“Sir, at a guess, I’d say it was a concrete dry dock for a submarine, but it has another big building on its left-hand side. Which seems to have a steel roof judging by the sun glinting off it. I have no idea what’s inside, because there are massive doors at the seaward end with a thick concrete wall at the landward end.”
“Hmmm. But let me ask you this. If it’s gonna be a dry dock, how come it’s not connected to the water? Look…you can see the land runs right across the entrance.”
“Yessir. I do see that. But these buildings are pretty complicated, and I would guess they are fitting all the flooding systems right here where this excavation is. I’d say they would remove the strip of land along the shore, right at the conclusion of the project. That way the submarine could just float in and settle; then they just pump the water out.”
“Correct.”
The two men had worked together for years. Lifelong Naval officers, they were as different in character as it was possible to be. Morgan, tough, hard-looking, irascible, brilliant, rude, and, curiously, admired by many, many people. Morris, an ex — Carrier Battle Group commander, was soft-spoken, lugubrious in delivery and appearance, thoughtful in the extreme. He had followed Morgan into the position as director at Fort Meade, and his biggest problem was that Morgan frequently believed he was now doing both jobs. But the concentrated attention the president’s chief security advisor focused on the ultrasecret Fort Meade operation gave the place a greater importance than it had enjoyed for many years.
“I wonder why the hell they’ve built a big secure dry dock,” Arnold Morgan mused.
“Possibly, old buddy, because they don’t want us taking out their new Russian Kilo. They’re…er…a bit short of submarines these days. You wouldn’t have thought it necessary, would you?”
“Not unless those stupid fucking Russians have agreed to sell ’em an entire new fleet of Kilos,” he rasped. “And if they have, we’ll remove them. Even Rankov understands that. When we saw the first new one in BA last week, I made it clear to him on the phone that the U.S. would not stand still while the Iranians hold up half the industrial world to ransom because of some mad fucking Muslim belief that they own the Gulf of Iran.”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Anyway, George, I guess that new building is big enough and serious enough for us to take an interest. Thanks for bringing the photographs. I think we better get a couple of guys in there to take a look, since the satellite can’t do it for us…You better get back. I’ll talk to Langley.”
Five hours later the CIA’s Middle East chief, Jeff Austin, was on the secure line to the White House imparting the news that the Agency was well aware of the new building, but were at a loss to find out what precisely was going on.
“Admiral,” he said, “everyone in the area is aware of the construction. Apparently they dug out a foundation half the size of the Grand Canyon and dumped the sand back in the desert. Caused a daily dust storm. Our best guess is a dry dock, possibly for submarines. I believe they lost their little fleet…er…coupla years back in some kind of an accident.”
“Oh, yes…that’s right. I remember reading something about that.”
“Well, sir…I’m not sure how strongly you feel about it…and the security at the Bandar Abbas base is very hot right now. But I could try and get a couple of guys in there to take a look. Trouble is they’d have to swim in, and even if they reached the building, I’m not sure they could get close enough. Even then, they wouldn’t really know what they were looking at.”
“Uh-huh. I see that. Do we have anyone inside the base?”
“One man, an Iranian, white-collar guy in the procurement office…middle level…useful, too. We find out most of the ships they’re buying before the order gets placed.”
“Didn’t find out about the new Kilo, did he?”
“Nossir. He did not.”
“Could he get one of our top guys into the base?”
“Possibly, sir. Leave it with me. I’ll get back to you in the morning. It’s the middle of the night in Iran.”
“Okay, Jeff…make it early. I don’t like submarine activity among the towelheads, right?”
“Nossir.”
At 0830 the following morning Jeff Austin reported back. “They’re working on it, sir. There is, it seems, the possibility of a VIP pass to the base. Our man in there has used it before. He thinks the pass might just get him through the gate out near the building…but he’s not sure. They’ll be back to us in a couple of days.”
“Fine. Keep at it. I’m concerned about the Iranians.”
“Yessir.”
Midday. January 14, 2005.
Special Ops Room.
Bandar Abbas Naval Base.
“Did you see this report, Admiral. The one just in.”
“Not yet, Ben. What’s it say?”
“It’s brief, from the security chief out on the main gate to the new dock. It reads:
In accordance with your instructions, I am reporting on two men we turned away at 1052 this morning for having incorrect identification passes. One of them was an office executive, Abbas Velayati, who has some clearance but not enough to enter the site. The other was a VIP guest with a correct pass, but again without clearance to the site. He said he was from Ukraine. I believe both men may be found in the procurement office, according to Velayati’s identification pass.
“We must place them under immediate arrest,” snapped Admiral Badr. “Neither of them could have any reason for going out there except to snoop around. We should interrogate them both. Harshly.”
“I would be inclined to do none of that,” replied Commander Adnam. “In fact I’d prefer to do the exact opposite. I think we should apologize for treating a guest here in such a brusque manner, then issue the correct documents for them to go out and visit the new dock, and even the model room…perhaps at around 1800 when the day shift is packing up. Then we can shoot them both. It would save a lot of time…and we would be confident our secrets were safe.”
“My God, Ben. You mean I should instruct one of the guards to execute them?”
