The Iranian Blockade
Page 1
The Iranian Blockade
Stephen Makk
Published by Stephen Makk, 2018.
Table of Contents
Title Page
The Iranian Blackade
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
HMS Holy Ghost.
Beneath Sunless Waves.
A Fall into Darkness.
USS Stonewall Jackson
The Kali Option.
Forbidden.
The Walk of a Million Years.
Grace, Collector of Evil
The Rebel.
Thanks for downloading The Iranian Blockade.
THIS IS BOOK 4 OF THE USS Stonewall Jackson series.
USS STONEWALL JACKSON. Book 1
USA
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0796CCTVJ
UK
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0796CCTVJ
Australia
https://www.amazon.com.au/dp/B0796CCTVJ
THE SPRATLY INCIDENT. Book 2
USA
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07BPNP23G
UK
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07BPNP23G
Australia
https://www.amazon.com.au/dp/B07BPNP23G
THE BLACK SEA HORDE. Book 3
USA
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07D634FF8
UK
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07D634FF8
Canada
https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B07D634FF8
Australia
https://www.amazon.com.au/dp/B07D634FF8
“THE BUSINESS OF A SOLDIER is to fight. Armies are not called out to dig trenches, to throw up breastworks, and live in camps. But to find the enemy, and strike him; to invade his country, and do him all possible damage in the shortest possible time...but such a war would of necessity, be of brief continuance, and so would be an economy of prosperity and life in the end. To move swiftly, strike vigorously, and secure all the fruits of victory, is the secret of successful war.”
GENERAL THOMAS J “STONEWALL” Jackson.
Cover by: https://laurareadauthor.com/
The Aleutian Islands. North Pacific Ocean. March 2018
One hundred and fifty miles South of Unalaska Island.
A GRIM COLD GREY DAWN stretched out to the horizon, where it met low-lying grey cloud. The USS Hopper an Arleigh Burke class Destroyer rolled in the mid-ocean swell; she’d come abeam to make her approach. The biting wind, whipped spray from the crests of the waves. The diver stood on deck lashed by a passing shower. A thin layer of ice covered the foredeck, built up by the freezing rain. Icicles hung down from cables and sharp edges.
A sailor emerged from a hatchway, dressed in a hooded waterproof. He hurriedly walked over to the diver, his face scowled at the windblown shower. The diver wore a black dry suit and a couple of instruments wrapped around the wrists. Stood impassive, ignoring the rain and the cold howling wind. The sailor pointed off the starboard quarter
“There. About two hundred yards. We’re at the right location. It was hard to find, but we got the buoy on radar. She’s coming in up current. There won’t be much of a run on, it’s slack water right now.”
“Help me with the set.” The sailor helped lift the rebreather and held it against the divers back. The straps were secured, the buckles clipped shut. The twin-hose was placed inside cold lips, lungs breathed in and out. Instruments checked carefully.
“Get me the gob bucket.”
“The what?” An arm pointed to a nearby bucket. The sailor slid it across the deck with his leg. There was a spit into the mask, it was quickly washed in the bucket of seawater. The twin-hose mouthpiece inserted, the lips gripped it. The buoy rose and fell in the swell around thirty yards off the starboard side. The sailor opened the side-load gunnel hatch, the sea heaved in an uninviting rhythm. It was an awkward walk sideways across the rolling deck, then a stand with the forward blades of the fins overhanging the sea. There was a forward step and a splash. The sailor closed the side-load gunnel hatch and looked down into the sea. The diver had rolled face up and was finning for the buoy.
“Rather you than me buddy.”
AT THE BUOY, THE DIVER vented buoyancy air and sank beneath the waves. The pressure was equalised for the first time, the depth beckoned as the cable fell into the gloom. The surface swell disappeared, and the cold sea grew darker.
A helmet light flooded the scene. The backscatter from small sea creatures was all that could be seen; that and the cable down into the beyond. The only sound was the breathing and the soft opening and shutting of the valves. Down and down into the inky depths, the cable streamed off into the black chasm. An instrument read one hundred and fifteen feet. Down and down, the breathing gas is noticeably thicker down here. The world was now a stygian darkness, a pure empty blackness. Devoid of anything but an endless cable leading down and down to infinity. One hundred and eighty feet. Two hundred and twenty feet. Finally, out of the gloom there it was. The top of a submarine’s sail, two feet clad in fins, dropped into the sail. A swim over to the circular hatch. Gloved hands spun the wheel, then lifted the hatch. The diver turned to fall into the cylindrical airlock. Hands closed the hatch, now above and spun the wheel shut. Another twenty feet down was the inner hatch with its wheel. A knife was removed from a chest-mounted scabbard. It was then a squat down; and using the handle there were three knocks on the hatch, a wait, and then another three. After the fourth signal, three knocks came back, a pause then another three. Air was forced into the airlock and the water level fell. The diver’s weight returned.
There was nothing to do now but wait, until the pressure dropped from the equivalent of two hundred and twenty feet of seawater, eight atmospheres, to one atmosphere. This would be done slowly to prevent decompression sickness or the bends as most know it. Finally, the hatch wheel was spun and the hatch was pushed open into the boat’s companionway. Two fins were passed down to one of the waiting crewmen. The rebreather was unclipped, removed and passed down; a weight belt followed.
