Kilo Option, page 36
“Where did these missiles come from?”
“Sevastopol.”
“Those stockpiles are monitored by an international team.”
“We stole them, and under cover of night loaded them aboard a ship carrying tractors bound for Bombay. When we rendezvous they will be slightly off course. But it is a big ocean.”
“That makes us renegades,” Razhin said, sudden understanding dawning in his eyes. “Even if we carry out our orders exactly as planned, they will deny us. We went berserk. It is too bad for us.”
“Now you can see why it is up to us to make sure that the world believes this warship is being operated by Iranian fanatics,” Yernin said.
Razhin tapped a blunt finger on the envelope. “What are our targets? And what will Ukraine benefit from striking them?”
“You don’t need to know that yet,” Yernin said calmly.
“We will refuse to follow your orders. This is insanity.”
Yernin shrugged. “As you wish, Captain. When you return home, if you return home, it will not be to a hero’s welcome. You will be shot as a traitor.”
“It would be your word against mine,” Razhin countered. “I might kill you.”
“I invite you to try,” Yernin replied without emotion, his eyes locked with the captain’s.
After a moment, Razhin blinked. He opened the envelope and quickly scanned the two pages of orders.
He looked up when he was finished. “This says nothing about loading nuclear weapons.”
“Some things are best left unwritten. Don’t you agree?”
“No I don’t.”
“As you wish, Razhin,” Yernin said. “Instruct your brother on the Good Hope that you will set this boat on the bottom in seventy meters of water, and we will lock up to them. They can take us back to Karachi, where with Captain Maslennikov’s help I’ll get a crew that is capable of following orders. I’ll bring them back here, reactivate this submarine, and complete the mission.”
“Goddamn your black soul,” Razhin said with passion, as Yernin got up.
“I don’t have a soul, Captain. Hadn’t you noticed?”
“Wait!”
“Yes?”
Razhin lowered his eyes. “We will do what you wish,” he said. “We will follow your orders. And God help our souls, because we have them.”
CGN40 MISSISSIPPI
Lane was flown to Kuwait City where the same LAMPS II helicopter and crew from before were waiting to pick him up. He’d flown twice across the Atlantic and out to the Persian Gulf via Ramstein Air Force Base in the past twenty-four hours, and he was numb from jet lag.
“We’re voting you passenger of the year, Mr. Lane,” the copilot called back.
“Get me there in one piece, and I’ll talk to someone in the Pentagon about getting you guys a raise.”
“You’re on, sir.”
The Mississippi was a Virginia–class guided missile cruiser. Originally fitted with a helicopter deck on the fantail, the landing area had been converted to a Tomahawk missile firing platform eight years ago. But with changing missions in the Middle East, the Mississippi and one of the other cruisers in her class had been converted back to a helicopter platform. It made the ships more versatile.
The weather over the central Gulf and south was still overcast and lumpy, although a high-pressure system was beginning to make its way down from Iran and Iraq, bringing with it cooler temperatures and clearing skies.
Good weather for assassinations, or finding submarines, Lane thought, as the helicopter came in over the cruiser’s fantail and set down hard.
They were surrounded by ground crew, and the fantail elevator lowered them to the hanger deck. It was 0900, a long Friday yet to come.
A young ensign greeted Lane when he climbed down from the helicopter. “Mr. Lane, the captain sends his compliments, sir. He’ll see you in the officers’ wardroom now.”
Lane nodded. He turned back to the helicopter’s crew. “Keep this bird warmed up. We’re going out again shortly.”
“Nobody said anything to us, Mr. Lane,” the pilot called down.
“They will,” Lane assured him.
He followed the ensign forward to the officers’ wardroom where the ship’s skipper, Commander Jones, and his executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Martin Prescott, waited. Jones was a large, swarthy man with a delicate nose and cheekbones, and piano player’s hands. He was a study in contrasts. His XO, on the other hand, looked like he’d just stepped out of a magazine ad for Armani suits: tall, well built, handsome.
