Drone полностью

The big radar-controlled 40mm Bofors deck gun on the Joaquín began firing just as Captain Costa reached the bridge. The first round tore into the thin steel skin of the six-hundred-foot-long freighter ten feet above the waterline. The whole ship shuddered with the strike. Another shell followed five seconds later, slamming into one of the big stacked containers on deck. It tumbled overboard with twenty tons of diesel motor parts inside. The splash leaped thirty feet into the air.

The captain bellowed orders to the radio operator to send out a Mayday to the naval air station in New Orleans and report they were under attack.

Minutes later, a pair of F/A-18 Hornets flown by the River Rattler squadron scrambled into action.

Captain Costa ordered the helmsman hard to port, trying to turn her big ship’s bow toward the Mexican warship to reduce her target profile. It was a completely futile gesture on her part, but it was better than doing nothing.

The Joaquín, traveling at more than twice the speed of the freighter, turned to starboard, drawing out into a wider circle to improve its angle of attack. For a brief moment, the two ships actually were bow on, but the radar-controlled gun continued to fire. The armor-piercing round struck the topmost container on the bow and blew it to pieces, turning the machine parts inside to shrapnel that sprayed the surface of the water like shot pellets.

The two ships were now only a thousand yards apart as their bows separated on the point of axis, and the patrol boat’s L70 Oerlikon 20mm cannon opened up, raking the Star Louisiana’s superstructure with withering fire at the rate of five rounds per second. The 20mm rounds shattered the thick marine window glass and shredded the bridge like tissue paper. The helmsman standing at his post took a round square in his broad chest. His upper torso disintegrated in a spray of blood and bone as shards of glass and steel pinged around the cabin.

The captain and the first mate had instinctively hit the deck, both barely escaping decapitation by the molten lead scythe roaring above their heads. They were safe for the time being. The Mexican warship was low in the water relative to their position on the deck inside the high bridge superstructure. But that would last only until the Mexicans came full around and could fire on her exposed port side.

Right now, though, Captain Costa’s ship was drifting to a halt. Man-size wooden ship wheels and brass-plated engine-order telegraphs had disappeared decades ago, replaced by an array of computer monitors, control sticks, and track balls that looked more like the bridge of a spaceship than a merchant vessel. Now that the helmsman’s torso was sprayed over the back wall of the bridge and his station smashed, the engines were cycling down and the ship’s rudder returned to neutral position.

Costa belly-crawled toward the helmsman’s station. She had to find a way to switch the systems back to manual and get the ship under way. Her elbows bled as they scraped across the razor-sharp glass and metal fragments on the rubberized deck.

Another 40mm round slammed into the sky-blue hull of the Star Louisiana and the ship shuddered again. The chief engineering officer’s voice shouted over the loudspeakers that the number one engine had just been destroyed. Costa knew that the chief was shouting because the engine room was so damn loud, not because the old salt was panicked. She kept crawling, and wondered what the adrenaline dump into her bloodstream was doing to her baby.

The bridge of the Joaquín was in significantly better shape than the bridge of the Star Lousisiana, though the dried blood from the slaughtered Mexican crew on the steel deck wouldn’t have passed the lieutenant’s inspection under normal circumstances.

“Two aircraft, closing fast, six hundred knots, lieutenant,” said the radar operator in Farsi.

“That’s it, then. Helmsman, come hard to starboard. Let’s ram the great fat bitch,” the lieutenant ordered.

The young Iranian naval officer was surprisingly calm for his first action, the senior helmsman noted. Under normal circumstances, he would have nominated him for a hero’s medal. But there was no need now. Martyrs received their rewards from the hand of Allah himself.

“Coming hard to starboard, Lieutenant.”

The Iranian naval crew had been brought in for just such a mission. They had been stationed in Cuba for over three months waiting for an opportunity for naval jihad against the Great Satan and had spent their time studying Mexican naval operations and Spanish. Operating the vessel was simple enough; ship controls were universal in design and function these days. All of the enlisted men selected were veteran sailors and eager for martyrdom.

The ship’s bow turned surprisingly fast and soon pointed directly at the giant white letters painted along the side of the enormous hull.

“All ahead flank.”

“All ahead flank,” the helmsman repeated.