Barracuda 945

by Patrick Robinson

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Lying Russian bastard,” added Arnold.

  “Anyway, sir, I did check on the Barracuda program and we have no record of a second hull ever being operational. Hull K-239, the Tula, was always with the Northern Fleet, and we then tracked it, last summer, along the north coast of Siberia—an obvious transfer to the Pacific Fleet. Admiral Rankov confirmed that himself. Then we saw it leave Petropavlovsk and turn south.”

  “Do we know they completed the second hull?”

  “No, sir. Not really. There is a slightly shaky report that it was launched. But we have no record of it ever going to sea. It was reported laid-up, in a covered dry dock, out of commission, in the Northern Fleet at Araguba back in the early 1990s. That’s the last we heard.”

  “Guess they couldn’t afford to run ’em. They were expensive ships.”

  “There was never much doubt about that, sir. The Russians canceled the class, and laid one Hull up. They never made a secret about that. It was obvious.”

  “But we still don’t know what submarine the guys heard off the coast of Ireland?”

  “No, sir. We never got a handle on that.”

  “And neither do we know what submarine hit the trawl nets on the goddamned sushi ship off Petropavlovsk?”

  “Must have been the Barracuda. But no, sir. Nothing confirmed.”

  “Well, well,” said Vice Admiral Morgan. “Who plays games with us, Jimmy? Very big, very destructive games, eh?”

  “I’m not sure, sir. But I got a creepy feeling Old Razormouth is somehow right in the bloody thick of it.”

  “I would not disagree with that, Jimmy. Not at all.” And with that, the Admiral stood up and walked over to the chart, and with the touch of a couple of keys, he described a big seaward arc one thousand miles out from the port of Valdez. It was a long arc, extending southwest to southeast, starting way down, off the Alaskan Peninsula, and slicing across the Gulf to the southern half of Graham Island.

  “If he exists, Jimmy, he’s somewhere in there,” said Arnold. “At least he was in the very early hours of yesterday morning. Christ knows where he is now.”

  “Why yesterday, sir? The pipeline ruptured early today.”

  “Jimmy, if you and I were going to blow a big hole in an oil pipeline, or a ship, or any underwater target, and we were using modern high explosives, we certainly would not wish to be anywhere near when the charge detonated. In fact, we’d want to be as far away as possible. If we happened to be operating out of a submarine, I guess we’d give ourselves the maximum clearance time. And most of those limpet mines can be set for twenty-four hours.

  “So I guess we’d place our charges and allow almost a day to get the hell outta there, so we’d be—what—at ten knots, two hundred and forty miles away? At five knots we’d be one hundred and twenty miles away. And since no one knows our direction, that’s an awful lot of ocean to search, like maybe fifty thousand-plus square miles.”

  “So you think he’s now been on his way home, for perhaps a day and a half?”

  “Without question. Except I’m not sure he’s going home, Jimmy. I’m not sure he’s finished his work. But come and look here at this chart.”

  The young Lieutenant Commander with the Aussie accent stood and walked slowly across the room, deep in thought.

  “Bloody oath, this character has a set of balls, hasn’t he? Sometimes, during these conversations I start thinking it’s all a fantasy. I mean, we’re talking about a guy who’s taking on the U.S. Navy, and is marauding along our coast like some fucking pirate, raping and pillaging, and we have no idea who he is, where he’s come from, or where he’s bloody going.

  “In the last couple of days he’s destroyed an entire oil industry, the biggest in the United States. Sir, if there really is someone on the loose, we’d better find him real quick. I mean, streuth! Bin Laden was a fanatic, followed by fanatics who knew they were committing suicide in their attacks on us, but this bastard is worse, because he’s clever and appears to have equipment to match our own and he doesn’t want to die. And so far, he’s making a fucking good job of it.”

  Arnold Morgan looked thoughtful. And he turned back to the big computer screen. “You see this point right here?” he said. “The place where the pipeline blew off Graham Island. I think we might assume he was very close to that point when he unleashed his missiles at Valdez.”

