With every mile they covered, he was more and more pleased with his crew. Everyone had learned an enormous amount in the previous two years — the training with the Russians in Araguba, the endless courses in nuclear physics, nuclear reactors, turbines, propulsion, engineering, electronics, hydrology, weapons and guidance systems.
And alongside him, there were no longer rookies, but seasoned submariners. There was his number two, the Executive Officer, Capt. Ali Akbar Mohtaj, the former reactor room engineer who had commanded this very ship halfway around the world.
There was Commander Abbas Shafii, another engineer, nuclear specialist from General Rashood’s home province of Kerman. He would take overall command of the control area. There was the Chief of Boat, Chief Petty Officer (CPD) Ali Zahedi, and CPO Ardeshir Tikku, who would take overall command of the top three computer panels in the reactor control room.
A first-class electronics Lieutenant Commander from Tehran who had three tours of duty in Iran’s Kilo-Class diesel-electrics was also onboard; and he was highly valued since he had sailed with Captain Mohtaj from Araguba to Zhanjiang the previous year.
In addition to the always-comforting presence of General Rashood, there was his cheerful personal bodyguard Ahmed Sabah, who acted as a huge help in crew relations, cheerfully complimenting the men on their work. It was as if his words came from the Hamas military boss himself, and Ben Badr knew it served great purpose towards the general morale of people working under stress, spending weeks on end without laying eyes on the world outside.
And then, of course, the beautiful, slender, steely-eyed Shakira, the General’s wife, Ahmed’s sister, one of the most trusted operatives in the entire Hamas organization, the Palestinian freedom fighter who had saved the life of Maj. Ray Kerman when he was hopelessly trapped in a murderous shoot-out in the wrong end of Hebron.
In return, General Rashood had allowed free rein to his wife’s talent, encouraging her to develop her principal strength — the gathering and ordering of immense detail, mainly in the area of maps, charts, and topology. In Ravi’s view, no one could plot and plan with greater detail than Shakira, especially cruise missile navigation. In the end, he had caved in to her demands to be allowed to serve onboard the submarine. And a wise decision it had been.
This lovely, black-haired Arabian woman, now twenty-seven years old, had a mind like a bear trap. And her performance in Barracuda I in the missile programming area had been flawless. So flawless that Ravi had almost forgotten her final summing up before he permitted her to become the first woman ever to serve in a submarine—“Either we both go, or no one goes. You’re not dying without me…”
And now she awaited them in the port of Huludao, and Admiral Badr greatly looked forward to seeing her, though perhaps not quite as intensely as North Korea’s big customer, sharing the bridge with Ahmed Sabah in comfortable silence, staring at the endless waters of the Yellow Sea, a couple of hundred miles to the north.
For both ships, the journey passed without incident. Escorted through the Strait, no one hit, or even dodged, anything. The Barracuda docked at around 1900 on Saturday evening. The Yongdo came in twelve hours later on Sunday morning.
Chinese customs, all in Naval uniform, boarded her before anyone was permitted to leave the ship. And they insisted on inspecting at least two of the new missiles and having them identified with the full paperwork provided by the owner, General Rashood.
Two of the crates were unbolted, one of them containing the missile that would include one of the nuclear warheads sealed in the bright stainless-steel flasks lashed down for’ard of the freight deck.
General Ravi knew they were looking at one of the two nuclear cruises, because he could see the lettering near the stern, in English, denoting it was a Mark-2 Submarine-Launched weapon, custom-built for a designated submarine.
The missile had been named by Shakira, in honor of the ancient curved blade of the Muslims, the sword forged in Damascus and carried by Saladin himself when he faced the Lionheart’s Christians at the gates of Jerusalem in the twelfth century.
The name was clear, painted at Shakira’s request in letters of gold. They stood stark against the gunmetal-gray curve of the missile’s casing—SCIMITAR SL-2.
3
The lieutenant commander’s office looked as if it had been ransacked. There were sheets of paper covering literally every square inch of the area — on the desk, on the “research table” next to the printer, on the printer, and all over the floor. There were big piles, little piles, and single pieces. There was colored paper and plain. There was stuff in files, stuff wrapped in rubber bands. Stuff crammed between the pages of books. There was SECRET, TOP SECRET, CLASSIFIED, HIGHLY CLASSIFIED. The last pile was the largest.
Contrary to first impression, however, the place had not been ransacked — merely Ramshawed. Every office space he had ever occupied looked the same. His boss, the National Security Director, Rear Adm. George Morris, put it down to an active mind. Ramshawe mostly operated on around seventeen fronts. Damned efficiently.
“I try,” he once said, “to keep tabs on important matters, plus a few others that might become significant.”
Right now he was into one highly significant matter, and another that had elbowed its way forward from the back burner. The “highly significant” item required attention today as it involved a potential enemy’s nuclear submarine. The envelope from the “back burner” required action yesterday, because it had just arrived from Adm. Arnold Morgan.
The very name of the now-retired National Security Adviser still sent a tremor through the entire Fort Meade complex.
Jimmy Ramshawe had just sliced open the envelope with a wide-bladed hunting knife with a bound kangaroo-hide handle that would have raised the pulse of Crocodile Dundee.
Inside the outer envelope was a plain white file containing six 10 x 8 black-and-white photographs. Attached was a brief note from the Admiral—Four towelheads photographed on top of a volcano in the Canary Islands. When you’ve got a moment, try to identify them. I think it might be useful — A.M.
Jimmy studied the pictures. There were four men in each frame. The pictures had been taken high on a cliff top with the ocean in the background. Three of the men were very clear, one was less so. But even this fourth image was well focused and showed the man in stark profile, from either side. The last one was snapped from his “seven o’clock,” as the Admiral might have said, right on his portside quarter.
If the request had come from anywhere else, Jimmy Ramshawe would have put it in the nether regions of all back burners. But requests from Admiral Morgan, though rare, did not even count as requests. These were orders.
Jimmy picked up the envelope and headed to the office of his immediate boss, Admiral Morris, who was alone at his desk reading one of the endless stacks of field reports.
“G’day, chief,” said the Lieutenant Commander. “Just got an envelope from the Big Man, thought you might like to see it…”
Admiral Morris was instantly on alert. “What does he need?” he asked, already pulling the pictures from the file.
“Only the impossible,” replied Jimmy. “ ‘Please identify four towelheads out of a world population of about seven billion, spread through nineteen countries of their own, and about five hundred belonging to other nations.”