by Andrew Watts
“Vessel in the vicinity of …” The voice gave a latitude and longitude and then there was nothing but a static hiss. He knew enough English to understand what they were saying, but the transmission cut out before he could make out the latitude and longitude they provided.
He looked at his marine radar. It was an old machine, and one that was notoriously unreliable. He studied the green radar sweeps. Each pass of the radar line highlighted a smudge of green just to the south of their position. That was a surface contact – a ship.
“This is US Navy warship…” More static.
The radar contact was one nautical mile away. Could that be who was calling on the radio? If so, they had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. Or was it possible that he was hearing a transmission from far away? Could the contact on his scope just be a bit of trash in the water, thrown overboard by a passing tanker?
The transfer was almost complete when the men behind the red spotlight began yelling in what Hamid assumed to be Chinese. The chain of men scattered like ants. The man holding the machine gun was waving his arms and then yelled something down into the submarine.
One of Hamid’s young sailors called to him. He looked scared. “Chief, what’s going on?”
Hamid said, “Make preparations to get underway.” His heart beat more rapidly.
The man on the sail of the submarine screamed and pointed into the night. Hamid peered in the direction he was pointing, but all he saw was darkness. The Chinese submariners each bounded up the ladder of the sail, trying to get the last of the supplies into their vessel.
Then a bright white light became visible on the southern horizon. When the light changed intensity and illuminated the water between it and the two vessels, Hamid realized what it was. The white light was a high-powered searchlight, mounted to whatever that radar contact had been. It soon illuminated the submarine and Hamid’s patrol craft.
Hamid’s hands went to guard his eyes.
Up on the mast of the sub, the masked men pulled back on the machine gun’s horizontal cocking handle. The chugging sound of a fully automatic weapon erupted through the air. Hamid could see the recoil of the weapon and heard the metallic clang of shells as they hit the hull of the submarine.
The sub shook suddenly, vibrations transferring over to their small patrol craft. This wasn’t the machine gun. This was something much more powerful. White foam rose in the water all around them. He realized that the submarine’s screws were turning. She was moving. Hamid yelled to his sailors, “Get clear! I’ll start up our engines.”
The foreign men had dropped the last of the boxes and were hurtling their bodies back belowdecks into the sub. The two men on the top of the mast packed up their gear, dropped out of sight, and shut the hatch behind them.
The submarine’s lights were extinguished. Hamid and his two young sailors were left in the dark, their ears ringing from the small-arms fire. The Iranian patrol craft floated slowly away from the sub.
“Hamid, what do you want us to do?” one of his sailors asked. The boy had just taken in the lines and was standing near the bow. He was shaken.
Behind him, out of the distant darkness, a brilliant segment of yellow light arced towards them. It looked beautiful at first. Like a shooting star hovering silently over the black abyss of the Persian Gulf. Then Hamid realized what it was. The shooting star would soon transform into a violent tongue of flame.
The silent light show became a torrent of white-hot metal ripping through the patrol craft. When it came into contact with their vessel, hell awoke. The sailor that had just called to Hamid disappeared in a burst of wet reddish spray. Hamid and the other sailor dove behind the small superstructure of the boat. Destruction erupted around them as rounds hit the hull.
Pressing his body down and facing aft, Hamid could see the heavy machine-gun fire that missed his ship. The yellow tracers skipped on the surface of the water like stones on a river. They then bounced up into the night sky and disappeared as the tracer rounds ran out of energy.
The submarine drove away from them. Hamid watched its mast sink below the surface of the water.
In one of the few coherent thoughts he was capable of, he wondered just who was firing at them. Then he heard the ear-splitting sound of his patrol craft’s own machine gun. It was so loud that his chest thumped and his molars rattled with every round that it fired.
He peeked from behind his hiding spot and saw his lone remaining sailor standing behind their patrol craft’s forward-mounted weapon, gripping it with both of his hands and squeezing the two-handed trigger. Hamid was paralyzed with fear. He couldn’t think. He just wanted to be home, with his wife and child.
He clenched his jaw so tight that it hurt. When he thought that their attackers had ceased fire, another group of tracer rounds scattered around them, and then the patrol craft once again burst into chaos as bullets tore through it. Something exploded near the engines and a ten-foot flame rose from the aft end of his boat.
The return fire stopped. Hamid looked around the pilothouse and saw that his second sailor had been killed as well. He smelled something awful and realized that he had soiled himself. Hamid wasn’t sure when that had happened.
His ears still rang, but he could just make out the sound of large diesel engines getting closer.
The tracers had stopped. The pungent smell of gunpowder and diesel fuel filled his nostrils. He looked around in the direction the engine noise was coming from. It was a warship, or a large patrol craft. He couldn’t make out what nationality. They would be here shortly.
Hamid realized what that meant. He thought of Pakvar and of what he would do if he were captured. Hamid realized that he couldn’t allow that to happen. His family’s safety was at stake. For a moment, he thought of trying to take his own life.
