Barracuda 945 am-6

by Patrick Robinson

  His brief acquaintance with Admirals Morgan and Morris had taught him one thing, if nothing else. You see the word "submarine," you drop everything and find out what the hell's going on — to quote Admiral Arnie, as Jimmy was prone to call him in unguarded moments — these are sneaky, dangerous little sons of bitches. Anytime, anywhere, you discover one of 'em skulking around, without an excuse the size of the Grand Canyon, you will check, check, and then check some more.

  Right now Jimmy was checking some more. He understood the signal. A couple of days ago, Wednesday evening, one of the guys in a SOSUS listening station on the other side of the ocean had picked up a Russian nuclear submarine running quietly down the Atlantic west of Ireland.

  He downloaded the signal immediately, then logged into his Classified Intelligence CD-ROM and turned to the section on Russia. He pressed search and scanned for the 50-hertz line, which, in turn, revealed the Sierra I list. It seemed these old Soviet warhorses had at last been phased out with the old ALFA class. But the American did find a couple of Sierra IPs, Kondor Class Type 945A's based in the Northern Fleet at Araguba. There were no Sierra I's.

  So he hit search again, looking for any and all Sierras still floating. And he came up with just one, a ship called the Tula, stationed in Araguba, Hull K-239, a Sierra I, Barracuda Class Type 945.

  "It's fucking Razormouth! H-o-o-o-o-l-y shit! " he yelled to his empty office.

  And then, "No. Wait a minute. It can't be. Razormouth's in Petropavlovsk. I checked it in myself, straight into a covered dock, beginning of last September… lemme see… hold hard… yeah… here we go… sighted it eight times since then, making short patrols. Probably Sea Trials. It's always back in the evening, because we always catch it at the same time. Last sighting… February 3."

  Lieutenant Ramshawe knew beyond any doubt that whatever the guys in Pembrokeshire heard, it was NOT, repeat NOT, the Barracuda, Hull K-239. Because there was no way that ship could have got within ten thousand miles of the west coast of Ireland in three days.

  "Mind you," he told himself, "they never said it did. They just said they picked up some lines. I suppose they could have hauled a second Barracuda out of mothballs, if they've got one. But Jesus… the west coast of Ireland is a bloody long way from home, for an old ship that's been out of service for several years. Beats the shit out of me."

  Nonetheless, Jimmy Ramshawe was left with a puzzle. If Admiral Arnie found out there was a rogue Russian submarine running loose in the Atlantic and no one knew anything about it, there'd be hell to pay. He requested a copy of the last signal asking the Russians for an explanation, found it, and noted Moscow still had not replied.

  Then he sent a message to Rear Adm. George Morris suggesting they send another, this time personally to the Commander-in-Chief, the Admiral of the Fleet, Vitaly Rankov.

  George Morris knew this ex-Soviet battle cruiser Commander was a former Intelligence officer and a friend of Arnold Morgan. He also knew that if Rankov did not reply to a communiqué from Washington, Admiral Morgan would be on the telephone to him. He expected that Admiral Rankov would not view that possibility with much enthusiasm, and would probably reply soonest. He told Ramshawe to resend the signal to Moscow.

  It took two more days for the giant ex-Soviet Olympic oarsman to send an answer, personal to Admiral Morris, who sensed it was carefully worded, in the extreme:

  "111200FEB08. The Russian Navy currently has no patrols in that part of the Atlantic. We have only the two Kondors moored alongside in the Northern Fleet. And one Barracuda Class conducting trials out of Petropavlovsk. Your operators could be mistaken. I am told there is sometimes a similarity between our boats and the new French nuclear SSN, which is replacing their old Rubis Class. It's not yet named, but it is working in the Atlantic out of Toulon. The French refer to that program as Project Barracuda. Sorry can be no more help. Rankov (Commander-in-Chief)."

