He poured tea for them all from a silver pot into the little glass cups with their silver holders. And he paused carefully, to allow his words to sink in. It was the first time in two underwater missions that anyone had ever suggested martyrdom.
But the anticipation of death is not so very far from the minds of any Islamic freedom fighter, and the fear of imminent death was less among these men than it might have been among those of another religious persuasion. Nonetheless, Ben Badr was surrounded by grave faces, and he was aware of the need to hold their attention.
“In many ways,” he said, “nothing very much has altered. Of course it would have been preferable to fire our missiles from two or three hundred miles out, but as we now know, that will no longer be possible. However, our target has not moved, and we are perfectly capable of creeping in, to a 25-mile range, taking our visual bearings, and launching our Scimitar missiles straight at the volcano.
“The only change in our attack pattern is a need to be nearer the target, but the computerized missile will still obey our command. We just have to aim it straight and true. A nuclear missile doesn’t need to be dead accurate, as long as it hits within a couple of hundred yards of the target. The blast will do the rest.”
“But there are two changes, Admiral,” said Ahmed Sabah. “One is the length of time we shall be on the surface, the other is our departure.”
“Of course,” said Ben Badr. “We will most certainly be detected by the American warships, but I believe we will have a few precious minutes to get deep after the two launches. And no matter how good they are, it remains extremely difficult to locate and attack a quiet submarine that is running very slow, hundreds of feet below the surface.”
“How deep, sir?” asked Commander Shafii.
“One thousand feet, minimum. If they are using depth charges we will go to twelve hundred. It’s blind chance, and terrible bad luck to get hit at that depth. Especially if we have a 5-or 10-minute start on them. And we’ll try to make our missile launch at least two miles from the nearest warship.”
“Will they launch missiles at us the moment they catch a sight of it?” asked Ahmed.
“I’m hoping they’ll concentrate their energies on trying to shoot down the Scimitar,” replied Admiral Badr. “They may get a couple of ASROC away, but even then we still have a few minutes to get deep. They’d be very lucky to hit us, especially if they were hell-bent on shooting down the Scimitar at the same time.”
“I think we’ve got a serious chance of escape,” said Ahmed Sabah.
“Yes,” replied the Hamas Admiral. “An excellent chance.”
“Sir, how about an attack from the air? I mean, torpedoes launched from helicopters?” said Commander Abdolrahim.
“That, Hamidi, is a game of cat-and-mouse. We will put up a mast for our fix. Then go deep again and stay there, before we run up to our ranged launch point, take our bearings, and fire, twice. The helicopter may be close, but it is unlikely to be close enough in my view. And again, all U.S. energies will be concentrated on the Scimitars. We still have a great chance, believe me. And we have one other huge advantage…Allah goes with us, not with the Infidels.”
And with that, Ben Badr called the entire ship’s company to prayer, using, expertly, the words of the muezzins that echoed from a thousand Middle Eastern mosques four times a day:
Allahu Akbar…(God is most great.)
Ash hadu an la ilaha Allah…(I bear witness that there is none worthy of worship but God.)
Ash hadu an-an Muhammadar rasulul-lah…(I bear witness that Mohammed is the Prophet of God.)
La ilaha ill Allah…(There is no Deity but God.)
Each man, with the exception of the helmsman and the sonar chief, made his declaration of intent and enacted the twelve positions of prayer, making two prostrations in which their foreheads touched the steel of the deck.
The second salam signified “Peace and Mercy to You,” and Admiral Badr, aware of the men’s fear of the next few hours, began by quoting from the Koran…“Never think those slain in the way of God are dead. They are alive and well provided for by their Lord.”
And he reminded them that the Prophet Mohammed, close to despair, once cried out to God…“O Lord, I make my complaint upon thee of my helplessness and my insignificance before mankind. But thou art the Lord of the poor and the feeble. And thou art my Lord. Into whose hands wilt thou abandon me?”
