General Ravi, standing on deck with Shakira, gazed in some distaste at the condition of the patrol boat, a U.S. — built Peterson Mark-4 Class 22-tonner, almost twenty years old, black-hulled and in dire need of a coat of paint. The once-white deck was rusted, and further rust marks stained the hull. A couple of black tires were leaned against the superstructure. As a Navy ship, it looked like a Third World fishing smack. But it was the only way to leave unnoticed, and the Senegalese, sharing their Muslim faith, had been willing to help, although Ravi guessed his colleagues in Bandar Abbas had paid expensively for this short Inter-Navy 10-mile voyage, probably as much as the boat was worth.
On board were three smiling seamen, jet black in color, with gleaming white teeth, no uniforms, white T-shirts and jeans. They waved cheerfully and tossed for’ard and aft lines across to the Barracuda’s deck crew to make her fast.
“Are we actually going on board this wreck,” whispered Shakira.
“ ’Fraid so,” said Ravi. “At the moment, it’s all we’ve got.”
They stood on the casing in the rain and said their good-byes to Ben Badr, Shakira’s brother Ahmed, and the XO, Capt. Ali Akbar Mohtaj. Everyone had known this was as far as the General and his wife were going, but there was a great deal of sadness in their departure.
Now, however, the task of the Barracuda was strictly operational. The mission was laid out, her course set, her missiles loaded, their tracks preplanned. All that was required was a careful command, dead-slow speeds, if they were close to any other ships, and a steady run into deep getaway waters.
There would be satellite signals in and out of Bandar Abbas. There would be possible adjustments in the orders, but the signals coming back to the submarine would be direct from General Rashood. There was comfort in that for all of the Barracuda’s executives.
And there was an even greater comfort in knowing that if plans needed to be altered in any way, they would be schemed by the General, the Hamas military leader who would now play satellite poker with the Americans in the final stages of the operation to drive them out of the Middle East forever. On board the Barracuda, there was nothing more Ravi could do.
Shakira hugged her brother, kissed Ben Badr on both cheeks, and shook hands with Capt. Ali Akbar. Ravi shook hands with each of them, and then steered his wife towards the gangway. She carried with her a long dark blue seaman’s duffel bag, in which was stored her makeup, shirts, spare jeans, underwear, and Kalashnikov AK-47.
General Rashood watched her traverse the little bridge holding the rail with one hand, and then he too stepped off the deck of the Barracuda for the first time since they left the Chinese port of Huludao in the Yellow Sea. And he made his way carefully over to the Senegalese Navy’s 52-foot-long Matelot Oumar Ndoye—whatever the hell that meant.
It took all six of the patrol boat’s crew to manhandle the gangway back aboard. The operation was conducted with a great deal of shouting and laughing. Twice it almost went over the side, and by the time they had it safely stowed, the Barracuda was gone, sliding beneath the great ocean that divides the African and American continents.
It was heading west, for the moment, out towards the burly shoulders of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, running effortlessly, 600 feet below the surface, in the gloomy depths of its own netherworld, far away from the prying eyes of the American photographer high in the sky.
Ravi and Shakira sat in a couple of chairs under an ancient awning on the stern, beneath the machine-gun mountings. The Captain, a heavily muscled ex-fisherman, had made a sporting attempt to introduce himself, but he spoke only French in a heavy Wolof vernacular. In the end, they settled for a laugh and a rough understanding that he was Captain Reme, and he’d have them moored in the great port of Dakar within thirty minutes.
So far as he could tell, Captain Reme was restricted to only two speeds — all-stopped and flat-out. Right now they were flat-out, in a ship that shuddered from end to end, as its aged diesels struggled to drive the twin shafts at their maximum possible revs.
Happily the sea was calm all the way, aside from a long Atlantic swell, and the Matelot shuddered along at its top speed of 20 knots, towards the great Muslim city of Dakar, where at least one of the towering white mosques rivals the finest in Istanbul and Tehran. Senegal has always had one foot in the Middle East and one in West Africa, similar to Dakar, which has been called the crossroads in which black Africa, Islam, and Christianity have met for centuries, occasionally clashed, yet ultimately blended. The bedrock of the country’s subsistence economy is peanut oil and not much is left over for Senegal’s Navy budget. The U.S. Government spent more on the Pentagon’s cleaning staff than Senegal spent on its Navy.
