That possibility, Damavandi knew, had been endlessly discussed by the higher-ups within the Iranian Ministry of Defense. For a time, Operation Bold Fire had included a scenario — wishful thinking, so far as he was concerned — of using Iranian submarines to drive an intruder American submarine aground, capturing it instead of destroying it. Ultimately, that scenario had been dropped as something too uncertain, too dependent on too many variables, to work. Surely, the Americans would not be so stupid as to risk one of their nuclear vessels so close in to shore.
But it appeared that chance — or Allah — had just delivered precisely that opportunity squarely into Damavandi's hands.
For a time, as he'd quietly followed the slow-moving enemy vessel north, he'd considered approaching the enemy with active sonar blasting away, hoping to startle him into a rash movement that would put him aground. He'd decided against that, however. The American submarine forces were well-trained and, while incredibly bold — if some of the tales told by their Russian colleagues were true — were not given to rashness or to panic. An all-out charge by the Ghadir would be as likely to elicit a torpedo as flight.
Damavandi had chosen, therefore, to raise his radio mast and transmit a coded message to Bandar Abbas and to all Iranian ASW forces in the area, alerting them to the American's presence between Forur and Qeys Islands, and then to prepare to fire torpedoes.
The American submarine had been fully submerged at the time; it should not have heard the radio call. Luck — or just possibly divine providence — was most assuredly working to the advantage of Iran this day.
By firing two torpedoes at the enemy, he'd done his best to cover all eventualities. If the enemy sub ran, the torpedoes might sink him, would almost certainly cripple him, possibly in water so shallow that salvage of the secrets of the American nuclear reactor would be easy. If anything could make the American captain act in a hasty or rash way, it was word that two Russian-made torpedoes were bearing down on him.
There was an excellent chance that he would run aground after all.
Either way, the rest of the ASW forces in the Charak Bay region were heading this way at flank speed.
"Torpedo one is closing with the enemy, Captain!" the weapons officer called. "He's still moving slowly. Impact in thirty seconds!"
For this American submarine captain, there was no escape now….
"Torpedo impact in thirty seconds, Captain! Range six hundred!"
"Release countermeasures!"
"Countermeasures released."
Stewart watched the bulkhead clock, as sweat beaded on his forehead and upper lip. He'd already ordered ahead flank; the trouble was that just as it took time to stop eighteen thousand tons already moving forward, it took time to get eighteen thousand tons moving from a dead stop.
Thank God, however, he'd already ordered the Ohio to swing around with her screw toward the beach, to save time once they'd picked up the SEALs. By accelerating straight out the way they'd come in, they shouldn't run aground.
But those torpedoes had been fired almost at point-blank range, for submarine combat, and Ohio wouldn't cover much ground before they arrived. Unless divine providence came through with another miracle, they were going to be in trouble a lot deeper than the water around them very shortly now.
"Control Room, Sonar! Torpedo one appears to have lost its lock! I think it's going for the decoy!"
"Please, God, make it so," Shea said at his side.
They waited. There was nothing else to do.
Russian ASW torpedoes could be set to travel at one of two speeds — slow, for long chases in order to conserve fuel, and fast, for short ranges. This one was running at better than forty knots — high speed — and its simple-minded on-board processor had focused on the expanding cloud of bubbles.
Traveling northwest, it streaked through the bubble cloud, losing its targeting lock. According to programming, it began to go into a turn, entering a search pattern to reacquire its lost target.
At forty-plus knots, though, it could not turn within a tight radius. Seconds after passing the decoy cloud, it entered rapidly shoaling water and, as it began turning, it entered shallower water still.
Northeast of Qeys Island was a sandbar and coral reef that very nearly reached the surface….
Tangretti sat in the near darkness of the ASDS, exhausted, cold, aching in every bone and joint of his body. It was always this way at the end of an op. As the adrenaline began to leave his system, he began feeling the stress and strain of the exertion.
It had taken twenty minutes to motor out to the waiting ASDS, which had come up until its upper deck was awash. They'd transferred their gear down the upper hatch in a pitching sea, knifed the empty CRRCs to send them to the bottom, and clambered aboard.
The second platoon, Delta Two, was already on board. They'd completed their missile-launcher hunt on the headland south of Bandar-e Charak yesterday, and returned to the ASDS early that evening. For the next hour and half, or a bit more, the ASDS had made its slow way south across Charak Bay. They should now be within a mile or so of their rendezvous with the Ohio. If anything was going to go wrong on this op, now was the time….
The sudden boom transmitted through the water and the minisub's hull brought all of the SEALs up short. "What the hell was that?" Avery cried.
"Depth charges!" Wilson said. He looked scared.
"Whatever it is, it's not depth charges," Tangretti told them. "And we're not the target."
"If not us, who? Olivetti asked. "Maybe they're shooting at our ride!"
" Ohio can take care of herself," Tangretti said.
He wondered, though, how true that was in shallow water, surrounded by half the Iranian navy.
The crack of an underwater explosion close astern thundered through the Ohio, and sent the long vessel surging ahead like a surfboard riding a wave. Overpressure caused pipes to burst in several compartments. In the control room an overhead pipe suddenly gave way, sending a white stream of high-pressure water blasting across the compartment.
Two enlisted men, well-trained, thoroughly drilled, and with many hours experience in the submarine casualty simulator at New London, Connecticut, with exactly this sort of event — a "casualty," in submariner terminology — leaped for the broken pipe, wrestling a clamp into place against the torrent and tightening it shut. In seconds the water had stopped.
"Good job!" Stewart commended the soaking wet men. "Mr. Jarrett! What do you have for me?"
"Reports still coming in," Ohio's damage control officer reported. "No injuries so far. A few busted pipes. Nothing major."
"Keep on it. Sonar! Where's that second fish?"
"Locked onto us again, Captain! Seven hundred yards… closing fast! Forty seconds to impact!"
"Maneuvering! What's our speed?
"Now passing twenty knots, Captain. We're at all ahead flank, making revs for twenty-five."
"Control, Sonar. Incoming torpedo now at four hundred… three-five-zero…. "