And Ben Badr, summoning all of the emotion of the 1,400-year-old worldwide brotherhood of Muslims, quoted again from the Koran, from God…“Remember me. I shall remember you! Thank me. Do not be ungrateful to me. You who believe, seek help through patience and prayer.”
Each member of the crew, now standing, palms outstretched to God, now wiped them across his face to symbolize the receipt of God’s blessing.
Admiral Badr prayed silently, then he too wiped his face, and indicated that prayers were concluded. He once more confirmed to the helmsman the course of west nor’west and ordered his senior staff to the missile room, where they would begin the task of checking the nuclear warheads on the two great Scimitars.
By this time, Admiral Gillmore was in receipt of the data from all four of the tracking frigates. Their data showed the precise position of the submarine’s periscope, which all four of the U.S. radars had swept, at 0030, 24 miles off the most promiscuous area in the North Atlantic outside of the rutting stags, breeding on Scotland’s Isle of Skye.
U.S. Navy Commanders are accustomed to keeping accurate charts and would cope with the downed world GPS system better than anyone else. And George Gillmore studied his screen carefully…Now this character understands he can’t fire long range…Therefore he’ll turn in toward his target…Maybe west nor’west…Maybe due west back along his old course…But no other direction is any good to him…
He immediately ordered the Elrod and Nicholas to take the west-nor’west track, with the Klakring and the Simpson proceeding more westerly. He also ordered the carrier to alter course, bringing its formidable air power from the northwest coastline of Tenerife westward into the 80-mile-wide open seaway that divides that island from La Palma.
But the Barracuda kept moving forward, slowly, softly, through the dark ocean depths, unseen, unheard, her transmissions shut down. She made no sound through the water. Her great turbines were doing little more than idling, betraying no vibration lines. The Russians had spent years and years building their two state-of-art underwater hunter-killers, and thus far, no one had detected either of the Hamas Barracuda s with any real certainty or accuracy.
Admiral Gillmore thought he knew damn well where the Barracuda was, and so did his four frontline frigate Commanders. At least they did one hour ago. But no one could prove the submarine’s direction, and until the Americans locked on to a new surface radar paint, or obtained an active radar contact, that submarine would remain elusive.
And all through the next fifteen hours it ran on undetected. Despite the constant Seahawk helicopter patrols across every yard of water between the seven islands, despite the probing searches of the ASW specialist S-3B Viking aircraft. Despite the quivering sensitivity of the frigates’ electronic towed arrays, and the high-powered blasts of their active sonars. And despite two serious attempts to trap the submarine between highly alert electronic sonobuoys, dropped into the water from the helos.
Not all the probing of the dipping low-frequency sonars could locate the Barracuda, as it steamed silently west nor’west, way below the thunder of the noise above the surface, where the distinctive howl of the Viking’s GE turbofans were sufficient to waken the dead.
Only twice, towards the end the long journey up to the coast of Gomera, did Ben Badr risk a fleeting five-second thrust of his ESM mast, and both times they picked up radar transmissions from the Vikings that were operating out beyond the 25-mile circle around the volcano. Each time, the ESM computerized accurate bearing and classification. By the time they came into the inshore waters, “behind” the east coast of Gomera,
Admiral Badr privately thought that this had rapidly begun to turn into a suicide mission.
Again he called his most trusted men into his office — Mohtaj, Shafii, Ali Zahedi, and Ahmed Sabah.
Did they still have a chance? At getting away, that is, not firing the Scimitars. Answer, probably not. They were driving forward into the very teeth of the U.S. Navy’s steel ring of defense. And right now they each understood that they would need several separate sorties to periscope depth. To try to achieve their mission with just one, or even two, extended visits to the waters right below the surface would be tantamount to blowing their own brains out.
Their only chance of success and escape was to come to PD fleetingly to make their visual setup to get a fix on the land and the high peaks of the Cumbre Vieja mountains. And then to vanish, to return for a final fleeting range check, then to fire the two missiles in quick succession. At no time should they spend more than seven seconds above the surface. Not if they hoped to live.
