Barracuda 945 am-6

by Patrick Robinson

  "Meanwhile, I wonder if the General would explain whether he has a particular Russian submarine in mind for us. Or whether Admiral Badr should make a study and provide us with recommendations before anyone goes to Beijing."

  Ravi reached for his notes and replied immediately. "Sir, in the broadest terms we need a good-sized ship because the crew are going to be on it for a long time. I'm thinking an 8,000-tonner, probably 350 feet long. We want speed of around thirty-five knots dived. A single shafter will do fine.

  "Obviously, she must have a guided-missile capability, and the ship I have in mind will fire those excellent Russian RADUGA SS-N-21s, special Granat Type, land-attack, ship-launched from below the surface. With those you're looking at a good range of around one thousand miles, with a big warhead. They fly at 0.7 Mach, at a height of 140 feet. The ship I like most, also carries forty torpedoes."

  "Is she old?"

  "Average, launched around twenty years ago. She was very expensive because of a new titanium hull. And she's very quiet, well maintained."

  "Did you not say we wanted two?"

  "Yes, sir. And this submarine has a sister ship that was laid up for no real reason a few years back. Both of them were built to excellent standards in the Gorky yards. I think the Russians just found them too expensive, both to build and to run. And I think they might gladly sell them."

  "Where are they?"

  "The operational one is in Araguba, the Northern Fleet submarine dockyard. The other one may be there as well."

  Admiral Badr interrupted. "An SSN, right? What class of ship is this?"

  "They were modeled on the old Sierra I, as a modern replacement for the Akula. But these two were a special class."

  "Name?"

  "Barracuda, sir. Barracuda Type 945."

  5

  9:30 A.M., Wednesday, May 16, 2006

  Iranian Naval Headquarters, Bandar Abbas

  General Rashood and Commander Ben Badr sat awaiting the arrival of the Vice Admiral. For almost two weeks now, they had been on standby while the most senior clerics in Tehran discussed the possibility of purchasing a nuclear submarine from the Russians under the auspices of the Chinese.

  Ravi and Shakira had spent a thoroughly relaxing time at the hotel, where the ex-SAS man had spent hours trying to teach her to play tennis, concluding at the end of the first week that Shakira was a lot more dexterous with a hand grenade than a backhand. Ben Badr had been busy with crew changes and adjustments to the guided-missile systems onboard Sabalan.

  This morning, they had both been told, a communiqué had arrived from the Ayatollah clarifying the situation with regard to China. And because the entire project would involve the acquisition of the heaviest Naval hardware, it had fallen distinctly into the realm of Admiral Badr, and the two younger officers sipped tea, nervously, wondering which way the Ayatollahs had decided.

  Admiral Badr arrived with a flourish, in his air-conditioned staff car. He carried with him a black leather briefcase, and he wore no jacket, just white shorts, long cotton socks, shoes, and a white short-sleeved shirt, with epaulets and insignia of one thick gold stripe and two thin ones set on Navy blue, depicting the rank of Vice Admiral.

  He came briskly into the office and wished his son and his new military ally a very good morning. He ordered fresh tea and came quickly to the point of the meeting.

  "I believe you both know we have heard from Tehran this morning," he said. "And the news is encouraging, though not quite decisive. The Ayatollahs have decided they will request our friends in Beijing to purchase on our behalf the two Russian Barracuda nuclear submarines.

  "Since we last met together, I have ascertained their whereabouts. Both are based in the Northern Fleet at the Russian submarine base in Araguba, way up on the Barents Sea, near the Finnish-Norwegian border. One of them has been laid up for almost ten years, the other, Hull K-239, the Tula, formerly the Karp, was operational until a year ago but has been in the dockyard ever since.

  "So far as we can tell, there's nothing wrong with either of them, but they were massively expensive to build, with those titanium hulls, much more than the old Akulas. The Russians took the newer, second of class out of service only four years after it was commissioned. I think they were just too expensive to run, but they were very good ships. Fast, thirty knots-plus dived. And very quiet. They've got a large gap between hulls, which helped with radiated noise reduction, and there's built-in damage resistance.

