Checkmate

by Tom Clancy

  Redding pointed to one of the Mandarin characters. “This means snake or worm, I think. And this one here . . . I think that means cloth. Now, what kind of sense does that make?”

  “Take a break. You’ll drive yourself nuts.” He stood up and walked back to the window.

  “I guess so. . . . And this one . . . cat. So what’s it mean: The early cat catches the cloth worm?”

  Fisher turned. “What was that? What did you just say?”

  “The early cat catches the cloth—”

  Fisher held up his hand, silencing Redding. Cat. Snake Cloth.

  “What is it, Sam?”

  “You said that character could be a worm or a snake.”

  “Right. And cat, and cloth.”

  “Could it be silk?”

  Redding thought about it and shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so. What—”

  “Silkworm,” Fisher murmured.

  54

  FISHER hurried to the console and got Lambert and Grimsdottir on the screen. “It’s not a U.S. base, Colonel. It’s here—it’s somewhere out here.” He explained about Redding’s study of the Mandarin documents. “One character means worm; cloth could be silk; the other one, cat.”

  “Silkworm missiles,” Lambert finished.

  “Right. And Cat could be Cat-14.”

  For decades the Chinese government had been exporting surface-to-surface/antiship HY-2/3/4 “Silkworm” missiles to Iran, and had in the last five years begun selling them Cat-14 Fast Patrol Boats, mostly for special Pasdaran units. Each Cat was capable of fifty-plus knots—almost sixty miles per hour—and carried twelve Silkworm missiles, each of which had a range of sixty miles and carried a twelve-hundred-pound ship-buster warhead.

  “Good God,” Lambert murmured.

  “Okay, let’s think it through: Silkworm shore batteries are heavily defended, especially right now. Abelzada’s men wouldn’t have a chance of sneaking onto an Iranian Naval base, stealing a Cat-14, and getting away with it clean. What does that leave?”

  “Given Zhao’s influence, we have to assume he could, for the right price, get his hands on some Silkworms. Suppose Abelzada’s men have their own supply. How would they deliver them? What would be the best way to strike the Reagan Group?”

  Fisher thought for a moment, then said, “Shipyards.”

  “Explain,” Lambert said.

  “The Reagan’s recon aircraft have taken shots of every military facility on the coast. We’re looking for a shipyard that does repairs on Cat-14s. Find one’s that’s being refitted . . . some minor repairs. . . . Shipyard security isn’t as tight as a Naval base’s.”

  Lambert caught on. “A Cat that’s operational, but stripped of missiles.”

  “Right.”

  GRIMSDOTTIR went to work, and came back ten minutes later. “The Iranian Navy has twenty-six Cat-14s in service. Twenty-two of them are operational and the Navy’s tracking all of them. None are within eighty miles of the Group. Four are docked—one for crew rotation and three for repairs or refit.”

  “Put the shipyards on my screen.”

  The monitor resolved into an overhead view of the Iranian coastline. Two spots were marked by red circles: one at Halileh, south of the Bushehr naval base deep inside the Persian Gulf; and one near Kordap, just outside the mouth of the Strait of Hormuz.

  “We just flew over Kordap,” Fisher said to Lambert. “Get a hold of the Port Royal and tell them to cut us loose. We’ll circle back and check it.”

  Redding said, “The Tomcats—”

  “They’re BARCAPs,” Fisher said. “They’re not loaded for surface targets. They’ll have to divert some Hornets.”

  “How sure are you about this, Sam?” asked Lambert.

  “Fifty-fifty. If we’re wrong, fine. If we’re right . . .”

  “Okay, hold on, I’ll get back to you.”

  Fisher got up and jogged to the cockpit. “Bird, slow us down and get ready for a U-turn.”

  Lambert was back. Fisher took the call in the cockpit. “You’re cut loose,” Lambert said. “Just don’t make any sudden turns back toward the Group.”

  Fisher nodded to Bird, who eased the Osprey into a gentle turn.

  “Are they sending planes to Kordap?” Fisher asked.

  “Negative. I got the polite brush-off from NAV-CENT’S operations officer. He says they haven’t got time for a wild-goose chase. They know where each and every Cat-14 is.”

  “As of how long ago?”