By 1600 on that Thursday afternoon, they were in relatively shallow water, 2,500 feet, running 600 feet below the surface, four miles off the east coast of Gomera. Captain Mohtaj was in the navigation room assisting Lt. Ashtari Mohammed as he plotted a northerly course to a point 6 miles off Point del Organo. From there it was a straight 16-mile run-in to the proposed launch zone, 25 miles off the volcanic coast of La Palma. Subject to enemy intervention, they aimed to fire from 28.22N 17.28W.
Every man in the ship knew that the U.S. defenses would grow tighter and tighter with every mile they traveled. But no one had ever put a firm fix on the Barracuda, as far as they knew. Its crew was now generally aware of the prospect of imminent death, but they also felt a sense of security in their deepwater environment. They had just journeyed several hundred miles under the brutal surveillance of the U.S. Navy, and no one had located them yet. They still had a chance.
By 1800, it was still broad daylight as they crept along the Gomera coast, and Lieutenant Ashtari advised they now had a clear range in front of them, straight to La Palma. Admiral Badr had already rolled the dice in his own mind. He was determined to accomplish the mission, determined to get a correct fix on the Cumbre Vieja, determined to fire his two missiles straight into the crater, or as near as he possibly could. For the escape, everything was in the hands of Allah. But Admiral Badr knew that the odds heavily favored the Americans.
Lieutenant Ashtari checked the ship’s inertial navigation system (SINS), a device beyond the purse of most commercial shipping lines and, in the end, way beyond the purse of Russia’s cash-strapped Navy. But the Barracuda had one, and it had measured course, speed, and direction every yard of the way since they had left the submarine jetties in Huludao in the northern Yellow Sea three months ago.
The system was developed especially for submarines in the 1950s, and had been progressively refined in the years that followed. It had one objective: to inform navigators precisely where they were in the earth’s oceans, even after not having seen the sun, moon, or stars for weeks on end. Both U.S. nuclear boats, the Nautilus and the Skate, had used the system when they navigated under the polar ice cap in 1958.
The Barracuda’s SINS was vastly improved from those days — and phenomenally accurate — calculating regular accelerations but discarding those caused by gravitational attraction, pitching, and rolling. All the way across the North Pacific, all the way down the endless west coast of Canada and the U.S.A., around South America and up the Atlantic, the SINS had provided a continuous picture of the submarine’s precise position. Given the pinpoint certainty of their start point, the system would be accurate to between 100 and 200 yards at the completion of a round-the-world voyage.
In recent years, the ease and brilliance of the GPS had somewhat overshadowed the old inertial navigation processes, but every submarine navigation officer kept one quietly onstream. Indeed, most senior Navy navigators instinctively checked one against the other at all times.
Lt. Ashtari Mohammed knew precisely where he was, despite the best efforts of the U.S. Air Force in Colorado to confuse the life out of him. The SINS screen now put him at 26.17N 17.12W. They were off the north coast of Gomera in 125 fathoms, still 500 feet below the surface.
This would be the final visual fix before they headed into the firing zone, and Lieutenant Mohammed requested a 7-second look through the periscope to take a range and bearing on the towering basalt cliffs of Les Organos, a little over 5 miles to their southwest, and still visible in the late afternoon light, now a little after 1830.
Ben Badr agreed to head for the surface at slow speed, and he did so knowing their target above the coast of La Palma was dead ahead, 41 miles, west nor’west. The periscope of the Barracuda slid onto the azure surface of the water on a calm afternoon. The Admiral was staring at a stopwatch ticking off the seconds. He heard them call out the fix on two points of Gomera’s coastline — Les Organos and the great curved headland north of the village of Agula.
“UP PERISCOPE!”
“All round look…”
“DOWN!”
“UP! Right-hand edge — MARK! DOWN!”
“Two-four-zero.”
“UP PERISCOPE! Left-hand edge — MARK! DOWN!”
“One-eight-zero.”
“UP!”
“Organo anchorage light…two-two-zero…”
“DOWN! How does that look, Captain Mohtaj?”
