Chapter 39 - The Mediterranean Trap
We believed the storm had broken. We were wrong.
Three days after the capture of Eleanor Vance, the *Nathan James* entered the Aegean Sea, en route to Souda Bay, Crete, for replenishment and the formal handoff of our prisoner to the United States Marshals Special Operations Group.
The Aegean was deceptively tranquil, its azure waters dotted with picturesque Greek islands bathed in the warm Mediterranean afternoon sun. But at zero-nine-hundred hours, the ship’s electronic warfare suite began to howl.
"Multiple radar anomalies across the northern sector," the EW officer shouted. "We're being painted by fire-control radars originating from mainland Greek airspace—no, wait! Those aren't Greek military frequencies! It’s a spoofed NATO IFF signal!"
I bolted to the central tactical plot. "Identify the source!"
"Three commercial container ships transiting the Cyclades," Hayes reported, his face tightening with grim urgency. "They're dropping their sea-rail containers. Ethan... they aren't carrying cargo. They’re carrying Club-K containerized cruise missile systems!"
"Action stations!" I roared over the 1MC intercom. "All hands to battle stations! General quarters, general quarters!"
The ship erupted into disciplined chaos. Sailors sprinted to their battle stations, watertight doors slammed shut with echoing thuds, and the missile defense system switched to automatic saturation mode.
The Club-K system was a nightmare scenario: standard twenty-foot shipping containers that concealed four supersonic cruise missiles each, capable of being deployed from ordinary commercial freighters without prior military identification.
Eleanor had not been the end of the conspiracy. She had been the bait.
"Missile launches detected!" the tactical officer screamed. "Twelve inbound vampires! Altitude twenty meters, speed Mach 2.5! Bearing three-five-zero!"
"Engage Standard Missile-2s! Launch decoy clouds! Chaff and flares, full spread!" I commanded.
Outside, the ship shuddered as six SM-2 missiles blasted from the forward vertical launch cells, roaring into the clear blue sky. Two miles out, the Phalanx Gatling guns on our port and starboard sponsons opened up with an ear-splitting buzz saw roar, spitting four thousand rounds of tungsten penetrators per minute into the incoming swarm.
Explosions ripped through the sky like cascading thunderclaps. Four inbound missiles detonated in mid-air, raining flaming shrapnel onto the turquoise sea. Two more were deflected by our active electronic jamming and plunged harmlessly into the water five hundred yards off our beam.
But six were still coming.
May you like
"Brace for impact!" Hayes screamed.
***