  “Don’t know. What’s your ETA to Kordap?”

  Sandy mouthed, Thirty.

  “Half hour, Colonel.”

  “Don’t get shot down. The Iranians have F-16s up; they’ve been playing tag with the Reagan’s BARCAPs. They’re getting pretty aggressive.”

  Bird interrupted. “Colonel, get me clearance into Dubai.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Trust me. I’ll explain later.”

  “Okay . . .”

  Off the air, Fisher asked Bird, “What’s that about?”

  “A little sleight-of-hand. The Iranians have been tracking us since we left Pakistan. I’m lining up with Dubai’s final approach lane. I’ll drop some altitude to simulate a landing, then once we’re below the radar, we’ll swing back around. It’ll add some time, but it’ll save us a missile up the heinie.”

  Fisher smiled. “I like the way you think.”

  Bird descended steadily, crossing first into UAE airspace and then over coastline. When their alititude reached one hundred feet, he banked hard and swung around on a reciprocal course, heading back into the Gulf of Oman. Twenty minutes later, he called, “Iranian coast coming up. Kordap Shipyard dead on our nose, three miles. Powering up the FLIR.”

  “Give me a picture back here,” Fisher called, and sat down at the console.

  The FLIR image came on the monitor; it looked like an X-ray. As Fisher watched, the image slowly glided over the ocean.

  “Shipyard in one mile,” Bird called. The cockpit radar warning alarm started beeping. “They’re just tickling us,” Bird called. “They haven’t got us yet.” Ten seconds later: “Should be seeing something at the edge of the FLIR.”

  Fisher did. Enclosed by twin pincers of land, Kordap Shipyard came into view. Fisher could clearly make out four piers, some cranes jutting up into the sky, and a cluster of manufacturing and refit buildings. He counted four ships at dock.

  “Swing right,” Fisher called. “I need a better look at the piers.”

  Bird banked the Osprey slightly and realigned the nose with the piers.

  Fisher studied each vessel. The Cat-14 had a unique outline, mainly from its twin Silkworm launchers jutting at an angle from the port and starboard decks.

  “It’s not there,” Fisher said.

  “You’re sure?” Redding asked.

  “I’m sure. Bird, bring us about. Get us out of here.”

  The Osprey banked, swinging over the shipyard and back over the water. A minute and half later, they were out of Iranian territorial waters. Bird started climbing.

  Trouble, Fisher thought.

  In normal circumstances he wouldn’t be worried about a lone patrol boat getting anywhere near the Reagan . Her picket ships, most of which were Aegis cruisers, would lock onto and destroy the Cat long before it came within Silkworm range. But these weren’t normal circumstances. The Reagan’s Group was split, with DESRON 9 moving through the Strait of Hormuz and the remaining picket ships restationing to give the huge carrier room to manuever. The mouth of the strait was a mere sixty miles wide—a tight fit for an entire battle group. Under those conditions, a fast boat might be able to get close enough to strike. And with as many as twelve Silkworms, at least one had a good chance of hitting something.

  “Get Lambert on the line,” Fisher called. “Have him contact NAVCENT—”

  “Hold your horses!” Bird called. “Check your screen, Sam.”

  Fisher looked at the monitor. Dead ahead, cast in the FLIR’s negative image, was the missing Cat-14.
It was sitting still in the water beside a cargo ship. As they drew nearer, Fisher could see figures on the decks of both vessels scrambling for cover.

  From the cockpit came the radar warning alarm.

  “We’re being painted!” Bird called.

  The alarm went to a steady beep.

  “Missile lock!”

  On the monitor, Fisher saw a bloom of white appear on the Cat’s aftderdeck. “Got a launch!” he yelled. “Shoulder-fired missile. Left side!”

  The Osprey banked hard. Fisher was tossed from his seat. He and Redding collided and tumbled across the deck together. Fisher snagged a cargo strap and dragged Redding to it.

  “Active homing!” Bird said. “It’s got us!”

  The Osprey heeled over again.

  “Launch chaff!” Bird called.

  There was a series of rapid pops outside the Osprey.

  “Chaff away!” Sandy replied.

  A long three seconds passed. Fisher heard a whump on the Osprey’s right side. A dozen jagged, quarter-sized holes appeared in the fuselage.

