“I had that very same discussion with Joe Glass when I was his exec,” Edwards noted. “I suspect it’s some sort of right-of-passage thing.”
The two officers sat alone in the wardroom of the George Mason, just as so many submariners had done before them, playing the traditional card game of the Silent Service, a staple since the days of the early diesel-electric boats. Dinner had been cleared away a bit before and they were relaxing for a few minutes while the other officers were busy elsewhere on the ship. They would be attending to whatever tasks demanded their attention before they all trailed back in for officer training.
Biddle shuffled the deck and started to deal the next hand. As he did, the phone buzzed. Edwards grabbed the handset and answered it.
“Captain, Officer of the Deck.” It was Jim Shubert. “Looks like the Boz-Manand has finished sea trials. She just did an emergency surface and...”
“Get pictures?” Edwards interrupted. Plenty of people would be interested in getting a look at the new Russian-developed submarine that now belonged to the saber-rattling yahoos in Iran.
“We got it all on video,” Shubert replied. “Looks like her surface escort is heading back in port, though.”
“How about our playmate? Please tell me she’s headed for port as well.”
“Captain, that’s the strange thing,” the OOD answered. “Nobody is topside on her and looks like she’s heading the other way, out to sea. Current course is one-eight-zero, speed twelve.”
It took a second, but Edwards suddenly realized what was going on.
“Shit, she’s heading out on patrol. Jim, get us in trail position a thousand yards astern of her.” The skipper jumped up and headed out of the wardroom, yelling back to Biddle, “XO, get to radio and tell the boss what’s happening. Boz-Manand is out of the barn and heading south. We are in trail. Request instructions.”
Ψ
Nabiin sat on the ship’s bridge wing and watched the sun drop behind a bank of dry clouds to the west. The Horn of Africa was just over the horizon, five hundred kilometers or so away. And the Yemeni coast was about an equal distance to the north.
Normally this narrow stretch of ocean would be cluttered with ships. It was one of the most highly trafficked sea lanes in the world, traversed by freighters, oil tankers, fishing vessels, and more. But this evening, not a single ship was in view. Missile and drone attacks over the previous few weeks had scared the risk-conscious shippers away, at least until the region stabilized a little, returning to what passed for normal in this part of the world.
Nabiin smiled. He knew perfectly well that nothing was going to stabilize anytime soon in this region. That was because he was the one who had ordered the attacks. And they had caused the precise result he desired.
“Nabiin, if I may.” It was Farian Gurmani who had dared to interrupt the Prophet’s reverie. “Radar shows several ships steaming together to the west. They are moving very fast and will pass close by. What should we do?”
Nabiin smiled even more broadly, the effect chilling. Gurmani felt a sense of dread pass through his body like a cold wind. Perhaps he should have remained quiet.
“Fear not, my friend. Those are only our friends, the Chinese Navy. They are assisting us and our mission, whether they realize it or not. Tonight, they run down to punish Sheik al-Wasragi, but they will find nothing but desert sand for their missiles to annihilate. Nothing but rocks and scrub on which to unleash their vengeance. Soon they will know that it would have been better had they decided to chase the winds.”
25
Ben Tahib sat back and did his best to relax as the bus bounced and twisted through the almost-empty streets of Tehran. His late-night flight from Qatar’s Hamad International Airport to Tehran’s Imam Khomeini International Airport had been uneventful except for the screaming infant across the aisle and the air-sick passenger two rows back. The child finally hushed, but only minutes before they began their bumpy descent into the Iranian capital.
The journalist was fully aware that in order to get to Chabahar, his final destination, he would need to change both airlines and airports. Qatar Airlines did not service Chabahar or any place even reasonably close. To get there, he would have to continue his journey on Chabahar Airlines, which flew out of Tehran’s old Mehrabad International Airport. The advantage of a 3:30 a.m. arrival was no traffic on the Persian Gulf Freeway as his bus wound its way into and through the city. The disadvantage was it was now 4:00 in the morning and Tahib was dead tired.
