Primary Target (1999)

by Joe - Dalton;Sullivan 01 Weber

  A half minute later a second Tomahawk rocketed out of the water to follow the first missile to the same target. Like the first Tomahawk. it tilted down and the booster fell off, but the turbojet lighted a second late. The missile almost impacted the water before it gained speed, stabilized in the proper attitude, then flew unerringly toward its destination. Gillmore tried to ignore his fear of being discovered by an Iranian Kilo-class diesel-powered attack submarine. If one or more of the subs happened to be lurking in the vicinity, they might have detected the extremely loud noises generated by the Tomahawk launches. Feared because of their super-quiet, stealthy traits, the Russian-manufactured 244-foot Kilos were almost impossible to detect passively when they were operating on their batteries.

  The task of detecting them was made even more difficult when they were "sleeping" on the bottom of the Gulf in relatively warm, shallow water. Acquired for the purpose of controlling access to the vital Strait of Hormuz choke point, the 3,077-ton (submerged displacement) submarines were intended to be Iran's equalizers when dealing with the overwhelming power of the United States Navy.

  The missile launch sequence continued at thirty-second intervals until the last Tomahawk blasted out of the water and turned on course. The final three cruise missiles were targeted at a nuclear research-and-weapons storage warehouse located at Bushehr.

  After the sixth vertical launch tube filled with water and the hatches were closed, Commander Gillmore breathed a sigh of relief and ordered a communications mast to be raised. Via satellite, he sent a short confirming message to the Pentagon, then prepared to dive deeper and set course for the middle of the Arabian Sea.

  Less than a minute after Hampton launched her last Tomahawk, Cheyenne began launching her cruise missiles toward the same targets. Stabilized at her launch depth sixty-five nautical miles southwest of the border between Pakistan and Iran, Cheyenne's Tomahawks were programmed to reach Bushehr and Bandar-e Abbas three minutes after Hampton's last missile hit its target.

  Iranian Submarine Taregh Startled by the first explosive noise that reverberated through Taregh, Captain Mehdi Rafiqdoust quickly recovered. With his heart racing, the Kilo-class submarine skipper anticipated the next loud report, as did the stunned operator of the acoustic receiver. After the second powerful explosion, Rafiqdoust had no doubt; he'd stumbled across an American submarine. An American sub that was launching missiles. This was obviously the reason Tehran had ordered his crew to go to combat readiness condition one.

  His last communication with Dauntless confirmed that Taregh was loitering in a position where the American battle group had passed many hours before. Aware that U. S. nuclear attack submarines--sometimes more than one--generally accompanied carrier battle groups, Rafiqdoust hesitated a moment. Was the undeclared war between Iran and the United States now a shooting war? The rift had been the lead story on every news program for the past two months. Rafiqdoust exchanged a glance with Commander Fathi Ashmar, his intensely fierce second in command. The small man's unblinking stare left no question about his feelings. The men nodded in silent agreement. Convinced that his country was being attacked by the Great Satan, Rafiqdoust gave the order to attack the enemy submarine.

  "We are at war," he said grimly, then smoothed his thick mustache. "We will sink the American submarine."

  Well trained and motivated, the Iranian officers and sailors swung into action on the skipper's command. Two Russian advisers gave Rafiqdoust weak, but polite smiles and made their way to their berthing quarters. The Varshavyanka-class sub experts had strict orders from their superiors in Moscow; they were not to take part in any hostile military engagement.

  By the time the American's fifth weapon was away, Rafiqdoust had the range and bearing to the noisy target. Elated by his good fortune, his mind raced in search of anything that might be questionable about his logic. One last analysis before he fired the first torpedo. Are the Americans launching their weapons at Iraq?

  If so, an unprovoked attack on a U. S. Navy submarine would be a huge political embarrassment. It could end his career and cost him his life. On the other hand, if Rafiqdoust was correct in his assumption, and he managed to sink the enemy sub, he would have enormous leverage to move to the highest circles in the Iranian Navy.