  “Well, I’d assumed he was out in the middle of the Gulf, sir. Down here somewhere, and then went over to the pipeline to place his explosive.”

  “I don’t think so, Jimmy. Because this character is as clever as us, and that’s not what I would have done. I’d have positioned myself somewhere over here north of Graham Island, preprogrammed my missiles to swerve right around Valdez and then come in from the north. Then I’d have crept into the pipeline, done my business, and left, knowing I’d be miles and miles away when the explosive went bang.

  “So where is he, Jimmy? If he was right here somewhere near the pipeline at, say, midnight on Saturday, which way did he go?”

  “Well, I would have headed for shallow water, probably back around the Gulf, very quietly. Not straight over the middle where the ocean depth is two miles and SOSUS works.”

  “Yeah, and then where?”

  “Back across the Pacific, either running around the Great Pacific Plain, or just south of the Aleutian Islands.”

  “He didn’t come that way.”

  “How do you know, sir?”

  “Well, we have a permanent submarine patrol in the Aleutian Trench and they would have heard him, picked him up, and if the boat was Russian, probably sunk him.”

  “Well, he could have come in across that big deep Plain.”

  “Doubtful. That’s one of the most heavily surveilled SOSUS areas in the world. I would rate it just about impossible to bring a submarine right across the middle of the Pacific Plain without theU.S. Navy picking you up.”

  “Well, how did he get here?”

  “You tell me. I don’t know.”

  “Sir, could he have come north of the Aleutians? I don’t think we have that patrolled, do we?”

  “No, we don’t. And yes, he could have made passage along the north of the islands. But in order to get into his firing position, he’d have needed to come through the islands, back to the south. There’s no other way into the Gulf of Alaska. Probably three places he might have done it. But the water’s pretty shallow, and it’s swept by U.S. Navy radar. If he did do it, I don’t know how.”

  “Well, if the bugger did get into the Gulf, he must have come through one of the three places. Otherwise, he’d still be outside the Gulf, or sunk, right, sir?”

  “Correct, Jimmy. But he did come through, didn’t he? And he crept all the way over to Graham Island. And the little bastard’s still creeping. And we have to find him.”

  “Do you get the feeling, sir, we’re dealing with a person, someone who has so far outwitted us? Or does it seem like an impersonal situation—just a military opponent?”

  “I feel it’s a person, Jimmy. And I’ve had the feeling before. As if someone was taking me on.”

  “You mean, like Admiral Rankov?”

  “Christ, no. Someone a lot cleverer than that.”

  1:00 A.M., Tuesday, March 4, 2008

  48.00’ N 128’ W, The Gulf of Alaska

  The Barracuda was making only five knots through the water, 1,000 feet below the surface. There were still 8,000 feet below the keel, and their course had not changed since they pushed west out of the Dixon Entrance, and then swung south, seventy-two hours previously.

  No one aboard had any idea whether the bombs had detonated on the pipeline. And no one certainly realized that right now, at 9:00 A.M. Greenwich mean time, there was absolute pandemonium on the International Petroleum Exchange (IPE) in the City of London. Only once since the Gulf War had there been anything remotely like the panic buying that now swept the London Exchange.

  The issue, as ever, was Brent Crude
Futures. The IPE had first heard of the giant oil slick near the Alaskan pipeline at around 3:00 P.M. (London time) the previous afternoon. There was some disquiet, especially because the fires in Valdez were still burning and the price of crude rocketed to $35 a barrel by the close, up six dollars.

  However, on New York’s NYMEX, operating five hours behind, the price of West Texas Intermediate climbed to $39 by late afternoon, and the oil business teetered on the brink of a major crisis. In the West, all-night service stations were starting to sell gas at $5 a gallon.

  Today, Tuesday, however, was an entirely different matter. The IPE in London, first of the major Western markets to open, saw Brent Crude explode to $50 a barrel within one hour of the opening bell.

  The traders had spent the night thinking, speculating, and finally going into near-meltdown when the news broke that the massive Alaska pipeline feeding the West Coast of the United States was incontrovertibly breached. It was clear even to the dimmest executives there would be no oil out of Alaska until the fires were out, new storage facilities were established, and they had mended the shattered undersea pipeline. One month minimum, maybe a lot more.

