The late-afternoon sun, sparkling on the nearly flat calm sea, streamed through the bridge windows on the port side. They had been bracketed on both sides by a pair of fast-attack missile boats, the Russian-built Nanuchka Class that were normally used for coastal operations. Both boats had come in very close, to less than fifty yards off, and although they were small, under two hundred feet, they carried SSM and SAM antiship missiles that could inflict severe damage on the Simpson, even sink her.
“Have they tried to make contact with us?” Simonetti asked.
Lamb was studying the bridge of the Libyan warship to starboard. “Not yet, Cap’n. But if they get much closer we’ll be able to talk to them over the rail.”
“Okay, I want them out of here now,” Simonetti said.
Lamb lowered his binoculars. “We’re in international waters, Bruce. They’ve got just as much a right to be out here as we do.”
“Sound Battle Stations,” Simonetti said calmly. His XO was right, but he was damned if he was going to let anyone crowd him. He grabbed a handset from the overhead as the Battle Stations Klaxon sounded throughout the ship.
“Weps, this is the captain. Spin up torpedoes one and three. I want firing point procedures as quickly as you can manage it. Targets Romeo one and two.”
“This a drill, Skipper?”
“Negative, this is not a drill,” Simonetti shot back. “And I want the bastard to starboard illuminated with our Phalanx radar right now.”
“That’ll get their attention,” Lamb observed. He raised his binoculars again to study the Libyan warship to starboard.
The Simpson carried one Mark-15 Phalanx Close-in Weapons System (CIWS) gun-mounted amidships well aft. The 20mm weapon, controlled by its own targeting radar system, could fire three thousand rounds per minute. It was normally used as a last line of defense against incoming aircraft or missiles, but against smaller ships, such as the Libyan missile corvettes, it would be nothing short of devastating.
Simonetti waited a full ten seconds to make certain that the captains of both missile boats understood what was happening before he pulled the VHF mike from its bracket. “Libyan warships off my beams, turn away now, or you will be fired upon.”
“Skipper,” Lamb warned urgently.
Simonetti ignored his XO. “Fire one cannon shot across their bow,” he ordered. He glared at his executive officer. “Now.”
Lamb gave the order, and seconds later the Melara 76mm dual-purpose gun, high amidships just forward of the squat funnel, swiveled into position, and one shot was fired, splashing into the water twenty yards in front of the Libyan warship.
The effect was immediate. Both ships suddenly peeled off and accelerated as if they were scalded cats.
Simonetti grabbed the ship’s phone, and called his nav officer in the CIC. “Herb, this is the captain. What’s your best guess for a course and distance to the wreck?”
“One-eight-six degrees, let’s say two miles to the middle of the plotted positions,” McCormick replied.
“Soon as we make the turn, launch the ROV.”
“Cap’n, if we make anything over five knots, the cable will break. It wasn’t meant for that kind of a strain.”
“Understood,” Simonetti said. “Look sharp.”
“Shall we stand down from battle stations?” Lamb asked when Simonetti hung up the phone.
“Negative,” the captain said. “Helm, come right to new course one-eight-six, make your speed All Ahead Slow.”
“Aye, sir. New course one-eight-six, All Ahead Slow.”
The Simpson came hard right, and immediately began to slow down as her turbines were spooled back. The Perry Class ships, which were introduced to the fleet in ’75, were capable of making around thirty knots, but what was impressive was the acceleration her twin gas turbines provided. If need be, she could get to where she wanted to go in a big hurry.
While they headed slowly back to the south, Simonetti took his XO aside so that the others on the bridge could not hear. “Our orders came directly from Nelson, who wants answers, not bullshit. If that means going head-to-head with the Libyans then so be it.”
“Jesus, Bruce, would you have shot at them if they hadn’t backed off?” Lamb asked.
“Damn straight,” Simonetti said. “I want to keep a close eye on those bastards. I don’t want them within ten miles of us.”
“Aye, Captain,” Lamb said, and he went over to the radar set to take a look at what the Libyan missile boats, already hull down on the horizon, were doing.
It took more than twenty minutes for the ROV to approach the bottom, and for the Simpson to reach the outermost plots for the wreck. Within three minutes McCormick was on the coms.
“Cap’n, we have a positive ID,” he said.
“Go ahead.”
“She’s a freighter, looks fairly well intact. Name on the stern is the Distal Volente, Monrovia, Liberia.”
“Bingo,” Simonetti said. “Take some pictures and then retrieve the ROV. When she’s aboard let me know and we’ll get out of here.”
“Will do, Skipper.”
“Good job, Herb.”
Sterling walked across the corridor to Tony Ransom’s office. The CIA chief of station was getting set to leave for the day, and it didn’t look as if he were in a very good mood. His number two, Walt Hopper, had been drinking a lot lately, and three nights ago he had made an ass of himself with a local cop who’d stopped him for DUI. Word had got back to Langley, and Ransom had been told point-blank to control his field personnel.
It was a reprimand on a so-far-spotless record that Ransom had hoped would carry him at least as far as DDO.
“I got a call from Charlie Breamer.”
Ransom was in the act of putting on his jacket. He hesitated for a moment, then pulled it on. “Oh?” he said. “His people find something already?”
“The Orion they sent out yesterday picked up a mass of metal sitting on the bottom just where Captain Subandrio said his ship was sunk. One of Charlie’s boats put down an ROV on the site. That was about an hour ago. They got a positive ID. The wreck is the Distal Volente.”
Ransom shook his head. He looked almost bemused, as if he were having some difficulty in digesting what he’d just been told. “He was telling the truth after all.”
“Looks like it,” Sterling said. “I think we have to consider the possibility that he told the truth about the other thing. Al-Quaida has got a Foxtrot submarine and a first-rate captain.”
“Moshe didn’t seem too worried,” Ransom said. “But that could have been an act.”
“This should be sent to Langley,” Sterling suggested.
“You’re right, of course,” the COS said. “First thing in the morning.”
“I think you should call it in right now, Tony,” Sterling said.
“Okay, assuming that the ROV took pictures, I want to see them before I do anything. This thing, if it pans out, is going to get a whole bunch of people real excited. I want to be absolutely certain that we’re all on the same page.” Ransom gathered his cell phone and put it in his pocket. “I’ll be at home. Get me the pictures and I’ll call Dave Whittaker and give him the heads-up tonight.”
Sterling figured it was the best he was going to do, although he would stop by to see the ambassador. Maybe they could make an end run around the CIA. “What about Subandrio?”
“Get the pictures and we’ll take care of him in the morning,” Ransom said. “What’s the going rate now? A hundred thousand?”
“Something like that.”
“I’ll talk to Dave about that as well,” Ransom said.