“Welcome aboard,” Commander Jones said. They all shook hands.
“I won’t take much of your time, Commander. I need to get out to the Chicago as soon as possible.”
“I see,” Jones said, exchanging glances with his XO. “Is there time for a cup of coffee first?”
“Barely,” Lane replied. “So I’ll make this short and to the point. The Iranian submarine is no longer in the Persian Gulf. By now she’s made her way through the Strait of Hormuz and is probably well out into the Gulf of Oman.”
Prescott shook his head. “We have assets in the strait that could have picked them up.”
“She’s hiding beneath a surface ship.”
“Neat trick,” Jones admitted. “If that’s in fact what they’re doing, we’ll never catch up with her. Do you realize how many ships pass through the strait in a twenty-four-hour period?”
“They came in with the same ship,” Lane continued. “Look for a private ship, maybe a big yacht or a research vessel of some sort, that came into the Gulf about the same time the Kilo sailed from Bandar-é Emn, then, a half-day later, turned around and left.”
“That we can do,” Jones said. He motioned for his XO to get on it.
“Look for a ship that came in fast, but suddenly slowed down on the way out.”
Prescott nodded and left the wardroom for the CIC behind the bridge. “Getting you out to the Chicago won’t be easy, if it can be done at all,” the captain said.
“I know, I saw the Clancy movie, The Hunt for Red October,” Lane said.
“Well, you’re going to have to convince me, so that I can convince Glen Coburn, who probably didn’t see the movie.”
“The Iranian navy is no longer in command of that Kilo. She was hijacked by a Black Sea Fleet crew. Probably a very good crew.”
Jones looked at Lane with a new interest. “It would explain a few things.”
“The attack on the Saudi patrol boat was a diversion to keep your attention on this end of the Gulf while they headed south.”
“Assuming that you’re right, and they do get into the open ocean, what then?”
“Sometime in the past two or three weeks, a pair of SS-N-sixteen Mod Three nuclear missiles disappeared from the Black Sea Fleet depot at Sevastopol. At least one of the Iranian’s Kilo subs has been modified to load and fire that missile.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” Jones said. “All right, Lane, you’ve got my attention. Where are you taking this?”
“I think the Kilo is heading toward a rendezvous somewhere in the Arabian Sea with a Ukrainian civilian ship that’s carrying those missiles.”
“What targets are they looking at? Riyadh, Kuwait City, hell, Tel Aviv? The sixteen has a range of ten thousand miles. That’s a damned big circle.”
“I don’t know,” Lane said absently. He looked up. “That’s why I have to get to the Chicago. Have I convinced you?”
“I’ll order an Orion down there and put a comms buoy in the water. We’ll see what Coburn has to say.”
“We don’t have a lot of time, Captain.”
“I understand.” Jones telephoned the communications shack and sent the message to the Orions searching the Gulf.
Prescott came back twenty minutes later and spread a chart on the table. “The Good Hope, home port of Plymouth, England, recently sailed on charter from Karachi. She came into the Gulf the day before yesterday making over thirty knots through the strait, showed up in Kuwait City for provisions and headed back the way she came. She passed through the strait nine hours ago. Only now she’s making less than eighteen knots.”
“Is she big enough for a Kilo to hide beneath her?” Lane asked.
“Possibly. But I suspect she’s making so much noise it wouldn’t matter.”
“Do we have anything in the Arabian Sea that could intercept that boat?”
“Nothing near enough with any teeth,” Prescott said. “I checked. Looks like the Chicago is your best bet after all. But until this front passes, the satellites are going to be worthless.”
“Do we have a course and speed?”
“Nothing past the strait,” Prescott said.
“We’ll find the Chicago, and I’ll bring Glen up to speed,” Jones said. “In the meantime we’ll get you started in that direction, unless there’s something else.”
