Barracuda 945

by Patrick Robinson

  “The tricky part is they are paranoid about security. And they are not prepared to divulge their getaway plan. They have stored it in an impenetrable safe onboard the submarine. It will open on a timed device ten days into the mission. That way no one will ever have the chance to reveal to anyone where we are ultimately going.”

  “I thought we were honored and trusted?”

  “Up to a point,” said Ben. “Until Chinese self-preservation kicks in.”

  “Do we trust ’em?”

  “No choice really. And anyway, what’s the point of worrying. We are undertaking this mission on behalf of Islam. If Allah requires us to be martyrs, then martyrs we shall be. I’m not afraid to die.”

  “Neither are we,” interjected Shakira Rashood. “But if there is a chance of postponing it, I think we should do our best.”

  “I think Allah would always agree with that,” said Ben. “We are here to complete his work. Certainly not to squander the great opportunities he has given us. Allah is great.”

  “Okay, Ben. That’s all very clear then. Do we have an ETD yet?”

  “Saturday morning. February 9. First light. Meanwhile, we’re moving into the submarine. I had the Russians construct an extra private office, larger than the regular COs. As the overall commander, that one’s yours. It has a bed that folds into the wall, a fairly large table, and a chair. I’ll have a second one delivered. The bed’s only a single but there’s room for a small sofa or an armchair in that room. I’ll get one.”

  “Thanks, Captain,” said Ravi. “Shall we go now?”

  A Russian Naval driver took them down to the submarine jetties, where Iranian seamen awaited them to help with the bags and move the Mission Commander into his quarters. Ben Badr introduced Lieutenant Commander Shakira, and told them she had accepted a position as the Precision Targeting Officer and would be working in a special office close to the navigation area.

  He revealed the news in an understated way, communicating an unspoken gratitude that one as accomplished as Shakira had condescended to join their humble operation along the West Coast of America. He realized the news that a female naval officer was joining the ship’s company would travel around the crew in a matter of seconds.

  The fact that it was Shakira Rashood, wife of the God-like Hamas warrior General Ravi, would probably render them speechless on the subject. Captain Badr hoped they would stay that way.

  Shakira herself, far from seeming overawed, was apparently oblivious to the fact that she was storming one of the last all-male garrisons in the entire world. She strode confidently up the gangway, huddled in her unlabeled dark blue Iranian Navy greatcoat and scarf, black fur hat, lined fur seaboots, and gloves, and stepped on board Barracuda Type 945. She was the first woman ever to do so, anywhere, in anyone’s Navy, as a member of a submarine crew.

  The ship was running on electric power from shore cables right now, and Ravi hoped there would not be a cut in supply owing to unpaid dockyard bills. But the Russians had done everything in their power to make this mission run flawlessly. The Chinese had been prompt with their payments, and although no Russian personnel would accompany the voyage across the Pacific, there were several seamen from Murmansk still in attendance, particularly in the area of torpedoes (for self-defense only), cruise missiles, and sonar.

  Lieutenant Commander Abbas Shafii had been back working in the reactor Control Room for more than a week, and the CPOs, Ali Zahedi and Ardeshir Tikku, who would assist him as chiefs of the propulsion and auxiliary control panels, were also in residence. All three men had spent nine months in Araguba, and then made the long journey along the Siberian coast in the Barracuda.

  There were eight other Iranian officers in the ship’s company, all of whom had made the Arctic voyage from Araguba. They would, however, now set sail without their Russian and Chinese tutors, relying entirely on their intensive study courses in nuclear submarine management. Some forty Iranian seaman, new to the ship, had all served in the Kilos.

  Only six men would sail from Petropavlovsk devoid of any experience in submarines. They were all members of the twenty thousand-strong Islamic Revolutionary Guards Corps (IRGC), Iranian Special Forces, modeled on U.S. Navy SEALs and the British SAS. All six were veteran “hard men” trained and bloodied as hit men in the long war against Iraq. All six were expert frogmen, who believed they were fighting for Allah and that He would protect them, and, if necessary, guide them home, into His arms forever.