The reporter willed his eyes to stay open as he reviewed his scrawled notes on what he had been able to put together since Samuel Talbot’s phone call shoved him back into the sleuthing business. Tahib’s network of informants, both inside Iran and throughout the broader Islamic world, had provided a smorgasbord of hints and clues but nothing conclusive. His notes were a mishmash that only someone with many years’ experience in boiling, roiling Middle Eastern politics could decipher. But they all pretty much pointed him toward the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Navy and the port city of Chabahar.
The bus sped past darkened farmland and then the Khomeini Shrine complex before finally entering the outskirts of Tehran. Nothing ever seemed to change around Iran’s capital city, unlike the vibrant metropolises that thrived on the other side of the Persian Gulf, in Qatar, Bahrain, the United Arab Emirates, Kuwait, and Dubai.
Tahib put away his notepad as the bus swung through the roundabout and then pulled up to Mehrabad’s aging terminal. An experienced traveler, Tahib did not have a good feeling when he and his fellow passengers were immediately routed to a beat-up shuttle bus with a tattered and torn sign that said, “To Chabahar Airlines,” in Persian, propped up in the filthy windshield.
The tired old shuttle bus pulled up to an almost equally battered ancient MD-80 jet with “Chabahar Airlines” painted in faded blue letters on the side. Fortunately, Tahib was traveling light. The other passengers had no choice but to manhandle their luggage from the bus, up and into the plane’s cargo hold before they were allowed to board. He walked up the plane’s distinctive rear air stairs and plopped down in a window seat over the wing, hoping he might have the entire row to himself and could stretch out for a nap.
However, as Tahib watched out the dusty, scratched window, another shuttle bus pulled up and screeched to a smoky stop. And then two more. The plane was quickly filling up when an overweight middle-aged man dropped heavily, breathlessly, into the seat next to him.
The man sat facing forward for a full minute before he finally mumbled, “Chabahar is such a lovely city. It is a pity that you will not be able to do any sightseeing.”
Tahib did not even bother to look over at his new seat mate. He half wondered if the man was talking to him.
“So I have heard.”
“Salam, Mr. Tahib. It is a pleasure to meet you,” the man went on, still mumbling and staring straight ahead, as if addressing the seatback in front of him. “I have long been a fan of your reporting on the television. But I must say, you ask many dangerous questions. You should be much more discreet. Even Samuel Talbot’s powerful reach cannot protect you here in this country.”
“I appreciate your concern.”
“When you land, tell the cab driver to take you to the Fajr Bakery in Konarak. Ask for Achmed. He will provide you with some of the answers you seek. But that will only be the beginning of a very treacherous journey. A critically important one. Good luck, my friend.”
The man suddenly stood, turned, and stepped quickly toward the rear of the crowded plane. Tahib made no attempt to follow him. This guy was nothing more than a messenger. He knew little if anything more. Any further questions would be pointless. Besides, the door to the aircraft was just being slammed shut.
The sun was rising to the east as the old jet taxied out onto the runway, ominously squeaking, grinding, and grumbling the whole way. The two-hour flight was uneventful and Tahib managed a few minutes of unsatisfactory sleep. Upon touching down, he was a little shocked to find
that Chabahar International Airport was hardly more than a narrow runway and a decrepit cement pile of outbuildings, improbably bulldozed out in the middle of the desert. Wherever the city of Chabahar was, it was nowhere near its airport, not even in view as the plane circled around to land.
The aircraft stopped on the tarmac a hundred meters short of the unimpressive, squat terminal building. Tahib joined the rest of his travel companions piling off the plane and trooping to a tent that appeared to serve as the gate area. His contact was nowhere to be seen, confirming that he had departed the plane before take-off in Tehran.
Tahib stepped quickly through the terminal to search for a taxi while most of the passengers waited for their luggage to come down from the aircraft. He was mildly surprised to find a cab waiting outside the terminal’s entrance, its driver leaning against a crumpled fender, smoking, as if waiting for him to arrive. And even more surprised when the cabbie motioned impatiently for him to come on and opened the door for him.
