Chapter 9

 

USS Hartford

5:49 a.m.

 

The crew knew him only as Mako. He often went by other names, but this one, he felt, suited him.

Short and solidly built, he had a head of bristly blond hair that was heavily streaked with gray. Mako was in his late fifties, ancient by normal standards in his line of business. If there was anything called normal in the mercenary business. But clients never asked his age, and he didn’t offer. He prided himself on a reputation for being intense, brutal, accurate, and he was the only absolute expert for hire in this field, as far as he knew. He spoke eight languages fluently, and he believed in no country or God. His loyalties were to himself and to the one who was transferring a fat amount of cash into his bank account at the moment. And of course, next week or next month or next year, when he was ready for a bit more excitement, the allegiance would shift to someone else.

Mako stood on the periscope platform a step above the conn. The crosshairs in the periscope view locked on the waterline of the Coast Guard cutter. The ship was on a course that would put them directly in the path of the bow of the submarine. It was a larger cutter, and Mako could see helmeted Coasties manning machine guns fore and aft.

Mako made a 360-degree sweep with the periscope. Two small navy launches were running alongside Hartford. There was another smaller Coast Guard cutter following in the sub’s stern wake. He was keeping his speed at only three knots. They were staying close, obviously waiting for orders. “Increase speed to five knots.”

“Very good, sir.” Paul Cavallaro was sitting in the X.O. chair, and he passed on the order. “Speed, five knots.”

Mako looked away from the periscope optic module and glanced around the control room at his four-man crew. The geographic plot of their course and destination was already visible on the navigation screen.

“We have to shake them a little, boys. Show them we mean business. Have two MK48s loaded into the trays.”

“We need to turn on the PA, sir,” Cav reminded him.

“Do it.” Mako ordered, looking back through the periscope. “I have a target. Now mark.”

“Target mark set, sir. We have a firing solution.”

“Offset zero degrees,” Mako directed. “Low active snake. Give me a read back.”

“Attention!” another one of his men barked. “Firing point procedures, tubes one and two, zero degree offset, thirty-second firing interval.”

Mako watched the firing panel until the torpedoes were programmed. He looked through the periscope again. “Last call, shit head. You might want to move your carcass.”

“Ship ready.”

“Weapons ready.” The calls sounded from the crew.

“Stay right there and I’ll shove these torpedoes up your ass,” Mako warned, looking into the periscope again.

“If we shoot now and hit that cutter, sir, we risk damaging our sonar.”

He looked at Cavallaro for a moment and saw the doubt in the young man’s eyes. It was more than sonar that he cared about. “We’ll risk it. I want to show these morons we mean business.”

Mako looked through the periscope again. They were near the mouth of New London harbor. Beyond the Coast Guard cutter, the rising sun was reflecting brilliantly off the New London Ledge lighthouse. This had to be done.

“Solution ready.”

Mako looked one last time. The cutter wasn’t giving up. You asked for it, asshole. “Tube one, shoot.”

“Set,” Fire Control responded.

“Fire.”

~~~~