  The civilian and military leadership of Iran enthusiastically endorsed the complex and expensive task of operating submarines; now it was time to deliver on the investment. If Rafiqdoust was successful in his efforts to destroy the sub, the U. S. government would think twice about further intervention in the affairs of the Islamic Republic of Iran. He smiled inwardly. Allahu is guiding me. I have made the right decision.

  With two of Taregh's six 533-millimeter torpedo tubes out of service, Rafiqdoust double checked his firing solution, then ordered four sub-killer torpedoes fired. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead and checked the time-to-target on the first torpedo. Would he be successful in his quest to kill the intruder? He wouldn't have long to wait for an answer.

  The control room was deathly quiet when Commander Gill-more gave the order to do a "baffle clear," an S-shaped maneuver to make sure an enemy submarine wasn't lurking in Hampton's baffle zone. "Left ten degrees rudder, come to one-nine-five."

  "Left ten degrees rudder, aye," the young helmsman repeated. "New course one-nine-five. Sir, my rudder is left ten degrees."

  The only noise came from the hum of the ventilation ducts as the attack sub began a turn to check the deaf area astern of the boat.

  "Make your depth two hundred feet," Gillmore said with obvious relief in his voice. His mouth and lips were so dry, he had to swallow before he issued each order.

  "Two hundred feet, aye," the diving officer replied.

  A low murmur spread through the control room as the tension began to dissipate. The farther away they could get from the launch coordinates, the better chance they would have to evade any hunter/killers in the area.

  Gillmore turned to the chief of the boat. "Let's give the men some--" He stopped in mid-sentence, an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach--a feeling of primal fear. Along with the other men around him, the captain had heard a faint sound. In disbelief, Gillmore heard it again, louder this time. Much louder.

  Ping-PING!

  The sound was unmistakable, striking terror in the hearts of the crew. To a person, their faces contorted in a kind of horror that is something more than mere fright. They were about to die, and there wasn't anything they could do about it.

  "Emergency blow!" Gillmore ordered in frenzied desperation. "Let's get on the roof!"

  The petty officer at the ballast control panel lurched for the two handles located above his head. Panicked, he activated the controls, sending high-pressure air from the air banks into the ballast tanks. The sub immediately began ascending toward the surface.

  The third ping came less than two seconds before Hampton's double hull was ripped open by a powerful blast. Like a huge sledgehammer, the concussion-implosion slammed Gillmore backward into a bulkhead, knocking him down. With the wind knocked out of him, he gasped for air and tried to get to his feet. The lights flickered twice and went out as Hampton rapidly filled with seawater.

  Gillmore groped in the dark as cold water gushed through the control room. He managed to get to his knees at the same time as the second torpedo smashed into the remains of the attack sub. With his eardrums ruptured and his scalp bleeding, Gillmore was swept through an opening in the hull. He frantically tried to orient himself in the dark, but the water was so disturbed he couldn't determine which way was up. Panicked, he clawed at the water in an attempt to reach the surface. Twice, he bumped into other men as they struggled to save their lives.

  Gillmore was making progress until the third torpedo detonated, tumbling him through the water. He struck his head against the remains of the forward escape trunk, knocking himself unconscious. He sank slowly, arriving on the floor of the Gulf fifteen minutes after Hampton.

  The crackling and grinding sounds of a
submarine breaking apart were clearly evident to the senior operator of Taregh's acoustic receiver. When he signaled confirmation of the kill, the crew in the control room began to celebrate.

  The captain glared at them. "Quiet," Rafiqdoust hissed under his breath. "There may be a second American sub out there."

  Commander Fathi Ashmar turned to Rafiqdoust and smiled with unconscious pride. "The Americans are getting their noses bloodied."

  Chapter 23

  The White House.

