Stephen Makk
The Iranian Blockade
“THE BUSINESS OF A SOLDIER is to fight. Armies are not called out to dig trenches, to throw up breastworks, and live in camps. But to find the enemy, and strike him; to invade his country, and do him all possible damage in the shortest possible time…but such a war would of necessity, be of brief continuance, and so would be an economy of prosperity and life in the end. To move swiftly, strike vigorously, and secure all the fruits of victory, is the secret of successful war.”
PROLOGUE
A GRIM COLD GREY DAWN stretched out to the horizon, where it met low-lying grey cloud. The USS Hopper an Arleigh Burke class Destroyer rolled in the mid-ocean swell; she’d come abeam to make her approach. The biting wind, whipped spray from the crests of the waves. The diver stood on deck lashed by a passing shower. A thin layer of ice covered the foredeck, built up by the freezing rain. Icicles hung down from cables and sharp edges.
A sailor emerged from a hatchway, dressed in a hooded waterproof. He hurriedly walked over to the diver, his face scowled at the windblown shower. The diver wore a black dry suit and a couple of instruments wrapped around the wrists. Stood impassive, ignoring the rain and the cold howling wind. The sailor pointed off the starboard quarter
“There. About two hundred yards. We’re at the right location. It was hard to find, but we got the buoy on radar. She’s coming in up current. There won’t be much of a run on, it’s slack water right now.”
“Help me with the set.” The sailor helped lift the rebreather and held it against the divers back. The straps were secured, the buckles clipped shut. The twin-hose was placed inside cold lips, lungs breathed in and out. Instruments checked carefully.
“Get me the gob bucket.”
“The what?” An arm pointed to a nearby bucket. The sailor slid it across the deck with his leg. There was a spit into the mask, it was quickly washed in the bucket of seawater. The twin-hose mouthpiece inserted, the lips gripped it. The buoy rose and fell in the swell around thirty yards off the starboard side. The sailor opened the side-load gunnel hatch, the sea heaved in an uninviting rhythm. It was an awkward walk sideways across the rolling deck, then a stand with the forward blades of the fins overhanging the sea. There was a forward step and a splash. The sailor closed the side-load gunnel hatch and looked down into the sea. The diver had rolled face up and was finning for the buoy.
“Rather you than me buddy.”
AT THE BUOY, THE DIVER vented buoyancy air and sank beneath the waves. The pressure was equalised for the first time, the depth beckoned as the cable fell into the gloom. The surface swell disappeared, and the cold sea grew darker.
A helmet light flooded the scene. The backscatter from small sea creatures was all that could be seen; that and the cable down into the beyond. The only sound was the breathing and the soft opening and shutting of the valves. Down and down into the inky depths, the cable streamed off into the black chasm. An instrument read one hundred and fifteen feet. Down and down, the breathing gas is noticeably thicker down here. The world was now a stygian darkness, a pure empty blackness. Devoid of anything but an endless cable leading down and down to infinity. One hundred and eighty feet. Two hundred and twenty feet. Finally, out of the gloom there it was. The top of a submarine’s sail, two feet clad in fins, dropped into the sail. A swim over to the circular hatch. Gloved hands spun the wheel, then lifted the hatch. The diver turned to fall into the cylindrical airlock. Hands closed the hatch, now above and spun the wheel shut. Another twenty feet down was the inner hatch with its wheel. A knife was removed from a chest-mounted scabbard. It was then a squat down; and using the handle there were three knocks on the hatch, a wait, and then another three. After the fourth signal, three knocks came back, a pause then another three. Air was forced into the airlock and the water level fell. The diver’s weight returned.
There was nothing to do now but wait, until the pressure dropped from the equivalent of two hundred and twenty feet of seawater, eight atmospheres, to one atmosphere. This would be done slowly to prevent decompression sickness or the bends as most know it. Finally, the hatch wheel was spun and the hatch was pushed open into the boat’s companionway. Two fins were passed down to one of the waiting crewmen. The rebreather was unclipped, removed and passed down; a weight belt followed.
FINALLY, THE DIVER was helped down to the deck of the submarine. The diver removed the mask and pulled off the hood.
Her long black hair fell wet over her shoulders.
“Hello Mam, are you ok?” asked the seaman.
“Yes, but I could do with a brew.”
The seaman puzzled over her. She was a looker, a coffee colored hot British Asian woman in her late twenties.
“A brew Mam?”
“Yes, a brew. A tea?”
“Oh yes, we have Liptons in the galley. Come this way.” She sighed.
“Liptons. No Assam then, it’ll have to do.” She followed the seaman back aft towards the galley.
He passed her the tea, she sipped it.
“I’m actually here to see Captain Blake.”
“Yes Mam, I’ll tell him you’re here. He’ll know anyway but….”
A man appeared in the doorway. “Sir. This is ahh, your visitor.”
“Thanks, Withers,” said Nathan, he stepped inside the galley.
“Welcome aboard USS Stonewall Jackson….” He held out a palm to her.
“Anupa Silva,” she shook his hand. “I’m with MI6.”
“It was a dramatic entrance. You guys do that sort of thing? Oh, of course. Silly me, James Bond’s MI6. Do you know him?” Nathan grinned. She smirked at him.
“Captain, I…”
“Call me Nathan please.”
“Nathan. I was just passing by and thought I’d drop in for a brew.” He smiled and waited.
“Actually, you come highly recommended. The Chief of Naval Operations and I would like to ask a favour.”
“Anupa, the CNO doesn’t ask, he tells. What am I to do?”
SHE STUDIED HER PAPER cup.
“Where to begin?” she smirked, her eyes dark and playful.
“It all started quite innocently with oil. Rather a lot of it. The world’s supply to be exact.”
He listened, then looked to the galley. “I’ll have a coffee.” Nathan sat.
She glimpsed at him and returned to her story. “Yes, as I was saying. A lot of oil, and then there were the nuclear weapons. So, it started with oil and nukes, but then it got really interesting.” She took a sip and paused.
“Nathan, the CNO and I would be dreadfully grateful if you’d….”
Chapter 1
IT WAS JUST ANOTHER typical morning on the Central line, the carriage rocked slightly as the underground Tube train made its way through the dark tunnel. Anupa Silva stood, holding on to a vertical metal pole for balance. A punk couple sat on a seat next to her, and his Mohican red spikey hair contrasted with her blue colored comb atop and shaven sides. Several bored looking people clutched bags and briefcases, this was just part of their daily commute. Anupa caught a glimpse of a few stares from two young men sat to one side; she wasn’t interested but didn’t mind the attention, if she was honest. She was a striking British Asian woman in her late twenties with coffee colored skin and a nose stud on her left nostril. She wore her glossy, silky black hair long.