“Locked up under the water with sixty men, the only woman in the crew—you can’t do that,” said Ravi, smiling but dismissive.
“Yes, I can,” said Shakira, not smiling, not submissive.
“Might I remind you that no woman has ever served on board a submarine, not in any Navy, anywhere in the world? It’s too confining, too claustrophobic, and it’s surely no place for a woman.”
“Yes, it is,” said Shakira. “When I work, I’m no different from you. Oh, yes, I understand the Arab world believes you to be a some kind of a God of War—and I know I’m not in that league—but I’m as good as most of your soldiers, you’d have to admit that.”
Shakira’s gaze was steady. Ravi knew that look only too well. His wife had no intention of backing down. He was obliged to resort to reason.
“Look,” he said, “there have been great strides to include women in the Navies of both the U.K. and the United States. They have recruited them, allowed them to serve on warships. But they’ve often proved to be a complete bloody nuisance—people falling in love with them, trying to get their clothes off in parked helicopters, and God knows what. And that’s just in big surface ships. No one has ever dared to recruit them to serve in submarines.”
“I expect the instances of women getting into sexual situations with the other members of the ship’s company are less than one in ten thousand. It’s just that newspapers are not interested in the other 9,999. I bet there are more examples of theft on board warships. Anyway, it won’t apply to me, will it? No one’s going to try to undress the Commanding Officer’s wife, are they?”
“I should bloody well hope not,” said Ravi, in mock effrontery. “But I’m sure you see, it’s such a close confinement in an operational nuclear submarine, working underwater. It’s just not a suitable environment. No one’s ever allowed a woman aboard, and I could not possibly break with that rule. Especially as I’m a rookie submariner myself…can we go out now? I’m starving, and we’re meeting Ahmed in five minutes at the Elissar.”
“We can go out when you tell me I can come on the Barracuda to the West Coast of the United States,” said Shakira, flatly. “I’ve already coped with the destruction of one family, and I have no intention of losing you, thousands of miles away, when I do not even know what’s happening. I’m coming with you, and that’s that.”
“Shakira, people could die on a mission like this.”
“I’m not afraid to die,” she replied. “And I know you aren’t either. But if we’re going to die, we’ll die together. I won’t remain here, waiting for someone to tell me you aren’t coming home. Either we go together or no one’s going.”
Ravi was not accustomed to defiance on this scale. But, of course, he’d never been married before. “You are asking the impossible,” he said carefully.
“No, I’m not. It most certainly is possible. Because you are able to do anything you like. No one is going to argue with the great General Rashood, Liberator of the Palestinian Martyrs.”
“I am not following rules set by someone else,” he said. “I am following my own rules. And I would not dream of allowing a woman, any woman, to serve for several weeks in a submarine.”
“Well, then you can tell me why not,” she said. “Proper reasons, not just too crowded, or too fraught. Proper reasons. In simple sentences. Why can’t I work in the Barracuda, like anyone else?”
“First of all, you are not a submariner. You know nothing of nuclear reactors, turbines, propulsion, hydrology, electronics, engineering, mechanics, missiles, navigation, sonar, or torpedoes.”
That slowed down Mrs. Rashood.
“Hmmmmmm,” she replied, not terribly eloquently.
“And to put you in that ship would be to take up precious space. You’d be a passenger, who could make no contribution to the running of a Special Operation, underwater.”
“Hmmmmmm,” she added.
In Ravi’s view, Shakira’s head of steam was gone. He thought he could see her will for this argument disappearing before his eyes. He should have known better.
“You’ve forgotten something,” she said.
“Oh. What?”
“The maps.”
“What maps?”
“Exactly,” she said. “Forgotten. You don’t think I’d have a discussion like this without thinking out a proper job for myself, do you?”
“Well, no. I am acquainted with your tenacity.”
“Well, what about the maps?”
“What maps?”
“The navigation charts you asked me to order from England via the Syrian Embassy and then have them sent to that freight company here in Damascus.”
“Oh, you mean the American charts?”