Captain Reme was as good as his word. They pulled alongside in exactly thirty minutes. The elderly diesels had not shaken the ramshackle craft to pieces, and Ravi and Shakira stepped ashore into a working Naval dockyard. Much of the quayside was stacked with fishing gear and shrimp nets, which made it a somewhat more relaxed operation than the one they left ten weeks ago on the shores of China’s Yellow Sea.
But it was a dockyard, no doubt about that. On two adjoining keys, there was a 450-ton French-built Navy patrol craft, twenty-six years old, lightly gunned, named Njambuur. Next to it was a Navy coastal patrol craft, a Canadian-built Interceptor-class gun-boat, thirty years old. No engines were running. It was plain to Ravi that the Senegalese Navy was not planning to go to war with anyone in the near future.
They were greeted by the head of the Navy, a broad-shouldered black officer, age around forty, Captain Camara, whose teeth were as white as his short-sleeved uniform shirt. He saluted and said, in impeccable English, how pleased he was to welcome them to his humble headquarters. He had spoken to his friend Admiral Badr in Iran only that morning, and everything was ready, as planned.
He would, he said, be driving them personally out to the airport, a short distance of just three miles. But first he was sure they would like some tea. Their aircraft expected them at 1800, so they had half an hour to kill.
Thus, in the now hot late-afternoon sun, General and Mrs. Rashood were ashore at last, strolling along the peaceful African waterfront, through the very heart of the sleepy Senegalese Navy — just a couple of weeks before they were scheduled to eliminate the entire East Coast of the United States of America. The contrast was not lost on either of them.
Tea with Captain Camara was a cheerful interlude. They sat outside and watched little boats crossing the harbor, sipping English tea with sugar but no milk, from tall glasses in silver holders. The Captain asked no questions about the long voyage of the Barracuda, though he plainly understood that there was a dark, subversive edge to its mission.
He knew his guests were important, and he knew they had arrived in a submarine, which had then vanished. But he did not think it was his place to pry into the business of his fellow Muslims, who would shortly be flying home across the vast wilderness of the Sahara Desert, which lies to the northeast of Dakar.
He had visited this remote burning landscape only once, and had recoiled from it, as most black Africans do. But he understood that those endless sands represent the very fabric of the Muslim world. He understood, remotely, that his own tiny coastal community was somehow joined by the swirling dunes of the Arabian desert, to the great Islamic nations of Egypt, Syria, Libya, Iraq, Iran, and the Gulf States. And he knew it was timeless. And that it mattered. And he respected his visitors from the far ends of the Muslim kingdoms.
The Captain observed that General Rashood had an extremely pronounced English accent, and asked if, like himself, the General had attended school in the British Isles.
Ravi, who was desperately tired after a 20,000-mile voyage from communist China, could think of a thousand reasons not to tell anyone of his background. But he smiled and opted for mass confusion. “No, Captain, I did not,” he said. “I went to a school in Switzerland. They taught me to speak like this.”
“I see,” he replied. “But I expect you noticed that I t
oo speak like you, and I did go to school in England. Charterhouse. And from there I went to Oxford University…studied engineering at St. Edmund Hall, but my main achievement was to play golf for the University against Cambridge. Twice. Once as Captain.”
Ravi, who was almost nodding off in the hazy African heat after the rain, jolted himself back into the conversation and offered, “You’re a Carthusian, and you got a Blue for golf? That’s impressive.”
“I did,” said Camara, who was momentarily bewildered by his guest’s instant grasp of his elite education, especially the fact that Ravi knew, esoterically, that “Old Boys” of Charterhouse are known as Carthusians.
