Two hours later, Ravi, who never slept longer than that, awoke and checked their whereabouts with the pilot. Right now they had crossed the Mauritania border and were flying over Mali. Ravi had consulted his treasured Traveler’s Atlas, a small leather-bound pocket edition with pages edged in gold, a gift from Shakira. And he had selected his spot for the Camara heave-ho.
It would take another three and a half hours to get there, and he instructed the first officer to wake him and then prepare to slow the aircraft down, losing height to around 5,000 feet for the ejection.
He went back to the sleeping Shakira and held her hand, but he dozed off only fitfully himself, as they flew above the mountains of northern Chad. A few minutes later, they entered the airspace over the Libyan Desert, one of the loneliest parts of the Sahara, 750,000 square miles, stretching through northwestern Sudan, western Egypt, and eastern Libya.
Ravi had chosen a 100-mile-wide area of unmapped sand dunes between the oases of Ma’tan Bishrah and Ma’tan Sarah. There was not a town for 100 miles in any direction. Down below, in this burning, arid, uninhabitable Al Kufrah district, the temperature hovered around 105 degrees.
Only the GPS could tell the pilot precisely where they were, and Captain Kani was watching it carefully. Ravi, with the first officer, dragged the body to the rear door, as they came down through 10,000 feet and slowed to a just-sustainable 190 knots.
Ravi and the airman were both standing, strapped in harnesses attached to the fuselage. And as they approached the drop zone, they both heard the Captain call out…“ONE MINUTE!”
The first officer unclipped the door and pulled it sideways to swing it open. The noise was deafening, as the wind rushed into the gap. Both men held on and shoved the body into the doorway with their boots.
“NOW!” yelled the Captain, and with two more good shoves, they rolled the former Oxford University golf captain out into the stratosphere, watched the body fall towards the desert floor, and then hauled the big aircraft door shut, fast.
“Okay, Captain…as you were!” called Ravi. And they both felt the surge, as the Orion angled slightly upward, and accelerated towards its cruising height. As a measure of her desperate exhaustion, Shakira never stirred.
As a measure of his profound relief at having eliminated the talkative Senegalese sailor from all contact with the Harrovian Golf Society, Ravi poured himself another cup of coffee.
Captain Kani pressed on across Africa’s fourth largest country all the way to the border with Egypt, about 550 miles shy of the Nile Valley. “Little more than an hour to Aswan,” called the Captain. “And that’ll be the first 3,000 miles behind us.”
“How far’s that from home?” asked Ravi.
“It’s around 1,500 miles from the Nile to Bandar Abbas. ’Bout another three and a half hours. We’ll be on the ground in Aswan for about an hour.”
Ravi slept while the Orion inched its way across the desert, awakening only when they could see Lake Nasser, the 350-mile-long stretch of water that started backing up against the southside wall of the High Dam when they halted the natural flow of the Nile.
They came in over the 1,600-square-mile artificial lake, dropping down into the flat, barren brown terrain west of the river, and landing at the little airport, which stands 16 miles from Egypt’s southernmost city. It was 0100 back in Senegal, but three time zones later, it was 0400 here in the land of the Pharaohs.
Captain Kani had organized food for his distinguished passengers, the Egyptian dish of kushari, which a local Air Force orderly brought out to the aircraft on a golf cart. It was still dark, and Ravi and the still-tired Shakira gazed in some alarm at the large plates containing that fabled desert combination of noodles, rice, black lentils, fried onions, and tomato sauce.
It was, after all, still pitch dark, but they had lost all track of time, and the kushari turned out to be delicious. They devoured it with hot pita bread and ice-cold orange juice, and the orderly waited to take everything away, the Iranian Air Force being light on catering in its Lockheed prowlers.
Refueled and refreshed, they set off again shortly after 0500 (local), flying out towards the Red Sea and the Arabian Peninsula. Their halfway point was the western end of the dreaded Rub Al Khali, the “Empty Quarter” in the most inhospitable desert on earth. From there they headed up to Dubai, and crossed the Gulf just west of the Strait of Hormuz, landing at Bandar Abbas at ten o’clock on Tuesday morning, September 22.