“What’s your relationship with the Saudi navy?”
Jones gave him a hard look. “They’re here and so are we. We lost two men aboard the Prince Faisal. I’d just as soon lose no more. The Saudis declaring war on Iran—even if you’re wrong and it is an Iranian crew aboard that Kilo—is plain nuts.”
“I agree, Commander. So let’s not give them any more ammunition by telling them what we know.”
“It wouldn’t help,” Jones said. “It’s a big mess out here.”
We started it, Lane wanted to say, but he held his peace.
“Good hunting,” Jones said.
53
MOHAMMAD’S STAR
Yernin had set the off-duty crew the task of moving more bodies of the Iranian crew out of the way.
Nobody liked the job or understood why he’d ordered it, but they couldn’t complain because the captain went along with him, and because Yernin did not shirk his share of the dirty work. In fact, they had a grudging respect for the man. Whatever could be said about him, he would have made a fine submariner.
He came forward to the control center, a tired but otherwise neutral look on his face. “We’re finished,” he said.
“A necessary job well done,” Razhin replied. He thought he understood what Yernin was up to.
The assassin didn’t acknowledge the compliment, “What’s our present position?”
“We’ve passed Muscat on the Oman mainland, and we’re coming up on Ras al Hadd. It is the final headland before we reach the open sea.”
Yernin glanced up at the navigator’s master clocks. It was 1500 GMT, which made it 7:00 P.M. local. By now it was dark on the surface.
He picked up the aquaphone handset. “Charlie One, this is Charlie Two.”
“Roger Charlie Two,” the officer on Good Hope’s bridge responded. It sounded like Razhin’s brother.
“What does your radar show?”
“We have multiple targets. There’s a lot of traffic up here. Mostly oil tankers.”
“Any military vessels?”
“None that we can see.”
“What about airborne?”
“An airliner twenty-eight kilometers to the southeast, heading away from us, probably to Bombay. Nothing else.”
Yernin thought about it for a moment. “Is any of the surface traffic within visual range?”
“I can see the lights of a supertanker about five miles behind us heading up into the Gulf. If they’re looking for us, they’ll see our lights. But there’s nothing else, although we’re showing up on a lot of radars.”
“Is this Captain Razhin?” Yernin asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“Then thank you, Captain. This is Colonel Yernin. You and your crew have done an excellent job. You may return to Karachi. Your part in this mission has been completed.”
“May I speak with my brother?”
A momentary flash of irritation crossed Yernin’s face. “Very well.” He held the phone out to Razhin. “Your brother wishes to speak with you. When you are finished, submerge the boat to three hundred meters, and increase speed to twenty-four knots on our present course. I’m going to get some sleep.”
CHICAGO
Lane’s transfer to the submarine went without a hitch. The deck was well lit from portable spotlights on the sail bridge, and by a spotlight on the hovering helicopter. The air crew and the deck crew were experts at this sort of thing, and the weather hadn’t turned choppy enough for the submarine to wallow too badly.
He was glad to get safely below, however, because lowering a man from a helicopter to a submarine at night was never routine.
It had taken a team of four Orions most of the day to find the Chicago even though they knew her general position, and only then because Coburn allowed himself to be found. Had he wished to evade, he could have easily done so. But he wasn’t happy about having a civilian passenger and it showed on his face when Lane was brought up to the red-lit control room.
The boat was already being dived, so Lane was motioned to keep out of the way. He went over to one of the plotting tables and, bracing himself against the forward slope of the deck, studied the chart under the clear plotting sheet. It was a large-scale chart of the central Persian Gulf.
Lane opened a drawer and rifled through several charts until he found one showing the entire Gulf and a big section of the Arabian Sea, the Indian subcontinent to the east, Africa to the southwest.
He took it to the other plotting table, overlaid it with a clear plotting sheet, and, using the plotting arms, marked their present position from the other table.
Several of the crewmen watched him nervously until Lieutenant Commander Friend came over.