  Although it was early morning in the Persian Gulf, the evening was still young in Washington, D. C. Freshly shaved and showered, President Macklin entered the wood-paneled bunker known as the White House Situation Room. He'd stopped by the Oval Office to ensure that the TV cameras and lights were positioned where he liked them. If everything went as anticipated, Macklin planned to make a short announcement to his fellow citizens, then enjoy a late dinner with his wife, former foreign news correspondent Maria Eden-Macklin. If things didn't go well, it would be a long night for the commander in chief and his entire staff. The president took his chair at the head of the wide table and greeted his secretary of defense, the national security adviser, the chairman of the joint chiefs of staff, and Fraiser Wyman, Macklin's chief of staff.

  A gaunt man with tightly curled gray hair and deeply set blue eyes, Wyman had been a longtime inhabitant of the political underbrush before Macklin rescued him from obscurity. A late bloomer, Wyman wore small round metal-rimmed glasses and displayed a charming, almost boyish smile. A middle-aged bachelor, he had three passions other than politics; attractive young women, skiing in Switzerland, and expensive foreign sports cars.

  "Okay, Pete, tell me some good news," Macklin said cheerfully as he puffed on a fresh Onyx cigar.

  Adair hesitated a second, giving himself away. "Well, we have more activity than we anticipated."

  "Activity?" Macklin's voice accused Adair.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Why does that not surprise me?" the president challenged. From previous encounters with Macklin, Adair knew better than to take the bait. "They've launched what appear to be numerous fighter aircraft out of Shiraz and Bushehr. All their forces--air and sea--are in a heightened-alert status." "Wonderful," Macklin said curtly. The single word managed to indicate his concern and irritation. If the operation backfired, and American lives were lost, he would be in deep political trouble. Heads, of course, would have to roll.

  "Les, what do you suggest?" the president asked with venom in his voice. "Should we cancel the strike?" Chalmers flicked a nervous glance at his watch. "It's too late," he said, somewhat apologetically. "The Tomahawks are in the air. We should have confirmation any second." Macklin swore to himself, then looked each man in the eye before he spoke. "We underestimated Tehran."

  In silence, the men waited for the storm to hit.

  "Or," Hartwell Prost finally said in a suggestive voice, "they knew we were coming."

  The president frowned and gave him a surprised look. "What are you talking about--what's that supposed to mean?"

  Prost tilted his head and half turned to look at his boss. "Someone obviously leaked the plan," he declared with terse calm. "This was a super-secret operation, and the Iranians were waiting for us. That didn't just happen by chance." No one, including the president, said a word until Fraiser Wyman finally found his voice. "I'm sorry, Hartwell, but I find that difficult to believe."

  "Why do you find it difficult to believe?" Prost challenged. "Let's hear your explanation."

  "Our relations with Tehran have hit rock bottom," Wyman suggested in a steady, pleasant voice, "and this is simply a reaction to our increased presence in the Gulf. It's that simple."

  Hartwell's jaw muscles twitched. "You don't believe that any more than I do. They were waiting for us."

  "Okay," Wyman taunted in a harsher tone. "Give us some facts."

  "You want facts?" Prost snapped back. "How many times have the Iranians launched fighter planes--and gone on alert--when one of our carrier battle groups entered the Persian Gulf?

  "None," Prost answered his own question. "They may not have known precisely what our objective was, but they knew something was up."

  "They have good surveillance and reconnaissance capabilities," Wyman blurted. "Maybe they picked up something, or the crash of the Tomcat could have spooked them. We don't know what they think."

  Macklin raised his hands to Wyman. "We'll discuss this later. Regardless of what the Iranians know or don't know"--he glanced at General Chalmers--"Les says that we have missiles en route to their targets. We're facing a major threat, and we better start making some informed and intelligent decisions for a change."

  "Sir," Chalmers said, trying to sound confident, "we have overwhelming firepower in the Gulf. I don't believe the Iranians are going to cross swords with us, even if this operation has been compromised."

  The president traded glances with Hartwell Prost and Pete Adair, then turned to Chalmers. "Would you bet your job on it?"

  Caught off guard by the taunt, Chalmers managed to keep his composure. "I just did, sir."

  The secure phone rang, warming the chill in the room. The general lifted the receiver and identified himself. A moment later Chalmers placed the phone in its cradle and looked straight at the president. "It's confirmed. The Tomahawks are airborne, sir."