In the reflection of the moonlight, he could now make out the mast and superstructure of a US Navy destroyer racing toward him.
He needed to get away. Perhaps if he could just escape before they arrived to search his boat, they wouldn’t find him? Hamid walked up to the bow of his ship and looked it over. It was torn up and burning. He reached down and grabbed an orange life vest and strapped it on. He could feel his boat listing badly, and he imagined that it must have been taking on water. He wasn’t sure how long it would stay afloat.
He climbed up the ladder to the pilothouse and clutched a radio in his hands. He turned the knob all the way to the right and began to let out a distress call. But the sound on the radio was unlike anything he had heard before.
It was a definite radio transmission, but it was electronic junk. He changed the frequency, but it was the same on every other channel.
At first he thought that his radio was broken. One of the American bullets must have hit the antennae. Or perhaps someone was jamming it? Why would the Americans do this? It didn’t matter. He would not be able to send a distress signal.
His only hope was to be rescued by one of his fellow IRGCN sailors. There was no telling what Pakvar would do to his family if he were taken by the Americans.
Hamid removed the small life raft from under the starboard storage area and pulled the inflation cord. The yellow single-person raft immediately filled up with pressurized air. He walked over to the rim of his boat and placed it in the water, ready to hop in.
He took one more look over at the remains of his two sailors. The aft end of the patrol boat was taking on a lot of water now. He took his first step into the lifeboat.
Then the world went white and silent.
*****
He came to moments later, unsure how long he had been unconscious. He floated in the sea, dozens of meters away from where he last remembered being.
Through bloody, blurry eyes, he saw the remains of his patrol craft. It had been obliterated. Small flames covered what was left. He turned away, trying to swim, then realized that he was missing an arm.
Horror struck him upon the discovery, but he was pleased to find that he felt no pain. Just a coldness t
hat was sweeping through his body. He looked away from the fiery wreckage.
He could just make out a strange object in the distance, protruding out of the water. It was barely illuminated by the flames of his own vessel. The object looked like a pole sticking up from the sea.
He tried to think. Hamid was getting colder and more tired. But he knew that shape. What was it? It was far away, and through the blur and disorientation, he could barely process the thought.
A periscope. It was a periscope.
He thought of what Pakvar had whispered to him that night. The night that had started this prison sentence. He’d whispered it just before throwing the switch and burning that poor man and his family in the oven. Hamid realized that the Chinese submarine must have fired upon his vessel. They, too, had followed Pakvar’s code.
No one can know of our secrets.
Chapter 2
Al Dhafra Air Base, United Arab Emirates
Three Weeks Later
Chase Manning watched as a dark green military pickup truck raced towards them, leaving a cloud of desert sand in its wake.
The man he was with nodded towards it and said, “I think somebody’s looking for one of us.”
Chase examined the vehicle through his protective sunglasses. “Fun’s over, I guess. Back to work.”
He double-checked that his MP-5 was in SAFE, and then placed it on the wooden bench before rolling up his target and collecting his shells. He thumbed through the sand to make sure he got them all.
“Christ, Chase, you ever miss?”
His companion, also a member of the CIA’s Special Operations Group, looked at Chase’s target. A group of holes was scattered in the very center of the inner black circle.
He smiled at his friend. “Not unless I mean to.”
“Guess I owe you another beer.”
“How many do you owe me now?”
“Too many. Who taught you to shoot?”
“The Navy.”
“Ah. Don’t say things like that. It makes it so much worse.”
Chase chuckled. Almost all of the SOG guys were former military. Most were former Army. Military branch rivalry jokes were commonplace.
The green Ford F350 came to a halt just behind where they were standing. They were the only ones using this gun range. A uniformed US Air Force technical sergeant got out.
“Chase Manning?”
“Yeah?”
“Sir, they need you over at Center. I can drive you, sir.” He motioned to his vehicle.
Chase nodded. “Thanks. I’ll be right with you.” He finished cleaning up and said goodbye to his friend.
Chase got into the passenger seat and asked the Sergeant, “Any idea what it’s about?”
The Sergeant, sitting in the passenger seat next to an airman, said, “Sir, a man by the name of Elliot is on his way to meet with you. That’s all I know.”
“Got it. Thanks, Sergeant.” The only Elliot that Chase knew of was the CIA’s station chief in Dubai. He had never called on Chase personally, and it would be very unusual for him to do so. He usually had minions do that work.
They began speeding over the desert road toward the other side of the base. Chase saw the enlisted man glance at the end of his gun.
“Is that a silencer?”
Chase said, “Yup.”
“Why do you use a silencer at the range?”
“Practice how you play. That’s what I’ve always believed.”
“Sir, you mind if I ask you what outfit you’re attached to?”
“Sure, Sergeant. You can ask. I just can’t answer.”
The man rolled his eyes as if to express that he should have known better and remained quiet the rest of the way.
