of a half mile. Anything inside that circle? Gone.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah. So anything traveling within a two-mile radius of four cherry bombs is going to be turned into fine sawdust and microscopic metal filings. You know how when a nuclear bomb first explodes, it rolls out that big ring of fiery-ass shock-and-awe shit before it turns into a mushroom cloud?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that’s kinda what they do.”

“Don’t tell me they’re nuclear?”

“Hell, no, they’re not nuclear. That technology’s so outdated. This is new technology, baby. Far superior. Those Israelis have got their shit together, trust me.”

“Yeah, well, these 30mm cannons work pretty good, too,” Harry said, removing the cover and getting into firing position on the small seat behind the breech. He put his eye to the rangefinder.

“What are you doing?”

“See that big mother ship hiding in the middle of the pack?”

“Yeah.”

“Watch this, pal. One fuckin’ shot.”

Harry yanked the cord and the big gun fired. It was a direct hit. Most of the mother ship’s topsides were destroyed and a fire was raging at the stern. She was badly damaged, but still maintained her course and speed as the crew desperately tried to extinguish the fire.

“Nice shot.”

“We do what we can.”

T
he main body of the pirate fleet held back out of range, but the pirate captain sent a dozen or so of his longboats racing full speed ahead and soon they were swarming around the big yacht, pirates standing now and firing their AK-47s. A few even nudged right alongside the yacht and flung grappling hooks over the rail. The young pirates, chains of gold dangling from their necks, their heads wrapped with red turbans, started scrambling up the lines with amazing agility. They had curved knives clenched in their teeth and they were clearly excited about this huge prize they were about to take.

Until, that is, the Navy SEAL snipers positioned on the topmost mast began picking them off with precision head shots. Those who’d reached the rail in an attempt to board died first, dropping like so many stones into the sea. Next the pirates coming up the lines, and finally those brave souls with their AKs, manning the longboats. It was all over in about five minutes.

But it didn’t stop the rest of pirate fleet from making a run on the yacht. It was just too glittering a prize to give up on.

“Okay. Here come the rest of those assholes. Show me.”

“Bombs away,” Stoke said, and pressed each of the big red Fire buttons two times.

Four red mines, about the size of large cannonballs, instantly deployed, arcing up into the sky, two from each tube.

Harry raised his binoculars. He could see the swarm of pirate scows, and the digital rangefinder in his lens had them at three miles dead aft and closing on the minefield.

The explosion was so brilliant in his lenses he had to turn away. It was as if a massive circular section of the sea itself had just become one giant explosive device, annihilating everything on the surface in one blinding instant. A second later, the shock wave hit, staggering Harry, who grabbed a stanchion and held on.

“Damn, Stoke.”

“Something else, huh?”

The two men stood and watched as the floating sea of fire gradually extinguished itself and the smoke dissipated, leaving the ocean as it was before, free of debris, pristine and beautiful in the sunlight.

“That’s some serious shit right there,” Brock said.

“You know what I’m thinking about right now, Harry?” Stoke said, a look on his face Harry could only describe as wistful.

“God only knows.”

“No,
not
only God; I know, too. It’s my damn idea, Harry.”

“Okay, okay, tell me. Jesus.”

“Back in Moscow I started to get into this Hollywood shit, y’know? So. What if I bought me an old movie theater in downtown Mogadishu? Put posters up around town of local Somali kids in Johnny Depp costumes. You know,
Pirates of the Gulf of Aden
with Captain Abdullah ‘Jack’ Sparrow, kinda thing. But get this. Every young Somali in town gets in free! Right? Free popcorn, candy, nachos, wings, Diet Coke, pig eyes, crow’s feet, you know, whatever the hell they like over there. And then I’d show them the movie. We open. It’s midnight. The sea is black and empty except for a huge white yacht. Look! Here come the brave pirates! Close up on all their little baby-Depp faces hiding beneath the gunwales of the longboats, AK-47s clenched in their hands, ready to attack the big bad yacht. But then, what? Omigod! A blinding flash of light, the big bang, ear-shattering explosion in surround sound, right, all that smoke and fire on the water. Closing shot of the empty sea, all the brave little pirates gone to the bottom. Fade out. What do you think? Seriously. Would you invest in an idea like that? I’d give you an Executive Producer credit, man.”