A Navy staff car collected General and Mrs. Rashood direct from the runway the moment Captain Kani switched off the Orion’s engines. They were driven immediately into the base and delivered to the Iranian Navy’s suite for visiting dignitaries. It represented the final word in air-conditioned hotel luxury, from its vast green marble-floored bathroom, redolent with soaps, shampoo, aftershave, and eau de cologne, to its wide four-poster king-size bed.
There were two Naval orderlies dressed immaculately in white uniforms, shirts with epaulettes, and shorts with long white socks. They had already filled the bathtub with scented, oiled water and laid out two soft dark green bathrobes. Black silk pajamas were on the bed.
There was an assortment of clothing in the wardrobe—newly pressed shorts, slacks, navy blue skirts, shirts, socks, underwear, and shoes, for both male and female personnel. Shakira thought she might look like a freshly bathed deckhand when finally she emerged, and Ravi reminded her it was she who had requested permission to join the Navy.
The orderlies had placed a bowl of local fruit salad on the table in the outer room overlooking the harbor. There was fresh coffee, tea, and sweet pastries. The television was tuned to the American news station CNN. Two newspapers—one Arabic, one English—were on a table set between two big comfortable chairs.
One way or the other, it compared very favorably with the General’s living quarters in the Barracuda.
To Shakira Rashood it looked like paradise, and she languished in the bathtub for almost an hour, washing her hair three times “to stop smelling like a submarine.”
The two Iranian assistants left at midday, taking with them all of the two submariners’ laundry. They drew down the shades and suggested sleep, since Admiral Badr had convened a meeting in his office at 1630 that afternoon. “You will be collected from here,” he said. “The Admiral wishes you both a very pleasant day.”
Outside the door, there were four armed Naval guards. At the base of the stairs there were two more. And a four-man detail was on duty outside in the heat. Admiral Badr was keenly aware of the importance of his guests. He was also keenly aware that half the world would have paid a king’s ransom to know where the Hamas assault Commander was at this precise moment.
Ravi and Shakira were awakened by telephone at 1600 and informed they would be collected in thirty minutes. They dressed slowly, poured some coffee from the heated pot, and headed downstairs to the waiting car.
Admiral Badr greeted them both warmly and told them how dramatic it was in the base when news of the eruption of Mount St. Helens came through. “It was a wonderful moment for us,” he said, “after all the months of planning. But we have heard no response from the Americans with regard to the new Hamas threat and demands.”
“I did not really expect any word from them,” said Ravi. “However, I did expect to see some activity in their Middle Eastern bases. And perhaps a general communiqué from the Israelis to the principal Arab and Gulf nations, of which Iran would be one.”
“That really is the object of this meeting,” replied the Admiral. “We have not been informed of any new initiative with regard to the West Bank. And neither has anyone else. However, I do have a list of movements of U.S. troops and equipment in the bases.”
“Perfect,” said Ravi. “I would like to consider them, and we can decide immediately what further action to take.”
“I think that’s correct,” replied the Admiral. “I have all the information here…but, first…How is my son? Is he handling the submarine well?”
“Oh, Ben’
s great,” said Ravi. “He has plainly developed into a first-class nuclear submarine CO, perfectly in command, and trusted by all of his crew. The ship is behaving very well. We’ve had nothing beyond minor problems, and I expect them to carry out successfully the rest of our plans.
“I also expect them all to make it home safely, eventually. Though it may be necessary for them to stay deep for a few weeks, should we be compelled to make our final attack.”
“As we always planned,” said the Admiral. “It is quite apparent to me the Barracuda simply cannot be detected during an operation. Even in hostile waters.”
“Not if it’s being handled by a master, like Ben,” said Ravi. “And he has become a master, nothing less. We’ve moved that ship through dangerous waters, when we knew half the U.S. Navy must be looking for us. But so far as I know, they never got a sniff.”
