The signal back to Zhanjiang was as agreed, in the event of a successful mission: DRAGONFLY.
1130 (local). Tuesday, April 3.
Fort Meade, Maryland.
There is an irritating eight-and-a-half-hour time difference between the East Coast of America and Iran. This is caused by a time zone that runs bang through the middle of the country near Tehran. Instead of one half of the nation being four hours in front of GMT, and the other half only three, they compromised and put the whole place three and a half hours ahead of London, which is of course five in front of New York.
Thus satellite pictures taken at 1930 (Iran) were shot at 1100 (Fort Meade) the same day. And this particular set of pictures of Bandar Abbas Dockyard landed on Lt. Ramshawe’s desk just as he arrived a half hour early for work.
Before him, in sharp focus, was the major event Admiral Borden had mentioned. Jimmy could see civilian cars parked in the dockyard with the joint Sino-Iranian fleet lit up brightly in the gathering darkness for the public to see. He guessed he would receive new pictures, intermittently, throughout the day, showing more or less what was happening in Iran’s Navy Headquarters.
Still allowing the issue of the Russian mines to burn away at the back of his brain, Lt. Ramshawe searched the decks of the Chinese frigates, under a powerful glass, to see if there was a sign of them. But there was none. Not so the destroyer. All 40 of the mines she carried could now be seen on her rails, though they had plainly been covered during her journey from China.
A new set of pictures arrived midafternoon that actually caught the little fleet on the move. It was very dark in the gulf now, and the photographs were not of the same quality. But this hardly mattered. What did matter was the sight of three Chinese frigates, one destroyer and two Iranian Corvettes heading off on a mission in the middle of the night.
For all he knew, they were off to attack Iraq or Oman, “or some other godforsaken place,” and Jimmy Ramshawe hit the button to the Director’s office, from where he was given his usual short shrift.
“I wouldn’t worry about it, Lieutenant, if I were you…they’re probably going to conduct a night exercise together…not unusual at one of these international junkets between two navies….”
“Yessir. But I can see a full load of mines on the destroyer….”
“I expect they’ll still be there in the morning, Lieutenant. That’s all.”
Jimmy Ramshawe put the phone down slowly. And the same question he had asked himself a thousand times popped into his mind: Why had the Chinese plainly ordered an extremely expensive consignment of specialist contact mines from Russia if they weren’t planning to lay out a bloody minefield somewhere?
He also considered it a slice of blind luck that the Andropov freighter had been spotted taking off from Moscow, and then again at secretive Baykonur. No one ever traced its second refueling stop, and in Lt. Ramshawe’s opinion it was entirely possible there had been a second trans-Asian flight of the giant aircraft. That would have brought the total mines carried to 240, sufficient to fill all four surface ships with their combined quota of 220. He had not given the three Kilos much thought since they had not been seen for a few days. But he could not get those mines out of his mind.
It was all very well Admiral Borden saying it was best to forget the whole thing until something more definite emerged, but, streuth! What if those crazy bastards were out there right now planting a minefield in the middle of the strait? What then?
Lieutenant Ramshawe wandered off in search of a cup of coffee, reasoning to himself that if the satellite pass was made at 0800 over Bandar Abbas, which he knew for certain, then he might see some good pictures of the ships back in harbor sometime after midnight Fort Meade time.
Anyway, he was going nowhere until he had seen those pictures. And he knew this was a state of affairs guaranteed not to thrill his girlfriend, the dark-haired Jane Peacock, daughter of the Australian ambassador to Washington. The Peacocks and the Ramshawes were lifelong friends, and it was widely assumed that Jimmy and Jane would ultimately marry.
Right now he looked forward to telephoning Jane even less than he dreaded calling his boss. The pair of them could probably run a contest to see who could give me the hardest bloody time.
He was right, too. “Jimmy, for crying out loud, why this sudden interest in an Arab Navy?”
“They’re not Arabs,” he corrected her. “They’re Persian. That’s different.”
“I don’t care if they’re bloody Martians!” she yelled. “We were supposed to have supper with Julie in Georgetown, and you’re hopeless…. I’m not going by myself.”
“Janie, listen. I believe this is really important. Like maybe a life-and-death matter.”
“Well, there must be more important people than you to deal with it.”
“There isn’t anyone more important than me who even believes it, never mind wants to deal with it.”
“Well, leave it alone, then, until someone instructs you to do something.”
“I can’t, Janie. I have to stay. But I’ll pick you up early tomorrow and we’ll have breakfast before you go to your class—I’m free till eleven-thirty, same time you have to be in Georgetown.”
“Okay,” she grumbled. “Nine at the embassy…but you’re still a bloody nightmare…. Even your own mother thinks that.”
Jimmy chuckled. He adored his beautiful, clever fiancée, and he hated letting her down. But in his own mind, he alone stood between world order and possible world chaos. Well, something like that. I just don’t trust the bastards. That’s all.
