Seawolf End Game

by Cliff Happy

  He crawled further down a shallow trench, trying to decide if he should flee. He hadn’t even fired a shot in defense of his country. Not that he felt he could make a difference. He again looked down at the beach and saw several of the strange looking boats move right out of the water and onto the beach.

  “Hovercraft?” he mumbled to himself. He’d heard no reports that the Iranians had such advanced equipment. Bishir then heard a sudden roar from his left. He turned in time to see the predatory shape of the MI-24 Hind assault helicopter. He recognized the stubby wing pylons with rocket pods slung underneath and the menacing chin turret with the canons and machineguns staring at him.

  “Allah—” Bishir managed to cry out before the Hind opened fire.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Wolf’s Den, USS Seawolf, The Maldives Islands

  Every Thursday night when conditions permitted, the officers and CPOs cooked and served dinner for the crew, making pizzas to order for all of the men. It was normally one of the highlights of everyone’s week and usually provided for some tension release as officers, petty officers, and the crew took a few hours off from their usual duties to laugh and joke around the Wolf’s Den together. But, as the chances of returning home early dwindled with each passing day and the threat of war loomed large on the horizon, the conversation in the Wolf’s Den became unusually restrained.

  The Seawolf had reached its patrol area three days earlier and had slowed to a bare crawl, moving silently through the depths, listening and waiting for a call to action. After nearly two solid weeks of never-ending drills, the XO had slacked off some, limiting the drills to fewer—although more difficult—exercises. This allowed Kristen and the rest of the crew to finally get some decent rest, but everyone on board was anxious about what might happen next.

  Kristen and Martin had stayed busy on a computer simulation for a possible sound signature for the Russian submarines since her last meeting with Brodie. Despite several long days feeding in data and working on lines of code, they simply didn’t have enough hard data on the two Russian submarines to create an accurate model, which meant they still had no idea how to find what they were looking for.

  On a positive note, though, Martin appeared to be adjusting to life aboard a submarine, and, more importantly, he seemed to be growing less and less homesick with each day. At least Kristen hoped so. The whining that had been a constant part of his daily routine during the first six weeks of the patrol had slowly given way to quiet resolve as the situation around them darkened.

  Every day the captain received more and more “Flash” messages for his eyes only. The volume of war warnings and updated threat assessments reached such a volume that all non-essential message traffic like family grams and e-mails the crew routinely received when the Seawolf’s antenna was above the surface were stopped. The captain had yet to reveal the contents of the flood of messages, but Kristen kept a close eye on the Top Secret read board, and it looked like the Islamic Republic was up to something.

  The National Reconnaissance Office reported a massive buildup of military power on the Republic’s southern coast, which had everyone on edge. They were just a single submarine and could hardly be expected to prevent any military move by Iran into one of her neighbors’ lands. Not to mention, none of these reports shed the least bit of light onto just what role the Russians were playing in it all.

  Kristen was in the middle of making a meat lover’s pizza when Charles Horner, coming from the communications shack, delivered another such message to Brodie. Kristen and several others hazarded glances toward the two of them, and whereas Brodie’s expression was impassive, as if he were reading an article in a dry textbook, Horner looked like he’d read his own obituary. Brodie handed the message board back to his anxious communications officer.

  “I’ll be right up,” Brodie replied calmly, but his voice now had an edge in it.

  He removed his apron and chef’s hat and handed them to Gibbs. Then, without comment, he walked from the galley and went up the ladder to the control room. Kristen exchanged nervous glances with several officers and noticed Chief Miller, O’Rourke, and COB sharing strained looks. For the next ten minutes a subdued pizza night continued on, but everyone’s appetites had faded.

  Kristen was cutting up a pepperoni and sausage pizza when a fight broke out between two sailors who, Kristen was certain, would probably not even remember what started it. The combination of high tension ever since the deployment started, the rushed departure from Bremerton, back-to-back deployments, the grueling training bringing them to the razor’s edge of readiness, and now the growing reality of war had everyone on board wound up tight. COB and O’Rourke had the fight broken up moments after it started, but as they were sorting the combatants out, the 1MC came to life.

