Barracuda 945 (19 page)

“I intend to take overall command of the entire operation,” replied the General. “I understand, of course, the submarine must have a CO and that he will be responsible for the safety of the ship and the crew. However, I will be in the number one position. As a point of clarification, I should like to record I would be privileged to have Commander Ben Badr as my number two. But on missions such as we anticipate, there can be only one overall Commander. And if that Commander is not me, then I will not be going.”

All eyes turned upon Ben Badr.

“I should be honored,” he said, “to serve as number two to the
great Ravi Rashood, conqueror of the Nimrod Jail. It would be a learning partnership for both of us.”

“As a point of procedure,” said the Ayatollah, “I must return to Tehran and present the case to His Holiness. It promises to be expensive and fraught with danger. And yet I accept the wisdom of the General—either we change our methods of operation and move up to a nuclear boat, or we retire from the fray until the United States comes up with a soft left-wing government.

“Off the record, I can promise the Grand Ayatollah will not be in favor of the latter option. For he will be always mindful of the great Islamic ethos, which goes all the way back to the Prophet’s journey from Mecca to Medina in 622, the ethos of hegira.”

The Ayatollah looked up, saw a somewhat quizzical look on the General’s face, and spoke, as if to him alone. “Hegira may be just a little advanced while you are studying, my son. But its concept is the clear command of the Koran that our people must not live in oppression from those of other faiths.

“They must remake their lives elsewhere, where Islam is dominant
—Dar-Ul-Islam.
If required, they may have to fight, to convert a non-Muslim territory,
Dar-Ul-Harb,
into
Dar-Ul-Islam.
But there can be no compromise. The Grand Ayatollah will not agree to sit back and abandon the conflict. Because the Koran forbids it.”

It was almost midday now, and the Admiral suggested they break for prayer and then lunch, which would be served downstairs. He suggested that General Sharood and Ben might like to stroll down to the jetties and back for a breath of hot but fresh air, and a chance to become better acquainted.

The two officers, of similar age, jumped at the chance, as Ben put it, “to get out of a roomful of mullahs and outlaws.” At which point Ravi considered he was probably the right type.

They walked down the grand staircase of the Iranian Navy and into the heat of the day, both wearing white shirts and shorts, with long socks and lace-up shoes. Ravi wore no insignia.

The first thing Commander Badr said was, “You know, Ravi, you really remind me of someone.”

“I do? I thought I was unique.”

“You nearly are. But we had submarine officer here helping us
plan an operation during the last couple of years, and he was exactly like you. A sailor, rather than a soldier…tough, strange, brilliant man…name of Ben Adnam. Commander Ben Adnam.”

“Was he an Iranian?”

“No. He was an Iraqi, but he had somehow served undercover in the Israeli Navy for many years. His rank was Israeli. But he was a Muslim, very much on our side.”

“Yes. I see the similarities.”

“Oh, I was not referring just to background, Ravi. I was referring to methods of operation. The way you both absolutely know what you are saying before you speak. The way you understand the weak points of other nations. And you both have the same assurance, a kind of certainty that your views are correct, that to take a different course of action would be folly. But above all, you both have a code of caution, which is more prevalent than your obvious daring.”

“That’s probably why we’re both still breathing,” said Ravi.

“I am not sure that Ben is still breathing,” said Commander Badr. “His mission was very dangerous. And we had no further use for him after it was complete. He accomplished all that we had hoped, but then he disappeared, as we assumed he would.”

“Did you work with him yourself?”

“Very much. I was a kind of disciple. He was here in Bandar Abbas for several months, and my father put me very close to him, to see his methods and to observe his knowledge. He knew more about submarines than anyone I ever met. Taught me a great deal.”

“Are you now as good as he is?”

“Close. We spent a lot of time together. And he was a natural teacher. He trained in Great Britain for a while—that’s the toughest CO course in the world. He told me he’d finished first in the Class, and I believe him.”

“Had he been on projects against the West, or was he strictly an Israeli submarine officer?”

“He would never discuss specifics with anyone. But my father believed he was responsible for destroying the U.S. carrier, the
Thomas Jefferson.
”

“No kidding!”

“Yes. He was quite a man. And you know, there’s something he told me I’ve always remembered. He said, ‘On any classified mission, in any submarine, you will assume that every man’s hand is turned against you. If you spot an enemy, on the sea or in the air, you will assume immediately that he has also spotted you, and will come after you. Always take instant evasive action, no matter what you are doing.’”