Seven minutes later, Chase entered the Joint Tactical Control Center, the US-only building where several hundred American servicemen worked each day, managing the American military’s tactical picture in this part of the world.
Chase entered through two layers of security before he got to the CIA’s section of the building. The CIA security man looked up when he entered. Chase recognized him.
The security man said, “ID?”
Chase removed the microchipped government-issued ID that hung around his neck. The duty officer slid it into a card reader and then handed it back to Chase.
The door behind him buzzed, and Chase entered a large dark room with flat-screens on the wall and dim blue lighting. About a dozen people were inside, most hovering over tactical displays or talking on headsets. The displays on the walls showed various images. Live feed from drones throughout the area of operation. Digital maps. Green lines for national borders. Red and blue shapes representing military units.
It was freezing cold in the room. The temperature was kept very low in order to ensure optimal performance for all the high-tech computers and electronics. Most of the people working there had on winter jackets. To Chase, just coming inside out of the desert heat, it felt great.
The duty officer was a redheaded woman of about thirty. Chase thought her name was Doris, but wasn’t sure enough to call her by name. Chase remembered her from when he had first arrived on this base, almost a year earlier. Just after his mother’s funeral. That seemed like a long time ago.
Upon completion of his CIA training near Williamsburg, Virginia, Chase had been transported to Al Dhafra Air Base in the United Arab Emirates. After some initial orientation training on base, he had been moved about the Middle East on various assignments. He had served on missions targeting ISIS leadership and supply lines in Syria and Iraq for a few months. Then they had flown him to East Africa, where he had participated in operations disrupting the terrorist groups Al-Shabab in Somalia and Boko Haram in Nigeria.
Some of the time, Chase felt like there was little difference between the type of work he had done with the SEALs and the type of work he now conducted on behalf of the CIA. At other times, the differences were starkly apparent. His chief complaint was that he felt like he was in a corporation and not a tactical unit. There was more politics. More political correctness. And there was a definite rank-based class system in the Agency. This frustrated Chase, but he didn’t feel like there was anything he could do about it.
Chase stood before the woman whose name he thought was Doris, and she gave him a once-over. She had the slightest hint of a smile. Rosy cheeks in the cold air.
She stood behind a desk with several landline phones, each with different labels. “Elliot’s on his way to see you. I’m to have you call him as soon as you are available. Apparently he wants you in Dubai tonight. Not sure what it’s about.”
“Yeah, I got that from the Air Force tech sergeant. Anything more?”
She shrugged. “Just that it was urgent.”
She picked up a white phone labeled US Embassy Dubai, Station Chief. “Yes, sir, Manning is right here. Roger, sir. Here you go.” She handed Chase the phone.
“Manning.”
“Chase, this is Elliot.”
No last name required. Elliot was a man of great importance in Chase’s world. As the station chief in Dubai, he was in charge of over fifty agents scattered throughout the operating area, and he was the senior ranking CIA agent in one of the most active regions of the world. He also happened to be a friend of Chase’s father, which hadn’t hurt Chase’s station assignment.
“Yes, sir, how can I be of service?”
“I’ll be quick. Your expertise is required. I need you in Dubai tonight. I’m getting on a plane. Pack your things. Be ready for me to pick you up in one hour.”
*****
The U-28A was the military version of the single-engine turboprop PC-12. The Air Force loved its versatility and used it as a Special Operations transport for small numbers of passengers. It had the horsepower to get them there fast and could take off and land on very small runways. If there was a remote part of the world that was hard to get in and out of but at least somewhat flat, Air Force Special Operations could likely get you there quickly in a U-28A.
He was a tall black man with close-cropped grey hair. He wore rimmed glasses that tinted automatically in the sunlight. He walked up to Chase and shook his hand. He had a firm fireman’s grip. The kind of handshake that told Chase that Elliot Jackson was a man’s man.
“It’s good to see you again, son.”
“Thank you, sir.” Chase had his black travel duffle bag slung over his shoulder.
Elliot said, “Go ahead and throw that on the plane. Then let’s go find someplace quiet to talk for a bit.” Chase wondered what subject of conversation would require the station chief to fly twenty minutes at around two thousand dollars per flight hour. He could have had Chase drive the ninety minutes and meet him somewhere in Dubai. Either it was good to be king, or the conversation was going to get interesting.
A moment later, they walked into a building marked Base Operations. It was a passenger terminal for Americans going in and out of the UAE via military transport. Several dozen US Army soldiers were sprawled about the waiting area, sleeping next to their bags while wearing their boots and cammie uniforms.
Chase and Elliot found a quiet air-conditioned room down the hall. A briefing room that the pilots used to prepare for their flights. There was a whiteboard and a stack of charts sitting on a plastic table. An old TV hung from the ceiling. A digital aviation weather forecast scrolled across the screen.
Elliot motioned for Chase to take a seat. “Your father is in town tomorrow.”