“Those are presumptuous words for a submariner,” said the Admiral, smiling. “But I’m delighted to hear them…Shall we look at the American evacuation now?”
“Please go right ahead. I’ll just take notes as we go.”
“Right, first, Bahrain. That’s the U.S. Fifth Fleet HQ. Two weeks ago, the Constellation Carrier Battle Group was in there, and three days ago it left. Eleven ships, including two submarines. We tracked them down the Gulf to the Strait. Also, we noticed some troop reduction, maybe five hundred Navy personnel flying out to Incirlick in Turkey.
“Second. Kuwait. That’s a very big U.S. Army Command and training base. They have upwards of 12,000 military personnel in there. We have observed some movement of U.S. Air Force fighter planes leaving there for Diego Garcia, but no substantial troop movement by sea.
“Third. Saudi Arabia. That’s the U.S. Air Force Command base they just reopened. They have 10,000 personnel in there, just like old times. Plus a large but shifting number of reconnaissance and fighter aircraft. We have discerned no appreciable change in anything.
“Fourth. Qatar. There’s been a substantial movement of troops from there. We are only seeing two thousand of the original four thousand U.S. personnel. There was a big evacuation of aircraft too. We could tell that because of the huge empty shelters they recently built. We saw no troop movement by sea, but certainly many hundreds of them left by air.
“Fifth. Oman. The docks have always been heavily used by the U.S. military. So has As-Seeb International Airport. They usually have around four thousand personnel in the country, and we have observed no change whatsoever.
“Sixth. United Arab Emirates. Small U.S. Air Force garrison here. No change.
“Seventh. Djibouti. Busy U.S. Special Forces training area. We’ve assessed three thousand personnel at various times. No change.
Eighth. Diego Garcia. Navy Base and serious airbase. They have B-52 heavy bombers and stealth bombers. No change in the number of aircraft. And it’s a very transitional place for warships. No discernible change.”
“They probably think we have a real nerve asking them to vacate Diego Garcia, since it is several thousand miles from the Gulf,” said Ravi. “But this list is very disappointing. The United States plainly does not take our threat seriously. They’re merely trying to buy time.”
“By the way, how many carriers do they now have in the area?”
“One in the northern Arabian Sea, none in the Gulf, and one heading, I believe, to Diego Garcia.”
“Is that Constellation?”
“Correct.”
“They are not really behaving like a nation that is about to have half its business coast obliterated, are they?”
“No, Ravi. They are most certainly not.”
“And do we yet have any information as to the attitude of their President McBride?”
“We’ve heard nothing. Which may mean he is working behind the scenes to destroy us. But more likely he doesn’t believe our threat.”
“I’d go with the latter, Admiral,” said Ravi. “He’s a known liberal and pacifist. And those kinds of people usually stick their heads in the sand. The danger to us is when people like Admiral Morgan get into positions of power, because they are likely to lash out. Or at worst, lash back at any perceived enemy.”
“So where do you think that leaves us.”
“Admiral, I think we’re ready to move into the second phase of the plan.”
“I thought you might take that view, General. And I agree with you. We have the power right now to make them do what we want. Or at least we should have. Have you decided on your next communiqué?”
“Absolutely. I know precisely what to do. But first I must send Ben on his way. He is well briefed and will not personally be headed into any danger zone. This next step is probably the easiest, and certainly the most likely to get major results.”
Admiral Badr smiled. “Go to it, my son. And may Allah go with you.”
1430 (Local), Tuesday, September 22
14.45N 18.00W, Speed 7, Racetrack Pattern.
The Barracuda cruised slowly 600 feet below the surface of the deep Atlantic, 40 miles west of Senegal. As from 1200 (local), the young Rear Admiral Badr had been awaiting instructions via the Chinese Naval satellite. They would be orders direct from Bandar Abbas, where he knew his father and Ravi Rashood were in conference.
Every two hours, out here in these lonely semitropical Atlantic waters, he brought the submarine to periscope depth, put up his ESM mast, and accessed the satellite, requesting a signal. The entire operation took him less than seven seconds, by which time he submerged again. But there had been nothing at 1200, nothing at 1400, which he knew was 1830 on the Strait of Hormuz. And now he was growing anxious.