  The trading floor in London resembled a madhouse. Dealers yelled and screamed, as an avalanche of orders for futures came thundering in from the United States. This was beginning to look like the seller’s market to end them all. And it took the big oil corporations a matter of minutes to work out they could get what they asked for their product.

  The main supplier of crude oil to the entire West Coast of the United States, and beyond was effectively out of business. Other producers, refiners, shippers, distributors, and marketers were at the golden gates of hog heaven. And brokers for the power generators, airlines, truck fleet operators, and chemical companies were almost prostrate with worry.

  At 9:14 in London there was an unmistakable power surge. The trader for Morgan Stanley suddenly bellowed, “Plus five, plus five for 300,000.” And the price of Brent Crude was suddenly pegged at $55 a barrel. Rumors swept the tiered trading pits that crude was going to $80, and the crowd seemed to sense the coming onslaught of California blackouts, dry-outs, and cutouts.

  It was impossible to hear anything clearly except the shouts of Plus Five!…Plus Two!…Plus Three! And these were not calls of just cents, like they were last week. There were full-blooded dollars, and there were no minuses, no price drops. Just a stack of huge trades of five hundred thousand barrels and more.

  Over at the London Stock Exchange, the Footsie had no idea which way to turn. Some oil shares were climbing, five and six percent every half hour, as soon as brokers realized who would cash in on the West Coast calamity and who would not.

  But as rumors of burgeoning oil prices swept the trading floor, a whole raft of stocks crashed. Especially the oil giants whose businesses had a bedrock in the Alaskan fields. Big oil consumers, especially airlines, took their worst hits since 2001.

  The price of electricity in the American West hovered in a no man’s land of doubt, and investors were uncertain whether the major power suppliers would somehow cash in on the disaster, or go bust. In one nerve-racking hour, shares in British Petroleum went up an astounding 10 percent, then fell back to where they opened, and then crashed 10 percent.

  One broker who had shorted them on the bell, and then sold high before they rose again, was seen standing in shock, threatening suicide after a $12 million career-wrecking loss on behalf of a client.

  Over at Lloyds of London, the insurance market had a collective heart attack, with grotesque visions of the crash of the 1990s standing once more, starkly, before the brokers. Losses in the little city of Valdez would be shuddering, but the breached pipeline with its colossal overtones of environmental damage, threatened to rival the gigantic claims that erupted after the Exxon Valdez catastrophe in Prince William Sound in 1992.

  Cocooned in the control room of the Barracuda, 1,000 feet deep, 100 miles off the coast of California, General Rashood had not an inkling of the havoc he had wrought. He and Shakira, sharing their tiny office/bedroom, felt safe behind the slow, cautious driving of Ben Badr. And the submarine was in excellent shape, moving through the quiet, deep caverns of the oceans, with the minimum of stress on the turbines, the reactor running silkily, watched by a top-class team of newly qualified Iranian Nuclear Engineers.

  Captain Badr’s navigator had them on a course of 180 degrees, running directly south through the Pacific, straight down the 128’ W line of longitude. The Dixon Entrance stands just north of the 54th parallel, and their next destination was slightly north of the 42nd. That gave them twelve degrees of latitude to cover, 720 nautical miles. They were making only 120 miles a day at their low speed of five knots, and Ravi and Ben estimated they would arrive on station in the small hours of Friday morning, March 7. They would be, predictably, 180 miles off the coast of the State of Oregon, but, unpredictably, almost 300 miles south of their target.

  Meanwhile, Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe scarcely slept, spending eighteen hours a day in his office, waiting for a SOSUS heads-up that someone had heard something, somewhere, that there was a Russian submarine on the loose.

  But there was only silence. Not a sound from the Barracuda. Indeed, on the international stage, the only loud and significant sound came from Admiral Arnold Morgan, personally railing at the Russian Navy Headquarters in Moscow, demanding to speak to the Admiral of the Fleet, Vitaly Rankov.

