At this stage of his delicate climb to the top, he cursed any involvement in operations that might jeopardize his plans. He desperately wanted to successfully finish his current tour of duty as skipper of Hampton, then get off the hot seat and report to the admiral's staff at New London--the heart and unofficial capital of the U. S. submarine force. He rolled on his side and squinted at the eerie red multifunction display near his narrow bunk. The databank provided an instantaneous readout of Hampton's depth, speed, course, position, and the current tactical situation.
All was well, prompting Gillmore to yawn and stretch his long legs, then roll on his back. He clasped his hands behind his head and stared into the inky darkness, carefully calculating the risks involved in the special mission, Operation Desert Phantom. A few minutes later, after reassuring himself that everything would work out to his satisfaction, Gillmore drifted into a restless sleep.
Sixteen hundred miles to the northeast of Hampton, the attack submarine Cheyenne glided through the depths of the Arabian Sea off the western coast of India. Her mission was the same as Hampton's--destroy the two Iranian missile sites. Cheyenne's Raytheon Tomahawlc/BGM-109 cruise missiles would follow a different course to their targets, arriving minutes after Hampton's Tomahawk land attack missiles.
Gulf of Oman The Liberian-registered freighter Dauntless barely made headway through the placid waters while the picket ship's thirty-nine-year old Iranian master trained his binoculars on a low-flying jet. The early-morning sky was hazy and visibility was limited, but he immediately recognized the stubby-looking twin-engine aircraft.
Known as "Hoovers" because the engines sound like vacuum cleaners, it was a U. S. Navy all-weather, antisubmarine and antisurface warfare plane patrolling for submarine activity near the approach to the Strait of Hormuz. The dull gray Lockheed S-3B Viking banked to the left and flew directly toward the rusty freighter, passing close to the fantail before resuming its search pattern.
A few minutes later, between bites of greasy lamb chops and sour rye bread, the captain watched as a mammoth aircraft carrier and her escort ships materialized on the opaque horizon. When the battle group drew closer, the skipper and his skeleton crew could see that the flattop's flight deck bristled with aircraft. The captain consulted his dog-eared U. S. Ship and Aircraft Recognition Manual and identified the carrier as the nuclear-powered USS George Washington, one of the newest ships in the infidel's Atlantic Fleet.
He raised his binoculars and studied the other vessels, recognizing the guided-missile cruiser USS Normandy and the destroyers USS John Rodgers and USS O'Bannon. Other escort ships included the guided-missile frigates USS Boone and USS Underwood, plus three support ships. The attack submarine USS Annapolis went undetected.
With tensions running high between the United States and Iran, Tehran claimed that the Americans were attempting to make their presence and vast influence in the region irreversible. Underscoring Tehran's worst fears, the "Arabian Gulf" had become the focal point of U. S. global strategy. Since the Gulf War, the crucial waterway off the coast of Iran had become the one place where the world's only military superpower openly and consistently showed its strength. As the Iranian master knew, Washington's powerful fighter planes would soon be screeching up and down the length of the Persian Gulf, swooping low over the waterway at speeds nipping the sound barrier. Occasionally, a young jet jock would nudge his sleek Tomcat or Hornet past Mach one, sending a sonic boom reverberating across the narrow Gulf. The intimidation factor was causing a great degree of angst to military and political leaders in Tehran.
At the captain's direction, the communications technician punched in a code at his console and sent a scrambled message to Tehran. After receiving a confirmation reply and further instructions, he sent a warning message to seven of Iran's aging regular Navy Combattante IIB guided-missile patrol craft.
When the last skipper checked in, the comm tech changed radio frequencies and sent a message to the eight Houdongclass patrol boats manned by sailors of the more politically favored fleet of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps Navy. The skippers of the small Chinese-built warships raced to take up their assigned positions near the entrance to the Strait of Hormuz.