“Yes. You had me order them, and collect them. And I studied them very carefully before I gave them to you. Remember? I even made copies, and marked them up in blue pencil, according to your notes. Back in September, before we were married.”
“Well, yes. I do, of course, remember them.”
“And you probably also remember I plotted certain courses for certain weapons from your notes. Marked up the checkpoints and made a record of the terrain.”
“Well, yes. And I’m grateful, of course. You did it damn well, I remember.”
“And perhaps I might remind you of something else?”
“Yes, but not now. Ahmed’s waiting.”
“Ahmed can go on waiting until I’m finished….”
“But I’m starving. We have to go….”
“We’re not going anywhere right now. But I want to remind you of how our organization is funded.”
“I know how it’s funded. From the banks we hit in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv.”
“And who made the floor plans of those banks, got friendly with the senior teller, drew the maps from scratch, drew up a diagram of the entire alarm systems? Then penetrated Schwartz Locksmiths and drew up the diagrams of the most secure locks in the country, the ones at both banks, not to mention the ones in the Nimrod Jail? Who did all that?”
“Well, you did…. I’m not saying you didn’t. But what’s any of that got to do with the submarine?”
“It has everything to do with it. Because the whole lot of you would probably have got lost, shot, or arrested without my work in the planning department.”
“I accept that,” said Ravi, warily.
“And another thing,” she added. “In my spare time this past few weeks, I’ve been looking at American coastal radar defenses, mostly civilian, at sensitive container and tanker ports, but in some cases, ports of the U.S. Navy.
“As it happens, I have a few rather critical changes to make in certain trajectories. And I’ll be making them in a small office space, in the Ops Room of the Barracuda, right next to the missile director.”
“But…”
“No buts. Are you ready to take your new Precision Target Officer out to dinner? Lieutenant Commander Shakira, reporting for duty.”
Ravi wanted to laugh. But this was no laughing matter. “I can’t appoint Lieutenant Commanders to the Iranian Navy,” he said.
“I assure you, this is not the Iranian Navy. They’ll want to stay well distanced from this. That Barracuda will sail under the Command of the Hamas Fundamentalists. And you are the military Commander-in-Chief of that organization. You can appoint anyone you like, to any position you like. No one will even question it. I’ll just go aboard like anyone else.”
“Bloody hell!” said Ravi, in a voice altogether stronger than he felt. “Where do you think you will live? In a torpedo tube?”
“I shall be sharing your private cabin, as your wife and principal assistant in the area of weapons control and plotting. I know you have a private room, and I know it’s got a small shower, basin, and head, because I’ve read it.”
“It’s tiny, just about enough room for one, a bed, and a chair and desk.”
“Then we’ll have to work alternative watches. Sometimes,” she said. “Anyway, we’ll manage. I’ll bring a doub
le sleeping bag and spend the night on the floor, if you’d prefer.”
“It’s not a floor. It’s a deck,” said Ravi. “And anyway, I wouldn’t prefer. We’ll put the big sleeping bag on the bed, nice and cosy, stop us falling out.”
Shakira walked over and put her arms around him.
She kissed him long and lanquidly. Then she pressed her cheek to his and whispered, “You’re not dying without me. And that’s final.”
“I know it is,” he said. “And I’m going to give it serious thought. But I’d be awfully grateful if you’d hurry up. Otherwise I’ll be eating without you.”
Ravi stared out into the drizzle that had made the streets shiny, and tried to come to terms with the rather pleasurable prospect of taking his wife with him on the submarine. Her general arguments had been considered, and well thought out. But she’d managed to get some kind of a jump on him, taking the time and trouble to elucidate her plan, and her reasons, into a disciplined argument.
In the normal run of events, that was his strength; the strength of all SAS officers. Well-thought-out plans. No surprises. Well, it was more than three and a half years since he and Shakira had fled the devastation of the street in Hebron, and she had never stopped surprising him.
He had not caved in to her demand for a place in the crew because he loved her, and could deny her nothing. He had caved in because she had pointed out her talent, and her contribution to the operations of Hamas. And she was correct. Her role in three massive operations had been critical. He had given in to the logic, not his love for her.