The night passed slowly. And he spent the hours before midnight reading a book about international terrorism, a fundamentally depressing read, citing samples of inordinate stupidity by the Intelligence services of various Western governments.
Jesus, a whole lot of this crap could have been avoided if people were just that little bit sharper…. Even at the business end of the Intelligence game there are still people more intent on protecting their own jobs, rather than concentrating on getting it right, at all costs.
Jimmy Ramshawe was still young enough to own those ideals. Just. But he would not want to work too long for a conservative cynic like David Borden, whose pension beckoned, and who preferred to pass the buck than start a high-profile scare over nothing.
Midnight came and went. It was a half hour since the morning satellite shots had been taken again, high above the harbor of Bandar Abbas.
Nothing arrived until 0040. And the young Lieutenant shuffled the new photos from the National Reconnaissance Office, searching for a shot of the Chinese destroyer. And here it was…fully laden with its mines, just as it had been before the midnight naval exercises in the gulf. The frigates too were back at their Iranian jetties, the tarpaulins that covered their cargo still in place.
There were also the standard daily shots of Chah Behar, and they showed empty spaces where the three Chinese Kilos had been last Saturday night. “Christ knows where they are,” muttered Jimmy.
And he picked up his jacket and made his way out of the office, walking through the main doors of the building and across to the dimly lit parking lot where two Marine guards saluted him.
He climbed into the driver’s seat and drove to the main gates, showed his pass to the duty guards and gunned his 10-year-old black Jaguar out to the exit road and on down to the Washington-Baltimore Parkway
. It was a fast ride at this time of night, and he let the speedometer hover around 75 as he cruised down to the Beltway for the 10-mile run to Exit 33, Connecticut Avenue
, which would take him straight into the center of the capital.
He made a right at Dupont Circle
, skirted the campus of George Washington University, and ran on down to the Watergate complex where his parents had owned an apartment for the better part of 30 years. Naturally they rarely, if ever, used it, since they lived mostly in New York. Which was excellent news for Jimmy, who thus had a millionaire’s residence for free.
He drove into his underground parking space and turned off the engine. It was almost 2 A.M., and he was almost too tired to get out of the car. But he still wished Jane could have been there waiting for him. And he thought again of how much easier life had been when Admiral George Morris had been in charge at the NSA.
The thing about George was, he was damned confident, and he had the ear of the Big Man in the White House. No one was closer to Arnold Morgan than George, and the two of them always consulted. Admiral Morris was thus a fabulous guy to work for. He always listened. He always weighed all the eventualities, and all the possibilities. Never tried to second-guess his staff. He worked on the theory that if one of his chosen men thought something should be investigated, then that was probably correct. Not like this bloody Boredom character.
Jimmy sat there in the driver’s seat for a moment, pondering his dreary task tomorrow when he had to talk to Admiral Borden and admit the Chinese destroyer was still fully laden with her sea mines, as she had been the previous night.
He could hear the world-weary old bastard right now: “Well, Lieutenant, what a great surprise that must be to you…but don’t say I didn’t warn you….”
“Just as long as he doesn’t tempt me to tell him another unlikely truth,” muttered Jimmy to himself. “That the bloody morning mines might be different ones from those we saw last night. He’ll say that’s bollocks. Probably paranoid bollocks. But it isn’t. Because that’s what I’d do myself if I wanted to lay a minefield in the Strait of Hormuz.”
He climbed out of the car and locked it. Wandering over to the elevator, still muttering, “…replace the mines on deck before the zero-eight-hundred satellite pass, right? Put the stupid Americans off the trail.”
2
On Saturday morning, April 7, at first light, the Chinese warships sailed, apparently, for home. At least two of them did, the Hangzhou and the Shantou. The other two stayed right where they were at the jetties in Bandar Abbas harbor. Three hours later, shortly before 0950 (local time), the three Chinese Kilos pushed out of Chah Behar into the Hormuz Strait and made their way south toward the Arabian Sea.
The U.S. satellites picked up the entire scenario on bright sunlit waters, and back in Fort Meade, Lieutant Ramshawe wrote a short memorandum to the NSA’s Acting Director, detailing the ship movements.
Two days later a report came in from the Middle Eastern desk at Langley that Iran was moving heavy Sunburn missiles, plus launchers, plus antiaircraft artillery, to a point along their southeastern coast on the Gulf of Oman.
Langley’s man did not know precisely where the hardware was headed, but Fort Meade made a slight adjustment in the satellite’s photographic direction, and from way up in the stratosphere the massive U.S. camera snapped off two shots of the big Sunburns being maneuvered into position facing out to sea, 29 miles south of the coastal town of Kuhestak.
Lieutenant Ramshawe marked up his wide chart, 26.23N 57.05E. He automatically glanced across to see the nearest point of land, but there really was nothing. If the missiles were fired westerly at 90 degrees to the coast, they would head straight out to sea. A slightly more southerly course would aim them at the northern headland of the Iranians’ friends, the Omanis.