“Sounds good to me. I like him already.”

They walked on toward the ships, but they were moving slowly in the heat, and after ten minutes they turned back, toward the air-conditioning in the Admiral’s Headquarters.

“Do you really think we might get ahold of a nuclear boat?” asked Commander Badr.

“I think so. The Russians are always ready to sell to the Chinese. And the Chinese will want to cooperate with Iran. I think there’s every chance, so long as we come up with a master plan that will hold China virtually blameless.”

“And do you think we could mount an attack against the oil/power infrastructure of the West Coast of the United States?”

“Oh, yes. I’m sure we could. And I think we’d get away with it, so long as we remain covert. It will drive them mad.”

“Mad enough, Ravi, for them to increase their defenses against such acts.”

“Keep stretching them. That’s the way. Until they decide it’s just not worth retaining their global role.”

“Or until they do decide to make someone pay.”

“That’s when we do not want to be present, Commander. When the Great Satan gets
really
mad, rush for cover, that’s my only advice.”

They walked back in silence, two men with much on their minds. Lunch was served—fried prawns with delicious spiced rice—and the conversation was animated, while the most hawkish members of the Islamic Fundamentalist movement considered the views of the former SAS Commander.

Back in the meeting, the Ayatollah began by saying, “I believe we are all in sympathy with the perceptions of General Rashoodand I intend to relay them to His Holiness. If we receive an agreement
in principle, I will appoint a delegation to make the journey to Beijing to discuss the matter with our Chinese colleagues.

“Meanwhile, I wonder if the General would explain whether he has a particular Russian submarine in mind for us. Or whether Admiral Badr should make a study and provide us with recommendations before anyone goes to Beijing.”

Ravi reached for his notes and replied immediately. “Sir, in the broadest terms we need a good-sized ship because the crew are going to be on it for a long time. I’m thinking an 8,000-tonner, probably 350 feet long. We want speed of around thirty-five knots dived. A single shafter will do fine.

“Obviously, she must have a guided-missile capability, and the ship I have in mind will fire those excellent Russian RADUGA SS-N-21s, special Granat Type, land-attack, ship-launched from below the surface. With those you’re looking at a good range of around one thousand miles, with a big warhead. They fly at 0.7 Mach, at a height of 140 feet. The ship I like most, also carries forty torpedoes.”

“Is she old?”

“Average, launched around twenty years ago. She was very expensive because of a new titanium hull. And she’s very quiet, well maintained.”

“Did you not say we wanted two?”

“Yes, sir. And this submarine has a sister ship that was laid up for no real reason a few years back. Both of them were built to excellent standards in the Gorky yards. I think the Russians just found them too expensive, both to build and to run. And I think they might gladly sell them.”

“Where are they?”

“The operational one is in Araguba, the Northern Fleet submarine dockyard. The other one may be there as well.”

Admiral Badr interrupted. “An SSN, right? What class of ship is this?”

“They were modeled on the old Sierra I, as a modern replacement for the Akula. But these two were a special class.”

“Name?”

“
Barracuda,
sir.
Barracuda Type 945.
”

5

G
ENERAL RASHOOD
and Commander Ben Badr sat awaiting the arrival of the Vice Admiral. For almost two weeks now, they had been on standby while the most senior clerics in Tehran discussed the possibility of purchasing a nuclear submarine from the Russians under the auspices of the Chinese.

Ravi and Shakira had spent a thoroughly relaxing time at the hotel, where the ex-SAS man had spent hours trying to teach her to play tennis, concluding at the end of the first week that Shakira was a lot more dexterous with a hand grenade than a backhand. Ben Badr had been busy with crew changes and adjustments to the guided-missile systems onboard
Sabalan.

This morning, they had both been told, a communiqúe had arrived from the Ayatollah clarifying the situation with regard to China. And because the entire project would involve the acquisition of the heaviest Naval hardware, it had fallen distinctly into the realm of Admiral Badr, and the two younger officers sipped tea, nervously, wondering which way the Ayatollahs had decided.

Admiral Badr arrived with a flourish, in his air-conditioned
staff car. He carried with him a black leather briefcase, and he wore no jacket, just white shorts, long cotton socks, shoes, and a white short-sleeved shirt, with epaulets and insignia of one thick gold stripe and two thin ones set on Navy blue, depicting the rank of Vice Admiral.