“Absolutely not. Say nothing to anyone. I intend to deal with them myself. Out by the new pumping station…in my new capacity as tour guide. I believe they’re pouring the concrete foundation in the morning. Most convenient, don’t you think?”
January 19, 2005.
Office of the National Security Advisor.
The White House.
“Bad news I’m afraid, Admiral,” said Jeff Austin, even before he pulled up a chair to Admiral Morgan’s desk.
“Lay it on me.”
“We’ve had a disaster in Bandar Abbas. Lost two men, one of them our only insider in the Naval base; the other one’s Tom Partridge, senior field officer, speaks Russian and Iranian. They both disappeared five days ago.”
“Where?”
“Out at the base. Our man at Abbas got Tom in, on some kind of a VIP pass, and neither of them have been seen since. The Iranian’s wife has kicked up a huge fuss, but the military police say they have no knowledge of anything. They say both men left the base at the regular time. The civilian police say it is nothing to do with them. My guess is they were both caught, and shot.”
“Jesus Christ, Jeff. That’s bad. Did it get in the papers out there?”
“Not a word. Ever since that building got started, the security’s been cast-iron. We have a man in the local newspaper, and he knows absolutely nothing. Nor is he planning to investigate. We only found out when both men missed their check calls, two days after they went missing.”
“Hmmmmm. We better sit on this for a few days. See if anything pops up. One thing we do know…they’re pretty damned touchy down there, whatever the hell it is they’re up to.”
January 20, 2005.
Special Ops Room.
Bandar Abbas Naval Base.
“Okay, Ben. We got a communication back from Moscow. They’ve agreed to sell us the systems…four of the new SA-N-6 Grumble Rif
s…the one you suggested in the first place. It took ’em long enough…and it’s not cheap…$300 million, including 50 SAMs.”
“All of those Russian missiles are pretty reliable. I’d say a 95 percent chance of a successful launch and flight. Kill probability depends on target maneuvers and countermeasures. But this one is very fast, hits Mach-2.5–1,700 mph — almost immediately. It’s good to altitude 90,000 feet. Carries a 90kg warhead. The export version may need minor modification.”
“Are the Russians using ’em?”
“Uh-huh. I think they’re replacing a lot of the old SA-N-3s with them. I read somewhere they completely tested it on one of those old Kara-Class cruisers. The Azov, I think. She’s in the Black Sea. What do they say about delivery? You know what they’re like.”
“Well, Ben, I think we can look forward to something in the next month. This system is fairly new, and it’s in production, and we are very good customers. All four of them are coming on a freighter, direct from the Black Sea, and through the canal. According to this, it will clear Sevastopol in four weeks, pending receipt of our money.”
“They do not, of course, have the slightest idea why we are buying Grumble-type surface-to-air missiles?”
“No. They do not. We told them we live in fear of an air strike against us from the U.S.A. We require the missiles strictly for anti-aircraft defensive purposes, to protect our navy base here in Bandar Abbas. These things could take out an incoming American fighter bomber…and the Russians had no reason to question us further. Anyway, I think they’ll take the money from anyone these days.”
The admiral looked at his watch. “Ben, we have to go. The flight’s taking off in a half hour.”
“Since we’re the only passengers, I expect they’ll wait for us,” the commander said, smiling. But he stood up, quickly tidied his desk, checked out with security downstairs, and joined Admiral Badr on the upstairs landing.
1700. January 20, 2005.
The home of the Ayatollah in the Kheyabon area of Tehran.
One of the disciples opened the side door to the courtyard for the two Naval officers. He touched his left hand to his forehead and brought it down in an elegant arc. “Admiral,” he said, nodding with respect. And to Ben he added, “Good afternoon, Mr. Dundee,” barely suppressing his overwhelming joy at the keenness of his wit. Commander Adnam smiled, turned to the admiral, and said, “Sir, in the Royal Navy that would be described as an in joke.”
They walked past the fountain and into the cool stone-floored room in which the Ayatollah sat, accompanied by the hojjat-el-Islam and a robed Iranian politician from the Ministry of Defense. Greetings were exchanged with grace and eloquence, as is the custom among the educated classes of Iran. But there was an edge to this gathering, and both Ben and the admiral sensed it immediately.
The Ayatollah was anxious to begin, but he did not rush into the most pressing aspect of the discussion. Instead, he began carefully, summarizing the progress report he had received from the top-secret project down on the south coast.
He confirmed that he understood the team had been selected from among the best men in the Navy. The dry dock was just about complete and would be flooded inside ten days, and the new missile system would leave the Black Sea on a freighter within a matter of days. Everything was slightly ahead of schedule, and there had been no serious outside inquiries as to the nature of the operation, save for two CIA spies who had tried and failed to gain entrance to the building site.
For all of this he congratulated his admiral and his new commander. But then his face took on a look of concern, and he spoke very quietly. “Commander Adnam,” he said, “before I approved this project, you told me you intended to fit this missile system to a submarine. You even undertook to provide one. As you know, I authorized the expenditure because the dock would always be useful for our new Kilo, and the SAM system will serve as strong air defense for the base. However, before I authorize further funding, I need to know a great deal more detail about how you intend to proceed from here.