As they pulled away, Tahib started to tell the driver where to take him, but the man waved him off, hunched over the steering wheel, and drove furiously.
The ride into Konarak was only about five kilometers and cost all of three hundred thousand Iranian rials. It took Tahib just a second to convert that to thirty-six Qatari rials. Ten dollars, US. Tahib tipped the cabbie an amount equal to the fare. The man took it without smiling or thanking him.
Fajr Bakery turned out to be a small neighborhood establishment, barely large enough for a half-dozen customers at a time. And it seemed that the entire town of Konarak was out to buy their morning bread. The line—more a community gathering—stretched out into the street and around the corner. Despite the obvious wait, the gossip was lively and the banter good-natured.
Still, Tahib quickly concluded that he, a stranger in a suit and tie, very much stood out in this group. Best to find Achmed, ask his questions, and move on before his presence caused too much undue interest.
It turned out that Achmed was the head baker. Head in that only Achmed and his young son ran the shop. When Tahib skirted the line and approached the counter, then introduced himself and said he needed to talk, Achmed handed him a fresh loaf of nan-e barbari and signaled him no payment was necessary, that he was to go back outside and then around to the rear of the shop.
Tahib munched on the crispy soft loaf as he did what he had been directed. The back of the bakery faced a barren field. The reporter glanced around. Nobody in sight. His vulnerability was frighteningly obvious. He could disappear here and his body, dragged into the sandy desert, would never be found. Even so, he was also aware of how hungry he had become. He took another bite of the savory, fresh-baked, sesame-encrusted bread. It was delicious.
Just then, the bakery’s back door opened and Achmed stepped out. He looked around nervously and seemed much more pleased than Tahib to see nobody else about.
“They told me to expect you,” the baker started. “We must speak quickly and then you must leave. It is for both of our safety.”
The baker reached into an apron pocket and handed Tahib a computer memory stick. Tahib took it, a questioning look on his face.
“These are pictures that I have taken over the last two weeks. They are all from the shipyard where I work when I am not making bread. I do what I must to feed my family.” The baker nodded until Tahib returned the nod, confirming that he understood.
The reporter assumed the man was not merely talking about shipyard laboring and baking. The memory stick and the information it contained was another way he earned money to feed his family.
“You will see that the Revolutionary Guard has taken over the new submarine Boz-Manand, Iran’s missile submarine. They have loaded missiles onboard. And I overheard one of the Guards say that the missiles were nuclear tipped. Someone with knowledge of such things can likely confirm that fact from the photographs, but I am certain the weapons contain a nuclear charge. Oh, and the Boz-Manand also loaded enough supplies for many weeks at sea. I do know from my job about such things and that is highly unusual for a new vessel.”
“But why?” Tahib asked, trying to take in all this information. The Iranians had been very aggressive lately. But a submarine with nuclear missiles? That was an escalation that would instantly create headlines worldwide. “Why would even those crazy sons of bitches...why would they rush a brand-new untested submarine to sea? And have her equipped with nuclear weapons onboard. I am sorry, Achmed. It simply does not meet the common-sense test.”
Achmed nodded and thought for a minute before he answered slowly, as if cautiously choosing each word. “There are many rumors. Rumors that the RGN leadership is dissatisfied with the Ayatollahs and their conservative ways.”
The baker looked around as if he fully expected them to be set upon by a group of the Guards. But there was still nobody in sight. “They are moving to a new allegiance with an imam, a man called Nabiin. He is promising to bring about the End Times. And he is willing to do whatever it takes to hasten this event. It is believed that you have the ability to get this word out and perhaps stop him before it is too late. Millions may die. You hear me? Millions.”
Tahib had stopped chewing and was no longer tasting his bread. Now, he almost choked on it.
The reporter had just come to the conclusion that he had a long and very dangerous trip ahead of him. And that he now had what could be the biggest news story in the history of the planet.
Ψ
Admiral Jon Ward stretched his legs as he walked down the long jetway. The non-stop United flight from Washington Dulles to Tel Aviv had taken just over twelve hours. That was a lot of time to be cramped up in the middle seat, even if he did rate Economy Plus. How high up the flag ranks did a man have to climb to earn at least business class? Ward promised himself he would check when he got back home to see if he now qualified for the upgrade.
