Then the compass needle began to oscillate. It meant they were close; the metal hull of the ship was interfering with the compass. Sa'idi signaled Rajabi, and they swam carefully toward the now-loud noises that emanated from the ship.
A few more meters and the water seemed to become even darker. The instrument board touched the steel hull. Sa'idi had not seen the hull, though he sensed it. Rajabi began to move down the hull, and Sa'idi pulled angrily on the buddy cord. They had to proceed carefully, since they had no idea of their exact location on the ship. It was easy to become disoriented in the pitch blackness, especially when the compass did not work.
Feeling their way, the Iranians slowly swam down the length of the Makin Island. The mass of the ship projecting over their heads created the illusion of being enclosed by the steel hull. They fought the claustrophobia by concentrating on swimming and staying in contact with the ship. Their movements made little swirls of phosphorescence in the water, but they were so close to the hull that it could be seen only from the side catwalks. And the catwalks were closed during flight operations.
As they reached midship Rajabi did not pay proper notice to the increased turbulence of the water. One more kick of his fins and he was caught. Realizing what was happening, he kicked and clawed at the water, to no avail. Bouncing about in the swirl, Rajabi was slammed into one of the underwater openings that sucked seawater into the ship. The snap of the buddy line jerked Sa'idi away from the hull. In one cool movement he swept his knife out of its sheath, cut the line, and kicked backward.
Judging he was clear, Sa'idi floated motionless, listening quietly in the dark for the hull sounds. Hearing nothing except machinery, he moved back to regain contact. Touching the cold steel once again, he slowly slid down the hull to find Rajabi. He felt the turbulence, but it was lessened—Rajabi's arms and upper body were pinned against one of the gratings and were held in place by the strong suction. Feeling a leg, Sa'idi moved his hands up Rajabi's body. He was alive but unable to free himself. Sa'idi paused to think. The intakes probably became obstructed often. Discovering the blockage, would the Americans turn off the flow and free Kharosh? He decided not. Several different intakes must flow to the same system. Sa'idi moved in front of Rajabi until their face masks were touching. Rajabi's eyes were wide behind the mask. Sa'idi squeezed his friend's shoulder, then reached down and turned off the oxygen flow. Rajabi began thrashing wildly, but the suction still held him fast. The thrashing continued until Rajabi had breathed all the oxygen in his bag, and then the exhaled carbon dioxide. It seemed to take forever for him to be still. Sa'idi cut the shoulder straps of the mine carrier and had to brace his flippers on Rajabi’s shoulders to gain enough leverage to pull the mines out. But there would be no prisoner to interrogate, and no blood in the water to attract sharks.
Sa'idi swam on. Reaching the stern, he felt his way along the cool steel to the twin propeller shafts, following them back to where they entered the base of the hull. This was where he would place the mines. He pried a limpet from the carrying plate and had to carry it one-handed, because Rajabi’s mine pack was looped around his forearm. As he pushed the mine through the water toward the hull the ship moved and the limpet slipped from his grasp. Windmilling with his hands, Sa'idi brought up his feet, and the mine landed on top of his swim fins. Holding his breath, Sa'idi carefully lifted his feet. Using one hand to keep himself level, he grabbed the mine with the other. The plastic mine was slippery, but juggling it, he managed to get a grip on the underside indentation. Sa'idi was furious with himself. After all the hard work and training, to nearly ruin the mission with a careless mistake.
Determine not to lose his grip again, he thrust the mine at the hull. Then his stomach dropped again when he realized what he had done. The magnets leaped toward the steel, and before he could pull it back the mine attached itself to the hull with a loud clang. Now the anger was replaced by terror that the entire ship had heard him. He froze, listening for signs that he had been discovered, before realizing that only speed would prevent failure now.
Concentrating on slowing his breathing, he followed the routine of his training and gave the mine a tug, but of course it was firmly attached to the hull. He pulled the secondary safety from the first fuse. The pin came out easily. If the fuse had been defective and the firing pin had fallen, it would have pressed against the safety, preventing it from being removed. Reassured, Sa'idi pulled the primary safety. He did the same for the back-up fuse and activated the anti-handling switch.