“Can I help you with something, Mr. Lane?”
“Is this our present position?” Lane asked, pointing to the small cross he’d marked on the plotting sheet.
Friend glanced at it. “Close enough.”
“We’re level at two hundred feet,” the diving officer reported.
“Very well,” Coburn said. “Come right ten degrees, to a new course of zero-three-zero, make your speed ten knots.”
“Aye, aye, coming right to course zero-three-zero, speed ten knots.”
Lane marked the new speed and course on the plotting sheet with the depth notation in a small square box to the right.
Coburn came over, glanced at Lane’s handiwork, then looked up. “All right, you’re here and no one got hurt. Now how much of what Jonesy told me is fact, and how much is speculation? A lot of lives could depend on this.”
“That’s what I want to find out, Captain, but I’m going to need your help to do it.”
“I’m listening,” Coburn said impassively.
Lane turned back to the chart and drew a series of lines from the Chicago’s present position in the central Persian Gulf, south through the Strait of Hormuz, through the Gulf of Oman, and into the Arabian Sea. Next he drew a line between Karachi and the Oman headland at Ras al Hadd. He drew a circle around the spot where the two lines intersected.
“I need to be there as soon as possible.”
“You can be out there in a couple of hours by air.”
“We’re going submarine hunting,” Lane said. “If it comes down to it you might have to shoot a couple of torpedoes.”
“At this Iranian submarine?”
Lane nodded. “Possibly at a civilian freighter as well.”
“Under what flag?”
“Ukraine.”
Coburn exchanged glances with his XO. “Let’s continue this in the wardroom.”
Lane stood rooted to this spot. “We need to start now at the very best speed you can give me.”
“I’ll decide when and where this boat will go,” Coburn said.
“I’ll explain on the run—” Lane started, but Coburn stepped close and cut him off.
“You’ll do as I say, right now, mister.”
“Captain—”
Coburn stepped back. “Ask the quartermaster to come up here on the double, with his sidearm.”
“Put up a comms buoy, and send a message to the White House Situation Room. I’ll give your comms people the proper codes. Tell the president that I’m unable to carry out his orders at this time. In fact, I’m under arrest.”
Coburn’s eyes locked with Lane’s for several long seconds. Finally he turned to his XO. “Raise a comms buoy and go ahead and send that message.”
Friend stepped over to the control station and used one of the growler phones.
The quartermaster came into the control room, his sidearm drawn. “Captain?” he said.
“Stand by, Stu,” Coburn said. “Diving officer.”
“Aye, Skipper.”
Coburn studied the plot Lane had laid out. “Make our course one-six-five degrees.”
“Aye, aye. Changing course to one-six-five degrees.”
“Ring for maximum turns.” Coburn looked into Lane’s eyes.
“Aye, ringing for maximum turns.”
“Very well,” Coburn said, leaning back against the plotting table.
Three minutes later Lieutenant Commander Friend had the uplink with one of their communications satellites, and Lane gave him the special number that would connect with the president at any time of day or night, wherever in the world the president might be. Friend put it on the overhead speaker.
“You have reached the White House Situation Room, special circuit Delta-Delta-Bravo. Please give your authenticator now.”
“Alpha-Seven-Bravo, Lane” Lane said.
Friend relayed the code.
“Stand by.”
A half-minute later the distinctive voice of President Reasoner came over the speaker. “Lane, is that you?”
“No, sir. This is Lieutenant Commander Friend. I’m the executive office aboard the Chicago.”
“Is he aboard?”
“Ah, yes, sir,” Friend said. “We’re just confirming who he is.”
“Give him what he needs, Commander,” Reasoner said. “He’s the only one at the moment who knows what the hell is going on. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
The connection was broken, and Friend hung up the phone. He ordered the comms buoy reeled back in on its long wire.
“My apologies, Mr. Lane,” Coburn said. He stuck out his hand. “Welcome aboard.”