He thought again what a huge help she always was, how that pliant, direct mind of hers could really get at a problem. He remembered her words when he had first mentioned the possibilities of the bank robberies.
You’ll need maps, floor plans, diagrams of the alarm systems. Do you want me to start work on that?
Now she came through the door into the drawing room. Her hair was brushed, she wore bright scarlet lipstick, and she was as slender and beautiful as she had been that first day he met her.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Lieutenant Commander Shakira,” he said. “You are really something.”
Ravi pulled out a big umbrella, and they stepped out into the rain. They both knew Mrs. Rashood was about to join the Barracuda crew, and that she would be sailing from Petropavlovsk within the next fourteen days.
9:00 A.M., Thursday, February 7, 2008
Beijing Airport
Shakira knew as well as anyone how important her husband was, but she had no idea he was this important. The Iran Air flight from Tehran, which had taken eight hours, had no sooner landed than three Chinese officials came aboard to collect their bags, which had unaccountably been stowed in the cupboard of the forward cabin.
Throughout the 3,500-mile journey they had four rows to themselves, no one sitting in front, no one behind and no one opposite. They had been served excellent caviar, a privilege Iran Air passengers normally enjoy only on flights to Japan.
Here in freezing, snowy Beijing they were led off the aircraft before the other passengers, downstairs onto the refueling area, and directly into a Mercedes-Benz, which took them 500 yards to one of the Russian Navy’s new long-range reconnaissance Tupolev TU-204Ps.
Its engines were already running, had been since the Iran Air Boeing came into the Beijing air traffic control area. Ravi and Shakira were led up the stairs into the seating area behind the cockpit. Their baggage was brought in and placed behind the rear seats. Doors slammed, and the fast Russian Naval aircraft moved up to the head of the takeoff runway, then hammered its way noisily into the cold, cloudy skies northwest of the Yellow Sea.
It was 1,200 miles up to Petropavlovsk, right across the northern Chinese provinces of Liaoning and Jilin, before entering Russian airspace and heading out across the iron gray wilderness of the Sea of Okhotsk to the Kamchatka Peninsula.
There are times in summer when the gigantic mountain range that runs down the backbone of this cold and rugged land can rival the Alps or the Rockies for pure grandeur. But in winter, which this most certainly was, the entire place looked like a travel commercial for Eastern Siberia, into which it most certainly fitted.
The new supersonic Tupolev was cruising through sunlit skies at 60,000 feet, like Concorde, and going very nearly as fast at 1.8 Mach. But the weather was ferocious down below on those snow-swept high peaks. Lashing winds off the tundra were gusting ninety knots. With a blizzard raging, human life was impossible. Even polar-bear life was marginal.
It was not that much better on the runway, east of the mountains above the Bay of Avacinskiy, but the blizzard had eased, and in a freezing, still-gusting wind, the Navy pilot put the Tupolev down, hard. It was a difficult landing, and not pretty, but the veteran Captain had faced worse—mainly landing the old SU-25 fighter-bomber Frogfoots on the gale-torn decks of elderly Kiev Class Soviet carriers in the Barents Sea back in the 1980s.
He taxied to the terminal, where a Navy staff car awaited them and drove them immediately to the Petropavlovsk Base. Ben Badr was outside the main offices to greet them, and he expressed no surprise at the sudden appearance of Shakira, but shook hands with her warmly, and then hugged Ravi.
“I did not know you were coming up to see us off,” he told Mrs. Rashood. “But I am delighted to see you and wish very much you were coming with us.”
“Well,” said Ravi. “That is a wish I am able to grant very easily. Lieutenant Commander Shakira is coming with us.”
He spoke in a very matter-of-fact voice, not smiling, and very much the Commander of the mission.
Ben Badr, who himself had now been promoted to Captain in the Iranian Navy, never missed a beat. “Of course, sir. I assume under your command, rather than mine!”