Another thirty minutes went by, and again he ordered the planesman to blow main ballast and take the Barracuda to PD once more. Up went the mast, and again they accessed. And this time, the signal came back from 22,000 miles above the ocean “…Proceed west to 57 degrees (16.50N)…Launch 282400SEPT09.”
At least that’s what it meant. What it actually read, coded, was…Proceed east to 157.00–56.50N–launch 300200NOV11. The time and launch date was plus two all the way. The chart references were coded as agreed—a lunch date in a restaurant on the wrong side of the Kamchatka Peninsula on the shores of the Sea of Okhotsk at end of November 2011.
Ben Badr knew that he had six days for the voyage, a little over 2,100 miles. That meant his father considered an average speed of 12 or 13 knots to be reasonable in these desolate mid-Atlantic seas. Desolate of warships, that is. He would cross the very center of the ocean, deep, at maybe 17 knots, and then slow down within a 1,000 miles of the U.S. Naval Base in Puerto Rico. He was not going that far anyway.
He went down to the navigation office where Lt. Ashtari Mohammed looked lonely without Shakira. She had left the correct charts on her wide desk, and they quickly checked the spot that would be their holding area for the next strike.
The target numbers, 16.45N 62.10W, were already in place in the missile room, preprogrammed into the computers in the nose cones of the Scimitar SL Mark 1s. Ben Badr made a careful note of the holding area, 16.50N 57W, and wrote it down for Lieutenant Ashtari. The selected area was 380 miles east of the target, approximately a half hour from launch to impact. No problem.
Ben Badr returned to the control room and issued his orders: “…Steer course two-seven-two…Make your speed 17…depth 600…”
1130, Thursday, September 24
The Pentagon.
General Tim Scannell knew he had just been dealt the unmistakable bum’s rush. He had called the President of the United States on the private line between his second-floor Pentagon HQ and the Oval Office, and for the first time in living memory, a Chairman of the Joint Chiefs had been put through to a White House Chief of Staff instead of the Chief Executive.
Big Bill Hatchard had been polite and accommodating, but that didn’t mask the fact that the phone call between the military’s executive chief and the C in C of all U.S. armed forces had been intercepted. And worse, Bill Hatchard had wanted to know precisely what the
call was about. In the opinion of General Scannell, an unacceptable intrusion, but Hatchard had made it subtly clear that he either was told the reason for the call, or the CJC was not going to speak to President McBride.
And General Scannell, for the only time in a long and distinguished combat career, was forced to surrender. “Tell him it’s in relation to the contact from Hamas,” he said brusquely, his anger not so far beneath the surface. “And to call me back after he’s done with whatever the fuck he’s doing.”
The General slammed down the phone. On the other end, Bill Hatchard experienced no sense of triumph. Instead he felt a rather unnerving sense of apprehension, knowing that he had just made an enemy of America’s most senior and most revered Military Commander, a man who was not afraid in any way of either him or his boss. That was not good.
Bill Hatchard knew the rules. These high-ranking Pentagon guys were extremely powerful, and, more importantly, permanently installed in the White House. General Scannell would be there long after President McBride had departed. So would most of the other gold-braided Generals and Admirals who surrounded him. Quietly, Bill resolved not to mention the bad blood that had so quickly developed between himself and the CJC, to make light of it, as if all was well.
That was all forty-five minutes ago. And General Scannell still hadn’t heard anything from the Oval Office. He would undoubtedly have been even more furious had he heard the short, sharp conversation between the Chief and Hatchard half an hour previously. In essence it proceeded on the following lines:
“Sir, I wonder if you could return a call to the CJC’s office in the Pentagon?”
“What does he want?”
“Something about that Hamas business?”
“Have they received something new?”
“Don’t know, sir. He did not really want to talk to me, it was you he wanted.”
“Call him back and tell him if it’s new to try my line again. If it’s not, forget about it. I’m extremely busy.”
“Yes, sir.”
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