“Sevastopol.”
“Those stockpiles are monitored by an international team.”
“We stole them, and under cover of night loaded them aboard a ship carrying tractors bound for Bombay. When we rendezvous they will be slightly off course. But it is a big ocean.”
“That makes us renegades,” Razhin said, sudden understanding dawning in his eyes. “Even if we carry out our orders exactly as planned, they will deny us. We went berserk. It is too bad for us.”
“Now you can see why it is up to us to make sure that the world believes this warship is being operated by Iranian fanatics,” Yernin said.
Razhin tapped a blunt finger on the envelope. “What are our targets? And what will Ukraine benefit from striking them?”
“You don’t need to know that yet,” Yernin said calmly.
“We will refuse to follow your orders. This is insanity.”
Yernin shrugged. “As you wish, Captain. When you return home, if you return home, it will not be to a hero’s welcome. You will be shot as a traitor.”
“It would be your word against mine,” Razhin countered. “I might kill you.”
“I invite you to try,” Yernin replied without emotion, his eyes locked with the captain’s.
After a moment, Razhin blinked. He opened the envelope and quickly scanned the two pages of orders.
He looked up when he was finished. “This says nothing about loading nuclear weapons.”
“Some things are best left unwritten. Don’t you agree?”
“No I don’t.”
“As you wish, Razhin,” Yernin said. “Instruct your brother on the Good Hope that you will set this boat on the bottom in seventy meters of water, and we will lock up to them. They can take us back to Karachi, where with Captain Maslennikov’s help I’ll get a crew that is capable of following orders. I’ll bring them back here, reactivate this submarine, and complete the mission.”
“Goddamn your black soul,” Razhin said with passion, as Yernin got up.
“I don’t have a soul, Captain. Hadn’t you noticed?”
“Wait!”
“Yes?”
Razhin lowered his eyes. “We will do what you wish,” he said. “We will follow your orders. And God help our souls, because we have them.”
CGN40 MISSISSIPPI
Lane was flown to Kuwait City where the same LAMPS II helicopter and crew from before were waiting to pick him up. He’d flown twice across the Atlantic and out to the Persian Gulf via Ramstein Air Force Base in the past twenty-four hours, and he was numb from jet lag.
“We’re voting you passenger of the year, Mr. Lane,” the copilot called back.
“Get me there in one piece, and I’ll talk to someone in the Pentagon about getting you guys a raise.”
“You’re on, sir.”
The Mississippi was a Virginia–class guided missile cruiser. Originally fitted with a helicopter deck on the fantail, the landing area had been converted to a Tomahawk missile firing platform eight years ago. But with changing missions in the Middle East, the Mississippi and one of the other cruisers in her class had been converted back to a helicopter platform. It made the ships more versatile.
The weather over the central Gulf and south was still overcast and lumpy, although a high-pressure system was beginning to make its way down from Iran and Iraq, bringing with it cooler temperatures and clearing skies.
Good weather for assassinations, or finding submarines, Lane thought, as the helicopter came in over the cruiser’s fantail and set down hard.
They were surrounded by ground crew, and the fantail elevator lowered them to the hanger deck. It was 0900, a long Friday yet to come.
A young ensign greeted Lane when he climbed down from the helicopter. “Mr. Lane, the captain sends his compliments, sir. He’ll see you in the officers’ wardroom now.”
Lane nodded. He turned back to the helicopter’s crew. “Keep this bird warmed up. We’re going out again shortly.”
“Nobody said anything to us, Mr. Lane,” the pilot called down.
“They will,” Lane assured him.
He followed the ensign forward to the officers’ wardroom where the ship’s skipper, Commander Jones, and his executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Martin Prescott, waited. Jones was a large, swarthy man with a delicate nose and cheekbones, and piano player’s hands. He was a study in contrasts. His XO, on the other hand, looked like he’d just stepped out of a magazine ad for Armani suits: tall, well built, handsome.