FINALLY, THE DIVER was helped down to the deck of the submarine. The diver removed the mask and pulled off the hood.
Her long black hair fell wet over her shoulders.
“Hello Mam, are you ok?” asked the seaman.
“Yes, but I could do with a brew.”
The seaman puzzled over her. She was a looker, a coffee colored hot British Asian woman in her late twenties.
“A brew Mam?”
“Yes, a brew. A tea?”
“Oh yes, we have Liptons in the galley. Come this way.” She sighed.
“Liptons. No Assam then, it’ll have to do.” She followed the seaman back aft towards the galley.
He passed her the tea, she sipped it.
“I’m actually here to see Captain Blake.”
“Yes Mam, I’ll tell him you’re here. He’ll know anyway but....”
A man appeared in the doorway. “Sir. This is ahh, your visitor.”
“Thanks, Withers,” said Nathan, he stepped inside the galley.
“Welcome aboard USS Stonewall Jackson....” He held out a palm to her.
“Anupa Silva,” she shook his hand. “I’m with MI6.”
“It was a dramatic entrance. You guys do that sort of thing? Oh, of course. Silly me, James Bond’s MI6. Do you know him?” Nathan grinned. She smirked at him.
“Captain, I...”
“Call me Nathan please.”
“Nathan. I was just passing by and thought I’d drop in for a brew.” He smiled and waited.
“Actually, you come highly recommended. The Chief of Naval Operations and I would like to ask a favour.”
“Anupa, the CNO doesn’t ask, he tells. What am I to do?”
SHE STUDIED HER PAPER cup.
“Where to begin?” she smirked, her eyes dark and playful.
“It all started quite innocently with oil. Rather a lot of it. The world’s supply to be exact.”
He listened, then looked to the galley. “I’ll have a coffee.” Nathan sat.
She glimpsed at him and returned to her story. “Yes, as I was saying. A lot of oil, and then there were the nuclear weapons. So, it started with oil and nukes, but then it got really interesting.” She took a sip and paused.
“Nathan, the CNO and I would be dreadfully grateful if you’d....”
Chapter 1
Oxford Circus tube station. London. September 2014
IT WAS JUST ANOTHER typical morning on the Central line, the carriage rocked slightly as the underground Tube train made its way through the dark tunnel. Anupa Silva stood, holding on to a vertical metal pole for balance. A punk couple sat on a seat next to her, and his Mohican red spikey hair contrasted with her blue colored comb atop and shaven sides. Several bored looking people clutched bags and briefcases, this was just part of their daily commute. Anupa caught a glimpse of a few stares from two young men sat to one side; she wasn’t interested but didn’t mind the attention, if she was honest. She was a striking British Asian woman in her late twenties with coffee colored skin and a nose stud on her left nostril. She wore her glossy, silky black hair long.
The train slowed, then pulled into Oxford Circus station, and the doors slid open. Anupa got off and made her way to the Bakerloo line, then doubled back and stood on the platform. She opened her bag and took out a makeup case with a mirror. Holding it up to her face, she pretended to inspect herself, but in truth, she was looking at the people on the platform behind her. Were any following her? Nobody seemed to be. She closed it and headed to the Victoria line. She repeated the mirror search, then got on a southbound train. Anupa got off at Vauxhall and made her way to the SIS building, the headquarters of the Secret Intelligence Service or MI6 as it’s commonly known.
Sitting at her desk, she started her morning trawl through the overnight events. Anupa was new to her role, having transferred over from MI5. She’d been through her orientation course and done well. The two services were different but had more similarities than differences. There was no such organisation as MI6 of course, but the SIS knew that was how most people knew it. There was no point fighting this, so it embraced it. Many of its few public-facing documents referred to it as MI6. It was more flash and debonair than MI5, more boys club military, the nicknames, the pranks, yet more ruthless than MI5. It had been a mild culture shock for Anupa. Nothing notable in the news seemed to jump out at her, only some Libyan signals traffic for the Lebanese embassy. It could be a message to an ISIS deep cover operation; she’d check that out with GCHQ.
A face appeared over the desk partition, an office screen. The man had fair unkempt hair and was typically unshaven.
“Morning Crutch,” he smiled. That had become her nickname.
“Morning Aqualung. Is your razor still AWOL?”
“Undercover job.”
“You still on that one?”
“Yeah, tramps don’t shave or wear Gicci.”
Anupa rolled her eyes. “That’s Gucci.”
“Whatever. How was your little trip back oop north? Family and friends good? Manchester’s slag heaps still smoking?”
“It’s Accrington, not Manchester, Aqualung. And yes, I had a good trip home.”
Aqualung shook his head. “They say it’s grim up north. Look, I saw Biggles this morning, the Head Shed wants to see you.”
“Rudolph?”
“That be ‘im. Aye me hearties. Yeah, cross me heart job.” Aqualung smiled as Anupa got up and headed to the lift.
Aqualung grinned. “Oh, she’s off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of Oz. Good luck Crotch.”