  Their leader, Lt. Arash Azhari, a superb soldier, could have been offered a position as a SEAL instructor anytime, had his politics been somewhat different, not to mention his nationality and his religious beliefs.

  Aside from Arash and his boys, every other man who would occupy a critical position, particularly in the Barracuda’s reactor area, was trained and experienced. Captain Badr was the most experienced of all of them, and his father Admiral Mohammed Badr had been closely associated with the fine detail of the mission. He had, for instance, eliminated all uniforms, thus preserving anonymity in the event of capture. The two Commanding Officers, and now Shakira, would all wear navy blue sweaters. Lieutenant Commanders and Lieutenants would wear royal blue, Chiefs and regular Petty Officers, maroon, and the remainder, Seamen, Cooks, Laundry men, gray. Everyone would wear jeans (made in the United States), with white socks and trainers (also American made). To further preserve their anonymity, latex gloves were required to be worn at all times.

  General Rashood asked to inspect the torpedo room and the missile director’s section of the Ops Room. He authorized only twelve torpedoes, since they were only for self-defense and he did not imagine any need for the full complement of forty. He noted there were twenty-four land-attack cruise missiles as he had specified. The programming area for the electronic computer brain carried by each missile in its nose cone was adjacent to the navigation area, where Shakira would work.

  Ravi already knew the ship well, and he toured all three decks, meeting again the men who would sail with him, and carefully introducing Shakira as the Precision Target Officer who had masterminded the original plan and who would be responsible for further adjustments and variations.

  Mrs. Rashood was a model of politeness. She made certain of everyone’s name, rank, and area of responsibility, jotting down the details in a small leather notebook. She told everyone she met how greatly she looked forward to working in cooperation with all members of the crew. She mostly did not sound very maritime, but she sounded sincere, and intelligent. Everyone was captured by her beauty, which was more or less why women had been banned from every submarine service in the world for almost a century.

  However, no other female had ever joined a ship’s company as the wife of a high-ranking officer. Which ruled out the possibility of any wayward behavior. At least, it would on this ship, because the Barracuda was not under the formal command of any Navy. It was under the overall command of a known Special Forces killer, on behalf of a Terrorist Organization, backed up by a known Commanding Officer, whose father held in his hands, the careers of every last man on board. Disrespect to Shakira, on even the most innocent scale, was out of the question.

  General Rashood and his wife moved into the Principal Officer’s room, which was extremely spartan. They shared the wardrobe, loading it with a succession of shirts, sweaters, jeans, socks, shoes, and underclothes. No uniforms. They tested the bed and decided it was wide enough for them mostly to sleep in it together, with the aid of the big camping bag. If the incoming Russian Navy sofa was around the same height, it would be an even simpler task.

  As it happened, the incoming sofa was one of the worst pieces of furniture ever made. It was the right height, made of plastic and only marginally softer than the floor. However, pushed against the bed, it made a passable extra area for the double sleeping bag, allowing an arm or a leg some extra space, and preventing either Ravi or Shakira falling overboard onto the deck. The danger of this latter occurrence was, however, remote. General Rashood and his wife tended to s
leep very closely together.

  They spent Friday working their way through the day, Shakira with her charts, Ravi touring the ship with Ben. At 6:30 in the evening, with snow again falling on the jetties, they began to pull the rods in the core of the nuclear reactor. As the sun endeavored to struggle out of the Pacific, the Barracuda would be on its way.

  There were no good-byes. The Russians had removed the last of their seamen in the small hours of the morning, and were now keeping their distance. All Chinese personnel had returned to Shanghai the previous evening. Ravi and Ben Badr were about to go it alone, in an all-Iranian warship. At 5:48 on Saturday morning, they cast off the dock lines, and with the Pilot already on board, his boat chugging along off their starboard beam, they headed out of the Bay of Avacinskiy, through the minefield, and east into the wide Pacific Ocean.