  Admiral Rankov, a seasoned and wily operator, found himself in a tight spot. He had already guessed the Barracuda had done its job on the far side of the Pacific, but he had much to protect. The culprit for these unprovoked atrocities on the American economy was a Russian-built, Russian-owned submarine, now based in the Pacific Fleet at Petropavlovsk.

  But Vitaly had his story in disciplined order. He would reveal the submarine had been sold to the Chinese, and was believed to be making its way down to their Southern Fleet Headquarters in Zhenjiang, on the northeast corner of the great tropical island of Hainan. So far as he knew, there were no Russian personnel on board.

  His policy was to duck and dive, avoiding a salvo of phone calls from the redoubtable Arnold Morgan, though he realized this would not work for long.

  He actually kept it up for thirty-six hours, until noon on Thursday, March 6, by which time Vice Admiral Morgan had yelled down the phone to Moscow at six different aides. Finally, he had the President of the United States call the President of Russia and demand that Rankov speak to the White House immediately.

  The instruction from the Great White Chief of all the Russians to his Naval Supreme Commander was succinct: Admiral Rankov: I have been asked by the U.S. President to ensure you speak to his National Security Adviser on an important matter this day. Please do so.

  It was thus with a heavy heart that the Admiral of the Russian Fleet, at three o’clock that afternoon, had his assistant call the White House and connect him to his oldest, and most dangerous nemesis, the most persistent, ill tempered, gratingly powerful opponent in the world.

  “Arnold! What a nice surprise to hear you again. It’s been too long.”

  “Thirty-six hours too long, insincere Soviet sailor.” Arnold was always delighted with alliteration of that music-hall quality. “You are a devious son of a bitch. And you have deliberately not answered my calls, or my messages. I was just beginning to think you might be avoiding me.”

  Admiral Rankov was unable to supress a deep chuckle. Despite his uneasiness with Admiral Morgan, he was always amused by him, and actually liked him very much. They had met on several occasions over the years, even dined together in Washington, London, and once in Moscow. “I know, I know,” he said. “I was avoiding you. Mainly because I sensed you were going to give me a very hard time, about matters over which I have no control.”

  “I presume you are still head of that junkyard Navy of yours?”

  At which point the two old Intelligence sparring partners both laughed at the American’s incorrigible rudeness and the fact t
hat the conversation had returned to its usual standard of wit.

  “Arnold, look, seriously. I know what you are going to say. You know we made a Fleet Exchange, sending that old Barracuda to Petropavlovsk. You also know it left, and headed south. You also know, like we do, there is a large financial claim from a Japanese fishing boat that was snagged by a submarine just a few miles to the north. Same time. Same day. Am I correct?”

  “You are.”

  “And now you are going to ask me why our submarine dived after making course south, and then did an about-face underwater and went north? Right?”

  “Right. There was no other submarine operational within a thousand miles. The goddamned sushi ship was hooked by the Barracuda.”

  “Arnold, what you do not know—and why should you?—is that we sold the Barracuda to the Chinese. It was just too damned expensive for us to run.”

  “Well, that’s very interesting, Vitaly. Are there any Russians aboard?”

  “None.”

  “Well, where the hell’s it going?”

  “I was told Zhenjiang. But we have no way of knowing. The ship is no longer our property.”

  “Vitaly, my main question is even more serious. And I am asking you to give me a straight answer.”

  “If I can.”

  “Did you guys ever complete the building of the second Barracuda, Hull K-240?”

  “Arnold, I was up in the northern yard at Araguba just six months ago, and I saw that ship in its covered dock, with a number of plates missing from the casing. I believe we used it for spare parts for the Tula, the one we just sold. So far as I know, Hull K-240 never went to sea. Why?”

  “Is it still there…in Araguba?”

  “I can’t swear to it. But no one has told me it has been scrapped, or sold. If I can find out anything, do you want me to get back to you?”

  “That would be good of you. And remember, I just want to know if you sold one Barracuda, or two, to the even more devious Chinese.”

  “I understand, Arnold. Leave it with me.”