  "One way and another, gentlemen, I believe either one would serve our purposes very well. The question is, will the Russians sell them?"

  "I suppose it's too early to make an assessment?" said Ben.

  "Partly," replied his father. "But we have made a few discreet initial inquiries from our own office in the Ukraine, and the Russians seem unconcerned about the ramifications of selling a nuclear boat to a foreign power.

  "Most of them have not been paid for several months, and they would all be most supportive of any scheme to pull millions and millions of dollars into the Navy's budget. They all reminded our man, the Russian Navy owns those ships, so the cash will be theirs."

  "Did anyone mention price?"

  "No. Not specifically. But a Barracuda would probably cost around $650 million to build new. These are twenty years old, but lightly used, and well maintained. Which means they'd still cost around $300 million each to purchase secondhand. However, there's a distinct lack of customers, which might give Chinese buyers an edge. The Russians are very reliant on Beijing for cash these days. I'd say a flat offer of $500 million for the pair might just do it."

  "How about work on the ships? Where would you want that done?" Commander Badr looked skeptical.

  "I think we'd insist it was all done in Russia," said the Admiral. "Because the work has to be done anyway, and it would sweeten the deal for the Russians if we were paying to keep one of their shipyards open and helping to pay the men."

  "Did you get the feeling the Ayatollahs were worried about the costs?" asked the General.

  "No," replied the Admiral, "I did not. However, they made it clear that although they consider the purchase of two nuclear submarines extremely desirable for our Navy, they did not wish to confirm any operational plans at this stage."

  "And where, Vice Admiral, would you guess that puts me for the moment?" said Ravi.

  "I think back in a comfortable house in Damascus," he replied. "In fact, I am instructed to fly you and Miss Sabah home this evening by military jet. Meanwhile, I am personally ordered to join a delegation to Beijing later this month. We intend to ask the Chinese formally to act on our behalf in the purchase of the submarines. In strictest confidence, of course."

  "Do you have any further instructions for me?"

  "Most certainly," smiled the Admiral. "His Holiness wishes you to refine your plans down to the finest detail for an attack on the Great Satan some time in the next two years."

  "Will this all be at my personal expense, sir?" Ravi asked, somewhat facetiously.

  "It will not. You will be rewarded at the same salary as an Admiral in the Iranian Navy. And there will be $250,000 in addition, deposited in your bank in Damascus for your out-of-pocket expenses."

  Ravi nodded, unsmiling. But it was Commander Ben Badr who spoke. "Sir," he said, addressing his father formally. "Was there any objection or stumbling block to the broad outline of our plans?"

  "Not in specific terms," he replied. "But I was most interested in the general objection voiced by one of the hojjats."

  "The older man, who was here with us?"

  "Yes. He told us very carefully that he was afraid of one man in the White House. Not the President or any of his right-wing colleagues in Government. The man our hojjat fears is called Admiral Arnold Morgan, the President's National Security Adviser. He believes this Admiral is more powerful than the outgoing President, and that he is quite capable of acting alone."

  "Well, what makes him more terrible than the rest of the Republican gang who run the affairs of
the Great Satan?"

  "Just about everything. He has the mentality of an Israeli. Strike at him, and he'll strike back. He is vicious, short-tempered, and very clever. The hojjat thinks every blow we have taken in the past half dozen years has been on the direct orders, or influence, of that Admiral Morgan. He also thinks that if we make any move against the West Coast of the United States, Admiral Morgan will order a savage retaliation against us and probably Iraq as well. Maybe even China."

  "Even if he has no idea who has done what to whom?"

  "Especially if he has no idea who has done what to whom.

  He's done it before. And Bin Laden's escapades apparently put his temper on a hair-trigger."

  "Hmmmm," mused Ravi. "Maybe we should think about getting rid of him."

  "I think that might prove beyond our capability," said Admiral Badr. "Arnold Morgan is under heavy guard night and day. It would be just about impossible to get anywhere near him without having your head blown off. And what kind of assassin would want to try? Hell, if we missed, he'd probably have Bandar Abbas wiped out."