That headland, the outermost point of the barren Musadam Peninsula, scarcely had a town or a village on it. The only name marked on Jimmy Ramshawe’s chart, way out on the jutting eastern coast, was Ra’s Qabr al Hindi.
“Christ,” he muttered. “What kind of a bloody name’s that? Imagine coming from there, and traveling to the States…er, Place of residence, sir? Ra’s Qabr al Hindi. Jeez, they’d probably lock you up on principle…heh heh heh!”
In any event, the Lieutenant drafted a report confirming they now had a firm position for the Iranian missiles. And then he returned to his consistent preoccupation, the two remaining Chinese warships in Bandar Abbas, the Kangding and the Zigong. The photographs that had just arrived showed both ships now flying Iran’s national flag.
And Jimmy Ramshawe stared at them for a long time. What if they had laid a secret minefield somewhere out there last week…What if the two frigates had been left behind in readiness to go out and activate the mines?
He knew that such a theory would be ridiculed by Admiral Borden, who had of course ridiculed his every thought about the mines. And thus far had been proved right. Nonetheless, Lieutenant Ramshawe elected to go and see his leader, and present his worst fears.
The veteran Admiral smiled, with a jaded, indulgent air.
“James,” he said. “May I call you James?”
“Jimmy, sir, actually. No one’s ever called me James. I’d think you were talking to someone else.”
The Admiral blinked at the Australian’s forthrightness, which always caught him off guard.
“Right, Jimmy. Now listen to me…. Do you know why the two frigates are now flying the flag of Iran?”
“Not really, sir. But it could be some kind of a Chinese cover-up, while they’re getting ready either to lay mines or activate them.”
“No, Jimmy,” he said with heavy emphasis. “That is not the reason. They are flying the Iranian flag because Iran has just bought the two Chinese frigates. That was the objective of the big dockyard junket. It was a Chinese sales tour…. You don’t think they’d come all that way for nothing, do you?…Not the Chinese. They like money a lot more than they like anything else.
“It was a goodwill sales visit. No doubt in my mind. They conducted a fleet exercise together, exchanged information, and at the conclusion of the festivities, Iran agreed to purchase the two ships. The first two guided-missile frigates they’ve ever owned.”
“Well, sir, if that’s your opinion…I’ll have to agree.”
“Do you have a different opinion?”
“Well, sir. I have been wondering about the mines. And I’m still not sure the Chinese haven’t made some kind of a devious move with a view to laying them.”
“Ah, that’s your prerogative as an Intelligence officer, Jimmy. But it’s been your prerogative for weeks, months, and nothing has happened, as I told you it wouldn’t.”
“Righto, boss. I’ll buy that. Maybe they did just want to store up some Russian mines for some future mission. Anyway, if you’re right, they just paid for them, with the frigate money. Good on ’em, right?”
The Admiral smiled. “You’re learning, Jimmy. In this business, it’s very easy to spend your life chasing your tail…seeing spooks, plots and schemes around every corner. Just stay focused, and keep a weather eye out for the really big stuff, when you’ve got real evidence. That’s all.”
The young Lieutenant left, returning to his office, and gazing once more at his wide, marked chart of the Strait of Hormuz. He stared at it for several minutes, and muttered to himself, “I just wonder what’s sitting down there on the seabed, right offshore of those new missile placements.”
Two weeks later. April 24.
China’s Southern Fleet HQ. Zhanjiang.
Admiral Zu Jicai, now C-in-C of the entire Navy, was back in his old office, and he opened up the secure line to Beijing, waiting quietly for Zhang Yushu to come to the phone.
When the great man finally spoke on the line from the Chinese capital, the conversation was unusually brief for two such old friends.
“Nothing on any foreign networks re DRAGONFLY.”
“No suspicion anywhere?”
“None. Shall I activate the field in the next two days?”
“Affirmative.”
“Good-bye, sir.”
“Good-bye, Jicai.”
Three days later. April 27.
The Strait of Hormuz.
Hardly a ripple disturbed the flat blue calm of the southern waters of the strait. It was one of those sultry Arabian mornings, in which the livid heat of the desert sun makes life on land almost unbearable, and life on board any ship not a whole lot better.
Six miles northeast of the Musandam Peninsula, the waters were almost oily to look at, as the tid
e began to turn inward from the Arabian Sea. There was no ocean swell, no little eddying cats’ paws on the surface, no movement in the hot, still air.
But ripples were on the way. Giant ripples, from the big white bow wave of the 80,000-ton black-hulled gas carrier Global Bronco, making a stately 18 knots, southeasterly through the water. The 900-foot carrier was laden down with 135,000 cubic meters of liquefied natural gas, frozen to minus 160 degrees centigrade. In more comprehensive stats, that’s 3,645,000 cubic feet, or, a 100-foot-high building, 200 feet long by 200 feet wide. Which is a lot of frozen gas, and it forms, by general consensus, the most potentially lethal cargo on all the world’s oceans.
The Shark Mutiny (2001) Page 5