Ben Gurion Airport was its usual bustling, busy self. Ward hustled through customs without any problems and headed toward the nearest taxi stand. His directions were relatively simple: go to Café Joe, just off Route One in the suburb of Kfar Habad, very near the airport, have a bite to eat, and wait until someone met him. Ward figured even the US Navy’s newest flag officer could manage those tasks. But, as it turned out, there were two very similar coffee shops. One was a Café Joe. The other was called Café Jo. And they were all of a hundred yards apart. Had he gotten the spelling right or not? Ward decided to flip a coin. But then he realized he had no idea which side of a shekel was heads and which side was tails.
He decided to not take the time to try to Google such a silly thing on his phone and to simply go with Café Joe. If he was wrong, he would only need to cross the parking lot to correct the mistake if nobody showed up within a reasonable amount of time. He ordered a cardamom coffee and a pair of cheese bourekas from the counter, then found an empty table in the less-crowded back of the sun-filled room. The shop was lively, the conversation among obvious regulars spirited but good-natured. He took a sip of the sinfully spiced mud coffee before biting into the poppy seed-encrusted pastry. Both were delicious.
Just then, a well-dressed elderly gentleman with a cup of coffee and saucer in his hand approached Ward’s table. He paused only a moment before asking, “May I join you, Admiral Ward?”
The man’s accent was faintly Eastern European, but Jon Ward thought that he detected a trace of Oxford in there somewhere. So, this was the mysterious and elusive Samuel Talbot. Ward waved his hand toward the empty seat across the table.
“Please.”
“Good choice,” the man said, nodding toward the coffee and pastry as he took a seat.
“I’ve been a part of a submarine cruise or two in the Med. As a married man, I left the usual sailor-on-leave shenanigans to the unattached crewmen. I stuck with the culinary explorations.”
“You have traveled a long way just to have a cup of coffee with an old Jew,” Talbot said, shifting the conversation not so subtly. “I can only hope that this proves
to be a useful meeting for both of us.”
“That all depends on many factors, of course,” Ward answered warily.
The older man chuckled.
“The reports I have on you seem to be correct. You are direct and do not waste time on useless pleasantries.”
“As you said, it was a long trip and I confess I’m tired,” Ward replied. “That mixture tends to make me grouchy, I’m afraid. But this coffee and the excellent pastry may improve my world view. And I can only hope what you want to share with me will do likewise.” Both men simultaneously took sips of their coffees. “Now, why did I traipse halfway around the world? I trust it wasn’t for a conversation in a coffee shop when a simple phone call would have worked just as well.”
“Some things, in my estimation, require a personal, face-to-face meeting,” Talbot responded. “It is much easier to convey the real import of what is being said and to ensure that there are no inadvertent misunderstandings. I am also firmly of the opinion that more can be derived...”
His explanation was halted for a few moments as a jet on final approach into Ben Gurion roared by only a few hundred feet overhead. When the tableware, cups, and saucers quit chattering, Talbot continued.
“...that more can be derived, and trust established when two people can see each other’s faces. And especially the eyes.” Talbot looked pointedly into Jon Ward’s eyes as he took another sip. “Now, for some time my organization has been following the operations of someone who is called Shaikh Babar Khalid. He is better known in the press as Nabiin, which loosely translates as the Prophet. He has been very elusive and powerful, and, frankly, his influence and danger somehow eluded the oversight of some of the best intelligence agencies in the world, including ours and yours, Admiral. The Prophet is, in your American vernacular, a nut case. But despite this, he has also proven to be very persuasive in aligning the more radical outliers among the Muslims behind his cause. He is preaching what, in the Islamic religion, is called the End of Days. And his message is resonating with some very dangerous and ruthless people, each of whom has his own reasons for wanting this madman to at least launch his plan. And that plan? He is trying to foment a great war to bring about the Day of Judgment.”
Arabian Storm (The Hunter Killer Series Book 5) Page 21