The air wing of a single American carrier was larger than the air force of most Gulf States and could obliterate nearly any attack on the exclave. But the Americans were not in the Gulf. In fact, the nearest American carrier was thousands of miles away. This was the main reason Captain Bishir and his company of men were on alert. Intelligence had reported unusual activity on the Iranian side of the Strait of Hormuz barely fifty miles away. It was no secret the Iranians claimed the Peninsula as a natural part of the Islamic Republic, and had — on numerous occasions — threatened an attack.
But such an attack had never materialized, and threats they had remained.
Until now.
It was a moonless night, and Bishir’s men were positioned along the steep hillside along nearly a mile of beach. No one expected Bishr’s hundred-man company to hold the position against an all-out assault, but no one actually expected such an assault, making it an even greater surprise when Bishir looked out over the Strait of Hormuz, his eyes peering into the darkness at the twinkling lights in the distance. It wasn’t uncommon to see ships at night moving through the Strait. Every day, hundreds of ships made the transit through the contested waterway. But as he looked at the twinkling lights, something seemed unusual about them.
The lights were getting closer.
Then he heard the odd sound, like a soft, deep grumble.
He continued to study the lights, wondering just what they could be as they continued to approach, and he noticed similar lights in the distance to his left and right. He hesitated, not certain yet what he was seeing. By the way the flashing lights were moving, they had to be aircraft. But what kind of airliners flew so low and in groups…
He was shaken from his lethargy when he recognized the sound of helicopter engines. He raced back into his bunker. His orderly had just finished preparing some tea and was pouring a cup when Bishir entered a second before the first rocket exploded outside the bunker.
The walls of the bunker protected Bishir from the blast, but the earth literally shook from the explosion. Bishir scrambled toward a telephone he could use to report back to his battalion headquarters. He briefly wondered if they would believe him. Certainly he’d been slow to believe what he was seeing. But any disbelief he might still feel was dispelled as more explosions rocked the bunker while the aerial barrage grew in earnest.
“What is happening?” his orderly asked in fright.
Bishir ignored the youth, gripped the phone and raised it to his ear. The phone was a direct line to his battalion headquarters positioned nearly three miles away in a similar bunker. But, as he prepared to sound the alarm, he heard nothing. He depressed the phone’s cradle several times, hoping that might fix the problem. The landline between his company outpost and the battalion headquarters had been laid by engineers nearly a week earlier and was supposed to be buried. But the line was dead.
Bishir dropped the phone as dust fell from the overhead support beams, a powerful explosion causing the electric lights to go out dropping a shroud of darkness over him. Using his memory and hands, he found the radio he could use to call his battalion commander in the event the phone was dead. Working in the darkness until his aid found a flashlight. Bishir turned on the radio, but despite trying multiple frequencies, all he heard was a steady stream of static.
More explosions continued to rock the hillside, and Bishir heard the sound of low-flying jets streaking by as they raced toward targets further inland. The captain found his helmet and assault rifle, his mind still struggling to come to grips with what was happening. Certainly there had been reports of a possible Iranian attack, but there were always reports of a possible Iranian attack. For years the Islamic Republic had threatened the isolated peninsula. The threats had become just part of the backdrop of the region and no one paid them any attention.
Bishir stumbled from his bunker, knowing he had to rally his men. They were conscripts and had no combat experience — not that he did, either. If he didn’t restrain them, they would flee. Outside the bunker he found the peaceful hillside a calamity of sights and sounds. Explosions illuminated the night sky. Chunks of rock the size of automobiles tumbled down the steep slope as Iranian fighter bombers roared overhead dropping bombs and firing rockets. At the same time, hovering a few hundred feet away, huge helicopters fired rockets and automatic canon rounds directly into Bishir’s battle position.
He dove for cover as machine gun bullets ricocheted of his bunker. He’d just hit the ground when a fiery blast rolled over him. He felt the stabbing pain as shrapnel tore into his back and thighs. He then heard the screams of his men barely audible over the roar of the onslaught. His helmet had been blown off by the blast and he scrambled to recover it, before rolling over to assess his wounds. He then saw the fiery remains of his bunker. A direct hit by a helicopter-fired rocket had penetrated the thick walls and totally destroyed it.
Bishir looked back toward the water below. The beach was illuminated by the fires on the hillside and he could see strange, square shapes sweeping over the water and heading directly to the beach. He looked around but couldn’t see his rifle and wasn’t certain what he should do. In the flashes of explosions, he caught a brief glimpse of men running back up the hill. They were his men — the survivors anyway — fleeing for their lives, and Bishir knew he would never stop them.
He crawled further down a shallow trench, trying to decide if he should flee. He hadn’t even fired a shot in defense of his country. Not that he felt he could make a difference. He again looked down at the beach and saw several of the strange looking boats move right out of the water and onto the beach.
“Hovercraft?” he mumbled to himself. He’d heard no reports that the Iranians had such advanced equipment. Bishir then heard a sudden roar from his left. He turned in time to see the predatory shape of the MI-24 Hind assault helicopter. He recognized the stubby wing pylons with rocket pods slung underneath and the menacing chin turret with the canons and machineguns staring at him.
“Allah—” Bishir managed to cry out before the Hind opened fire.
Every Thursday night when conditions permitted, the officers and CPOs cooked and served dinner for the crew, making pizzas to order for all of the men. It was normally one of the highlights of everyone’s week and usually provided for some tension release as officers, petty officers, and the crew took a few hours off from their usual duties to laugh and joke around the Wolf’s Den together. But, as the chances of returning home early dwindled with each passing day and the threat of war loomed large on the horizon, the conversation in the Wolf’s Den became unusually restrained.
The Seawolf had reached its patrol area three days earlier and had slowed to a bare crawl, moving silently through the depths, listening and waiting for a call to action. After nearly two solid weeks of never-ending drills, the XO had slacked off some, limiting the drills to fewer — although more difficult — exercises. This allowed Kristen and the rest of the crew to finally get some decent rest, but everyone on board was anxious about what might happen next.
Kristen and Martin had stayed busy on a computer simulation for a possible sound signature for the Russian submarines since her last meeting with Brodie. Despite several long days feeding in data and working on lines of code, they simply didn’t have enough hard data on the two Russian submarines to create an accurate model, which meant they still had no idea how to find what they were looking for.