The communications tech would have to wait almost an hour to contact the first of three Iranian Project 877 Kilo-class submarines operating in the area. Venturing farther from port and remaining submerged longer than ever, the Russian-built, ultraquiet boats only poked their communications masts above the surface at preset times. After making contact with Dauntless, one of the submarines would be instructed to reposition in the southern waters of the Arabian Gulf. The other two boats would remain on station in the Gulf of Oman and Arabian Sea.
Equipped with computer-driven weapons control systems and Russian Novator Alpha (NATO SS-N-27) antiship missiles, the Iranian Kilos fielded the latest generation of torpedo-tube-launched cruise missiles. The Russian equivalent to the antiship version of the Tomahawk, the Alpha ejects a supersonic submissile that can defeat almost any terminal defense system.
Minutes after Tehran had been notified of Washington's current location, the supercarrier erupted with activity as one fighter plane after another blasted down the bow catapults and roared into the air. As the launches continued, the Iranians watched the blazing action while a few aircraft began landing on the carrier's angled flight deck. While the Iranian crew was absorbed with the air show, an F-14 Tomcat came in low from behind them and blasted over the freighter's bridge. The shocked crew ducked in unison and simultaneously cursed the cocky Americans.
The Iranians continued to watch air operations until the carrier disappeared in the dark haze. Dauntless and her crew would remain in the area and monitor events until the American armada left the region.
Chapter 16
The Mediterranean Sea.
The pilots of the Navy SH-60 Seahawk were uncharacterI istically quiet as their helicopter cruised at 1,200 feet above the tranquil blue sea. The flight crew's orders had been simple and straightforward; don't discuss anything with your passengers, unless there is an emergency, and don't discuss the mission with your shipmates when you return. The two lieutenants had been instructed to refuel the helo in Cyprus after their passengers departed, then immediately return to their ship.
In the back of the SH-60, Jackie, Scott, and Greg had gone over every detail of their mission. Afterward Jackie and Greg got acquainted exchanging basic information about their backgrounds. Later they went over the radio terminology and code names the team would be using during the operation. When Scott jumped from the Caravan, O'Donnell would continue on course and monitor the radio calls. Once Jackie had retrieved Maritza and Scott, Greg would declare an emergency, then turn off his transponder and external lights as he dove for the deck and set a course for Athens. If Greg experienced a real emergency that forced him to bail out or crash-land the rugged Cessna, Jackie would attempt to pick him up as soon as Scott and Maritza were safely aboard the helicopter. If the LongRanger developed problems that forced Jackie to land, she would try to make it to one of the suitable landing sites for the Caravan.
They all agreed it was a fairly straightforward plan, but they knew the devil was in the details. What had they overlooked? What had they not anticipated?
Their briefing gave way to silence as Scott and Jackie checked their personal equipment for the third time. Surrounded by enlarged land maps and aeronautical charts, Scott circled a point thirty nautical miles off the coast of Lebanon. "When you cross this fix, transmit 'Charlie Tango' and switch to your secondary frequency for our reply. If we're off the mark, I'll give you a plus or minus on our position from the Initial Point."
"I expect you to be on the money," came her dry response. "Don't naval aviators pride themselves on their split-second timing?"
"True," Dalton admitted with a crooked grin, "but Greg's been known to--occasionally--be off by two or three seconds."
Jackie gave him a sweeping glance, then lowered her head and studied the
chart for a few seconds. The closeness between Scott and Greg made her feel more comfortable. It's almost as if they can read each other's thoughts without speaking.
She drew a circle around a checkpoint and looked up. "Greg will give me a call on primary when you leave the airplane?"
"That's affirm."
"I'll switch to your helmet radio"--Jackie looked up--"and wait for your call when you pop your chute."
Scott nodded as the helo began to descend. "That'll happen about fifteen to twenty seconds after I jump."
She could feel the excited tremblings of her nerves. "Once I confirm that you've jumped, I'll trigger Maritza's sat-phone to alert her."
"Yeah, we don't want to forget that," Scott said with a brief glance. "If either one of us has a radio failure, we operate on timing only."