  "Get everything up," Macklin ordered. "If the Iranians counterattack, I want to stop them in their tracks." "Yessir," Chalmers replied with painful stiffness.

  The president reached for the phone with the blinking light. Holding for the chief executive, the speaker of the House of Representatives was on the line.

  The Herdsmen The last embers of the small fire barely glowed as the lame and partially blind sheep tender struggled to rise from his mangy makeshift bed. He lost his balance and tripped over the man lying on the adjoining sleeping mat. Speaking in Luri, his younger companion grumbled as the older man made his way to a shallow trench to relieve the pain in his bladder.

  After he was finished, the native of Baluchistan shuffled to the reddish-orange embers and stirred them with a short stick. He added a few thin pieces of wood to the small fire and warmed hiswithered, arthritic hands over the warm flames.

  A few moments later he heard a strange sound approaching him--one he'd never heard in his seventy-one years. The younger man, with his eyes darting in fear, bolted upright and fought to control the panic that was engulfing him. He listened intently while his mind raced to associate the sound with something he could relate to. The low screech became a high-pitched scream as the Tomahawk missile raced straight at their resting place, then blasted directly over the heads of the frightened men. Shocked by the invisible, screaming monster, they sat in stunned silence for a moment before they began talking excitedly to each other.

  They were trying to calm their fears when the same eerie sound approached a second time. Afraid that the monster was returning to kill them, the men huddled in sheer terror and trembled while they frantically tried to extinguish the fire. Unsure if the flames were attracting the flying beasts, the older man yanked off his frayed jacket and quickly smothered the low flames.

  With the horrendous sound growing closer and closer, the men sprawled on the ground and began praying to Allahu. Reeling from absolute panic, they covered their heads when the screaming monster roared low over them and flew off in the darkness. Thirty seconds later the sound returned from the original direction, causing the younger man to soil his clothes. At an altitude of seventy feet, the missile flew directly over their campsite and continued on course. Eyes sunken and terrified, the men didn't move a muscle until they could no longer hear the monsters. As the minutes ticked away, their heart rates slowly subsided while they shivered and waited for the first signs of daylight.

  The Situation Room Shoving the silver coffee service aside, President Macklin gave Les Chalmers an anxious look as they studied the progress of the cruise missiles on a giant, state-of-the-art multicolored screen. Accord
ing to satellite information, the first Tomahawk from Hampton would be striking the nukes at Bandar-e Abbas in less than nine minutes. Lost in his concern, Cord Macklin was only vaguely conscious of the other men gathered in the Situation Room.

  An aide stepped into the revamped room and quietly conferred with Fraiser Wyman, then silently left.

  Irritation and uneasiness combined to twist Wyman's face. He leaned close to Macklin. "Mr. President," the chief of staff began, then paused for a long moment.

  "What is it?" Macklin snapped.

  "Sir, CNN, MSNBC, and the Fox News Channel are reporting that we have launched an attack on Iran, and that we are preparing--"

  The color drained from the president's face.

  "--to engage them in--"

  "Damn them!" Macklin bellowed, his teeth clenched in fear and anger. "Damn the sorry bastard who leaked this, and damn the sonsabitches who aired it!"

  Bushehr, Iran Unable to sleep, Peter Simchukov rose from his small bunk and walked out of the austere barracks adjacent to the missile storage-and-assembly facility at Bushehr. Formerly associated with Russia's state-run Polyus Research Institute, Simchukov was a highly respected scientist who designed advanced missile guidance systems called ring-laser gyroscopes. A portly man with bloodshot eyes, stringy salt-andpepper hair, and a mouth full of rotten teeth, he sat down on a wooden bench and glanced at the star-studded sky, then lighted a cigarette and studied the heavily guarded assembly building.

  Inside, four North Korean No Dong I missiles and two Chinese DF-25 missiles were being readied to accept the Russian nuclear warheads. The rearmament program was over three months behind schedule, but the stockpile of nuclear-tipped missiles was steadily growing.