  Admiral Morris called Lieutenant Ramshawe into his office to examine the reply. They both came to the same conclusion. It did not state flatly there was no Russian-built submarine there. Only that they were not patroling that part of the Atlantic. Which was slightly different. But the reply had been sufficiently friendly, and sufficiently helpful to make another communiqué seem rude, unnecessary, and undiplomatic. Admiral Morris would have to let the matter rest. As Vitaly Rankov knew he would. He was, of course, keenly aware of the 600 million reasons he had for remaining very discreet about Chinese activities.

  Jimmy Ramshawe left the Director's office muttering, "From what I can see, there's bloody Barracudas all over the place — but at least the French have warm water." He returned to his own office, concerned that there was no further information they could present to the President's National Security Adviser, no hard copy whatsoever on the identity of the disappearing submarine. Jimmy was frowning when he entered Admiral Rankov's message into his mystery file. Right next to Old Razormouth.

  The following evening, February 12, 2,500 miles away, right off the Portuguese Azores, clear now of the North Atlantic SOSUS traps, Captain Mohtaj ordered an increase in speed. He was headed for lonely waters now, down the Coast of Africa, which the U.S. Navy regards as largely irrelevant.

  The water was at least two miles deep all the way to the Cape of Good Hope, 4,700 miles away. For the first time the Barracuda was in near-deserted waters, but Captain Mohtaj's propulsion team only marginally opened the throttles of the 47,000-horsepower GT3A turbine.

  The nuclear reactor responded with a little increased steam. "Make your speed eight," called the CO. "Depth five hundred. Keep steering one-eight-zero."

  Old Razormouth II was on her way, at nearly 200 miles a day. And no one in the Western world had the slightest idea where she was, even whether she was. And certainly not where she was going.

  8

  Shakira Sabah, at the age of twenty-seven, married the former Major Raymond Kerman in a Muslim ceremony in their Damascus home on Sharia Bab Touma in early November 2007. The marriage was conducted by a local law officer, and because of the groom's lack of family, indeed any relatives, they were obliged to dispense with most of the traditional Muslim five-day festivities, and the giving of many gifts. They did, however, receive a private blessing from the imam at the nearby beautiful Mosque of Sheik Farrag.

  For the wedding ceremony, attended by only six people, Shakira wore a simple long, white dress, with, a traditional hat and veil, which made her look even more like a goddess than usual. The groom wore a dark gray Western suit and promised to care for Shakira for all the days of her life, having already deposited $100,000, the Muslim mehmet, into her private bank account.

  This lifelong pledge appeared to reflect the ancient Islamic creed that women, beyond the home, must play a somewhat subservient role to that of men. General Rashood thought that was not too bad an idea, given his new wife's inclination to assert herself, not to mention her flair for blowing up the armed battle tanks of those who displeased her.

  However, as the cool, wet month of January wore on, the newly weds were hovering around the edges of their first major row. Not beating about the bush, Shakira Rashood wanted to take part in the Barracuda's mission to the eastern side of the Pacific Ocean. Not in a shore-based, nonoperational, executive role, which Ravi assumed she meant. Shakira actually wanted an executive position on the submarine itself.

  On this rainy Friday evening, as it grew dark outside, they returned to the subject for the third time in twenty-four hours.

  "Locked up under the water with sixty men, the only woman in the crew — you can't do that," said Ravi, smiling but dismissive.

  "Yes, I can," said Shakira, not smiling, not submissive.

  "Might I remind you that no woman has ever served on board a submarine, not in any Navy, anywhere in the world? It's too confining, too claustrophobic, and it's surely no place for a woman."

  "Yes, it is," said Shakira. "When I work, I'm no different from you. Oh, yes, I understand the Arab world believes you to be some kind of a G
od of War — and I know I'm not in that league — but I'm as good as most of your soldiers, you'd have to admit that."

  Shakira's gaze was steady. Ravi knew that look only too well. His wife had no intention of backing down. He was obliged to resort to reason.

  "Look," he said, "there have been great strides to include women in the Navies of both the U.K. and the United States. They have recruited them, allowed them to serve on warships. But they've often proved to be a complete bloody nuisance — people falling in love with them, trying to get their clothes off in parked helicopters, and God knows what. And that's just in big surface ships. No one has ever dared to recruit them to serve in submarines."