"I'll be there," Jackie replied confidently.
Scott smiled briefly. "The weather looks good, so that shouldn't be a factor. If either ship has a problem--mechancal or otherwise--before I jump, call 'abort, abort, abort, charlie, charlie,' and we'll return to our bases. As we've discussed, if either ship goes down, the other pilot will attempt a rescue. If we abort, we'll plan on completing the mission the following night." Scott looked into Jackie's bright, gray-green eyes. "Failure is not an option."
"Speaking of options," she said, somewhat combatively. "I know we've been over this at least a dozen times, but I'm not going to leave you and Maritza there, even if I lose radio contact after you land."
"You have your instructions, and--"
"You mean orders," she interrupted.
"I expect to be on the end of the line--with Maritza--no later than ninety seconds after I hit the compound. If we're not there, head for the ship."
"Whatever you say."
"I mean it." Scott stared into her eyes. "If we're not there, get the hell out of town."
Jackie turned and stared at the wake of a cruise ship as the helo began to level off. Approaching the Permak Express from the stern, the Seahawk circled the reddish-brown container ship, then slowed as the pilot prepared to land.
Scott looked down at the slow-moving ship. Leased by the Agency, the neglected-looking Permak Express was crewed by agents who were licensed, professional mariners.
Dalton and his team fell silent while the Navy helicopter stabilized in a hover and gently settled on the ship's landing pad. Off to the side they spied two Bell 206 LongRangers under a bluish-gray camouflage netting. The helos were painted dark charcoal and bore no insignia. Jackie was relieved to see that both of the helicopters were equiped with wire strike kits and belly-mounted searchlights.
"After we get airborne," Scott said over the din of rotor-blade noise, "we'll get a radio check with you from both of the helos, then I'll give you a call with my helmet radio." "I'll be standing by," Jackie said loudly, then tightly gripped Scott's arm. "Take care of yourself."
He locked her in his stare for a moment, then put his hand on her shoulder. "You, too."
She smiled and instinctively hugged him, then jumped out of the Seahawk. "Good luck!"
He gave her a quick, modified salute. "That's the only kind to have!"
As soon as Jackie was clear of the helo, the pilot increased power and lifted the SH-60 into the air. Climbing through 200 feet, the Seahawk entered a shallow bank to starboard and began circling the container ship.
While Jackie boarded one of the LongRangers, Scott fastened his helmet and quickly adjusted his twin boom microphones. The state-of-the-art communication system was voice-activated to allow him to keep his hands free. In the noisy helo, he would have to use the push-to-talk switch to manually override the sensitive automatic feature.
Dalton looked down at the helos and nodded to Greg. O'Donnell raised his handheld transceiver to his mouth. "LongRanger, how copy Seahawk?"
"Loud and clear," she radioed. "How about me?" "Five by five."
Scott then called on the discreet frequency that he and Jackie would be using after he jumped from the plane. The checks continued until the radios in both LongRangers passed inspection. Once the comm checks were complete, the SH-60 turned toward Cyprus and accelerated.
Jackie watched the helo until it was out of sight, then thoroughly checked both of the rescue helicopters for life rafts, life vests, and first-aid kits. Satisfied that everything was in order, she went about rigging two of the four 150foot-long rappelling ropes to each ship. When she was finished attaching yellow snaplights above the six a rings hooked to the nylon ropes, she thoroughly preflighted both helos, then went to her stateroom to rest.
Bekaa Valley Maritza Gunzelman's shoulder muscles were tense and her stomach was churning. She had been relieved to actually hear Jackie's voice during the early hours of the morning. The message had taken only seconds, but it was like having a life jacket thrown to her in a storm-tossed sea.
The confirmation of the upcoming rescue effort had boosted her spirits and confidence, but her anxiety remained.
When the next call came, she would have to be ready to make a bold move.
From her prior training and from Jackie's brief but thorough instructions, Maritza knew exactly what she was expected to do during the extraction. When her rescuer parachuted into the guarded compound, Maritza would have to react swiftly and decisively.
