“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 moved toward the sidearm holstered at his waist. Hawke quietly told Ascarus to pretend to be walking away and dive for cover behind the steel structure where two Zodiac tenders and a large davit were mounted on the foredeck. There was an AR-15 assault rifle waiting for him there and Ascarus picked it up and raised it to firing position while still hidden.
With his left hand, Hawke tugged at his left ear. With his right, he drew the SIG pistol tucked into the waistband of his shorts from under his shirt. He shot the captain in the head, a double tap, one in the forehead, the other between his eyes. Then he stepped backward two steps and dropped down through the hatch just as the cover was being opened for him. Two crew, waiting below, caught him, breaking his fall, and then the three of them raced up two decks to join the fray.
At that same moment, three shots rang out from the highest deck. All the glass in the wheelhouse of the Iranian patrol boat imploded and the three men who had been standing there fell to the deck dead. More shots rang out, and all the radio and communications antennae atop the Iranian vessel were destroyed completely. No news of this confrontation would reach enemy ears. At least that was the plan.
The Iranians, not knowing where the shots had come from, began running in all directions, firing wildly. It was then that Hawke, Stollenwork, and the two SEAL squads appeared at the rail of the deck above them and opened fire on the scattering enemy. The rattle of automatic weapons was deafening.
The firefight didn’t last long.
Three SEALS had taken bullets, none of them lethal thanks to the Kevlar body armor and helmets they all wore. Even now, the medical corpsman was stitching them up.
Captain Shahpur and his fourteen men were all dead, victims of precision head shots by the SEAL sharpshooters.