The machinist smiled at Hawke and said, “I can get new glass in that window in about fifteen minutes, sir. Might keep it a bit drier in here.”
“Get to work then, son. A dry crew is a happy crew.”
“So we’re down one mast,” Laddie said to Hawke.
“Right. Good thing we’ve got two more just like that one,” Hawke said out of the corner of his mouth. He was calculating how best to take out the missile carrier. “Laddie, come left to two-seven-oh. That bastard’s well within our cannon range.”
“Two-seven-oh, aye.”
“Fire Control,” Hawke said, “open the starboard gunports. Concentrate every gun on that Thondor missile carrier. Sink it. Now.”
“Aye-aye, skipper. Commencing fire.”
Hawke eyed the target through his binoculars. The effect of ten 40mm cannon shells, each gun firing two hundred rounds a minute, was devastating. The big warship was literally blown apart. Hawke estimated there’d be very few, if any, survivors.
While they’d all been concentrating on destroying the Thondor to starboard, the patrol corvette had been stalking them, hanging back off their aft quarter, well out of cannon range. Now she was racing at full speed toward them.
The corvette had plenty of firepower, including a 30mm cannon, but the thing that was worrying Alex Hawke at the moment were the four 324mm high-explosive torpedoes she carried. There weren’t many places Blackhawke was vulnerable, but below the waterline, a powerful torpedo could send her to the bottom. Hawke saw the Iranian warship throttle back to idle speed, hanging just beyond the range of Blackhawke ’s furious cannon fusillades.
“Laddie,” Hawke said, studying the enemy vessel through his binoculars, “I don’t like the looks of that corvette. She’s stopped beyond the range of her own guns. I think she’s setting herself up to launch a spread of torpedoes.”
“I agree.”
“Fire Control, Helm. You tracking that corvette?”
“Aye-aye, sir. Designate new target Tango Charlie. We’ve already got it dialed in. Spinning up weapon systems. Awaiting orders.”
“He’s circling, trying to get the best angle of fire on us. Let’s take him out now. We’ve got two JDAMs in the forward tubes. Now’s the time to use one. Light up a stogie, FCO.”
The fire control officer’s one weakness was the Cuban cigar known as a “torpedo”; thus his nickname for the JDAM antiship missile was “stogie.”
“Roger that, Helm.”
“Smoke ’em if you got ’em,” Hawke replied.
“Launch portside JDAM when enemy target acquired, affirmative. Initiating prelaunch checklist… weapon powered… autotrack engaged… master arm is hot… weapon status… ready, sir.”
“Fire at your discretion.”
Hawke saw the instrument on the panel above marked “Port Tube One” flash yellow for about thirty seconds and then flash red continuously. This meant the door of the forward torpedo tube on the port side was open. The tube was now flooded.
The fish, which was kept stowed in the tube, was away.
The JDAM is the most powerful antiship missile in existence. Two of them can take out a small aircraft carrier. Hawke saw the frothy white wake of the missile as it sped mercilessly toward the threatening enemy corvette. The corvette went to flank speed and began making evasive maneuvers. The skipper was obviously unaware that you can’t evade a bloody JDAM’s autotrack system. Nothing that floats can.
Hawke raised the high-powered Zeiss glasses to his eyes.
The explosion was massive. A bright white flash amidships that quickly turned yellow-orange and flaming red. Flames and black smoke climbed into the darkening sky. Everyone on the bridge was using their binoculars. A cheer went up when the smoke cleared enough to assess the damage to the corvette.
Its back had been broken, blown apart.
The missile had literally blown the vessel in two. There was now a bow section and an aft section, both afire and still afloat, although canted at weird angles, with sky clearly visible between them. Crewmen could be seen leaping from the rails of both sections, desperately but unsuccessfully trying to outswim the pool of burning oil that was spreading rapidly on the surface surrounding the doomed vessel. Hawke turned away, sickened by the sight. He touched Laddie’s shoulder and the two men left the bridge.
They needed to talk through the last remaining obstacle.
The huge Iranian Vosper MK5 destroyer escort with massive firepower that blocked Blackhawke ’s escape.
“H ere’s the problem, Laddie,” Hawke said once they were alone in the captain’s quarters. “My view, at any rate. You think I’m wrong, speak up. That destroyer skipper is no fool and he’s got us in a box. He knows his big guns have much longer range than our cannons. He knows our missiles probably can’t do enough damage to a vessel his size to stop him. He’s just witnessed what a JDAM can do, but he has no idea of its range. So he just sits out there and waits us out.”
“I’m not sure just one stogie could sink him, anyway,” Laddie said. “But that’s all we’ve got left.”
“If we can hit him amidships below the waterline we could get lucky. But we’ve got to go inside his range radius to have a decent shot.”
“What choice do we have, then, skipper? We go in, light a stogie, and get the hell out of Dodge. Right?”
“It’s all we’ve got. I’ve got an idea. Please hand me that battle radio on the bulkhead.”
“SIGINT, this is Hawke, do you copy?”
“Aye, sir, Signal Intelligence copies loud and clear,” the young officer, on loan from the CIA, said.
“Tell me about this Vosper MK5 that’s in our way.”
“The Alvand. British built, delivered before the Iranian revolution. Originally there were four. One, Sahand, was sunk by U.S. forces during Operation Praying Mantis in 1988. It fired on an A-6 Intruder flying off the USS Enterprise. It was then struck by Harpoon missiles fired by the damaged A-6 Intruder, and then sunk by a coordinated Harpoon attack from its wingman and a nearby surface ship.”
“Armament?”
“Four C-802 antiship missiles, one 114mm Mark 8 gun forward, two 35mm cannons fore and aft, two 81mm mortars, two. 50-caliber machine guns, one Limbo ASW mortar, and three triple 12.75 torpedo tubes.”
“Roger that. SIGINT, you think Langley’s got any aerial sat photos of this thing?”
“Scrapbooks full of ’em, sir.”
“Thanks. I need to see them up here on the bridge ASAP. I want to get a very close look at what we’re up against.”
“Consider it done, sir. I’ll have them on the helm monitor within five. Over.”
Hawke then thumbed the command radio and contacted Stokely Jones, who was still manning one of the two 30mm cannons on the bow.
Fifty-nine
Stoke and Harry had returned to their battle stations in the bow after the briefing with Hawke, each of them manning a 30mm cannon. They were getting lashed with driving rain, the skies having finally opened up with a vengeance. Their barrels were so hot, they were steaming in the rain, and heavy water was coming over the forepeak where their turret mounts were located.
Stoke heard Hawke in his earpiece.
“You’re wasting ammo at this range, Stoke.”
“I know. But we got more ammo than sense up here. We’re pissed and we’re letting them know it.”
“Stoke, listen. We’re out of options. We’re forced to make a dash inside the range of their big guns. It’s going to get hot in a hurry. Time to launch our last JDAM and pray. You and Harry put your trigger fingers in your pockets and wait for my signal. When you get it, give ’em hell. You saw the photos of the Alvand. Concentrate on her primary weapons fore and aft. Got it?”
“Got it. Good shooting with that last fish, boss.”