“Welcome aboard,” Commander Jones said. They all shook hands.
“I won’t take much of your time, Commander. I need to get out to the Chicago as soon as possible.”
“I see,” Jones said, exchanging glances with his XO. “Is there time for a cup of coffee first?”
“Barely,” Lane replied. “So I’ll make this short and to the point. The Iranian submarine is no longer in the Persian Gulf. By now she’s made her way through the Strait of Hormuz and is probably well out into the Gulf of Oman.”
Prescott shook his head. “We have assets in the strait that could have picked them up.”
“She’s hiding beneath a surface ship.”
“Neat trick,” Jones admitted. “If that’s in fact what they’re doing, we’ll never catch up with her. Do you realize how many ships pass through the strait in a twenty-four-hour period?”
“They came in with the same ship,” Lane continued. “Look for a private ship, maybe a big yacht or a research vessel of some sort, that came into the Gulf about the same time the Kilo sailed from Bandar-é Emn, then, a half-day later, turned around and left.”
“That we can do,” Jones said. He motioned for his XO to get on it.
“Look for a ship that came in fast, but suddenly slowed down on the way out.”
Prescott nodded and left the wardroom for the CIC behind the bridge. “Getting you out to the Chicago won’t be easy, if it can be done at all,” the captain said.
“I know, I saw the Clancy movie, The Hunt for Red October,” Lane said.
“Well, you’re going to have to convince me, so that I can convince Glen Coburn, who probably didn’t see the movie.”
“The Iranian navy is no longer in command of that Kilo. She was hijacked by a Black Sea Fleet crew. Probably a very good crew.”
Jones looked at Lane with a new interest. “It would explain a few things.”
“The attack on the Saudi patrol boat was a diversion to keep your attention on this end of the Gulf while they headed south.”
“Assuming that you’re right, and they do get into the open ocean, what then?”
“Sometime in the past two or three weeks, a pair of SS-N-sixteen Mod Three nuclear missiles disappeared from the Black Sea Fleet depot at Sevastopol. At least one of the Iranian’s Kilo subs has been modified to load and fire that missile.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” Jones said. “All right, Lane, you’ve got my attention. Where are you taking this?”
“I think the Kilo is heading toward a rendezvous somewhere in the Arabian Sea with a Ukrainian civilian ship that’s carrying those missiles.”
“What targets are they looking at? Riyadh, Kuwait City, hell, Tel Aviv? The sixteen has a range of ten thousand miles. That’s a damned big circle.”
“I don’t know,” Lane said absently. He looked up. “That’s why I have to get to the Chicago. Have I convinced you?”
“I’ll order an Orion down there and put a comms buoy in the water. We’ll see what Coburn has to say.”
“We don’t have a lot of time, Captain.”
“I understand.” Jones telephoned the communications shack and sent the message to the Orions searching the Gulf.
Prescott came back twenty minutes later and spread a chart on the table. “The Good Hope, home port of Plymouth, England, recently sailed on charter from Karachi. She came into the Gulf the day before yesterday making over thirty knots through the strait, showed up in Kuwait City for provisions and headed back the way she came. She passed through the strait nine hours ago. Only now she’s making less than eighteen knots.”
“Is she big enough for a Kilo to hide beneath her?” Lane asked.
“Possibly. But I suspect she’s making so much noise it wouldn’t matter.”
“Do we have anything in the Arabian Sea that could intercept that boat?”
“Nothing near enough with any teeth,” Prescott said. “I checked. Looks like the Chicago is your best bet after all. But until this front passes, the satellites are going to be worthless.”
“Do we have a course and speed?”
“Nothing past the strait,” Prescott said.
“We’ll find the Chicago, and I’ll bring Glen up to speed,” Jones said. “In the meantime we’ll get you started in that direction, unless there’s something else.”
“What’s your relationship with the Saudi navy?”