  The Pilot disembarked at the end of the minefield, and Captain Badr stayed on the bridge, watching the surface of the choppy sea for another half hour. Then he swung south, in order to catch the lenses of the American satellite at the earliest possible time. But just before 7:30, out beyond the 500-meter mark, he ordered the Barracuda beneath the waves. Then he ordered her to turn northeast again.

  “Conn-Captain…bow down ten…make your depth four hundred…speed fifteen…make your course zero-four-five….”

  The Barracuda made its turn 300 feet below the surface, and headed across the wide Gulf of Kronockiy, where the inland shores of the Pacific begin to shelve down to depths of more than 6,000 feet.

  Above them the weather worsened, and somewhat to the surprise of the Barracuda’s sonar room they picked up engine lines, five, maybe ten miles off their port bow. But it was raining now and the surface picture was confused. Nonetheless, the sound of the oncoming engines grew closer, and while it was definitely not a submarine, neither Russian nor American, Ben Badr ordered the ship to periscope depth to get a fix with the sailor’s best friend, Eyeball Mark-One.

  Way up ahead, they could just make out the outline of a clear and obvious fishing boat, big warps stetching down on yellow davits, from both beams. It did not carry an inordinate amount of antennae, nor was it making any recognizable Naval transmissions, but it was a good size, maybe 1,500 tons.

  Captain Badr held the Barracuda at PD and identified the trawler as Japanese. Through the powerful periscope lenses they could just make out her name, Mayajima. And the navigator had made her course 225 degrees, heading, doubtless into the rich fishing grounds of the Gulf of Kronockiy.

  Since the submarine was headed northeast and the trawler was headed west southwest, their path of approach was digressing by the minute. Right now they were two miles apart and going very clearly away from each other. Ben Badr ordered his helmsman to hold course and take her deep again…. Four hundred feet…make your speed fifteen.

  What the Barracuda’s CO could not have known was that Capt. Kousei Kuno, master of the trawler Mayajima, had just been given a very strong heads-up from his own sonar operator, pinpointing a huge shoal of fish, far north for this time of the year, and very deep, possibly 2,000 feet.

  He ordered the trawl net lower in the water, releasing the warps, to 1,500 feet, and even on a fishing boat of this size, they felt the big otter boards at the head of the net dig into the water, forcing the giant entrance-gap open wide at the top end.

  The sonar man called out depth and range of the shoal again. And Captain Kuno pushed his speed up as far as he could, and turned his wheel hard to port, changing his course to due east, in hot pursuit of the precious fish. Right across the path of the oncoming Russian-built nuclear submarine.

  After four minutes, he cut his engines, wallowing at only three knots, and turning back west, right above the shoal. Literally, tons of fish floundered into the net, trapped by the baffles, forced into the narrow cod-end in the time-honored tradition of deep-sea commercial fishing.

  Except that at that precise moment, Captain Ben Badr’s nuclear submarine thundered into the net, coming northeast under the port quarter of the Mayajima and ramming its bow straight into the heaving trawl, powered by engines generating 47,000 horsepower.

  The warps stretched and held. Then one snapped in two, sending its ten-foot-wide otter board clattering into the casing of the submarine, making an enormous din inside the hull.

  “What the hell’s that?” said Ravi, who was standing next to the CO.

  “God knows,” said Ben Badr. “Sounds like something just fell off.

  He could not, of course, have known that one of the warps was holding, while the other was hooked around the sail, and the mighty Barracuda was dragging the Mayajima down by the stern, with a single otter board still clattering away against the sail.

  “Are we shipping water?” called the CO.

  “Negative, sir.”

  “Reduction in speed?”

  “Maybe four knots, sir.”

  Back on the Mayajima, there was pandemonium as Captain Kumo realized they were being dragged down. Water was cascading over the stern, flooding into the hold and sloshing into the navigation area. Despite their propeller being almost at rest, they were making fourteen knots, backward. The strains were enormous, and he hit the emergency levers, which would release the steel-enforced warps that held the trawl net.