  "I expect the instances of women getting into sexual situations with the other members of the ship's company are less than one in ten thousand. It's just that newspapers are not interested in the other 9,999.1 bet there are more examples of theft on board warships. Anyway, it won't apply to me, will it? No one's going to try to undress the Commanding Officer's wife, are they?"

  "I should bloody well hope not," said Ravi, in mock effrontery. "But I'm sure you see, it's such a close confinement in an operational nuclear submarine, working underwater. It's just not a suitable environment. No one's ever allowed a woman aboard, and I could not possibly break with that rule. Especially as I'm a rookie submariner myself… can we go out now? I'm starving, and we're meeting Ahmed in five minutes at the Elissar."

  "We can go out when you tell me I can come on the Barracuda to the West Coast of the United States," said Shakira, flatly. "I've already coped with the destruction of one family, and I have no intention of losing you, thousands of miles away, when I do not even know what's happening. I'm coming with you, and that's that."

  "Shakira, people could die on a mission like this."

  "I'm not afraid to die," she replied. "And I know you aren't either. But if we're going to die, we'll die together. I won't remain here, waiting for someone to tell me you aren't coming home. Either we go together or no one's going."

  Ravi was not accustomed to defiance on this scale. But, of course, he'd never been married before. "You are asking the impossible," he said carefully.

  "No, I'm not. It most certainly is possible. Because you are able to do anything you like. No one is going to argue with the great General Rashood, Liberator of the Palestinian Martyrs."

  "I am not following rules set by someone else," he said. "I am following my own rules. And I would not dream of allowing a woman, any woman, to serve for several weeks in a submarine."

  "Well, then you can tell me why not," she said. "Proper reasons, not just too crowded, or too fraught. Proper reasons. In simple sentences. Why can't I work in the Barracuda, like anyone else?"

  "First of all, you are not a submariner. You know nothing of nuclear reactors, turbines, propulsion, hydrology, electronics, engineering, mechanics, missiles, navigation, sonar, or torpedoes."

  That slowed down Mrs. Rashood.

  "Hmmmmmm," she replied, not terribly eloquently.

  "And to put you in that ship would be to take up precious space. You'd be a passenger, who could make no contribution to the running of a Special Operation, underwater."

  "Hmmmmmm," she added.

  In Ravi's view, Shakira's head of steam was gone. He thought he could see her will for this argument disappearing before his eyes. He should have known better.

  "You've forgotten something," she said.

  "Oh. What?"

  "The maps."

  "What maps?"

  "Exactly," she said. "Forgotten. You don't think I'd have a discussion like this without thinking out a proper job for myself, do you?"

  "Well, no. I am acquainted with your tenacity."

  "Well, what about the maps?"

  "What maps?"

  "The navigation charts you asked me to order from England via the Syrian Embassy and then have them sent to that freight company here in Damascus."

  "Oh, you mean the American charts?"

  "Yes. You had me order them, and collect them. And I studied them very carefully before I gave them to you. Remember? I even made copies, and marked them up in blue pencil, according to your notes. Back in September, before we were married."

  "Well, yes. I do, of course, remember them."

  "And you probably also remember I plotted certain courses for certain weapons from your notes. Marked up the checkpoints and made a record of the terrain."

  "Well, yes. And I'm grateful, of course. You did it damn well, I remember."

  "And perhaps I might remind you of something else?"

  "Yes, but not now. Ahmed's waiting."

  "Ahmed can go on waiting until I'm finished… "

  "But I'm starving. We have to go… "

  "We're not going anywhere right now. But I want to remind you of how our organization is funded."

  "I know how it's funded. From the banks we hit in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv."

  "And who made the floor plans of those banks, got friendly with the senior teller, drew the maps from scratch, drew up a diagram of the entire alarm systems? Then penetrated Schwartz Locksmiths and drew up the diagrams of the most secure locks in the country, the ones at both banks, not to mention the ones in the Nimrod Jail? Who did all that?"

  "Well, you did… I'm not saying you didn't. But what's any of that got to do with the submarine?"

  "It has everything to do with it. Because the whole lot of you would probably have got lost, shot, or arrested without my work in the planning department."