Jones gave him a hard look. “They’re here and so are we. We lost two men aboard the Prince Faisal. I’d just as soon lose no more. The Saudis declaring war on Iran—even if you’re wrong and it is an Iranian crew aboard that Kilo—is plain nuts.”
“I agree, Commander. So let’s not give them any more ammunition by telling them what we know.”
“It wouldn’t help,” Jones said. “It’s a big mess out here.”
We started it, Lane wanted to say, but he held his peace.
“Good hunting,” Jones said.
53
MOHAMMAD’S STAR
Yernin had set the off-duty crew the task of moving more bodies of the Iranian crew out of the way.
Nobody liked the job or understood why he’d ordered it, but they couldn’t complain because the captain went along with him, and because Yernin did not shirk his share of the dirty work. In fact, they had a grudging respect for the man. Whatever could be said about him, he would have made a fine submariner.
He came forward to the control center, a tired but otherwise neutral look on his face. “We’re finished,” he said.
“A necessary job well done,” Razhin replied. He thought he understood what Yernin was up to.
The assassin didn’t acknowledge the compliment, “What’s our present position?”
“We’ve passed Muscat on the Oman mainland, and we’re coming up on Ras al Hadd. It is the final headland before we reach the open sea.”
Yernin glanced up at the navigator’s master clocks. It was 1500 GMT, which made it 7:00 P.M. local. By now it was dark on the surface.
He picked up the aquaphone handset. “Charlie One, this is Charlie Two.”
“Roger Charlie Two,” the officer on Good Hope’s bridge responded. It sounded like Razhin’s brother.
“What does your radar show?”
“We have multiple targets. There’s a lot of traffic up here. Mostly oil tankers.”
“Any military vessels?”
“None that we can see.”
“What about airborne?”
“An airliner twenty-eight kilometers to the southeast, heading away from us, probably to Bombay. Nothing else.”
Yernin thought about it for a moment. “Is any of the surface traffic within visual range?”
“I can see the lights of a supertanker about five miles behind us heading up into the Gulf. If they’re looking for us, they’ll see our lights. But there’s nothing else, although we’re showing up on a lot of radars.”
“Is this Captain Razhin?” Yernin asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“Then thank you, Captain. This is Colonel Yernin. You and your crew have done an excellent job. You may return to Karachi. Your part in this mission has been completed.”
“May I speak with my brother?”
A momentary flash of irritation crossed Yernin’s face. “Very well.” He held the phone out to Razhin. “Your brother wishes to speak with you. When you are finished, submerge the boat to three hundred meters, and increase speed to twenty-four knots on our present course. I’m going to get some sleep.”
CHICAGO
Lane’s transfer to the submarine went without a hitch. The deck was well lit from portable spotlights on the sail bridge, and by a spotlight on the hovering helicopter. The air crew and the deck crew were experts at this sort of thing, and the weather hadn’t turned choppy enough for the submarine to wallow too badly.
He was glad to get safely below, however, because lowering a man from a helicopter to a submarine at night was never routine.
It had taken a team of four Orions most of the day to find the Chicago even though they knew her general position, and only then because Coburn allowed himself to be found. Had he wished to evade, he could have easily done so. But he wasn’t happy about having a civilian passenger and it showed on his face when Lane was brought up to the red-lit control room.
The boat was already being dived, so Lane was motioned to keep out of the way. He went over to one of the plotting tables and, bracing himself against the forward slope of the deck, studied the chart under the clear plotting sheet. It was a large-scale chart of the central Persian Gulf.
Lane opened a drawer and rifled through several charts until he found one showing the entire Gulf and a big section of the Arabian Sea, the Indian subcontinent to the east, Africa to the southwest.
He took it to the other plotting table, overlaid it with a clear plotting sheet, and, using the plotting arms, marked their present position from the other table.
Several of the crewmen watched him nervously until Lieutenant Commander Friend came over.