  Kristen heard the slight crackling from the nearby speaker and turned her attention toward it. Instantly, all was quiet. Every eye—every ear—turned toward the nearest speaker. The men in the Wolf’s Den who’d been fighting one another moments earlier forgot their dispute and were now, like everyone else, listening.

  “All hands, this is the captain.”

  She listened as the calm and steady voice came over the 1MC. It was his way, and the cool, even voice had a way of calming the men’s tensions. She wondered briefly if he intentionally kept his voice strong yet calm for this very reason. But she dismissed the foolish question. Nothing about him was an accident.

  “As you’re all well aware, we’ve been loitering in the vicinity of the Maldives as part of a much larger effort to secure key choke points in various parts of the world. Our mission has, up until this moment, been one of reserve until the Russians, or whoever they may be working with, make a hostile move.”

  Kristen heard nothing ominous in his tone, he might have been discussing the weather or a crossword puzzle, but everyone aboard knew Brodie never got on the 1MC just to hear himself speak or waste people’s time. Something had happened somewhere in the world.

  “I’m afraid any hopes we had of this crisis blowing over has officially ended. Last night Iran, in an apparent bid to seize control of the Strait of Hormuz, invaded the Musandam Peninsula on the southern side of the Strait. Reacting to what they called a direct provocation by Oman, who owns the Peninsula, the Islamic Republic launched an invasion with several thousand troops. This morning, at 0845 local time, the UN representative of the Islamic Republic of Iran informed the nations of the world they have acted in their own self-defense as per the UN Charter. In addition to this, they also announced the Islamic Republic—supported by her allies—was exercising its claim to the Strait of Hormuz; declaring it a closed waterway to all international shipping traffic effective midnight tonight, GMT.”

  Kristen closed her eyes and whispered, “Holy shit.” Beside her Terry, Ryan, Martin, and others mumbled similar comments. The United States and the rest of the industrialized world could not survive long without the constant flow of oil coming out of the Persian Gulf through the Strait of Hormuz. If the Iranians were serious, and they meant to try and blockade the Strait, it would mean a shooting war for certain. The Western democracies were totally dependent on imported oil, and the vast majority of those imports came from the Persian Gulf.

  “Upon receipt of this announcement by the Islamic Republic, the Commander in Chief issued a warning to the President of Iran that the United States considers the Strait to be international waters and will react with force to any attempt by the Republic to interfere with our international treaty rights permitting unrestricted access to the Strait of Hormuz and the Persian Gulf.” Brodie paused momentarily to let the gravity of the situation have a chance to settle in. “Currently there are eleven American-flagged super tankers moving inside the Persian Gulf or just outside it in the Sea of Arabia. All of these vessels are potentially in danger should our friends in Iran decide to put their words into action, and, considering they just invaded a sovereign nation, we must assume the worst.

  “Although negotiations are on
going at the highest levels to resolve this matter peacefully, it is believed the Islamic Republic, as the North Koreans were before them, has been emboldened to this action by the Russian Federation. The Russians, as a permanent member of the UN Security Council, can veto any military action or economic sanctions imposed against the Iranian government, providing them virtual immunity against any United Nations actions.”

  “Mother fucking Russians,” Ski cursed bitterly. “I never liked those bastards.”

  “Because of the gravity of the situation, all forces in CENTCOM have been put on alert. We have been ordered north to close the distance to the Strait and support the USS Virginia and the HMS Audacious which are in the region already. They have been ordered to secure the Strait from any Iranian military interference and enforce our unfettered access to the seas as international law clearly provides.