The second mine went four meters farther down the hull from the first, and the second pair at the base of the other propeller shaft. Finally free of the extra weight, Sa’idi turned his oxygen flow to a lower setting, took a compass bearing, and began swimming steadily.
On the bridge of the Makin Island, the officer of the deck hung up the phone and turned to the captain. "Sir, the dhow is still in the same location."
"Very well," said the captain. "Signal the command ship and request they inform the U.A.E. Coast Guard."
"Aye, aye, Sir." As the OOD walked by the phone, it buzzed again. He picked it up and listened a moment. "Sir, the dhow got its engines working and is clearing the area at this time."
"Good," said the captain. "Belay that signal."
Sa'idi checked his watch to see how long he had been swimming. He should be near the dhow. The compass bearing would get him in the general vicinity, but either he or the dhow could have moved with the current. He would go a little farther before he risked surfacing for a look.
A hundred meters more and he heard metallic tapping—a wrench striking metal plate. He drifted a moment to be sure of the direction, then swam toward the sound. The tapping became more distinct, and he could discern the faint outline of the dhow's hull. He moved to the side opposite the tapping and broke the surface beneath a lookout, who was so startled he almost fell into the water. Regaining his composure, the lookout pushed a rope ladder over the side. Sa'idi, weary from the exertion and the tension, slipped twice before he managed to get aboard. As the swimmer lay on the deck, the captain of the dhow walked over and asked, "And your companion?"
"Get moving, now!" the swimmer snapped.
The captain nodded. He unleashed a quick stream of Farsi to his crew; the anchor was lifted and the engine started.
As the dhow moved out into the Persian Gulf, Sa'idi forced himself to rise from the hard comfort of the deck. He emptied the oxygen tank of the rebreather and punctured the hose and bladder. He packed all his diving gear, except the knife, into one of the plastic paint pails.
Sa'idi reseated the top of the pail and punched holes in the sides and bottom with his knife. He kicked the pail overboard. It bobbed twice in the wake of the dhow, then filled with water and sank. The weight belt carried it to the bottom.
Well out to sea, the captain of the dhow studied his charts. When the dhow was outside the Emirates' territorial waters, he ordered the anchor dropped once again. He took a plastic suitcase from under the bunk in his cabin and brought it on deck. Inside, nestled in foam rubber, was a radio that would transmit a narrow-beam UHF beacon. Using the set's own compass, he extended the directional antenna, confirmed the frequency setting, and turned it on. The set began transmitting a continuous signal. The captain turned to one of the crew. "Put up the recognition light."
The crewman took a large battery-powered lantern from a wooden locker near the bow. The white globe was covered with translucent green plastic. The young Arab turned on the lantern and hung it at the bow.
Twenty-five minutes later they heard the high-speed engine before they saw the low outline of the Iranian missile boat. Not of the regular Iranian Navy, but the Islamic Revolutionary Guards Corp naval contingent, the regime’s true believers. The Chinese-built Houdong Class missile boat cut its engine back and slowly came alongside the dhow. Two crewmen threw out lines and the vessels were pulled together. Rifle-armed Revolutionary Guards were on the deck of missile boat, and dhow crew were careful not to make any
sudden moves. A voice called from the missile boat, in Farsi, again quoting the Koran: "God has cursed the unbelievers, and prepared for them a blaze."
Sa'idi stepped out on deck. "Neither their riches nor their children will in the least save them from God's wrath. They shall become the fuel of the fire."
"Come aboard, brother," said the voice from the missile boat. Sa'idi stepped over the rail and pulled himself up the rope. Hands reached for him and helped him aboard.
"Is the mission accomplished?" inquired the voice.
"Completely," Sa'idi said.
"Where is the other?" the voice asked harshly.
"In Paradise."
"Will there be any evidence?" demanded the voice.