  Ravi Rashood was thoughtful. "I suppose it would be slightly more possible to eliminate him while he was in a foreign country, wouldn't you say?"

  "Maybe," replied the Admiral. "The Soviets used to specialize in that. All I can say is that Arnold Morgan represents a very grave danger to any kind of action we may take. Because he's apt to behave as judge, jury, and executioner. He is without doubt our biggest enemy. And according to the hojjat, he's ruthless and operates with a religious zeal on behalf of the United States."

  "A one-man Intifada," muttered Ravi.

  "When riled, that sounds accurate," said Vice Admiral Badr. "At least that's the view of the hojjat, who we know is a man who would not exaggerate."

  "Is he saying we ought not to act at all while this Morgan character is in power?" asked Ravi.

  "No. No. He has not gone that far. He has just warned that our chances of unruffled success are greatly diminished while Morgan reigns over the U.S. Armed Forces."

  "What about the President, and the Vice President, and the Defense Secretary, and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs?" said Ben Badr. "Don't their opinions count for anything?"

  "Not, apparently, when the Lion of the West Wing roars. He's an ex-nuclear submarine Commander, former Director of the National Security Agency. The President won't hear a word against him. Won't move without him. Everyone else is scared of him."

  "I'm not scared of him," said Ravi, quietly. "I think we should make some effort to get rid of him."

  "General Rashood, you are going home tonight, to begin work on our detailed plans for the future. I will make you this promise. If Arnold Morgan is going abroad any time in the near future, and we manage to find out, I will keep you informed. Perhaps then we may put a scheme into place. Meanwhile, let's not worry about him."

  "Very well, Vice Admiral," said Ravi. "But let's not forget about him either."

  Two Weeks Later Damascus

  General Rashood and Shakira were in Arab dress, strolling along the Sharia Maysaloun toward the Chan Palace Hotel. They'd taken an after-lunch stroll from the excellent Elissar restaurant near the Touma Gate through the city's ancient Roman Wall; all the way west across Damascus, three-quarters of a mile, past the massive eighth-century Umayyad Mosque, around the Citadel, and on through Martyrs' Square.

  They were in the right area now, headed for the most famous bookshop in the city, the Librairie Avicenne, a block from the Chan Palace, and Ravi looked forward to buying a few English newspapers. There was nowhere else in Damascus where anyone could be certain of locating these days-old publications, and he came here two or three times a week.

  They were only just in time. Ravi bought the last copy of Monday morning's London Daily Telegraph, and they spent a contented half hour looking through the shelves in search of books that might contain details of the principal cities on America's West Coast, Seattle, San Francisco, Los Angeles, and San Diego. There was little available, but Shakira found an April edition of French Vogue and two Hollywood show business and film magazines. Shakira was devoted to American movies.

  It was almost four o'clock and they walked back through the warm afternoon breeze, back to Martyrs' Square for a drink at the Karnak Bar above the Siyaha Hotel. This was a cheerful place, full of Westerners and Arabs alike drinking cold beer or a raki, Damascus not being an observer of the strict Muslim code of no alcohol.

  They found a small table overlooking the square and ordered a couple of glasses of beer. They sat reading for a while until Ravi tired of the newspaper, skipping over the last few pages and then stopping dead at an unlikely headline:

  PERSIAN LADY FOR ROYAL ASCOT

  Kerman Mare's New Target

  He folded the paper back and read the story with interest.

  The brilliant victory by Persian Lady in Sandown's Henry II Stakes last Monday is now widely regarded as the best performance by any stayer seen out this season. On fast, firm ground, the daughter of the Irish-based stallion Saddlers' Hall covered the extended two miles in only two ticks off the track record, quickening away up the final hill to win by eight lengths from the Newmarket-trained favorite, Homeward Bound.

  Persian Lady's new trainer, Charlie McCalmont, was delighted with her, and reported she had come out of the race without a mark. Last night he said she would certainly now go directly to the Ascot Gold Cup at the Royal Meeting, on Thursday, June 22.

