Seawolf End Game (21 page)

“What is happening?” his orderly asked in fright.

Bishir ignored the youth, gripped the phone and raised it to his ear. The phone was a direct line to his battalion headquarters positioned nearly three miles away in a similar bunker. But, as he prepared to sound the alarm, he heard nothing. He depressed the phone’s cradle several times, hoping that might fix the problem. The landline between his company outpost and the battalion headquarters had been laid by engineers nearly a week earlier and was supposed to be buried. But the line was dead.

Bishir dropped the phone as dust fell from the overhead support beams, a powerful explosion causing the electric lights to go out dropping a shroud of darkness over him. Using his memory and hands, he found the radio he could use to call his battalion commander in the event the phone was dead. Working in the darkness until his aid found a flashlight. Bishir turned on the radio, but despite trying multiple frequencies, all he heard was a steady stream of static.

More explosions continued to rock the hillside, and Bishir heard the sound of low-flying jets streaking by as they raced toward targets further inland. The captain found his helmet and assault rifle, his mind still struggling to come to grips with what was happening. Certainly there had been reports of a possible Iranian attack, but there were always reports of a possible Iranian attack. For years the Islamic Republic had threatened the isolated peninsula. The threats had become just part of the backdrop of the region and no one paid them any attention.

Bishir stumbled from his bunker, knowing he had to rally his men. They were conscripts and had no combat experience—not that he did, either. If he didn’t restrain them, they would flee. Outside the bunker he found the peaceful hillside a calamity of sights and sounds. Explosions illuminated the night sky. Chunks of rock the size of automobiles tumbled down the steep slope as Iranian fighter bombers roared overhead dropping bombs and firing rockets. At the same time, hovering a few hundred feet away, huge helicopters fired rockets and automatic canon rounds directly into Bishir’s battle position.

He dove for cover as machine gun bullets ricocheted of his bunker. He’d just hit the ground when a fiery blast rolled over him. He felt the stabbing pain as shrapnel tore into his back and thighs. He then heard the screams of his men barely audible over the roar of the onslaught. His helmet had been blown off by the blast and he scrambled to recover it, before rolling over to assess his wounds. He then saw the fiery remains of his bunker. A direct hit by a helicopter-fired rocket had penetrated the thick walls and totally destroyed it.

Bishir looked back toward the water below. The beach was illuminated by the fires on the hillside and he could see strange, square shapes sweeping over the water and heading directly to the beach. He looked around but couldn’t see his rifle and wasn’t certain what he should do. In the flashes of explosions, he caught a brief glimpse of men running back up the hill. They were his men—the survivors anyway—fleeing for their lives, and Bishir knew he would never stop them.

He crawled further down a shallow trench, trying to decide if he should flee. He hadn’t even fired a shot in defense of his country. Not that he felt he could make a difference. He again looked down at the beach and saw several of the strange looking boats move right out of the water and onto the beach.

“Hovercraft?” he mumbled to himself. He’d heard no reports that the Iranians had such advanced equipment. Bishir then heard a sudden roar from his left. He turned in time to see the predatory shape of the MI-24 Hind assault helicopter. He recognized the stubby wing pylons with rocket pods slung underneath and the menacing chin turret with the canons and machineguns staring at him.

“Allah—” Bishir managed to cry out before the Hind opened fire.

Wolf’s Den, USS Seawolf, The Maldives Islands

E
very Thursday night when conditions permitted, the officers and CPOs cooked and served dinner for the crew, making pizzas to order for all of the men. It was normally one of the highlights of everyone’s week and usually provided for some tension release as officers, petty officers, and the crew took a few hours off from their usual duties to laugh and joke around the Wolf’s Den together. But, as the chances of returning home early dwindled with each passing day and the threat of war loomed large on the horizon, the conversation in the Wolf’s Den became unusually restrained.

The
Seawolf
had reached its patrol area three days earlier and had slowed to a bare crawl, moving silently through the depths, listening and waiting for a call to action. After nearly two solid weeks of never-ending drills, the XO had slacked off some, limiting the drills to fewer—although more difficult—exercises. This allowed Kristen and the rest of the crew to finally get some decent rest, but everyone on board was anxious about what might happen next.

Kristen and Martin had stayed busy on a computer simulation for a possible sound signature for the Russian submarines since her last meeting with Brodie. Despite several long days feeding in data and working on lines of code, they simply didn’t have enough hard data on the two Russian submarines to create an accurate model, which meant they still had no idea how to find what they were looking for.

On a positive note, though, Martin appeared to be adjusting to life aboard a submarine, and, more importantly, he seemed to be growing less and less homesick with each day. At least Kristen hoped so. The whining that had been a constant part of his daily routine during the first six weeks of the patrol had slowly given way to quiet resolve as the situation around them darkened.

Every day the captain received more and more “Flash” messages for his eyes only. The volume of war warnings and updated threat assessments reached such a volume that all non-essential message traffic like family grams and e-mails the crew routinely received when the
Seawolf’s
antenna was above the surface were stopped. The captain had yet to reveal the contents of the flood of messages, but Kristen kept a close eye on the Top Secret read board, and it looked like the Islamic Republic was up to something.

The National Reconnaissance Office reported a massive buildup of military power on the Republic’s southern coast, which had everyone on edge. They were just a single submarine and could hardly be expected to prevent any military move by Iran into one of her neighbors’ lands. Not to mention, none of these reports shed the least bit of light onto just what role the Russians were playing in it all.

