“If you go on doing as I tell you — at least while we’re in this ship on Allah’s mission — you will be my wife for a long time. I usually know what to do, and how to keep us safe.”
“You see,” she laughed, “you don’t even have a Commanding Officer. You make your own rules.”
“I have a Commanding Officer,” he replied. “And I hope He’s watching over both of us.”
Shakira looked at him with undisguised adoration — this powerfully built ex — British Army Major, the toughest man she had ever met, with the polish of a Sandhurst-trained officer and the strategic brilliance of an SAS commander. And yet he was an Arab still, with his dark tanned skin, the softest brown eyes, and the inborn fortitude of his Bedouin forebears.
And she thanked Allah for the day she had fled with him, terrified, through the rubble of shattered Hebron, while all around them there was only the blast of shells and the whine of bullets and the cries of the wounded. She thanked Allah for the strength she had found to take him into hiding with the Hamas freedom fighters.
Looking back, when she dared, to the devastation of that blasted cement house in the Palestinian district, she could still see her slain children, and the blood from the wounds of the dead SAS sergeants, blood pouring down Ravi’s combat uniform, blood on her children, on her own hands and dress. And she remembered how her own little Ravi had lain so still in the dust, next to his tiny dead sister, and how Ray had saved her life by committing two savage murders.
There was nothing, she thought, that could have been worth all that. But the former Maj. Ray Kerman had made it almost so. She could not imagine anyone loving another person more. She would have followed him into the mouth of hell.
As it happened, Ray followed her into the mouth of the galley, where the cooks were not working, and he kissed her longingly behind the shelves of canned fruit.
“You said this is why girls are not allowed in submarines,” she giggled, twisting away, in case anyone discovered them.
“People are only required to do as I say,” he said, cheerfully. “Not as I do.”
“You see — I’m always telling you — you do just as you like, because you have no Commanding Officer.”
Ravi looked admiringly at his wife, her beauty undiminished even in her standard dark navy-blue sweater, and he said simply, “I don’t think Allah would desert any of us on this mission. He has given us the power of the false gods of the ancient world, and He will guide us to victory. We are doing His work.”
“And to think,” said Shakira, shaking her head in sham disbelief, “you used to be an infidel…one sugar or two?”
General Rashood chuckled, quietly thankful at the talent Shakira had for diminishing the tensions of his great mission, if only for a few moments.
They made their way to the navigation room, Shakira carrying the teapot and three little silver holders containing glass mugs already with sugar, in case Lt. Ashtari Mohammed was working. It was almost midnight now.
They found Ashtari hunched over the chart of the eastern Pacific, plotting their southern course. He stood up and stretched, grateful for the tea. “Admiral Badr thinks we should run for another day, maybe less, and then turn east towards our target.”
Ravi nodded in agreement, and glanced down at Shakira’s chart. It contained so many notes, it was almost incomprehensible. But the line she had drawn from the 127th western line of longitude had four definite course changes at various points of contact, from the 47th parallel to 46.20N at 122.18W.
Ravi had managed only two sips of his bitter hot tea when a quiet voice came down the ship’s intercom…“General Rashood to the control room…General Rashood to the control room….”
He took his tea with him and headed for the area directly below the bridge, where Ben Badr was waiting.
“At which point do you want to begin searching the area for surface ships? We’re about 100 miles north of the datum right now…I was thinking maybe 50 would be right…I presume we don’t want to surface?”
“No, we don’t want to do that. But we should get up as high as we can, maybe to periscope depth every couple of hours, just for an all-around look. Meanwhile we can use passive sonar as our main lookout. We cannot risk detection. There are no suspects for a mission such as this — it would seem ridiculous to alert anyone to our presence—”
“I agree, Ravi. So 50 miles from our firing position is okay?”
“Yes, good. If there’s anything around, we may want to track it for a couple of days…make sure it’s well clear. Meanwhile we’ll just hope for fog.”
The Barracuda pushed on, running quietly all through the night until midafternoon on Thursday, August 6. At 1630, Admiral Badr ordered the planesmen to angle the bow up 10, sending them smoothly to periscope depth. The Admiral himself took a look all around, and Lieutenant Ashtari called out the numbers—43 north, 127 west.
Lieutenant Commander Shakira wrote them down on her chart, marked the spot where the line of latitude bisected the longitude, checked her distances with dividers, and wrote in blue marker pen, 290 miles to Target.
In seconds, Ben Badr ordered them deep, bow down 10 to 600. There was no communication on the satellite, no ships anywhere nearby. Their part of the Pacific was a sunlit wilderness, devoid of engines, lacking in fog. Their only danger was the ever-present “black cobras” on the seabed who must not be disturbed. Admiral Badr ordered a racetrack pattern, speed 5, banking on the fact that the “cobras” were deaf to such low revolutions in a boat as quiet as the Barracuda.
And so they waited for two days and two nights until at 0300 on Sunday morning, a gusting summer rain squall swept eastwards across the ocean, right out of the northwest. They picked it up on sonar and moved silently upward, through the black depths to PD for a firsthand look. They stayed there for only seven seconds, sufficient time for the Chief of Boat, CPO Ali Zahedi, to report a slashing rainstorm on the surface, very low visibility, at no more than 100 yards.
General Rashood considered the possibility of firing there and then. But he knew it could still be clear on the shore, and he did not relish sending missiles with fiery tails over inhabited land, even at three o’clock in the morning. No, he would wait for a large-scale spell of fog, which he was sure would happen as soon as the regular warm summer air currents ran into the cold, squally Pacific gusts surrounding the storm.
At dawn, they checked again, moving slowly to periscope depth. Ravi had been correct. A great bank of fog hung over the ocean, visibility at no more than 50 yards. Ravi guessed it would probably extend all the way inshore, with the clammy white blanket hanging heavily against the mountains of Oregon’s coastal range.
“This is it, old boy,” he said to Ben Badr.
“Aye, sir,” replied the young Iranian Admiral.
“Prepare Tubes 1–4…missile director and Lieutenant Commander Shakira to the missile room…Planesman, bow up 10 to 200 feet…Put me on course zero-three-zero…speed 5…Sonar room, check no contacts…Missile Director, final check prefiring routines and settings.”
They all felt the submarine angle up slightly, and they heard Ravi summon the crew to prayer. Those not hurrying to the missile room knelt on the steel decks in the Muslim fashion. Men clambered out of bunks, engineers laid down their tools, and everyone heard the Mission Commander’s warning of the coming turmoil, urging them to be prepared to hear the Angels sound the trumpet three times. At the sound of the trumpets, he said, only the righteous would cross the bridge into the arms of Allah. They were engaged in the work of Allah, they were His children, and they dwelt today in this great weapon of war on behalf of Allah. It was built for Him and they were born to serve Him.