Barracuda 945

by Patrick Robinson

  “He found out where Rupert lived, and to his dread discovered it was not a house, but an apartment, in a block, with a doorman. He conned his way in, and waited upstairs. Killed poor old Rupe to shut him up. And got rid of the doorman with a knife on his way out. That way his visit to London was still a secret, and his parents had the endless comfort of knowing he was alive and well. More importantly, they would not risk arrest for deliberately witholding information on a wanted traitor to his country.”

  Jimmy hit the line to his Director, and was summoned to the office immediately. And there he convinced Admiral Morris and Captain Wade of the unique set of circumstances—the Gold Cup, which his parents almost won, and the murder that night of the MP who had been at school with the Major and was known to have attended the race meeting.

  “If the old Brits can just get up to The Bishop’s Avenue and seriously put the arm on Mrs. Kerman, she’ll end up admitting her son turned up at the races for a don’t-worry-Mum chat. She will, of course, know nothing about the murder of Rupert Studley-Bryce or the doorman, for that matter. And they may never prove he did it. But I’d say we’ll know a lot more about the Major by the time MI5 have finished talking to the Kermans.”

  “We might even get a handle on where he lives,” offered Captain Wade.

  “I doubt it,” said the Admiral. “But, Lieutenant, that’s an outstanding bit of detective work. And I can’t fault the logic. It all fits. And don’t you all get the feeling we’re closing in on our man?”

  “Well, sir, we are on the verge of proving beyond any doubt that he’s alive. And that has a value of its own.”

  “And in a way,” said George Morris, “that may make everyone’s task just a little more onerous. This character is a big thinker. We have good reason to think he pulled off two of the biggest bank robberies in history. And when he decided to strike a blow against Israel, he didn’t just loose off a couple of political prisoners, he released the whole fucking lot!

  “I’m afraid he might be planning some massive strike against the West, something so huge it’ll take our darn breath away. I get the feeling this guy could do damn near anything he wanted.

  “Let’s put a rocket up the Brits’ asses. See if we can’t catch him before the galloping Major strikes again. Because when he does, I’ve a feeling it might be memorable, in quite the wrong way.”

  9:00 A.M., July 10, 2006

  Headquarters, Chinese Northern Fleet

  Qingdao, Shandong Province

  It was a large but unprepossessing conference room, high in the oceanside office block that overlooked the cool, south-flowing tides of the Yellow Sea. Nonetheless, the long, plain, milk white walls of the room made a stark backdrop to the jet black robes of the two Iranian Ayatollahs.

  Both clerics now sat impassively beneath the glowering portrait of Jiang Zemin, the party politician whose rise to supreme authority in Beijing had included the chairmanship of the all-powerful Military Affairs Committee of the People’s Liberation Army/Navy.

  Again and again, while China’s defense budget climbed into the billions, irrevocably to an all-time high every single year, Jiang had masterminded its distribution. Now his successors were in place, and they were listening to the most extraordinary request.

  These two Holy Men, from the hot dusty lands that surround the Gulf of Iran, were here to discuss the possibility of the Chinese Navy purchasing two nuclear submarines from the Russians in strictest confidence, never revealing to anyone the identity of the real buyer, which would be, of course, Iran. The two Ayatollahs were accompanied by the Commander-in-Chief of their Navy, Admiral Mohammed Badr, plus his “Senior Military Adviser,” General Ravi Rashood, who flanked them at the large conference table.

  Their staff of fourteen Iranian Naval orderlies awaited them, occupying the entire 23rd floor at the five hundred-room complex of the Huiquan Dynasty Hotel overlooking Qingdao’s premier beach, a ten-minute ride from the Northern Fleet Headquarters.

  Arms dealers are no strangers to the inner counsels of modern military states. But the sight of the two Muslim clerics, all dressed up trying to get their hands on the world’s most lethal weapon, the underwater strike submarine, possessed a certain unreal quality of its own.