  Immediately, the Mayajima righted itself, returning to an even keel, with no serious damage. They were stationary in the choppy water, having lost their massive fishing equipment and their valuable catch, and sustained damage to the lower deck interior. The pumps were working overtime to haul the water out of the hold, and there was no point remaining at sea one moment longer.

  These ships carry no spare trawl net, mainly because of the expense. The loss of the net ends their voyage and confines them to harbor, until the insurance company, or someone else, stumps up. Captain Kumo turned south, back to the Pacific seaport of Ishinomaki, on the east coast of Honshu. He had suffered losses he would later claim added up to $200,000.

  In the submarine, the clattering on the hull ended as abruptly as it had begun. With the release of the second warp, both lines holding the otter boards were slack. There was one final bang as the board whacked the casing for the last time. But it did no harm, and the net, full of cod, slipped easily off the Barracuda’s bow, down into the depths. Free and clear of the impediments, the submarine accelerated northeast as if nothing had happened.

  “Are we shipping water?” Ben Badr called again.

  “Negative, sir.”

  The CO turned to Ravi and said, “We just got entangled in something that was not metal and, therefore, not a ship. It must have been a very large fishing net. Those bangs on the casing were the otter boards. I’ve never done it before, but I’ve met submariners who have. It’s not dangerous, for us. Because ultimately we’re not in the net, we’re just dragging it. But it is very dangerous for the fishermen, who must release it, before we drag them down.”

  “Do we go to the surface to check up on possible damage?”

  “We never go to the surface, Ravi. Not until the day we exit the ship for good.”

  “But they might be sinking,” replied Ravi.

  “If they are, we shall do nothing to help them.”

  One month later, Captain Kumo would claim he saw their periscope, jutting out of the water.

  Meanwhile, the Barracuda pushed on. Three hundred fifty miles of open ocean lay before them to the western point of the Aleutian Islands, which stream out in a narrow 1,000-mile crescent from the seaward tip of the Alaska Peninsula, the great southwestern panhandle of America’s largest state.

  The Islands, which stretch more than halfway across the Pacific Ocean at that latitude, divide the Bering Sea to the north from the Pacific in the south.

  Populated for some 9,000 years, they stand in some of the cruelest winter weather on earth, valued principally as a storm-lashed natural outpost for the U.S. Navy, which guards the western approaches to Alaska and the coasts of both Canada and the United States.

  In recent yea
rs, the level of military surveillance from the Aleutians has been increased tenfold with the rise to global importance of Alaskan oil. The great terminal of Valdez in Prince William Sound, with its huge storage capacity, its convoys of south-running VLCCs (Very Large Crude Carriers), and the new West Coast undersea pipeline, have turned it into a main cogwheel in the American economy. And it requires heavy protection.

  With the President’s insistence on less reliance on Arab oil, the estimated 16 billion barrels of reserves on Alaska’s North Slope represents the very heart of White House policy. The United States owns enough oil on the freezing land south of the Beaufort Sea to replace all Middle East supplies for the next thirty years.

  A minor problem has been the oil beneath the protected acres of the sensitive Arctic National Wildlife Refuge. There has been a certain amount of protest from a tribe of native Indians, who fear new drilling may drive away migrating deer—never mind the irony that they hunt the deer from the back of gas-guzzling snow-mobiles, with high-powered rifles.

  No matter. The Republican Administration of the early twenty-first century, ignoring the tree huggers, greens, wets, and other romantics of the environment, believed that most Americans think inexpensive and plentiful energy comes with Liberty, and will put up with some damage to the near-deserted wilderness of Alaska, in order to get it. Yessir.

  If the Administration harbored any doubts, the events of September 11, 2001, dismissed them all, in a major hurry. The prospect of the United States economy operating almost entirely on oil owned by Abdul, Ahmed, and Mustapha was plainly out of the question.

  The President, backed by trusted advisers, some of them dyed-in-the-wool oilmen, called immediately for increased energy production. The Democrats did not like it, neither did the Eskimos, nor presumably the migrating deer, but a frenzy of new drilling was unleashed, most of it on government land, which included 86 percent of all oil exploration in Alaska.