But he continued, “They taught me to play at school, and when I arrived at Oxford I turned out to be one of the best players. I really enjoyed it…very jolly people. It was funny, but they could never get a firm grip on my full name, which is Habib Abdu Camara, and when the team list was posted each week, they used to write me in as ‘The Black Man.’ ”
“Christ, if they did that these days they’d all be in the slammer,” said Ravi, smiling.
Captain Camara laughed. “I suppose so, but they meant no harm. And even I thought it was funny. All of them have stayed my good friends.”
“You still see them?” asked Ravi.
“Well, I came down from Oxford seventeen years ago. And we did have a reunion for several years at the public schools golf…You know, the Halford-Hewitt Tournament down at Royal Cinque Ports in Deal. Of course, we were all playing for different schools, but at Oxford, when we were together, we did beat Cambridge twice, and we’re all rather proud of that.”
“You stopped going to the Halford-Hewitt?”
“Not entirely. But my Navy career here prevented me from playing for Charterhouse for many years. Matter of fact, I’m going back next year. It’s funny, but you see the same chaps, year after year, playing for their old schools. We’ve been in three semifinals against Harrow and I don’t think either team hardly changed.”
Ravi stiffened at the mention of his old school, but the chatter-box Captain of the Senegalese Navy had seized the moment to expound on his golfing career to someone who appeared to know what he was talking about.
“Great matches we had against the Harrovians,” he said. “Chap called ‘Thumper’ Johnston was their captain. His real name was Richard Trumper-Johnston, but he was a very fine player. He beat me twice, both times 2 and 1, dropped long putts on the eighteenth…he wasn’t so good at foursomes.”
Again Ravi found himself nodding off. But he jolted back, trying to sound as if he’d been listening. And uncharacteristically he came out with an unguarded sentence, “Thumper Johnston? Yes, he went back to Harrow as a housemaster, taught maths.”
“You sure you didn’t go to school in England?” asked the Captain. “I know you Middle Eastern officers, very secretive men. Reveal nothing. But many of you went to school in England, especially Harrow…Thumper Johnston and King Hussein, eh? Ha, ha, ha.”
Captain Camara’s wide face split into a huge grin. “I think I catch you, General. But any friend of Thumper’s is a very good friend of mine. I keep your secret.”
“I didn’t say I knew him,” said Ravi. “I just know of him. My father knew him.”
“Then your father went to Harrow?” said the Captain. “Someone must have gone to Harrow…to know Thumper. He’s never really left the place, except to play golf.”
Ravi smiled, and he knew he had to admit something. Anything to shut this idiot up. “My father was English, and I think he played against Johnston in the Halford — Hewitt. I just remember his name.”
“Your father played for Harrow?” asked Captain Camara.
This was a critical moment. “No, he played for Bradfield,” said Ravi.
The Captain pondered that for a moment, doubtless, thought Ravi, assessing the absurd notion that an Englishman named Rashood was sufficiently impressed by the play of an opponent, Thumper Johnston, in the Halford-Hewitt to regale his son with the man’s career as a schoolmaster.
No, I don’t think he’s going to buy that, Ravi thought.
And sure enough, Captain Camara came back laughing. “Ahhah,” he said. “I think I find you out. You are a highly classified Old Harrovian Submarine Commander…You come out of nowhere…out of the ocean…and I check you out in England next year, maybe with Thumper in person…now I give more tea to my friends from deep waters.”
Shakira, who was even more tired than Ravi, had actually fallen asleep, and had missed the entire conversation. She awoke just in time to hear Ravi say, “You should have been a detective, Captain, but you have this case wrong…”
“Then how come you know Thumper, the Harrovian maths master!” cried Captain Camara, laughing loudly. “You are rumbled — by the Black Man from Oxford…Ha, ha, ha!”
Even Ravi laughed, silently cursing himself for his carelessness. He declined more tea, and asked if they might make their way to the airport. Since Shakira was so tired, she would probably sleep all the way home.
“Of course,” said the Captain, jumping energetically to his feet. “Come…I’ll call Tomas to carry the bags to the car…It’s parked just over there.”