Anupa turned and frowned. “That’s Crutch.” Anupa knew she’d have to stop pulling them up about the Crotch thing, it would only make matters worse.
THE LIFT TOOK HER TO floor six, and she entered the head’s outer office.
“Hello, Helen. I’m here to see him.” Anupa smiled.
“I’ll let him know.” She picked up the phone, propping it against her cheek and shoulder. “Hello, Sir. She’s here to see you. Right, Sir.” She nodded to Anupa. “Go on in.”
In the large, well furnished office, Rudolph stood, leaned over his desk and shook her hand.
“Hello Crutch, please sit. How are you settling in?”
“Ok, I think. It’s a change but I’m quite enjoying it.”
He placed his wrists on the desk, his fingertips touching together. “The feedback I’ve got is positive. Soup says you’re doing well, so it’s time to pick your area of interest. You’ll do your first tour there.” She knew this was a military term; a tour was a three year posting. Her second tour would normally be to another region. “We’ve got openings in the Far East or the Middle East, which would you prefer?”
She’d expected this, but had wondered if Latin America might come up, considering some of the things she’d been hearing about Venezuela.
“I think I’ll choose the Middle East, Sir.”
“Always something doing there. I started there before I became a Pact man.” He nodded his approval.
“I thought you’d always been a Pact specialist?”
“No, my first ops posting was Amman, Jordan.” Rudolph was virtually a fixture in Warsaw Pact; Eastern European operations. “Right, you’ll be working for Silk Purse. I’ll call her. In fact, I’ll do it now.” He picked up the phone, simultaneously sifting through papers on his desk as if he were looking for something. “Rudolph here. Hi. All well?” He listened. “Sounds fine. Ok. The reason I’m calling is that you have a new staff member. Crutch is requesting your patch.” He nodded. “Yes, she’s here now. I’ll get her to join your crew when she leaves.” He hung up.
“She’s pleased to hear that. When you get back, pack your things and report to her in the Middle East section.”
“Good, Sir, will do.” Anupa stood, preparing to leave.
“Before you go; why did they call you Crutch?”
She smiled. “Anupa Silva. It’s a Goan name; Silva, Silver. Pieces of eight were silver and are associated with Pirates and that led to Long John Silver. He had a Parrot and walked with a Crutch. So, that’s where it came from.”
He smiled. “It could be worse.”
“It is, Sir. Some have taken to calling me Crotch.”
He shook his head. “Don’t rise to the bait, worst thing you could do. Well, go and see Silk Purse. She’ll start you off.”
“Thanks, Sir.”
After Anupa left his office, Rudolph laughed. “Crotch. They can be a merciless lot.”
SHE WALKED TO THE MIDDLE East section. Silk Purse’s office was towards the back windows overlooking the river Thames. She was a dark haired woman in her early forties.
“Crutch, welcome to the Middle East section. You’ll attend an orientation course and then it’s off to your posting. That will be Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. You’ll need to liaise with the Saudi General Intelligence Directorate.
The Maslahat Al-Istikhbarat Al-Aammah is their SIS and the Mabahith is the equivalent of MI5. We normally work with the Maslahat, the external guys, but do work with the Mabahith too. I’ll set you up with Maslahat.
I’ve had a look at your file. You’re an outdoorsy type, climbing, diving, potholing.”
“Yes, I’ve done a bit of that.”
“Not much of that in Riyadh, but you’ll get out into the country. You ever been to the desert?”
“No.”
“It’s different, quite good once you get used to it. Don’t worry about the clothing. In the city you’ll have to cover your hair and dress modestly, but out in the sands. The Maslahat guys won’t mind what you wear. Welcome aboard, you’ll enjoy it, once you get used to it. Things you take for granted here, won’t happen over there. There’s a view that says it’s all repressive and harsh. There is some of that, there are some bad things going on over there. But there’s positive and fair too. Just learn, soak it up and you’ll find it’s better than you thought. See Torrance about doing the course.”
“Thanks.” Anupa knew it would be a learning curve, a bit of a challenge.
She’d find that it would be much more than a bit.
RIYADH. SAUDI ARABIA 2017.
ANUPA SAT AT A CAFÉ by a side road under the shade of a large clump of trees. She drank Hibiscus tea from a tall glass. She wore a light blue loose-fitting robe with a checked headscarf and sunglasses. It was a pleasant day, as were many nowadays. It had been a culture shock in the early days, but she climbed the learning curve and now she was comfortable with the place. He’d asked to meet her. She knew him as Josh, her contact had been careful. He’d approached her with subtlety. At first, Anupa thought he was trying his hand, trying to make a pass at her. She’d dismissed him at one point. But she’d come to realise what may be going on, after an American colleague had told her that Josh was an Israeli intelligence agent. He turned up a few minutes late.
“Hi Anupa, sorry I’m late. My contact at the US Embassy was tied up. I’ve got it for you. It came through in a diplomatic bag. They do us favours, from time to time. We do favours for them.” Her contact asked for a coffee. It was delivered. He took a paper napkin and used it to slide something across the table. She took it and placed it in her handbag; he’d handed her a RAM stick.