  "I accept that," said Ravi, warily.

  "And another thing," she added. "In my spare time this past few weeks, I've been looking at American coastal radar defenses, mostly civilian, at sensitive container and tanker ports, but in some cases, ports of the U.S. Navy.

  "As it happens, I have a few rather critical changes to make in certain trajectories. And I'll be making them in a small office space, in the Ops Room of the Barracuda, right next to the missile director."

  "But… "

  "No buts. Are you ready to take your new Precision Target Officer out to dinner? Lieutenant Commander Shakira, reporting for duty."

  Ravi wanted to laugh. But this was no laughing matter. "I can't appoint Lieutenant Commanders to the Iranian Navy," he said.

  "I assure you, this is not the Iranian Navy. They'll want to stay well distanced from this. That Barracuda will sail under the Command of the Hamas Fundamentalists. And you are the military Commander-in-Chief of that organization. You can appoint anyone you like, to any position you like. No one will even question it. I'll just go aboard like anyone else."

  "Bloody hell!" said Ravi, in a voice altogether stronger than he felt. "Where do you think you will live? In a torpedo tube?"

  "I shall be sharing your private cabin, as your wife and principal assistant in the area of weapons control and plotting. I know you have a private room, and I know it's got a small shower, basin, and head, because I've read it."

  "It's tiny, just about enough room for one, a bed, and a chair and desk."

  "Then we'll have to work alternative watches. Sometimes," she said. "Anyway, we'll manage. I'll bring a double sleeping bag and spend the night on the floor, if you'd prefer."

  "It's not a floor. It's a deck," said Ravi. "And anyway, I wouldn't prefer. We'll put the big sleeping bag on the bed, nice and cosy, stop us falling out."

  Shakira walked over and put her arms around him.

  She kissed him long and lanquidly. Then she pressed her cheek to his and whispered, "You're not dying without me. And that's final."

  "I know it is," he said. "And I'm going to give it serious thought. But I'd be awfully grateful if you'd hurry up. Otherwise I'll be eating without you."

  Ravi stared out into the drizzle that had made the streets shiny, and tried to come to terms with the rather pleasurable prospect of taking his wife with him on the submarine. Her general arguments had been considered, and well thought out. But she'd managed to get some kind of a jump on him, taking the t
ime and trouble to elucidate her plan, and her reasons, into a disciplined argument.

  In the normal run of events, that was his strength; the strength of all SAS officers. Well-thought-out plans. No surprises. Well, it was more than three and a half years since he and Shakira had fled the devastation of the street in Hebron, and she had never stopped surprising him.

  He had not caved in to her demand for a place in the crew because he loved her, and could deny her nothing. He had caved in because she had pointed out her talent, and her contribution to the operations of Hamas. And she was correct. Her role in three massive operations had been critical. He had given in to the logic, not his love for her.

  He thought again what a huge help she always was, how that pliant, direct mind of hers could really get at a problem. He remembered her words when he had first mentioned the possibilities of the bank robberies.

  You'll need maps, floor plans, diagrams of the alarm systems. Do you want me to start work on that?

  Now she came through the door into the drawing room. Her hair was brushed, she wore bright scarlet lipstick, and she was as slender and beautiful as she had been that first day he met her.

  "Ready?" she asked.

  "Lieutenant Commander Shakira," he said. "You are really something."

  Ravi pulled out a big umbrella, and they stepped out into the rain. They both knew Mrs. Rashood was about to join the Barracuda crew, and that she would be sailing from Petropavlovsk within the next fourteen days.

  9:00 a.m., Thursday, February 7, 2008

  Beijing Airport

  Shakira knew as well as anyone how important her husband was, but she had no idea he was this important. The Iran Air flight from Tehran, which had taken eight hours, had no sooner landed than three Chinese officials came aboard to collect their bags, which had unaccountably been stowed in the cupboard of the forward cabin.

  Throughout the 3,500-mile journey they had four rows to themselves, no one sitting in front, no one behind and no one opposite. They had been served excellent caviar, a privilege Iran Air passengers normally enjoy only on flights to Japan.