Free Sword of Allah by David Rollins Page A

weapons systems could attack several ships at once, all while defending itself against hostile aircraft and their inbound missiles, track enemy submarines, and lay chaff and electronics countermeasures to confuse opposition attack systems. Dropping a couple of shells on this old girl’s hull was a doddle.
    Moments later from up on the bridge, Briggs observed the barrel of the frigate’s foredeck-mounted 127mm Mark 45 Mod 2 gun swing forty degrees clockwise and drop almost level with the horizon.
    ‘Gunner of the Watch, Leading Seaman Matheson, sir,’ announced a tall nineteen year old appearing on the bridge.
    ‘How’s it going, Sean?’ asked Briggs.
    Matheson relaxed slightly, the hint of a smile on his sunburned lips. ‘Good, sir.’
    ‘Glad to hear it. We need you to stitch the water ahead of our noncompliant friend over there.’
    ‘Aye aye, sir,’ said Matheson. He’d been watching the chase, helping the boarding crew get kitted up, waiting for the summons to the bridge for a good fifteen minutes. He enjoyed firing the Browning, the power of it never failed to amaze him. Matheson stepped out of the bridge onto the port wing and into the salt-loaded twenty-five-knot wind generated by the Arunta ’s passage. He fitted the earplugs and slipped on the anti-burn balaclava and gloves, followed by the Kevlar helmet. The Browning .50 cal heavy machine gun was locked in place on its gimbals, the cover removed and folded. Being the gunner of the watch, Matheson had checked this weapon, so he already knew that the gun was serviceable, well oiled and the barrel clean and clear. Nevertheless, he quickly gave it another once-over, removing its red-flagged safety pins as he went. Matheson unlocked the gimbals and checked that the weapon’s movement was full and free. ‘Ready, sir,’ he said to Briggs, who had joined him on the wing.
    The executive officer nodded and stepped back onto the bridge. The Ocean Trader now loomed large in the captain’s binoculars. Into his boom mic Briggs said, ‘Captain, gunner of the watch is ready. Operations also have a firing solution with the one-twenty-seven.’
    ‘We getting any compliance from the Trader , X?’
    ‘Negative, sir. Still proclaiming innocence. Tractor and irrigation parts, apparently.’
    ‘Yeah, right,’ said the captain to himself. There was something that just didn’t add up about this chase, something more than the obvious.
    ‘Sir,’ said Briggs, ‘operations ask if we want fish tonight?’
    ‘Pardon, X?’
    ‘Have a listen to this, sir. It’ll make your day. Channel twenty-seven.’
    Drummond touched his command screen to change the communication channel on his phones.
    ‘I have lovely peesh! You love peesh! You buy from me! Very good!’ The man was yelling into his microphone in order to be heard over the unsilenced diesel chugging away beneath him. ‘You buy, you buy!’
    ‘It’s the fishing boat, sir,’ said Briggs.
    ‘Great timing,’ said Drummond. It happened occasionally, or rather, used to happen. The locals would sell their catch to the allied warships on Gulf duty, and then one blew itself up while alongside a British navy supply ship in port – an oiler loaded with diesel that went straight to the bottom with most of its hands. Everyone had wised up since. Under the brilliant sky, steaming on a perfect blue ocean, it was easy to forget sometimes that they were fighting World War III, a different kind of war that didn’t distinguish between soldier and civilian, fought out with increasing brutality and guile across the globe.
    The Ocean Trader’s master, a Pakistani, had his binoculars trained on the warship now steering a parallel course off his starboard stern. It’d been closing at a fifteen-degree angle. The course change, along with the final warnings over the radio, could only mean one thing. He shifted the view to take in the fishing boat. It would be touch and go, he thought. ‘Give us more speed,’ he said through the