  “Hit!” Sandy called.

  Through the cockpit door Fisher could see Bird’s and Sandy’s hands moving from control to control, their voices overlapping as they checked the aircraft’s vital readouts: oil pressure, hydraulics, temperature, fuel. . . .

  “We’re okay, we’re okay,” Bird called.

  “Where’s the Cat?” Fisher said.

  “Right side, two miles. They’re thirty miles from the outer ring of the battle group.”

  Already within missile range, Fisher thought. He ran to the cockpit. “Can you get ahead of them—line up right on their bow?”

  “Yeah . . . Whatchya got in mind?”

  Fisher told him.

  Bird looked sideways at him. “Jesus, Sam. . . . That’s gonna get us another missile. We were just plain lucky this time. Next time, maybe not.”

  Fisher knew this, but if Abelzada’s men managed to put even a single Silkworm into a U.S. warship, there would be no pulling back from war. An Iranian patrol boat armed with Iranian missiles, laying in wait in an Iranian shipyard. . . .

  Within hours, U.S. warplanes and cruise missiles would begin raining down on Iran.

  “Do it,” Fisher ordered.

  55

  AS Bird came about and aligned the Osprey’s tail with the oncoming Cat, now one mile back, Sandy got on the radio and started broadcasting in the blind on the battle group’s emergency ops channel.

  “Reagan Group, this is Pike. Be advised, Iranian fast patrol boat approaching your outer ring at bearing one-zero-nine. Reagan Group, this is Pike. . . .”

  Sitting at the comm console, Redding called to Sam, “The Cat’s up to forty-five knots and increasing. Distance to battle group, twenty-five miles.”

  At this range, traveling at Mach .9, the Silkworm would reach the outer picket ships in less than two minutes.

  “Where are we?”

  “A half mile ahead of them, dead on their bow.”

  Fisher called, “Bird, give me the ramp!”

  “Ramp coming down.”

  Sandy yelled, “Okay, we got the Reagan’s attention. A cruiser and a frigate are peeling away. They’re coming about, heading toward us.”

  The ramp groaned down and locked into position. In the predawn gloom, Fisher could see the Osprey’s prop wash kicking up twin rooster tails on the surface. Farther back, he could just make out the Cat’s bow plowing through the waves.

  “Start decreasing speed, Bird,” Fisher ordered. “How far, Will?”

  “Quarter mile.”

  Fisher knelt down. He flipped open the front right ratchet holding the Skipjack to the deck. He moved to the next one, repeated the process.

  In the cockpit, the missile alarm starting wailing.

  “They’ve got us again!” Bird yelled.

  Fisher scrambled for the rear tie-downs, flipped one, then moved to the next. He glanced out the ramp and could see, silhouetted by the rising sun, a man standing on the Cat’s port bridge wing. A long, bulky object was resting on his shoulder. Even as Fisher thought missile, a gout of flame erupted from the rear of the launcher.

  “Missile launch,” he yelled, and flipped the last tie-down.

  He put his shoulder to the Skipjack and shoved.

  IN his mind, time seemed to slow. The wail of the missile alarm faded, along with the voices of Bird and Sandy talking to one another in the cockpit.

  The Skipjack slid off the ramp, bounced once on the surface, then nosed over and started tumbling end over end. In the final second, the Cat’s helsman must have seen the collision coming. He tried to turn, but too late. The Skipjack slammed broadside into the Cat’s bridge. Fisher had a fleeting glimpse of the bridge disintegrating in an eruption of debris before Bird banked hard right.

  “. . . hold on . . . Active homing!” Bird was yelling. “Get that ramp up, get it up! Fire chaff!”

  “Chaff away!”

  Fisher felt a hand on his shoulder dragging him away from the rising ramp.

  “Brace for shock!” Bird called. “It’s got us. . . .”

  The Osprey lurched to the right as though struck by a giant hammer. A jagged hole the size of a basketball appeared in the fuselage.

  Bird’s voice: “Engine hit, engine hit!”

  “. . . shut it down!”

  “. . . fire suppression!”

  IT took two minutes, but working together, Bird and Sandy managed to get the damaged engine shut down and the fire extinguished. With only one engine, the Osprey yawed to the right.