“Excellent fix, sir. Course for launch position…two-nine-zero…distance 16 miles.”
Admiral Badr heard the comms room accept a signal from the Chinese naval satellite, and then he snapped: “Okay, that’s it, five down…600 feet…Make your speed 7 knots. Make a racetrack pattern when you’re on depth…”
Ben Badr knew there was little point making a three-hour lowspeed run through the night into the launch zone, and then hanging around until daybreak right on the 25-mile line from La Palma’s east coast. The place would be jumping with U.S. warships, helicopters, and fixed-wing aircraft.
Right here, off Gomera, no one was looking quite so intensely. Generally speaking, Ben Badr preferred to run in silently, arriving at first light and setting up his visual fix with the sun rising to the east directly behind him. That way he could come to PD, essentially out of nowhere, and he’d surely be able nail down his fix without detection, 7 seconds at a time.
He called for the satellite message, which he knew was from General Ravi. Ben, the thoughts of both Shakira and myself are with you at this time. If Allah is listening, as He surely must, His humble warriors will be safe. The prayers of all Muslims right now are only for you…to wish you the safest journey home after the Scimitars have done their holy work. Ravi.
2300, Thursday, October 8
The White House, Washington, D.C.
Admiral Morgan and President Bedford were gathered with senior Naval Commanders in the Situation Room in the lower floor of the West Wing. A huge, backlit computer screen showed a chart of the Canary Islands, a sharp red cross in a circle signifying the last two sightings that the Navy believed were of the Barracuda. A brighter white cross in a circle showed the spot Adm. Frank Doran on the Norfolk link now believed the Barracuda to be.
He had it already on the 25-mile radius line from the La Palma coast. Which was slightly jumping the gun. Admiral Badr had not yet made his final commitment to the run-in to the launch zone. And would not do so for another half hour. The U.S. Admirals’ estimates were about 16 miles ahead of themselves, which is a fair long way in a remote and deserted ocean.
Admiral Morgan was personally bracing himself to read a report from a hastily convened meeting in London of the International Convention for the Safety of Life at Sea. This august gathering meets only about every twelve to fifteen years, explicitly to draw up the International Regulations for the Prevention of Collisions at Sea, more generally known as the Rules of the Road.
Before him was the Convention’s first report of a day without GPS. And the opening instance of disaster, the very first serious wreck, asto
unded him. A Liberian-registered crude carrier of some 300,000 tons had somehow mistaken the southern shores of the entrance to the Strait of Magellan for the Isla de la Estada, turned sharp right making 20 knots, and driven the tanker straight onto the beach at Punta Delgada.
“Five hundred miles off course! In a calm, nearly landlocked bay, and he thought he was on his way through the roughest goddamned ocean waters in the world, on his way to Cape Horn!
“Jesus Christ!” said Arnold. “Jesus H. Christ.”
The second item did even less to restore his equilibrium. A Panama-registered freighter out of Indonesia had completely missed Japan’s huge southern island of Kyushu, never mind the port of Kagoshima, her final destination.
The freighter headed straight for the tip of the South Korean peninsula, but never made that either, charging straight into the seaport of Seowipo on the lush subtropical island of Jejudo and ramming into the evening ferry from Busan.
Arnold could hardly believe his eyes. The third item was equally appalling. The master of a 200,000-tonner, carrying crude oil to Rotterdam, slammed into the Goodwin Sands at low tide, six miles off the east coast of Kent at the north end of the English Channel, and was still jammed tight in about four feet of water.
There was another huge tanker on the beach in northern Nigeria, a chartered yacht parked 300 miles adrift off the wrong island in the West Indies, and the captain of a large cruise ship out of Naples was wondering why no one was speaking Italian on the island of Corsica.
Lloyds of London was apoplectic. Every fifteen minutes, there was another report from some remote corner of the globe where an expensive ship had lost its way and floundered ashore. Admiral Morgan was just beginning to see a glimmer of humor in all this, but the consequences of massive lawsuits directed at the United States for switching off the GPS prevented him from actually laughing out loud.
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