All three of them laughed. As they turned into the warm building, out of the biting Arctic wind, Captain Badr used the moment of levity to reiterate the delicate balance of power that would be observed in the Barracuda submarine.
“Sir,” he said, “this ship will sail under my command, as if it had a Fleet Admiral on board. That’s you. My responsibilities are solely involved with making sure we get safely from one place to another, without endangering the lives of the crew. However, all decisions appertaining to the actual mission, where we go, what we hit, when, and how, are made by you. You can overrule me. I cannot overrule you.”
“As we have always agreed,” replied Ravi.
“Correct. And as my father has agreed,” added Ben. “We should both be very clear. This is not a mission of the Navy of Iran. It is not a mission of the Navy of China. And it is most certainly not a mission of the Navy of Russia. This is an operation of the Islamic Resistance Movement, Hamas, which is committed to the total liberation of historical Palestine, and the creation of an Islamic State. Ravi, you are the highest-ranking military leader Hamas ever had. This is your mission.”
Ravi smiled. “Just so long as you do not think I am taking advantage of my exalted rank to bring along my wife, like some Roman Emperor.”
“The thought never crossed my mind,” replied Captain Badr. “Many people know of Shakira’s important contribution to Hamas operations. I am sure you have thought it through very well.”
“I made my decision based on her long weeks of work in the area of precision targeting,” said Ravi. “She has made a detailed study of our objectives, and put forward a plan which, if I am honest, is more hers than mine. I know I should miss her in a strictly operational sense, if she were not on board.”
“Sounds like we should miss her,” said Ben Badr. And he stepped forward, and in the Muslim manner, lightly kissed her on both cheeks. “Welcome aboard, Lieutenant Commander,” he said.
“There is, of course, the question of where Shakira will work,” said Ravi. “And since it involves charts, and maps, and computer screens, I think it will need to be near the navigation officer.”
“Not a problem. We’ve room there. She will, of course, outrank him. He’s only
a Lieutenant. Still, we might as well get used to that. As the wife of General Rashood she will outrank almost everybody!”
They retired to a private room for lunch during which they discussed the most awkward part of the entire mission—where to go when the operations were complete. They had the world’s ultimate getaway vehicle—a fast, silent nuclear submarine that would never need refueling and, properly handled, would be impossible to detect.
Ravi had always been unhappy about the lack of planning that had gone into this final aspect of the mission. But he now took some assurance in the report of Captain Badr.
“I have talked to the Chinese Political Commissar and he has pointed out that China, above all others, cannot be associated with the activities of the Barracuda. As a nation they have too much to lose. They must not be caught with an involvement in this.”
“They could, of course, eliminate us, and then claim to have helped the Americans by doing so,” said Ravi. “In my native land, it’s known as playing both ends against the middle.”
“Like the Americans, China too, would be quite unable to find us.”
“Yes. That’s true,” said Ravi. “Which leaves us out in the cold rather. Can’t return to Bandar Abbas, can’t go anywhere near China, can’t even think about Russia. That’s a lot of coastline to be banished from. Half the world. A lot of people to embarrass.”
Ben Badr was thoughtful. “Ravi, I must tell you what the Chinese have told me. They have a plan they say is foolproof. They have a place for us to go, to get rid of the submarine, and to make a simple escape, all of us, back to Iran and Syria. They are saying by air. They are also saying the submarine will never be found.”
“That sounds very like them,” said Ravi. “Devious Orientals. But do we have any guarantees?”
“Not many. They just say they have helped us from the start. That it is equally in their interests, as much as ours, that no one should be caught. They will continue to help until every one of us is safe. They honor us and trust us, as we should honor and trust them.”
“If anyone should find even a trace of the submarine,” said Ravi, “China is in big trouble. That’s true. It will come out they bought it from the Russians. Whatever crimes were perpetrated against the West, China would have to accept the blame. Even worse for them if they should be forced to admit they bought a nuclear submarine for a known stronghold of terrorism. No, I agree with one thing. Discovery of this mission is worse for the Chinese than anyone.”
Barracuda 945 Page 26