He came briskly into the office and wished his son and his new military ally a very good morning. He ordered fresh tea and came quickly to the point of the meeting.

“I believe you both know we have heard from Tehran this morning,” he said. “And the news is encouraging, though not quite decisive. The Ayatollahs have decided they will request our friends in Beijing to purchase on our behalf the two Russian
Barracuda
nuclear submarines.

“Since we last met together, I have ascertained their whereabouts. Both are based in the Northern Fleet at the Russian submarine base in Araguba, way up on the Barents Sea, near the Finnish–Norwegian border. One of them has been laid up for almost ten years, the other, Hull K-239, the
Tula,
formerly the
Karp,
was operational until a year ago but has been in the dockyard ever since.

“So far as we can tell, there’s nothing wrong with either of them, but they were massively expensive to build, with those titanium hulls, much more than the old Akulas. The Russians took the newer, second of class out of service only four years after it was commissioned. I think they were just too expensive to run, but they were very good ships. Fast, thirty knots-plus dived. And very quiet. They’ve got a large gap between hulls, which helped with radiated noise reduction, and there’s built-in damage resistance.

“One way and another, gentlemen, I believe either one would serve our purposes very well. The question is, will the Russians sell them?”

“I suppose it’s too early to make an assessment?” said Ben.

“Partly,” replied his father. “But we have made a few discreet initial inquiries from our own office in the Ukraine, and the Russians seem unconcerned about the ramifications of selling a nuclear boat to a foreign power.

“Most of them have not been paid for several months, and they would all be most supportive of any scheme to pull millions and millions of dollars into the Navy’s budget. They all reminded our man, the Russian Navy owns those ships, so the cash will be theirs.”

“Did anyone mention price?”

“No. Not specifically. But a
Barracuda
would probably cost around $650 million to build new. These are twenty years old, but lightly used, and well maintained. Which means they’d still cost around $300 million each to purchase secondhand. However, there’s a distinct lack of customers, which might give Chinese buyers an edge. The Russians are very reliant on Beijing for cash these days. I’d say a flat offer of $500 million for the pair might just do it.”

“How about work on the ships? Where would you want that done?” Commander Badr looked skeptical.

“I think we’d insist it was all done in Russia,” said the Admiral. “Because the work has to be done anyway, and it would sweeten the deal for the Russians if we were paying to keep one of their shipyards open and helping to pay the men.”

“Did you get the feeling the Ayatollahs were worried about the costs?” asked the General.

“No,” replied the Admiral, “I did not. However, they made it clear that although they consider the purchase of two nuclear submarines extremely desirable for our Navy, they did not wish to confirm any operational plans at this stage.”

“And where, Vice Admiral, would you guess that puts me for the moment?” said Ravi.

“I think back in a comfortable house in Damascus,” he replied. “In fact, I am instructed to fly you and Miss Sabah home this evening by military jet. Meanwhile, I am personally ordered to join a delegation to Beijing later this month. We intend to ask the Chinese formally to act on our behalf in the purchase of the submarines. In strictest confidence, of course.”

“Do you have any further instructions for me?”

“Most certainly,” smiled the Admiral. “His Holiness wishes you to refine your plans down to the finest detail for an attack on the Great Satan some time in the next two years.”

“Will this all be at my personal expense, sir?” Ravi asked, somewhat facetiously.

“It will not. You will be rewarded at the same salary as an Admiral in the Iranian Navy. And there will be $250,000 in addition, deposited in your bank in Damascus for your out-of-pocket expenses.”

Ravi nodded, unsmiling. But it was Commander Ben Badr who spoke. “Sir,” he said, addressing his father formally. “Was there any objection or stumbling block to the broad outline of our plans?”

“Not in specific terms,” he replied. “But I was most interested in the general objection voiced by one of the
hojjats.
”

“The older man, who was here with us?”

“Yes. He told us very carefully that he was afraid of one man in the White House. Not the President or any of his right-wing colleagues in Government. The man our
hojjat
fears is called Admiral Arnold Morgan, the President’s National Security Adviser. He believes this Admiral is more powerful than the outgoing President, and that he is quite capable of acting alone.”

“Well, what makes him more terrible than the rest of the Republican gang who run the affairs of the Great Satan?”

“Just about everything. He has the mentality of an Israeli. Strike at him, and he’ll strike back. He is vicious, short-tempered, and very clever. The
hojjat
thinks every blow we have taken in the past half dozen years has been on the direct orders, or influence, of that Admiral Morgan. He also thinks that if we make any move against the West Coast of the United States, Admiral Morgan will order a savage retaliation against us and probably Iraq as well. Maybe even China.”