Harry Brock, for once in his life, could think of absolutely no reply.

Blackhawke
lay some two miles in the distance.

T
he Strait of Hormuz is a narrow, strategically critical waterway between the Gulf of Oman in the southeast and the Persian Gulf. It is inarguably one of the world’s most dangerous choke points. On the north coast lies Iran, Hawke’s recent point of departure. On the south coast are the United Arab Emirates and Musandam, an enclave of Oman. On an average day, about fifteen supertankers carrying roughly seventeen million barrels of crude oil pass through the strait—or roughly 40 percent of all the world’s seaborne oil shipments. Every single day.

Hawke, finally back aboard his yacht and standing alongside Carstairs on
Blackhawke
’s bridge
,
looked at the maritime chart of the strait for the tenth time.

When the next war starts, it will start here,
he thought to himself. And when it did—

“Helm, Sonar. New contact, sir. Bearing two-zero-eight.”

“Sonar, Hawke. What’ve you got?”

“Midsize vessel, sir. Not a tanker. Approaching from the strait, I’d say she’s an Iranian Bayandor class, large patrol corvette. They operate two of them in these waters, the
Bayandor
and
Admiral Naghdi
.”

“Armament?”

“She carries four C-803 antiship missiles, a single 76mm DP naval cannon, one dual 40mm antiaircraft, and two triple 324mm torpedoes.”

“Keep an eye on her.”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

Hawke raised his battle radio. “Stony, Hawke, we’re approaching the strait, bearing one-eight-zero. We’ve already picked up an enemy contact. I thought we might get lucky but it looks like we might have to fight our way through. I’m sure there are more surprises out there waiting for us. I want you to prepare the ship and battle crew and wait for my signal to go to General Quarters. Unless we’re attacked first, we do not, repeat, do not, show our true colors until we’re right in the middle of them. Aegis picking up any suspicious air traffic?”

“Negative, Commander. Nothing airborne inside our defensive perimeter.”

“Good. Stay tuned. Things could get very spicy in a hurry.”

“Helm, Sonar, new contact, bearing two-seven-zero. Estimate vessel is a Thondor-class missile craft, operated by the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps. She carries four C802 SSM missiles, two 30mm cannons, and two 23mm—sir, sorry, new contact bearing two-six-zero, big one, Vosper MK5 frigate, very, very fast.”

“How fast?”

“Very fast. Engine turns for thirty-nine knots as we speak, sir; she’s got boost gas turbine engines. If she maintains course, current bearing will intercept ours in approximately twenty minutes.”

“Helm, maintain course,” Hawke said. He wanted to find out who’d blink first.

“Maintain current heading, aye.”

“Sonar, is this typical naval military traffic in the approach to the strait?” Hawke said.

“Sir, it’s hard to say. There’s nothing typical about Iranian military behavior. Especially the navy. But based on what I’m seeing, I’m guessing they know who we are, what we’ve been up to, and why we’re coming.”

“Sound General Quarters,” Hawke said quietly.

The sirens began wailing throughout the ship. Gun crews scrambled forward, manning the ten cannon placements on both the port and starboard sides. Protective covers remained on deck cannons, rocket launchers, depth charges, and heavy machine guns fore and aft. When the cannons rolled out, the covers would come off, too.

Stollenwork moved rapidly about the covert combat quarters in the stern of the yacht, shouting orders to his naval combat crew for the coming fight. Inside the narrow concealed corridors running from stem to stern, gun crews were loading the cannons with both high-explosive and armor-piercing rounds. The crews were pumped. Ten guns lined each side of the vessel, and all fired at a rate of two hundred rounds a minute. That meant the starboard gunners
alone
would be throwing lead at two thousand cannon rounds every single minute.

Stunning firepower, by any standard.

Blackhawke
was going to war.

And, by God, she was ready.