"None," replied Sa'idi.
"Very well."
The lines holding the dhow were cast off, and the missile boat backed away. When it had gained a few hundred yards in separation it suddenly swung around, unmasking the twin 30 millimeter cannon mount at the bow. The cannons opened fire with a high-speed booming, and the high explosive rounds, each the size of a soft drink bottle, literally shot the dhow to pieces. The cannon shells exploded with white flashes; wood flew everywhere. In less than a minute the cannon had ground the dhow down to its lower hull, which quickly settled below the water.
The missile boat slowly cruised through the wreckage, the Revolutionary Guards on deck scanning the floating debris field with flashlights, checking for any survivors. None were seen.
The missile boat went to full throttle and headed for Iran, skipping over the calm sea at twenty knots. It reached the Revolutionary Guard naval base at Bandar Abbas before daylight.
CHAPTER 2
It was 0420 on the USS Makin Island, and the midwatch was entering that particularly boring period of the morning when staying alert was almost impossible. Flight quarters had been secured, and the aircraft integrity watch ensured that all the helicopters were properly chained to the flight deck. The logbook reported a slight problem when one of the saltwater intakes became blocked. Another intake had been opened, and the system was running normally. The captain retired to his sea cabin for some rest before the ship weighed anchor.
In the Marines' berthing area near the engine room, Lance Corporal. Brian Hawkins tossed and turned in the narrow confines of his bunk, appropriately known in the naval service as a rack. One deck above, a sadistic sailor dragged a set of tie-down chains across the aircraft hangar. The members of the crew condemned to the night existence of the midwatch saw no reason to modify their behavior for those lucky ones who were allowed to sleep in the relative quiet and cool of the evening. After all, those who now tried to sleep would show no consideration as the midwatch tried to rest in the noise and heat of the day. So this particular sailor took his revenge every night, dropping equipment and dragging chains with vengeful glee, tormenting Hawkins as Marley's ghost tormented Scrooge. Hawkins lived in the uppermost of four vertically stacked bunk beds, six feet above the berthing deck and sandwiched in a sea of other bunks. For a six-month deployment, an infantry company—over 150 Marines—lived in a space smaller than one floor of a typical family house.
The top bunk did have its advantages, though. No one stepped on your face or groin while climbing into the rack, or swept a broom or mop onto it during field day. And if living on top meant there were pipes and electrical cables in your face and that the vibrations from the upper deck reverberated through your body, it also meant that you didn't have some lardass sagging so deeply into the mattress springs above that you were pinned to your rack, unable to move or turn over. And you got a clear shot at the air-conditioning, if it was working. The air came pure and cool from the vents above, yet to filter down through four layers of bodies seasoning in the tropical heat.
On the bridge, the officer of the deck yawned over a cup of coffee and fought off the terrible temptation to sit in the captain's chair.
At 0423 the first limpet mine exploded and immediately set off the anti-handling switches of the other three. They cracked the rear keel of the ship and opened a hole over twenty-five feet in diameter. A wall of water under incredible pressure rushed into the lower levels of the ship. On the bridge, the impact knocked over crew, coffee pots, binoculars, and other loose gear. After the initial shock, the officer of the deck pulled himself to his feet and tripped the general quarters alarm. The yeoman screamed into the IMC, the shipwide public-address system: "General quarters, general quarters! This is not a drill, this is not a drill!"
Under normal conditions, an LPH maintains material condition yoke, which means there is free access between compartments and decks. During general quarters, the condition changes to zebra, and all hatches are sealed to prevent the spread of water and fire. In an LHD class ship, unlike smaller warships, only the decks below the hangar deck can be sealed off from each other. The hangar deck and vehicle stowage are huge open spaces covering almost the entire length of the ship. During a general quarters drill setting condition zebra can take over ten minutes, since personnel need time to move throughout the ship to their stations. Needless to say, it takes longer at night and in the confusion and stress of a real emergency.