  Her owner, the London shipping tycoon Richard Kerman, said last night it had always been his ambition just to have a runner at the Royal Meeting, never mind the second favorite for the Gold Cup.

  "We were never quite certain Persian Lady would stay beyond twelve furlongs," he said, "but the way she finished up the Sandown hill was electrifying. Charlie is very confident she'll go the extra half mile of the Gold Cup. For my wife and me, this is the thrill of a lifetime."

  Last night Ladbrokes was offering 6–1 against the compact, bay Persian Lady. Prince Abdullah Salman's rangy grey five-year-old High Five remained 3–1 favorite in all offices.

  The newspaper made no connection to the mystery of Richard Kerman's son, Raymond, the missing SAS Officer who had occupied front pages all over the country a couple of years ago. Right here they were dealing with the Ascot Gold Cup, the Holy Grail for the stamina racehorse. Hebron? Where the hell's that? Sports departments are inclined to be insular places.

  Meanwhile, 3,000 miles from London, Ravi stared at the story. He was overjoyed at his father's success, and handed the newspaper to Shakira, pointing out the headline.

  "That's my father's horse," he said. "I remember her when she was a two-year-old. Dad bred her out of an elderly mare by High Line. He's always wanted a staying horse, but he never thought he'd get one this good."

  Shakira read the few paragraphs, understanding little of the jargon that racing people take for granted. Then she said, quite suddenly, "Do you miss your parents?"

  "Sometimes," Ravi replied.

  "You've never contacted them, have you?"

  "No. I couldn't, really. It would have put the most awful pressure on them. They would have felt obliged to inform the authorities I was alive, and then there would have been a desperate investigation. Phone-tapping, mail-searching, and God knows what else. I didn't want to put them through it."

  Shakira sipped her beer. "I suppose the only way you could ever see them would be to meet them somewhere."

  "But that would mean contacting them prior to the meeting, and I'd never quite trust someone not to find out. In the end, I probably wouldn't turn up."

  Shakira persisted. "But what if you were to meet them without contacting them?"

  "Well, then they wouldn't know how to find me. Nor I them."

  "I know how you could find them without a single word to anyone."

  "Lay it on me."

  "Royal Ascot, or whatever it is. Thursday, June 22. They'll be there. And easy to find. Especially if Persian Lady wins."

  "
If she wins, they'll probably have tea with the Queen or something. That'd be harder than getting next to Admiral Morgan."

  "Then you better meet them before she wins. I expect they'll be watching the horses before the race."

  "Shakira," he said, smiling. "Have you ever been to Royal Ascot?"

  "Of course not."

  "Then I will tell you about it. First of all, there's about ten zillion people in attendance. Everyone in the Royal Enclosure wears a little colored badge with their name on it. Each man is required to wear morning dress… "

  "I thought it was in the afternoon?"

  Ravi knew the girl he loved was just joshing him, and he carried on regardless. "Morning dress is just an English expression. It means top hat and tails… "

  "Like Frederick Astaire?"

  "Precisely. He'd fit in a treat, especially since he married a jockey."

  "A JOCKEY!"

  "Lady jockey, dingbats. Super rider, and a very beautiful one. American."

  "Anyway, Mr. Astaire is dead."

  "And his morning suit wouldn't fit me. So I'd have to get my own. But what I'm trying to tell you, in this ocean of irrelevance, is that Ascot is literally crawling with security guards, officious men in top hats and green uniforms as I remember, checking people's badges, making sure the person wearing it is the person who's name is written on it."

  "How do they know?"

  "They don't. But they can make some very shrewd guesses. They're always catching someone wearing a badge issued to someone else. And they take it damn seriously. Those Royal Enclosure badges are precious and nontransferable. Are you really suggesting I could get a hold of a false badge, and then pull off a meeting with the owners of one of the main horses in the Ascot Gold Cup? I'd get caught and probably end up in the Tower of London before standing trial for murder."