Chapter 39 - The Thunder of Steel
*BOOM!*
The *Farragut’s* forward 5-inch/62 caliber gun roared with a blinding flash of orange fire. The high-explosive round screamed across the black sky, striking the ocean fifty yards ahead of the *Vanguard Star’s* prow. A towering geyser of white foam erupted into the air, crashing down violently over the freighter’s cargo containers.
"Direct warning delivered, Captain!" Martinez called out, his eyes gleaming with fierce pride.
The freighter lurched erratically to port, its engines sputtering as its civilian crew realized that a full-scale destroyer was literally bearing down on their hull. They were mercenaries and crooked logisticians, not combat sailors; they had never faced the raw, terrifying might of an active US warship ready to engage.
"They're slowing down, Captain! Their engine RPM is dropping!"
"Deploy the Visit, Board, Search, and Seizure team," I ordered. "Chief Sullivan, take the starboard RHIB with two tactical fire teams. I am going with you."
"Captain, protocol dictates you remain on the bridge—" Martinez began.
"Protocol went out the window when they attacked Admiral Vance," I cut him off, strapping my ballistic vest over my uniform and securing my tactical helmet. "I am boarding that vessel personally. Martinez, you have the conn. If anything goes sideways, you sink that freighter’s stern and ensure the cargo doesn't reach the shelf."
"Aye, Captain," Martinez said with a solemn salute.
Minutes later, the rigid-hull inflatable boat hit the dark, churning water, bouncing violently over the swells as we raced toward the freighter’s rust-streaked hull. The pilot ladder hung loosely over the side. Sullivan and his team scaled it with practiced speed, weapons drawn and covering every angle.
I climbed the ladder, pulling myself up onto the main deck of the *Vanguard Star*. The smell of diesel fuel and sea salt was suffocating.
"Clear!" Sullivan signaled from the entrance to the bridge structure.
May you like
We moved through the narrow passageways, our tactical boots echoing against the steel grate. We kicked open the hatch to the ship’s primary conference suite, weapons raised.
Sitting at the center of the room, surrounded by open laptops and scattered encrypted drives, was Vice Admiral Sterling. Standing beside him were two private security contractors, their weapons drawn and pointed directly at our chests.