  The bushy eyebrows of the Chinese Navy’s Senior Vice Chairman, Admiral Zhang Yushu, were raised high as he listened through his interpreters to the totally outlandish request of the clerics from Tehran.

  “But, gentlemen,” he began. “Surely you must be aware of the restrictions of the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty. Surely, you anticipate Russia will have the gravest reservations about becoming the first nuclear nation ever to sell a ship of this quality to a foreign power?”

  “We believe,” replied the less senior Ayatollah, “their desperation for cash may override their, well, conscience about selling such a weapon of war. Let’s be honest, they’ve never hesitated before about selling any hardware to anyone, particularly to yourselves. And in that I include big guided-missile destroyers, Kilo Class submarines, and even, I believe, an aircraft carrier.”

  “Well,” interrupted Zhang, “you yourselves purchased at least three diesel-electric submarines from them….”

  “Yes, but not nuclear. Nuclear is different.”

  “Gentlemen,” said Admiral Zhang, “you seem disinclined to let the mere existence of a ship’s nuclear reactor stand between yourselves and progress.”

  “With your assistance, Admiral, I am, rather hoping not.”

  “Yes,” said Zhang, slowly. “But I sense you are asking us to take a very large risk on your behalf, one that is guaranteed to infuriate Washington.”

  “Quite frankly, we do not see a need for Washington ever to discover that you have acted on our behalf.”

  “Washington has a way of finding out any damn thing in the world that it considers in any way significant,” said Zhang, roughly.

  “But perhaps, not this,” replied the Ayatollah, gently enough. “You see, we are asking you to purchase the submarines, which is not in itself so shocking. Then we are looking for a delivery route along the northern coast of Siberia, into the Barents Sea and a docking in the Russian Naval Base of Petropavlovsk on the Kamchatka Peninsula. We intend to take delivery there, and set off on our mission from there.

  “We do not intend to involve you in any way except financial. We pay, you buy, the Russians deliver, we take over, in the utmost secrecy. It is likely that Washington will not even know the submarine has been sold out of the Russian Navy when it clears Petropavlovsk.”

  “Hmmmm,” said Admiral Zhang. “You see us as a kind of agent, handling the sale, eh? But yet, right in the firing line, should the Americans discover the formal owners of the sub?”

  “Well, the documents could scarcely disclose the true purchaser….”

  “Of course not,” said Zhang, interrupting. “The Russians may very well agree to sell us a couple of nuclear boats, but I do not believe they would fly in the face of world opinion and sell the ships to an Islamic State in the Middle East. That would be a step too far, even for them.”

  “Which is, after all, why we are sitting around this table.”

  Admiral Zhang stood up. He was a big man, burly and tough-looking, son of a southern sea Captain, former Navy Commanding Officer.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “I accept that the rudiments of your plan are sound. Yes, we could probably buy the ships you want. Yes, it would be of little consequence to us, so long as you were paying. And yes, there would be little enough risk to us so long as it was delivered to a Russian Naval Base and stayed away from China.

  “But what, I ask, would happen, if you go off in your nice new submarine and make some astounding attack on your Great Satan, and the Russians, under extreme pressure from the West, admit the ship was sold to us? That it sails under the flag of the Chinese Navy. Then what?”

  “I have thought of that,” said the Ayatollah, referring to notes written out for him by General Rashood. “You admit the truth, the s
hip was purchased by the Chinese Navy, but you have never taken delivery, and that it has never set foot in Chinese waters, or indeed in any Chinese port.”

  “Which would, of course, be perfectly true,” mused Zhang.

  “You simply deny all knowledge.”

  “But where will the second submarine be at this time?”

  “That, Admiral, must remain a matter for negotiation. But I was rather hoping we could smuggle it into a Chinese Base and hide it. Maybe take a different route to China altogether.”

  “I suppose that would be possible,” said Zhang, “but I am at a loss to see what possible advantage any of this could have for either my Navy or our country.”