Just before the explosion, Hawkins lay listening to the cacophony of snores and creaking springs. The compartment was barely visible in the dim red night-lights. Then an enormous hammering bang vibrated through the hull, and the ship lurched violently to one side. Hawkins was nearly thrown out of his rack—only the aluminum guardrails held him in. There was a roaring sound of water under pressure. Ten Marines whose bunks lay against the bulkhead died instantly when the steel wall shattered and the sea came pouring in. The night-lights flickered, went out, and came back on. At the far end of the compartment several Marines forced open the wooden door to the port-side ladderwell and charged up the stairs. But the weight of the rushing water soon forced the inward-opening door shut, and it could not be moved. Darkness and confusion made the situation worse as the berthing area became jammed with panicked, shouting Marines, thrashing in the now-chest-deep water and trying to climb over each other to get out.
The engine room flooded before it could be sealed off, the water spreading to the decks below. Electrical power was lost, but battery-powered emergency lights came on automatically. Alert crewmen in several compartments had quickly secured hatches but were trapped as these isolated pockets were surrounded by water. The ladderwells were clogged with Marines and sailors who had escaped the berthing areas and were trying to make their way to the flight deck.
The captain, still wearing his skivvies, ran onto the bridge as the crew tried to sort out the damage-control reports. "Was it a suicide bomb?" he yelled to no one in particular.
"Underwater explosion," shouted the officer of the deck, juggling two phones. "No contact with the engine room, the whole deck is flooding fast."
"Jesus," groaned the captain. "Have we gotten a message off yet?"
"Yes, Sir," said the OOD. "The command ship says they can get fireboats here in an hour. Tugs will take longer. We've got nothing but emergency power right now."
The stern rose violently from the water as the remaining pair of limpets exploded. The weight of the water in its hull caused the Makin Island to roll gently to starboard. The port anchor chain groaned as it accepted more of the ship's weight. The roll stopped, and the ship listed more than fifteen degrees. A CH-53 transport helicopter broke its chains and slid off the flight deck into the water.
The captain watched it in dismay. "We're not going to be able to get the birds off," he said. The bridge crew failed to hear him in the din of panic. The ship settled lower into the water.
On the fight deck many Marines, not waiting for direction from the navy, had activated some of the large life rafts that hung along the catwalk in canisters that looked like oil drums. The rafts were in the water and had begun to inflate, still secured to the ship by a line. As Makin Island settled deeper in the water, men on the high side jumped into the darkness as chief petty officers screamed for them to
remain on the ship.
Hawkins looked down into the bunk below. Private First Class Garvey was staring, shocked, at the screaming men and the rising water. Hawkins leaned over, grabbed Garvey by the T-shirt, and shouted, "Hang onto me and don't let go for nothing. Just do what I do."
Anyone but a recent graduate of boot camp would have doomed them by not moving until he knew what was going on and all his questions had been answered. But Garvey, simply relieved that someone had taken charge, followed him without a word.
As the water rose to the bottom of his mattress, Hawkins grabbed a cluster of cables that ran overhead toward the starboard ladderwell. He slipped into the water. Garvey followed. Hawkins pulled himself hand over hand along the cables, moving toward the entrance to the ladderwell, which was now underwater. Then the battery lamps were submerged, the water only a foot below the overhead. The plunging darkness and rising water made claustrophobia inevitable. Hawkins tried to control his panic by concentrating on the cables. Through many hours of idle observation while lying in his rack, he knew they ended near the entrance to the stairwell.
Hawkins looked back. Garvey was dealing with his fear by keeping his eyes screwed shut and chanting, "Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck" in a continuous litany. Hawkins had intended to dive down, find the ladderwell, and come back up for Garvey. But the water was only six inches below the overhead—and there was no time for two trips. Hawkins felt the end of the cables. He couldn't see anything. The screams were so loud he thought his eardrums would burst. They were running out of air space. Hawkins turned, put his face to Garvey's ear, and interrupted his chanting by shouting, "Grab onto my waist and kick as hard as you can. We'll go on the count of three."
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