“Even if he has no idea who has done what to whom?”

“Especially if he has no idea who has done what to whom. He’s done it before. And Bin Laden’s escapades apparently put his temper on a hair-trigger.”

“Hmmmm,” mused Ravi. “Maybe we should think about getting rid of him.”

“I think that might prove beyond our capability,” said Admiral Badr. “Arnold Morgan is under heavy guard night and day. It
would be just about impossible to get anywhere near him without having your head blown off. And what kind of assassin would want to try? Hell, if we missed, he’d probably have Bandar Abbas wiped out.”

Ravi Rashood was thoughtful. “I suppose it would be slightly more possible to eliminate him while he was in a foreign country, wouldn’t you say?”

“Maybe,” replied the Admiral. “The Soviets used to specialize in that. All I can say is that Arnold Morgan represents a very grave danger to any kind of action we may take. Because he’s apt to behave as judge, jury, and executioner. He is without doubt our biggest enemy. And according to the
hojjat,
he’s ruthless and operates with a religious zeal on behalf of the United States.”

“A one-man Intifada,” muttered Ravi.

“When riled, that sounds accurate,” said Vice Admiral Badr. “At least that’s the view of the
hojjat,
who we know is a man who would not exaggerate.”

“Is he saying we ought not to act at all while this Morgan character is in power?” asked Ravi.

“No. No. He has not gone that far. He has just warned that our chances of unruffled success are greatly diminished while Morgan reigns over the U.S. Armed Forces.”

“What about the President, and the Vice President, and the Defense Secretary, and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs?” said Ben Badr. “Don’t their opinions count for anything?”

“Not, apparently, when the Lion of the West Wing roars. He’s an ex-nuclear submarine Commander, former Director of the National Security Agency. The President won’t hear a word against him. Won’t move without him. Everyone else is scared of him.”

“I’m not scared of him,” said Ravi, quietly. “I think we should make some effort to get rid of him.”

“General Rashood, you are going home tonight, to begin work on our detailed plans for the future. I will make you this promise. If Arnold Morgan is going abroad any time in the near future, and we manage to find out, I will keep you informed. Perhaps then we may put a scheme into place. Meanwhile, let’s not worry about him.”

“Very well, Vice Admiral,” said Ravi. “But let’s not forget about him either.”

General Rashood and Shakira were in Arab dress, strolling along the Sharia Maysaloun toward the Chan Palace Hotel. They’d taken an after-lunch stroll from the excellent Elissar restaurant near the Touma Gate through the city’s ancient Roman Wall; all the way west across Damascus, three-quarters of a mile, past the massive eighth-century Umayyad Mosque, around the Citadel, and on through Martyrs’ Square.

They were in the right area now, headed for the most famous bookshop in the city, the Librairie Avicenne, a block from the Chan Palace, and Ravi looked forward to buying a few English newspapers. There was nowhere else in Damascus where anyone could be certain of locating these days-old publications, and he came here two or three times a week.

They were only just in time. Ravi bought the last copy of Monday morning’s
London Daily Telegraph,
and they spent a contented half hour looking through the shelves in search of books that might contain details of the principal cities on America’s West Coast, Seattle, San Francisco, Los Angeles, and San Diego. There was little available, but Shakira found an April edition of
French Vogue
and two Hollywood show business and film magazines. Shakira was devoted to American movies.

It was almost four o’clock and they walked back through the warm afternoon breeze, back to Martyrs’ Square for a drink at the Karnak Bar above the Siyaha Hotel. This was a cheerful place, full of Westerners and Arabs alike drinking cold beer or a raki, Damascus not being an observer of the strict Muslim code of no alcohol.

They found a small table overlooking the square and ordered a couple of glasses of beer. They sat reading for a while until Ravi
tired of the newspaper, skipping over the last few pages and then stopping dead at an unlikely headline:

PERSIAN LADY FOR ROYAL ASCOT

Kerman Mare’s New Target

The newspaper made no connection to the mystery of Richard Kerman’s son, Raymond, the missing SAS Officer who had occupied
front pages all over the country a couple of years ago. Right here they were dealing with the Ascot Gold Cup, the Holy Grail for the stamina racehorse. Hebron? Where the hell’s that? Sports departments are inclined to be insular places.