  “It would come under the heading of ‘continued agreeable relations’ between China and Iran,” said the Ayatollah. “You remember, the great Sino-Iranian Pact we have so often mentioned. The one that was very nearly broken when you reneged on our contract over the C-802 missile, leaving us defenseless in the face of American aggression. This is such a perfect opportunity for you to make amends.”

  Admiral Zhang’s Political Commissar, Vice Admiral Pheng Lu Dong, visibly winced. China’s massive interests in Middle East oil, and overwhelming reliance on the goodwill of the Ayatollahs, stood before him. And the former Deputy Commander-in-Chief of the PLAN spoke for the first time, addressing the vexed and simmering dispute over the Exocet look-alike C-802 missile that had caused such friction between them.

  Pheng nodded to the Chairman of the meeting, and noted the short bow of Zhang’s head. “Your Holiness,” he said. “I know, of course, your deep and understandable hurt at the failure of that contract, as you in turn must understand the dreadful position in which we found ourselves. And I trust you understand we always acted in your best interests, as well as our own.

  “You surely know the Americans would have stepped up and taken military action, probably in Bandar Abbas, had you taken delivery of the C-802. And the possible destruction of your Naval Headquarters would have been very bad for both of us. Not only that, the French were in the middle of it, threatening to refuse us delivery of the missile’s turbojet engine. There were so many circumstances completely beyond the control of us both….”

  “And yet,” said the Ayatollah, smiling, “we seemed to rate less of your consideration than all of the others.”

  “Most certainly not,” protested the Admiral. “But we could treat the others as businessmen. You we had to treat as brothers.”

  “And you decided to become your brother’s keeper?” asked the Ayatollah, still smiling.

  “What more could you expect from your greatest friends?” replied Pheng.

  Both Zhang Yushu and Ravi Rashood smiled wryly at the dazzling skill and brevity of the exchange.

  “Which brings us back to a poignant question,” countered the Ayatollah. “Are you still our greatest friends?” And this time, his face was passive, devoid of even the thinnest of smiles.

  “Of course,” replied the Admiral. “Nothing less. We honor you and trust you.”

  “Then you will surely wish to convey those thoughts to us in a way that would earn our own gratitude and thanks.”

  “Most certainly…but…”

  “I am afraid, but nothing. When we leave this room at the conclusion of these discussions, we expect to be bidding a temporary farewell to our blood brothers, friends, and sales agents. In so doing, you will have bought the continued devotion of the most powerful nation in the Middle East. And I would most respectfully remind you, your partners in so many great future ventures.”

  “Yes, of course, we do see that,” said the Chinese government’s Political Commissar, turning once again to Admiral Zhang, looking for help.

  Zhang obliged. “I am afraid,” he said, “the bonds that hold us together are much stronger than the issues that occasionally separate us. I accept in principal your request to have us purchase two Russian submarines on your behalf, because that in itself is not unreasonable among friends.

  “However, I must also speak to you as a former CO of a Luda Class guided-missile destroyer. By that I mean a professional Naval Officer. And I have several questions that I shall ask in no particular order.” And now Zhang read from the pages of a small notebook:

  Who’s going to pilot this submarine?

  What experience does your Navy have with nuclear ships?

  Can you raise any kind of a Command competent to handle a sizable SSN on a long-distance mission?

  Do you have at least six officers capable of running the nuclear propulsion systems, and I include in that a top-class reactor room Lieutenant Commander, plus at least two Chiefs who have experience in that environment?

  In short, can you raise a proper crew, complete with Nuclear Engineers, to operate an eight thousand-ton SSN, both at high speeds and, if I guess correctly, for slower, silent running?

  And, finally, we require an answer to this sixth question—what precisely do you want the submarine for?

  The Ayatollah gave way to Admiral Mohammed Badr, who stood formally and spoke without notes.

  “Admiral,” he said, “as I explained earlier, the two ships we wish to acquire are the two Barracudas, the Type 945s. And the first operational one will come under the command of my son, Commander Ben Badr, who I trust you will remember.

