“Yes. They’re with my folks in New York. Pity John’s not here…he’d have loved to try the wine.” Jimmy paused. He could see Morgan’s mind whirring. “Sir, I’m not sure when you last read up on the subject, but I gave it a good go this afternoon,” said Jimmy. “I know the scientists do have dire warnings about La Palma, but in fairness, most of ’em think the big bang is about 100,000 years away…”
“So they might,” said Admiral Morgan. “But I’d sure as hell prefer it if this Kerman character were dead.”
One month in the huge dry dock at the Chinese Naval Base had the Barracuda’s full complement of North Korean guided missiles in perfect order. The Chinese electronic engineers had tested every system in every missile, and fitted the nuclear warheads into two of them.
The guidance and navigation “brain” in the nose cone of the most deadly of the Danmo-gang cruises was checked and rechecked. It would blast clear of the water, and then set off on the course plotted and preset by Lt. Comdr. Shakira Kerman.
All eighteen of the missiles were correctly loaded into the magazine of Barracuda II. The Chinese would now present an outrageous bill for the work to the Iranian Navy, as agents, but not owners—$8 million U.S. No one ever said the Chinese were confused about making a buck. Of course, their expertise was very nearly priceless in this part of the world. And their scruples were few.
Scimitar SL-2 was ready to roll.
They had begun pulling the rods the previous evening, and the turbines had been declared ready at 0300 by the chief engineering officer, Commander Abdolrahim, the top nuclear specialist on board. The veteran Iranian submariner had been on duty all night, monitoring the slim Hafnium shafts being withdrawn in groups from the potentially lethal uranium heart of the reactor. Every few minutes, the neutrons were thus given greater freedom to split and cause further fission, heating the system, creating that self-sustaining critical mass, the basis of nuclear energy.
Commander Abdolrahim was in total control, regulating the heat through the pressurized circuit to its phenomenal operational norm of 2,500 lbs. per square inch — in contrast to the 15 lbs. per square inch that humans are accustomed to living in.
With the water temperature high enough, the 47,000 hp (horse-power) turbines were ready to run — powered from the colossal energy contained inside the impenetrable stainless-steel cylinder covering the seething uranium-235 core that, when suitably enriched, forms the business end of a nuclear bomb. The dome was essentially sealed inside the reactor room’s 8-inch-thick walls of solid lead. Here, Lt. Comdr. Hamidi Abdolrahim, the chief nuclear engineer, headed a team of fellow Iranian personnel, five strong.
Two hours before dawn, the Hamas underwater boat had been towed out of the covered dock behind two Chinese tugs. The ships’ entire company was either ex — Iranian Navy or Hamas professional, trained in Bandar Abbas, China, and/or Russia.
They had cleared the outer breakwater now and were operating under their own steam. The Executive Officer, Capt. Ali Akbar Mohtaj, had the ship, and CPO Ardeshir Tikku was standing behind his principal operators in the separate reactor control room.
They watched as the Barracuda accelerated to eight knots — staring at the three critical computer panels: propulsion, reactor, and auxiliary.
The Chief of Boat (COB), CPO Ali Zahedi, was with Captain Mohtaj, and the Navigation area was occupied by Lieutenant Ashtari Mohammed, a British-born Iraqi whose family had fled the brutal dictator Saddam Hussein in the 1990s. Ashtari was a revolutionary at heart, and he in turn had fled the UK to join Hamas and ended up at staff college in Bandar Abbas.
His skills in the navigation room in a nuclear submarine had been honed at the Chinese Naval training college at Qingdao, 230 miles to the south along the western shore of the Yellow Sea. He had worked on the Barracuda I mission and had been commissioned for this operation because of his outstanding work in the past.
Up on the Barracuda’s bridge, as they ran fair down the channel in dredged but close to alarmingly shallow water, Admiral Ben Badr stood with General Rashood and Lieutenant Commander Shakira. Dead ahead, the eastern sky was colored a deep rosy pink, as the rising sun tried to fight its way over the horizon. The sea was flat, oily, with a distant ruby-red cast in the early minutes of the dawn.
The Chinese tugs, escorting the 8,000-ton nuclear boat out into the Yellow Sea, slowed and turned away to starboard, their officers giving a friendly wave of farewell. The Barracuda was entirely alone now. But the men on board had faced danger together before, and each was confident in the task that lay ahead. Only Shakira, clutching Ravi’s arm in the warm morning air, shuddered involuntarily, as they steered an easterly course, making 12 knots on the surface of waters that were only about 50 feet deep.
They were in the strictly prohibited area of Liaodong Bay, an 80-mile-long by 60-mile-wide cordoned-off zone stringently patrolled by Chinese Navy ships, way up on the northwest corner of the Yellow Sea.
Shortly before 0730, Admiral Badr went below and ordered a course change to the south, back down towards the choke point 120 miles away. It was too shallow to even go to periscope depth out here. And they were constantly under the observation of their protectors in the Chinese Navy.
But the North Sea Fleet of the People’s Liberation Army/Navy were not the only eyes upon them. At 0745, almost immediately after they made their turn, Big Bird, the U.S. military satellite, snapped off several shots of the Barracuda, noting at once its speed and direction. It was almost six o’clock the previous evening in Washington. The photographs from the National Surveillance Office would be on Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe’s desk by eight o’clock his time.
By then, of course, the Barracuda would be well into the Bohai Haixia, the Chinese obstacle course that guards the business end of the Yellow Sea. And from there she would dive, running free, just below the surface in depths of around 150 feet, not quite invisible, but close.
Meanwhile, Ravi and Shakira stayed on the bridge as the day grew warmer. Ahmed Sabah brought them coffee, while the rest of the crew carried out their customary daily equipment checks. Admiral Badr huddled in the navigation area with Ashtari Mohammed, poring over the sprawling Navy charts, plotting their way through the myriad islands around the southeast coastline of Japan, their route to the North Pacific.
Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe stared at the photographs of Barracuda II running south down the Yellow Sea. “And where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he muttered to no one in particular.
He was looking at a map reference of 40.42N 121.20E. The NSO had helpfully identified the submarine as the only Barracuda-class boat in existence, exiting the Chinese Naval Base.
This is unbelievable, said Jimmy to himself. We still don’t know who actually owns this damn thing. The Russians refuse to admit selling it to the Chinese, on account of it’s none of our damn business. And the Chinese decline to say anything, presumably for the same reason.