  Fisher turned to Redding. “Rig the fast-rope.”

  He made his way to the cockpit. Sandy was sending out the Mayday: “Reagan Group, this is Pike. Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. We have taken a missile strike. . . .”

  “Where is it?” Fisher asked. “Where’s the Cat?”

  “Hell, I don’t know—”

  “Find it. Put me over the deck.”

  “What?”

  “We need to be sure, Bird. Get me there.”

  Bird rotated the undamaged engine to three-quarters vertical and coaxed the Osprey around until they spotted the Cat out the side window. It was sitting dead in the water. Bird slowed to a hover over the afterdeck. Fisher clipped into the fast-rope, jumped out the door, and zipped to the deck. He unclipped, drew the SC-20, and flipped the selector to Sticky Shocker.

  The boat was a wreck. The Skipjack had exploded on impact, oblitering the upper half of the Cat’s lightweight superstructure. Chunks of fiberglass and aluminum littered the deck. Glass crunched under Fisher’s feet.

  He saw movement to his right. He spun. A crewman was stumbling up the ladder from belowdecks. His face was bloody. He held a pistol in one hand. Fisher fired. The shocker hit him in the chest. He stiffened, quivered for a few seconds, then fell back down the ladder.

  Fisher heard a moan. He cocked his head, trying to pinpoint it. The moan came again. Fisher turned and saw a man lying on the bridge wing. He was feebly reaching for the railing as he tried to stand. Fisher left him whre he was and kept moving, heading aft. As he ducked under the starboard Silkworm launcher, he heard a steady beeping coming from his left. He crouched down and peered around the launcher’s mount.

  A man was kneeling beside before an access hatch on the port-side launcher. A red light flashed inside the panel. The man punched more buttons. Fisher rose up and creeped up behind him.

  “Hey,” he called.

  The man froze for a moment, then glanced over his shoulder.

  “What did I tell you about playing with missiles?” Fisher said.

  The man spun back to the panel, fingers flying over the buttons. Fisher shot him in the back.

  HE found an an interior ladder and followed it belowdecks. He found three more crewman, one dead, two alive and in various states of consciousness. He entered the engine room and located the last man hiding in a corner behind a steam conduit.

  Fisher leveled the SC-20 at him.

  “Kill me
,” the man muttered. “Kill me. . . .”

  Fisher shook his head. “Sorry, pal, can’t help you. You’ve got a date with an interrogator.”

  56

  AL UDEID AIR BASE, DOHA, QATAR

  THE Air Force captain opened the conference room door and waved Fisher through. Fisher had changed out of his tac-suit and had been given a spare pilot’s jumpsuit. It was too tight in the crotch. It felt funny when he walked.

  The conference room was empty save for a dozen chairs and some prints on the walls depicting various events in Air Force history. On the far wall above was a plasma screen. Lambert was there. “Hello, Sam.”

  “Colonel.”

  “Nice duds.”

  “When do we get out of here?”

  The Cat’s aborted attack on the battle group had caused a dramatic reaction. Led by her Aegis cruisers, the Reagan had reversed course and moved out into the Gulf of Oman with DESRON 9 following in rear guard.

  The cruiser and frigate that had peeled away from the group to intercept the Cat arrived forty minutes after Fisher dropped onto the boat. The frigate’s boarding party found Fisher sitting on the afterdeck, surrounded by five of Abelzeda’s men, each one bound and gagged.

  Now, twelve hours later, he, Redding, Bird, and Sandy were still being kept incognito. Clearly, they had been vouched for and labeled off limits, which was fine with Fisher—except that no one could or would tell them what was happening in the outside world. Of course, given how they’d arrived on scene and what they’d brought with them—a stolen Iranian fast-patrol boat loaded with two Silkworm missiles; a handful of Iranian radicals; and an indignant former Turkmen Minister of Defense—Fisher couldn’t blame them.

  “You certainly know how to make an entrance,” Lambert said.

  “It’s not how I would’ve preferred it, Colonel.”

  “I know. You got the job done, though. That’s what counts.”

  Fisher nodded. “So, what’s new in the world? How’s the stock market? Read any good books lately? Are we at war with Iran?”