At this, Maloney peered around the room again, checking the other occupants. In a lowered voice he said, “I can’t believe you’re a reporter, being this naive. Or maybe it’s just an act to get guys like me to run their mouths.”
“I’m not naive and I’m not acting. Don’t insult me, Vince.”
“Sorry. You want to know why we care about Yemen? Guess what the most valuable commodity in the whole Middle East happens to be.”
“Yemen doesn’t have oil deposits. British Petroleum and several other companies bored all those dry holes years ago and gave up.”
“Maybe they didn’t bore in the right place. You know that vast reservoir that lies under Saudi Arabia? Well, it extends all the way south to somewhere around the northern border of Yemen, which, for your information, has always been disputed. No one wanted to get into a scrap with the Saudis over it — until now.”
Claire put her fingertips together and reflected for a moment. “It all seems so cynical. Here we’re losing airplanes, pilots dying in Yemen, and it’s just for… oil. Nothing but economics.”
“To us, maybe. Not to Al-Fasr.”
“What does he get out of this?”
“Power, for one thing. Vengeance, for another. The story is that he’s still bitter about his family being wiped out in a failed coup attempt in the emirates. He blames the U.S., which might explain all this thrust-and-parry stuff with the Navy. But the outcome is already agreed upon. A done deal.”
“Deal? Who on our side would make such a deal?”
Maloney looked uncomfortable. He took a long pull on his drink, then looked at her. “Did you ever hear of someone named Whitney Babcock?”
By ten o’clock, Maloney was crocked. Claire steered him through the hotel lobby, past the desk and the gawking bellboys, out to the yellow-lighted sidewalk.
He looked at her blearily. “Whaddya say we go back to my place?”
She knew that was coming. Maloney never changed. “Is that another proposition?”
“Consider it an opportunity.”
“Opportunity for what?”
“To make amends for breaking my heart.”
She laughed. “We’re buddies, Vince. Don’t spoil it.”
“Lemme give you a ride home.”
“I’m already home. This is my hotel.”
He looked around. “Oh, yeah, so it is.”
“You’re in no shape to drive. I’ll get you a taxi.”
“No way. I do this all the time. Got lots of practice at this stuff.”
Claire knew she shouldn’t let him drive, but arguing with Maloney was a waste of energy. Anyway, this was San‘a. Not much could happen to you in the twisting streets of the old city. You couldn’t drive fast enough to do any real damage.
Maloney gave her a wet smooch. “Go on up to your room. Don’t talk to anyone. These people hate you. They hate all of us.”
After he had vanished down the sidewalk, she walked back through the lobby to the elevator. Again she sensed the hostile glares from the other guests watching her. Even the desk clerk gave her a baleful look.
When she reached her room, she locked the door, then fastened the clasp. For good measure, she slid the dresser away from the wall and braced it against the locked door. Just in case.
Maloney was right. They hate all of us.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
Slumped over his console, Manilov listened to the steady pinging that resonated through the Mourmetz. He forced himself to appear unruffled by the sounds. In front of the other crew members, he must not appear to be frightened. Or indecisive.
His executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Ilychin, seemed on the verge of an anxiety attack. Ilychin sat huddled at his own station, his arms wrapped around himself. His eyes darted around the control room with each new ping from the sonars.
Ilychin was a liability, Manilov decided. The executive officer’s palpable fear could infect the rest of the crew. Already Manilov was hearing whispered grumbles from some of the young warrants. They had not signed up for a suicide mission. They thought this would be an easy patrol — a quick torpedo shot at an unsuspecting target, then a submerged run to safe waters. That was all. Once they’d finished the patrol, they’d be rewarded with money beyond their wildest dreams.
Manilov would have to reassure them. They had to have confidence in him. Ilychin’s trepidation was poisoning them.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
Still searching. If they had the Mourmetz tagged, the underwater sound signals wouldn’t be detonating in those random patterns and depths. The sound signals were dropped from a helicopter, and the fact that the pings were farther away now led Manilov to think they didn’t have a positive fix on the Mourmetz.
What if they did?
He remembered what he had been taught as a young engineering officer on his first patrol aboard the old Admiral Koblenko: Put yourself in the mind of your enemy.
Manilov forced himself to detach from his present role. What would he do if he were the American antisubmarine commander?
Kill the unidentified submarine?
No. Not without knowing whose boat you were killing and not without first seeing some indication of hostile intent. You didn’t risk starting a war because somebody’s submarine was watching you.
What then?
Manilov thought for a moment. You try to keep it locked up, of course. Make sure the sub commander knows he’s tagged so he doesn’t try anything adventurous. You might even drop some ordnance, not too close, just to generate some fear. To emphasize the seriousness of your intentions.
But the American commander hadn’t done any of those things. Why? It could mean only one thing: He was still fishing. He hadn’t found the Mourmetz, or at least he didn’t know within several kilometers where it was.
Manilov had chosen a good hiding place.
The Mourmetz lay motionless in the shelter of a protruding littoral shelf that dropped over three hundred meters to the ocean floor. It formed a natural blind from the enemy’s underwater signals and magnetic anomaly detectors.
Ping. Ping.
Yes, he determined, the pinging was definitely moving farther away. All he had to do was wait. That was what submariners had always done — wait. You waited for the enemy to give up and move on. You waited for your opportunity to strike. You waited to die.
While he waited, Manilov scribbled on his notepad a personal assessment of his enemy’s assets. By his own count the Reagan was escorted by four destroyers, and he had to assume there was one, possibly two more, screening the battle group from the south. He knew that antisubmarine helicopters were deployed not only aboard the giant carrier but also on the cruiser and maybe even on the amphibious assault ship with its complement of cargo and attack helicopters. Additionally, the Reagan carried in its air wing a detachment of S-3 Viking submarine-hunting jets.
Another chilling possibility nagged at him: The American Navy’s anti-submarine forces were often augmented by nuclear attack submarines of their own. These were usually Los Angeles — class multipurpose boats that could haul commando teams, launch cruise missiles — and hunt enemy submarines. Killer submarines were a boat captain’s most dreaded adversary.
American warships were not his only worry. The Mourmetz was now two days past its scheduled delivery to the Iranian naval base at Bandar Abbas, on the Strait of Hormuz. Since that time he had ignored the flow of increasingly urgent messages from the Pacific fleet command headquarters in Vladivostok. He had no doubt the Russian Navy was now at full alert, searching for its missing warship. He wondered if the Iranians had paid them yet for the submarine. He hoped so.