After scanning the Video Wall displays and failing to note anything unusual, Noss shifted his thoughts to the aircraft positioned on the strike group’s perimeter. Three MH-60R anti-submarine warfare helicopters were approaching bingo fuel and would head back to the carrier shortly. His eyes moved to the Flight Deck display; three replacement MH-60Rs were preparing to take off and would be on their way to relieve the on-station helicopters in a few minutes.
While the battle in the Arabian Sea had been primarily an air battle, the potential upcoming engagement with the Russian submarine in the Persian Gulf would be a test of the carrier strike group’s anti-submarine capabilities. Theodore Roosevelt had four surface ship escorts: USS Chosin, a Ticonderoga-class cruiser, and three Arleigh Burke — class destroyers: USS Halsey, USS O’Kane, and USS Paul Hamilton. Each of those ships had two triple-tube torpedo launchers, but Noss figured that no Russian submarine captain would approach close enough to be sunk with torpedoes launched from surface ships. Russian heavyweight torpedoes had sufficient range to sink their target while the firing submarine remained outside counterfire range.
Instead, the strike group would rely on its anti-submarine aircraft. The squadron of MH-60R helicopters aboard Theodore Roosevelt was augmented by several more helicopters aboard the aircraft carrier’s escorts. But the most potent anti-submarine platforms had recently joined the Theodore Roosevelt strike group. The fast attack submarine USS Asheville and the guided missile submarine USS Michigan had joined the strike group a few hours ago as it passed through the Gulf of Oman. Asheville was traveling in front of the strike group, searching the water ahead, while Michigan trailed the strike group in case the Russian submarine attempted to sneak up from behind.
Thus far, there had been no detection of the expected threat that lurked beneath the water’s surface.
43
IRIS JAMARAN
Night had settled over the Strait of Hormuz, light rain falling from clouds hidden in the darkness above, as IRIS Jamaran, a Moudge-class frigate in the Islamic Republic of Iran Navy, moved swiftly across the waterway. The ship’s captain, Commander Behzad Ahmadi, monitored the frigate’s position as it approached the designated starting point for tonight’s mission. A few hundred yards out, Ahmadi ordered engines to all stop, and his ship coasted until it halted and then loitered in the desired spot.
He went aft to the ship’s fantail, where he monitored the progress of tonight’s mission. Jamaran’s stern was filled with black spherical objects, each one a few feet in diameter with spikes jutting out from its smooth metallic surface. In the distance, Ahmadi spotted the other Iranian ships that had been outfitted with Russian mines for the night’s task, likewise making their way across the Strait to their designated starting points.
Ahmadi’s assignment was straightforward but painstaking, releasing the mines at a predetermined distance apart as Jamaran journeyed across the strait. When the Iranian ships completed their task, hopefully before the sun rose across the Middle East, the Strait of Hormuz would be closed for business, with several barriers of mines stretching across the waterway, the mines floating at multiple depths so that not only would surface ships be threatened, but submarines as well.
The frigate’s Executive Officer approached Ahmadi and reported that all preparations had been completed; the mines and their anchor chains were ready to deploy. Jamaran would lay mines that would float a few meters beneath the water’s surface in the first tier across the strait, while other ships would lay mines at deeper levels and in the second and third tiers.
“Are the mine timers set?” Ahmadi asked.
“Yes, sir. All mines will activate simultaneously at the designated time.”
Ahmadi nodded his understanding, then returned to the frigate’s Bridge, where he commenced the night’s operation.
“Helm, ahead one-third. Come to course one-six-zero.”
To his Executive Officer on the fantail, he ordered, “Commence minelaying.”
44
TIMONIUM, MARYLAND
Beth Walters, seated at her desk at the Carver Construction headquarters building, finished printing the last approval form for Mr. Carver just as his pickup truck coasted into his reserved parking space by the front door. The printing had been a last-minute task, since Jack and his wife had returned unexpectantly from their planned two-week vacation in the Ozark Mountains. Something had happened to Jill that had necessitated a trip to the hospital, cutting their trip short.
The portly man with a scruffy beard and his usual attire — worn jeans paired with a long-sleeve button-up dress shirt, plus a pair of boots that likely dated back to the previous century — stopped by the desk of his longtime secretary.
“Welcome back, Jack! I’m sorry to hear about Jill. What happened?”
“Thanks, Beth. A hiking trail got the best of her. Sprained her ankle pretty bad. She ended up in a boot and on painkillers, and we decided she’d be more comfortable at home.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Please give Jill my best.” Beth slid the form into a clipboard, which she handed to Jack. “I’ve got an explosives procurement authorization form for you to sign. The Catoctin Mountain project needed fifty pounds of C-4 and some detonators, which Craig issued a few days ago. He’s already ordered the replacement material. All that’s left is your signature for our records.”
Carver perused the form, but before he signed it, Beth added, “The odd thing is, when one of the foremen on the Catoctin Mountain project stopped by the office yesterday and I asked him what they needed those fancy detonators for, he had no idea about what I was talking about.”
“What kind of detonators?”
“Wireless micro MEMS.”
Carver scratched his beard, reviewing the order form in more detail. “Hmm… Micro MEMS detonators… Who’s the chief engineer?”
“Frank Dougherty.”
“Get him on the line.”
Beth pulled up his number, dialed, and put the call on speakerphone. A man with a baritone voice answered. “Frank here.”
“Hey, Frank, this is Jack. I’ve got an explosives order from your outfit — fifty pounds of C-4 and several dozen wireless micro MEMS detonators. What do you need this for?”
“C-4 and micro detonators? Why would we need that?”
“My thought exactly. That’s not the type of stuff you’d need to blast through those mountains, but I thought maybe you ran into some demolition work. I want to know who placed the order and what for. Check with your foremen and get back to me.”
“Got it. I’ll be back in touch in a bit.”
45
KENSINGTON, MARYLAND
Lonnie Mixell eased his Jeep Grand Cherokee to a stop alongside the curb on Webster Road, shifting his gaze to the storefront across the street — Gordon’s Wholesale, a family-owned operation. The most delicate part of the plan he had devised to accomplish Brenda Verbeck’s goal was the delivery, and he had a few options. Gordon’s Wholesale offered the lowest risk and highest probability of success, but there was no guarantee he could arrange it.
He glanced at his face in the rearview mirror. His hair was now blond again, his eye contacts and mouth implants were in place, and he had deliberately donned a pair of worn jeans and the oldest sweatshirt he owned. Sufficiently disguised and presentable for the day’s mission, he crossed the street and entered the store, asking the nearest worker if Dave Gordon was on the premises. He was directed to an office in the back of the main warehouse, where he was greeted by Gordon’s secretary, who looked up from her computer when he entered the office.