If everything went as she desperately hoped it would, she would be liberated from the militants' compound before the next sunrise. Free from the unrelenting stress, free from the unsanitary living conditions, but most important, free from the fear of being found out, which meant certain death. Stifling her growing angst, Maritza rose from the straight-backed wooden chair and walked across the cracked cement floor to one of two windows in her cramped room. She surveyed the familiar squalor and the bearded, unkempt men guarding the compound. It was not difficult to understand how the leaders of the front-line terrorist cells managed to recruit so many "suicide bombers" from the ranks of their illiterate, uneducated drones. Returning to her chair, Maritza attempted to channel her nervous energy into confidence. The militants seemed to be growing more suspicious of her by the day, especially their leader, Bassam Shakhar. A shrewd man who prided himself in manipulating people, Shakhar had an uncanny ability to tell when someone was not being truthful.
Staring at a portrait of the late Iranian leader Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini, a mythical figure to the militants, Maritza quietly prayed that her rescue would be swift and safe. Without warning, Shakhar opened the door and slowly walked into the small room. Maritza's heart skipped a couple of beats. During previous meetings with Shakhar, she had always been summoned to his quarters. This was a first for the wealthy supporter of Islamic Jihad, and it had a paralyzing effect on her. The slender man closed the door, then sat down under a yellowed banner marking the victory of the Islamic revolution in Iran.
Maritza willed herself to breathe slowly and be calm. Adorned in his usual dark cloak and a rumpled turban, Bassam Shakhar did not say a word while he slowly examined Maritza from head to toe. Although no one would ever accuse Shakhar of being a charismatic person, Maritza could see that he was unusually solemn this day. He absently tugged on his salt-and-pepper beard and then stared into Maritza's piercing dark eyes, looking for a sign of fear that might give her away--a hint of worry that would tell him that she wasn't truly one of them.
After clearing his throat, Shakhar finally broke the silence. "We will go to Tehran tomorrow," he declared in his scratchy, strained voice. "My associates are looking forward to meeting you."
"I am honored," she said evenly as a tremendous sense of relief rushed through her. Don't allow your voice to quake. Shakhar paused, then gave her a slow, crooked smile. "If you prefer, we can leave today."
Maritza's heart skipped another beat and lodged in her throat. He's toying with me. "Whatever you wish," she said with as little emotion as possible. "My loyalty is to Allahu, and to you," she said with conviction in her voice. "I live for Islam."
Without saying another word, Shakhar rose from his
chair and walked out of the room.
Maritza took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. Don't panic. Stay calm and think.
Chapter 17
USS George Washington.
Captain Nancy Jensen, USN, the first female skipper of a Nimitz-class aircraft carrier, leaned back in her cushioned chair and watched the last of the F-14 Tomcats and F/A-18 Hornets trap aboard Washington. Tall, blond, athletic, and outgoing, Jensen was a distinguished graduate of the prestigious Test Pilot School at the Naval Air Test Center in Patuxent River, Maryland.
After leaving TPS, the vivacious aviator had flown Tomcats with the "World-Famous Fighting Black Lions" of VF-213, served as executive officer of the "Jolly Rogers," and later CO of the skull-and-crossbones squadron, commanded Nashville, an Austin-class amphibious transport dock, then served the obligatory stint at the Pentagon before advancing to her present position.
Always the professional naval officer, Jensen took great pride in the fact that she was in command of the enormous nuclear-powered, self-contained floating airport. From keel to mast top, USS George Washington measured twenty-four stories high and weighed over 99,000 tons when loaded to her maximum combat displacement. With a full complement of more than eighty embarked warplanes and helicopters of Carrier Air Wing One, the 1,094-foot-long-behemoth could travel to the far corners of any ocean and be ready to fight on arrival. Like the other U. S. carriers, GW provided the commander in chief with an air option that didn't need the permission of a host country.
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