  “He studied right here in Qingdao at your Submarine Academy four years ago, and like the rest of his class, took his final diploma in Nuclear Propulsion. His six-month work experience program took place in Shanghai the following year, and I hope you remember it was almost entirely in your Han Class Type 091 nuclear boats. Ben worked in Hull 405, right after her refit.”

  “He’ll find that Barracuda a sight more difficult than Han 405,” replied Zhang. “She’s a lot faster, a lot bigger, and a lot more complicated.”

  “The principles, however, remain the same,” replied Admiral Badr. “And there were four other young Iranian officers taking the same courses in Qingdao as Ben. Two of them are Commanding Officers in our Kilo Class program and the other two command surface ships. Indeed, in the past month we have sent eight Lieutenant Commanders to study advanced nuclear physics at the University of Tehran. We are not complete novices in nuclear ships.”

  “No, I understand that. You do have the basis of an SSN crew, and, of course, the majority of the sub’s company can operate an SSN on much the same lines as they operate a diesel-electric boat. The systems are, after all, Russian.”

  “Precisely so,” replied the Iranian. “Nonetheless, we shall require training, and I am hoping the Russians will agree to undertake this under the usual terms. Perhaps you could send a group of Chinese personnel, accompanied by a dozen of our own people, and they could join the crew making the delivery along the northern route.”

  “You are assuming much, Admiral,” said Zhang.

  “I am really assuming only one thing,” said Admiral Badr. “That when you threaten to open that vast checkbook of yours, the greedy, half-starved Russian Bear will very nearly bite your hand off.”

  Everyone laughed. Mohammed Badr continued, “It will take perhaps six or eight months. But I am confident we can put together a competent crew to run a Barracuda submarine.”

  “Perhaps,” said Zhang. “But question six remains. And for us, it’s a deal breaker. We have to know, in the strictest confidence, of course, precisely what you intend.”

  “That is simple. We intend to take out the new American oil pipeline that runs from Alaska down the West Coast, and that will in the coming months provide all of America’s electric power from Washington State south all the way to the Mexican border.”

  “You do?” said Admiral Zhang, smiling but plainly incredulous. “And do you expect to be blamed for this?”

  “Certainly not, if we can mount our attacks in silence, from deep water, using both missiles and torpedoes.”

  “And your basic objective?”

  “In the long term, to continue with a steady stream of attacks on U.S. institutions an
d businesses. Always stretching them, making them defend themselves, until they decide their global position is untenable, and retreat into a new policy of isolationism, probably in partnership with Canada and Central and South America. But gone from the Middle East.”

  “You are moving into waters that we would deem very dangerous,” interjected Pheng. “Very slowly we are picking up large contracts for Middle East oil, and we are already seeing the United States in retreat from the Gulf. Why attack their oil interests in Alaska?”

  “Because America will always be America,” replied Admiral Badr. “She will be stung by any attack on her pipelines. And she will raise heaven and hell to repair and protect. This White House wants the United States to be self-sufficient in oil. And when she finally recovers from the blows we inflict against her, she will consolidate her interests around Alaska, moving in a very heavy Navy presence to defend her interests.

  “It’s just one more step in our strategy to stretch her forces out, until the United States becomes just a passive oil-trading customer of both yours and ours. Not some sort of Goliath trying to rule the Middle East as well as everywhere else.”

  “You intend to cause the United States to abandon its global role because she will no longer consider it worthwhile?”

  “We intend to remove the United States from the Middle and Far East with a policy of exasperating our enemy to death. And that way lies the construction of a great world-dominating Sino-Iranian trading partnership, and, very possibly, a giant Islamic State stretching the length of North Africa, in the image of the Prophet’s own magnificent vision.”

  Zhang looked pensive. He nodded, sagely, and suggested a ninety-minute break, since it was almost midday, in order that both sides may consider the ramifications of the discussions so far. The Ayatollahs agreed and the Iranian contingent prepared to leave the sprawling Northern Fleet Base and return to the hotel, driving through the pleasant streets of the oceanfront resort that had once been a Colonial outpost of the German Reich, back at the turn of the nineteenth century.