  “As more information comes my way, I’ll pass it along if at all possible,” Brodie assured them. “As for now, I expect all hands to do what they can to get our boat as ready as possible for a confrontation at any moment. I would like all off duty officers to muster in the wardroom as soon as possible for a more detailed briefing of the current situation. Captain out.”

  It was typical Brodie, Kristen thought. No pep talk. No superfluous adjectives or words to incite a reaction from his men. He didn’t want his crew any more excited or worked up than they already were. Instead, he wanted them calm and professional. Kristen and the other officers removed their aprons and chef hats, then made their way to the wardroom to await the captain.

  Kristen took her seat and thanked Gibbs as he delivered a cup of tea.

  “Can I get you anything else, Miss?” he asked. “I didn’t see you having any pizza.” Gibbs had been mothering Kristen more than usual since her incursion with the SEALs into North Korea. But she could hardly fault him for looking out for her. He’d been the closest thing to a friend she’d had since arriving on board.

  “I’m fine, thank you, Mister Gibbs,” Kristen replied with a pleasant smile for the selfless steward. She then sat quietly and listened as some in the wardroom argued the current crisis in Iran was another ruse, whereas others thought it an attempt by Iran simply to drive up the price of oil. This was hardly a difficult prediction. If access to the Persian Gulf was threatened, oil markets would go berserk.

  Mike Massanelli and Adam Carpenter were discussing what they thought was the excellent possibility that the appearance of the USS Virginia and the HMS Audacious in the Strait, two of the most powerful submarines in the world, would help settle things down.

  The USS Virginia was the first of America’s newest class of fast-attack boats designed in a post-Cold War world. Breaking with the traditional Cold War design for US hunter-killer submarines like the Seawolf, the Virginias were designed specifically for the shallow regions of the oceans near the littorals. It was in these regions where post-Cold War strategists believed submarines would need to operate, and the Virginias were the answer. Although not as fast, powerfully armed, or as deep diving as the Seawolf, the Virginias were still state of the art machines of war capable of holding their own against any enemy. It seemed obvious to Massanelli and Carpenter that by the time the Seawolf reached the region near the Strait, the Iranians would be suitably cowed and the waterway open to international traffic as always.

  The captain entered, and everyone came to their feet. As usual, Brodie waved them back down before taking his customary seat and accepting a cup of coffee from Gibbs, who’d also delivered a cup for Graves. Gibbs conveniently ignored the other officers, who chuckled at the steward’s jealous guardianship of his favorites. Gibbs excused himself after attending to Brodie, and then the captain got down to business.

  A map of the Persian Gulf and the Strait of Hormuz appeared on the screen. “All right, let’s get right to it. You’re each aware of its significance. It is the only sea channel in and out of the Persian Gulf. Through this narrow waterway passes over seventeen million barrels of crude oil per day.” Brodie paused to let the staggering figure sink in.

  “Fifteen super tankers pass through this choke point every day carrying forty percent of the world’s seaborne petroleum bound for America, Europe, China, Japan, and elsewhere. It is the literal energy lifeline for the industrialized world.” Brodie walked over to the SMART Board and tapped the image. “Close off this pipeline and the lights go out all over America and the Western world.”

  The assembled officers understood the significance of the Persian Gulf and the Western world’s need for Middle Eastern oil. This unquenchable thirst for oil was the driving force behind much of the United States’ foreign policy in the region and why America had a huge military presence in the Gulf. Usually a carrier battle group was never far from the area, but the North Korean ruse had seen to this nicely.

  “In addition, we still have thousands of personnel in the Gulf plus tens of thousands of contractors in Iraq who receive their basic daily needs of food, fuel and other supplies on cargo ships passing through the Strait. Meaning, in the most basic terms, if we allow the Islamic Republic to cut off the Strait to our shipping, we risk economic disaster at home and military disaster here.”

  There were no logisticians in the room, but they all had an adequate understanding of supply to know the American personnel in the region required tens of thousands of tons per day of everything from food and water, to ammunition, repair parts, fuel, and medical supplies. Such a vast quantity of supplies could only be delivered by cargo ships. A military airlift might be able to provide some of their needs but could never replace what a lone cargo ship could deliver in a single trip.