“Can I help you with something, Mr. Lane?”
“Is this our present position?” Lane asked, pointing to the small cross he’d marked on the plotting sheet.
Friend glanced at it. “Close enough.”
“We’re level at two hundred feet,” the diving officer reported.
“Very well,” Coburn said. “Come right ten degrees, to a new course of zero-three-zero, make your speed ten knots.”
“Aye, aye, coming right to course zero-three-zero, speed ten knots.”
Lane marked the new speed and course on the plotting sheet with the depth notation in a small square box to the right.
Coburn came over, glanced at Lane’s handiwork, then looked up. “All right, you’re here and no one got hurt. Now how much of what Jonesy told me is fact, and how much is speculation? A lot of lives could depend on this.”
“That’s what I want to find out, Captain, but I’m going to need your help to do it.”
“I’m listening,” Coburn said impassively.
Lane turned back to the chart and drew a series of lines from the Chicago’s present position in the central Persian Gulf, south through the Strait of Hormuz, through the Gulf of Oman, and into the Arabian Sea. Next he drew a line between Karachi and the Oman headland at Ras al Hadd. He drew a circle around the spot where the two lines intersected.
“I need to be there as soon as possible.”
“You can be out there in a couple of hours by air.”
“We’re going submarine hunting,” Lane said. “If it comes down to it you might have to shoot a couple of torpedoes.”
“At this Iranian submarine?”
Lane nodded. “Possibly at a civilian freighter as well.”
“Under what flag?”
“Ukraine.”
Coburn exchanged glances with his XO. “Let’s continue this in the wardroom.”
Lane stood rooted to this spot. “We need to start now at the very best speed you can give me.”
“I’ll decide when and where this boat will go,” Coburn said.
“I’ll explain on the run—” Lane started, but Coburn stepped close and cut him off.
“You’ll do as I say, right now, mister.”
“Captain—”
Coburn stepped back. “Ask the quartermaster to come up here on the double, with his sidearm.”
“Put up a comms buoy, and send a message to the White House Situation Room. I’ll give your comms people the proper codes. Tell the president that I’m unable to carry out his orders at this time. In fact, I’m under arrest.”
Coburn’s eyes locked with Lane’s for several long seconds. Finally he turned to his XO. “Raise a comms buoy and go ahead and send that message.”
Friend stepped over to the control station and used one of the growler phones.
The quartermaster came into the control room, his sidearm drawn. “Captain?” he said.
“Stand by, Stu,” Coburn said. “Diving officer.”
“Aye, Skipper.”
Coburn studied the plot Lane had laid out. “Make our course one-six-five degrees.”
“Aye, aye. Changing course to one-six-five degrees.”
“Ring for maximum turns.” Coburn looked into Lane’s eyes.
“Aye, ringing for maximum turns.”
“Very well,” Coburn said, leaning back against the plotting table.
Three minutes later Lieutenant Commander Friend had the uplink with one of their communications satellites, and Lane gave him the special number that would connect with the president at any time of day or night, wherever in the world the president might be. Friend put it on the overhead speaker.
“You have reached the White House Situation Room, special circuit Delta-Delta-Bravo. Please give your authenticator now.”
“Alpha-Seven-Bravo, Lane” Lane said.
Friend relayed the code.
“Stand by.”
A half-minute later the distinctive voice of President Reasoner came over the speaker. “Lane, is that you?”
“No, sir. This is Lieutenant Commander Friend. I’m the executive office aboard the Chicago.”
“Is he aboard?”
“Ah, yes, sir,” Friend said. “We’re just confirming who he is.”
“Give him what he needs, Commander,” Reasoner said. “He’s the only one at the moment who knows what the hell is going on. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
The connection was broken, and Friend hung up the phone. He ordered the comms buoy reeled back in on its long wire.
“My apologies, Mr. Lane,” Coburn said. He stuck out his hand. “Welcome aboard.”