Kristen was in the middle of making a meat lover’s pizza when Charles Horner, coming from the communications shack, delivered another such message to Brodie. Kristen and several others hazarded glances toward the two of them, and whereas Brodie’s expression was impassive, as if he were reading an article in a dry textbook, Horner looked like he’d read his own obituary. Brodie handed the message board back to his anxious communications officer.

“I’ll be right up,” Brodie replied calmly, but his voice now had an edge in it.

He removed his apron and chef’s hat and handed them to Gibbs. Then, without comment, he walked from the galley and went up the ladder to the control room. Kristen exchanged nervous glances with several officers and noticed Chief Miller, O’Rourke, and COB sharing strained looks. For the next ten minutes a subdued pizza night continued on, but everyone’s appetites had faded.

Kristen was cutting up a pepperoni and sausage pizza when a fight broke out between two sailors who, Kristen was certain, would probably not even remember what started it. The combination of high tension ever since the deployment started, the rushed departure from Bremerton, back-to-back deployments, the grueling training bringing them to the razor’s edge of readiness, and now the growing reality of war had everyone on board wound up tight. COB and O’Rourke had the fight broken up moments after it started, but as they were sorting the combatants out, the 1MC came to life.

Kristen heard the slight crackling from the nearby speaker and turned her attention toward it. Instantly, all was quiet. Every eye—every ear—turned toward the nearest speaker. The men in the Wolf’s Den who’d been fighting one another moments earlier forgot their dispute and were now, like everyone else, listening.

“All hands, this is the captain.”

She listened as the calm and steady voice came over the 1MC. It was his way, and the cool, even voice had a way of calming the men’s tensions. She wondered briefly if he intentionally kept his voice strong yet calm for this very reason. But she dismissed the foolish question. Nothing about him was an accident.

“
As you’re all well aware, we’ve been loitering in the vicinity of the Maldives as part of a much larger effort to secure key choke points in various parts of the world. Our mission has, up until this moment, been one of reserve until the Russians, or whoever they may be working with, make a hostile move.”

Kristen heard nothing ominous in his tone, he might have been discussing the weather or a crossword puzzle, but everyone aboard knew Brodie never got on the 1MC just to hear himself speak or waste people’s time. Something had happened somewhere in the world.

“I’m afraid any hopes we had of this crisis blowing over has officially ended. Last night Iran, in an apparent bid to seize control of the Strait of Hormuz, invaded the Musandam Peninsula on the southern side of the Strait. Reacting to what they called a direct provocation by Oman, who owns the Peninsula, the Islamic Republic launched an invasion with several thousand troops. This morning, at 0845 local time, the UN representative of the Islamic Republic of Iran informed the nations of the world they have acted in their own self-defense as per the UN Charter. In addition to this, they also announced the Islamic Republic—supported by her allies—was exercising its claim to the Strait of Hormuz; declaring it a closed waterway to all international shipping traffic effective midnight tonight, GMT.”

Kristen closed her eyes and whispered, “Holy shit.” Beside her Terry, Ryan, Martin, and others mumbled similar comments. The United States and the rest of the industrialized world could not survive long without the constant flow of oil coming out of the Persian Gulf through the Strait of Hormuz. If the Iranians were serious, and they meant to try and blockade the Strait, it would mean a shooting war for certain. The Western democracies were totally dependent on imported oil, and the vast majority of those imports came from the Persian Gulf.

“Upon receipt of this announcement by the Islamic Republic, the Commander in Chief issued a warning to the President of Iran that the United States considers the Strait to be international waters and will react with force to any attempt by the Republic to interfere with our international treaty rights permitting unrestricted access to the Strait of Hormuz and the Persian Gulf.”
Brodie paused momentarily to let the gravity of the situation have a chance to settle in.
“Currently there are eleven American-flagged super tankers moving inside the Persian Gulf or just outside it in the Sea of Arabia. All of these vessels are potentially in danger should our friends in Iran decide to put their words into action, and, considering they just invaded a sovereign nation, we must assume the worst.

“
Although negotiations are ongoing at the highest levels to resolve this matter peacefully, it is believed the Islamic Republic, as the North Koreans were before them, has been emboldened to this action by the Russian Federation. The Russians, as a permanent member of the UN Security Council, can veto any military action or economic sanctions imposed against the Iranian government, providing them virtual immunity against any United Nations actions.”

“Mother fucking Russians,” Ski cursed bitterly. “I never liked those bastards.”

“Because of the gravity of the situation, all forces in CENTCOM have been put on alert. We have been ordered north to close the distance to the Strait and support the
USS Virginia
and the
HMS Audacious
which are in the region already. They have been ordered to secure the Strait from any Iranian military interference and enforce our unfettered access to the seas as international law clearly provides.

“
As more information comes my way, I’ll pass it along if at all possible,”
Brodie assured them.
“As for now, I expect all hands to do what they can to get our boat as ready as possible for a confrontation at any moment. I would like all off duty officers to muster in the wardroom as soon as possible for a more detailed briefing of the current situation. Captain out.”

It was typical Brodie, Kristen thought. No pep talk. No superfluous adjectives or words to incite a reaction from his men. He didn’t want his crew any more excited or worked up than they already were. Instead, he wanted them calm and professional. Kristen and the other officers removed their aprons and chef hats, then made their way to the wardroom to await the captain.

Kristen took her seat and thanked Gibbs as he delivered a cup of tea.

“Can I get you anything else, Miss?” he asked. “I didn’t see you having any pizza.” Gibbs had been mothering Kristen more than usual since her incursion with the SEALs into North Korea. But she could hardly fault him for looking out for her. He’d been the closest thing to a friend she’d had since arriving on board.