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 Gillmore 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.”
23
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.”