“For instance, upon which vessel do you intend to attach this extremely expensive Russian missile system? I think the time has come for us to know that.”
“Sir, it will be engineered onto a submarine, right behind the fin for vertical launching.”
“I see. Is this liable to be a difficult operation? I refer to fixing a surface-to-air missile system onto the deck of a submarine.”
“I don’t believe so, sir. It’s just that it has never been done before. You see it’s not the same as the big intercontinental ballistic missiles, with their extremely complex systems. We are operating with a much smaller, simpler beast, a wickedly accurate guided missile that travels at two and a half times the speed of sound, but only for around 40 miles.”
“Well, Ben. Why do you think no one has ever before wanted to fire such a weapon from a submarine?”
“Oh, I think it’s been talked about often, but there was never a very strong reason for doing it. They fit better on surface ships. Nonetheless, I have always considered it the most formidable possibility. A missile fired, as it were, from nowhere.”
“Commander, do you envision using our only suitable submarine, the new Kilo from Russia?”
“Nossir. The Americans will be watching that too vigilantly. I am afraid we will have to be a great deal more subtle than that.”
“You mean we must acquire another submarine, one which the Americans do not know about?”
“Yessir. I do.”
“Then my colleagues and I believe that now is the time for you to explain precisely how you propose to obtain it. Are you suggesting the British, of all people, will sell us one? Or are you asking us to rent one, an old one from some moribund navy around the Gulf or North Africa? You have never told us, you know. And, so far as I can see, the entire project depends on the acquisition of the right submarine and the skill of our engineers.”
“Yessir. It does.”
“Well, Benjamin? Will you tell us your plan now? Then we can proceed to release the funds to go ahead. It may take a little time…you realize the new Kilo now costs $350 million?”
“Sir, had I intended to involve you in high expenditure for a submarine, I would have advised you accordingly many months ago. But I do not intend to do that.”
“Then you are proposing we contact the British and make some attempt to lease one for a year, or something like that?”
“Nossir. I was not planning to do that either. I think that would be impossible, as would another expensive purchase.”
At that point Admiral Badr stepped in, sensing the meeting was approaching an uncomfortable level of frustration.
“Ben,” he interjected, “you have drawn me to the inescapable conclusion that you intend to use the plastic model submarine we have in the shed!”
Ben shook his head, and said gently, “Not quite. Actually, old chap, I was intending to steal one.”
3
March 23, 2005.
“230200MAR05. 31.00N, 13.45W. COURSE 060. SPEED 12.”
Commander Adnam carefully wrote down the date, time, position, course, and speed in the manner of a lifelong Naval officer. He made the note only in his own diary, for he was a guest on board, but the old disciplined habits of the Navy, the endless recording, the blunt accuracy of even the smallest detail, never fade from the mind of a senior sailor. And for good measure the commander added, “Weather gusty, Santa Cecilia rolling forward, in a long swell.”
They had been out for forty-seven days and had run nonstop for 13,500 miles, all the way from the Gulf of Iran, down the coast of East Africa, around the Cape of Good Hope, up the endless coast of West Africa. They were plowing north, 200 miles off the shore of Morocco, where the Atlas Mountains sweep down to the ocean, south of Marrakech.
The quarters were not comfortable, just a converted freight hold in this aging Panamanian-registered coaster of 1,800 tons. That was not much room for 21 fit men to sleep in, but the Iranian Navy had done its best.
Bunks and hammocks had been rigged, there was plenty of water, the decks were roomy but sweltering hot, and the food was excellent. The rolling motion of the half-empty ship had caused some seasickness among the submariners, and the throb of the big diesel engines, so noisy in the hold, was with them twenty-four hours a day. Crossing the equator, it had been too noisy below, and too hot on deck. But the iron discipline of Ben’s men held. No one complained.
The second of the two holds was full of fuel, so the freighter would not need to put ashore. That had been Ben’s idea, during a daylong argument when everyone wanted to turn northwest through the Red Sea and steam straight through the Mediterranean, thus cutting the overall distance by almost a half. But the commander had been immovable.
“One visit by Egyptian customs at the canal,” he had said slowly. “Just one visit. And they find a freighter, with a full crew, plus twenty-one other guys below, and a hold full of fuel. It’s just too unusual. All right, I know we could be tourists, fishermen, a crew going to pick up another ship. But in my line of work, you never take that kind of a chance. And you certainly do not leave half a dozen customs officers wondering who the hell you really were. Gentlemen, I am sorry, but we go offshore in our freighter and make the voyage around the Cape. In private. No customs. No intrusions.”
In the dark, windy, early-morning hours of March 23, out in the Atlantic, Ben Adnam was calculating, leaning on the starboard rail, gazing to the east, watching for lights. In his mind he was working out precisely when they would arrive at the selected spot in the middle of the English Channel, and now he jotted it down, heading back to the ship’s radio room, which was empty.
He tuned to medium frequency, encrypted, and began transmitting his call sign, speaking clearly: “Calling Alpha X-Ray Lima Three. This is November Quebec Two Uniform…radio check. Over…”
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