  “The Strait itself is shaped like an inverted “V” with the Islamic Republic to the north and Oman to the south. Now, for some years, Iran has tried to get Oman to join them in closing off the Strait to international shipping since half the waterway is in Oman’s hands. But Oman has always resisted, and international shipping lanes are now all in Oman’s territorial waters.”

  Brodie motioned toward Graves, who advanced the image on the screen to show a small, narrow peninsula jutting into the southern part of the Straits of Hormuz. “Unfortunately, Oman only owns a small sliver of land called the Musandam Peninsula which sticks out into the Strait creating the inverted “V” shape and the navigational difficulties in these narrow waters. Besides the fact the Peninsula is only ten miles wide and thirty miles long, its defense is further complicated by the fact it is not contiguous with the rest of Oman. The government of Oman cannot easily reinforce the small garrison without our help, and they have relied on the US Navy to make certain the Iranians cannot cross the narrow Strait and seize this tiny Peninsula.”

  “Except we ain’t in the area,” Ski nearly groaned in disgust.

  Brodie nodded in agreement. “Except we aren’t in the area. That’s exactly right.”

  “What happens if they gain and can hold onto this peninsula, sir?” Martin asked.

  “Then the Iranians will have what they want, overwhelming strategic control of the Strait,” Brodie said simply. He motioned toward Graves and a new satellite image appeared which showed a close up of a beach area.

  “This is the southern coast of Jazireh-ye Qeshm, the largest of many islands positioned inside this strategic choke point controlled by the Islamic Republic. This image was taken yesterday, about twenty-three hours ago.”

  Kristen pushed her glasses up onto her nose and leaned forward slightly, looking at the image. “What are those boats?” she asked, not recognizing them.

  “That is the first of currently three problems we’re facing,” he said. “Those are fifteen Russian Zubr class hovercraft designed for landing up to five hundred troops or an equivalent load of other military equipment such as tanks, armored personnel carriers, surface-to-air missile batteries…” he paused as he shook his head at the problem. “I assume you recognize the significance of these fifteen hovercraft positioned so close to the Musandam Peninsula.”

  The slide change
d and showed an image of a different beach area and the Zubr Hovercraft on it. “This image was taken this morning on the western shore of the Musandam Peninsula. Last night, following what the Iranians claimed was an Oman commando raid on an Iranian island garrison in the Strait, the Islamic Republic responded with a massive invasion. It’s believed that since the initial assault wave, the Islamic Republic has transferred nearly thirty thousand troops across the Strait and has seized the entire peninsula.” Brodie paused to let the seriousness of the situation sink in. “As we speak, they’re ferrying a steady stream of equipment across the narrow waterways including hundreds of Russian made tanks, surface-to-air missile batteries, everything they need to create a bastion.”

  “Mother of God,” Andrew Stahl whispered, knowing this surprise attack would have to be answered quickly before the oil lifeline so critical to the West was cut.

  “I’m afraid this is only the half of it,” Brodie told him. “Although the State Department is burning up the diplomatic channels to bring international pressure against Iran to withdraw their forces, the Russian Federation submitted a written letter to the United Nations General Assembly today in which they have officially recognized Iran’s claim to the Peninsula.”

  “So this was what all the deception was about. This is what this whole sham in North Korea was meant to do,” Terry said incredulously. “Seize the Strait—”

  “And gain control of eighty percent of the world’s oil supply,” Brodie finished for him. “Furthermore, the Russians followed up this letter to the UN with an announcement that they are extending their nuclear defense shield over the Islamic Republic. In effect, guaranteeing Iran that should any nation use strategic weapons against them, the Russians will respond in kind.”

  “Mother fuck,” Ski whispered in anger. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he added with venom in his voice.