They walked across the quay to a black Mercedes-Benz Naval staff car that carried small flags fluttering in the evening breeze on both front wings — the green, yellow, and red tricolor of Senegal with its single green star in the center.
Captain Camara drove to the airport in a leisurely manner, out to the Atlantic Peninsula north of the dockyard where a Lockheed Orion P-3F in the livery of the Iranian Air Force awaited them. The Captain parked the car and insisted on walking out to the aircraft and carrying Shakira’s bag. She climbed up the steps to board and Ravi followed her, now carrying both bags.
They waved good-bye to their escort and watched him stride away towards the car. And quite suddenly, Ravi moved back to the top of the aircraft steps and called out…“Captain…come back…I have a small gift for you in my bag…I forgot about it.”
Captain Camara grinned broadly and turned back towards the aircraft, as Ravi knew he would. He ran swiftly up the steps. They were agile, nimble strides, the last he would ever make. They were the strides that would end his life.
He entered the cabin and made his way to the rear of the aircraft where Ravi was fumbling in his bag. And with the speed of light, the Hamas assault chief whipped around and slammed the hilt of his combat knife with terrific force into the space between the Captain’s eyes, splintering the lower forehead.
Then he rammed the butt of his right hand straight into the nostril end of the Black Man’s nose, driving the bone into the brain. Captain Camara had played his last round. He was dead before he hit the floor. Shakira stood staring in amazement at the departed three-handicapper, spread-eagled in the aisle, presumably already on his way to the Greater Fairways.
The pilot, who had not seen all of this action, was fairly astonished too, and he walked down the center aisle in company with his first officer.
“General Rashood?” he said, saluting. No questions. Military discipline.
“Sorry for the mess,” said Ravi. “Put his head and shoulders in a garbage bag, will you? We’ll throw him out either over the desert or in the Red Sea. I’ll let you know.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, Captain. You’ll understand this was a classified operation. This man knew too much about us. He was a menace to Iran, and a danger to Islam. Also he was about to reveal my identity as a Hamas Commanding Officer to the British. That was out of the question. Plainly.”
“Yes, sir. I understand. But I’ll have to slow down and lose a lot of height if we’re going to open the rear door. Just let me know when you’re ready. We fly at around 28,000 feet. I have some hot coffee on board, and some sandwiches. We can get something better around 0100 when we refuel at Aswan.”
“Thank you, Captain. I think we better get the hell out of here now. Before someone starts looking for the head of the local Navy.�
�
He and Shakira returned to the front of the aircraft and strapped themselves into the deep leather seats usually occupied by observers and computer technicians on the Orion’s early warning missions over the Arabian and Persian Gulf areas.
The pilot, Captain Fahad Kani, drove the aircraft swiftly into the takeoff area, scanned the deserted runway in front of him, and shoved open the throttles without even waiting for clearance. The Orion rumbled forward, gained speed, and climbed into the early evening skies, out over the Atlantic.
He banked right, to the north towards Mauritania, then banked again to a course a few degrees north of due west, aiming the aircraft at the southern Sahara. It was a course that would take them across the hot, poverty-stricken, landlocked African countries of Mali, Niger, and Chad, and then the northern Sudan. An hour later, they would drop down into the green and fertile Nile Valley, way upstream from Cairo at Aswan, home of the High Dam.
Ravi was unable to make up his mind whether to deposit the body of Captain Camara in the burning sands of the Sahara, hoping it would either be devoured by the buzzards or be covered forever by the first sandstorm; or to go for the ocean, where the blood from the Captain’s shattered nose would ensure the sharks would do his dirty work on a rather more reliable basis.
Trouble was, he was not sure if there were sharks in the Red Sea, and the body might wash up on the shore. Also, he knew that timing was critical in a high-speed aircraft, and that heaving a dead body out of the door would not be easy. He did not relish the prospect of a foul-up, in which the carcass of the former head of the Senegalese Navy landed in the middle of Jeddah. Ravi opted for the buzzards.
He and Shakira were almost too tired to eat anything. But the coffee was good and they each ate a small chicken sandwich with tomato on pita bread, before falling asleep.
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