Hunter Killer (27 page)

“Well, sir,” said Ramshawe, “since we both believe Admiral Morgan is right about ninety-eight percent of the time, maybe we should check out the submarine theory.”

“We most certainly should,” replied Admiral Morris. “Get Admiral Dickson at the Pentagon. Send him my best and ask him to check the boards for all world submarines for the past month. And perhaps he could do it real fast. I don’t want Arnold on the line wondering if we checked before we have.”

The Lt. Commander was glad his boss was back. He grinned and said, “Right away, sir. He’ll have SUBLANT send ’em over on the link, I expect. I’ll come along to your office soon as we get ’em.”

It took only a half hour. The Lt. Commander downloaded the sheets right away and headed back along the corridor to the Director’s office.

He was not required to knock. Admiral Morris, a genial, wily international operator, held no secrets from his assistant. He was on the phone when Ramshawe came in and sat down in front of the huge desk, once occupied by Admiral Morgan himself.

“Okay, sir,” he said when George Morris had completed his conversation. “I’ll run through the no-hopers first. Ignoring the China seas, the Russians had a couple of Kilos in sea trials north of Murmansk, and a nuclear boat exiting the GIUK gap heading south down the Atlantic. That was on March second, and the satellites caught it entering the Baltic, then the Navy yards in St. Petersburg, where it still is.

“The Brits have a Trident in the North Atlantic, south of Greenland, and two SSNs in the Barents Sea, close to the ice cap. Nothing in the Channel or to the south. The other European nations with submarines—that’s Italy, Spain, Germany, and Sweden—do not have one at sea between them. As you know, the U.S. has two L.A.-class SSNs with CVBGs in the Gulf, the northern Arabian Sea and south of Diego Garcia.

“The French have a Triomphant-class SSBN out of Brest, the
Vigilant
, in the Atlantic, north of the Azores, but here’s the key information: this month they sent two Rubis Améthyste–class SSNs through the Med to Port Said, and on through Suez into the Red Sea.”

“Same day, Jimmy?”

“Nossir. The
Perle
went through Port Said just before midday on March fourth, and the
Améthyste
went through last Thursday afternoon, around fourteen hundred hours.”

“Did they come back…into the Med, I mean?”

“Nossir. In fact no one’s seen them since.”

“You mean they went deep in the Red Sea?”

“Apparently so, sir. We have a satellite pass over the canal and the Gulf of Suez at around nineteen hundred, and by then they’d gone, both ships, on March fourth and eighteenth.”

“How about the southern end, through the Strait, into the Gulf of Aden…what’s it called?…the Bab el Mandeb, right?”

“Yessir. And that’s a spot we watch very carefully. Every ship entering and exiting the Red Sea is monitored by us, using satellites, surface ships, and shore radar. Neither the
Perle
nor the
Améthyste
has left the Red Sea.”

“At least not on the surface?”

“Correct, sir. And neither of them has gone back through the canal to Port Said.”

“They could, however, have made the transit dived.”

“You sure about that, sir?”

“As a matter of fact, I am. There’s a wide seaway out of the Red Sea, and it’s mostly two or three hundred feet deep. I think most submarine COs do come to the surface. There are a few islands down there, and you need to be careful to stay in the defined north–south lanes, and it can be quite busy. It’s easier to make the transit on the surface; the water’s usually pretty flat.

“But I know U.S. commanders who have made that transit dived, and they’ve done it more than once. The entrance to the Gulf of Aden is an interesting crossroad. Once you’re through, and sub-surface, no one knows where the hell you’re going—north, south or east. It’s a great spot to get lost in.”

“Well, the
Perle
and the
Améthyste
are certainly lost, sir. There’s no sight or sound of either of ’em. And there are no other submarines in all the world anywhere near the Red Sea or the Gulf in the past month. Unless a couple of U.S. Commanders went berserk and decided to slam the towelheads with a few cruise missiles.”

“Unlikely, Jimmy, wouldn’t you say?”

“Impossible, sir. If the oil stuff was hit by sub-surface missiles, they came from either the
Perle
or the
Améthyste,
on the basis that there were no other submarines for thousands of miles.”

“The snag of course, Jim, is we don’t know where either the
Perle
or the
Améthyste
is, within thousands of miles.”

“Five gets you twenty if one of ’em’s not still in the Gulf of Iran,” said Ramshawe. “And five gets you fifty if the other one’s not still in the Red Sea.”

“No, thanks,” said the Admiral.

“What now?” said his assistant.

“Ask Admiral Dickson if SUBLANT can find out whether any French submarine in the past five years has apparently exited the Red Sea underwater.”

“Right away, sir. That’d be interesting.”

“Not proof, of course. But a little food for thought, eh?”

Lt. Commander Ramshawe headed back to his staggeringly untidy office and put in a call to the Pentagon, to Admiral Dickson, Chief of Naval Operations.

“I can’t promise absolute one hundred percent accuracy on that one, Lt. Commander,” said the CNO. “We watch that area carefully and we watch all submarines in and out of the Red Sea. We’ll have computerized records of all French SSNs and any Triomphant-Class. I’ll have SUBLANT give you a pretty good picture of French practices going into the Gulf of Aden.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll wait to hear from you.”

“’Bout an hour,” said the CNO. “By the way, is this for the Big Man?”

“No, sir. It’s for Admiral Morris.”

“Same thing,” said Alan Dickson. “Give him my best.”

The giant shadow of Arnold Morgan, which had hung over the United States Defense Department for so many years, had not receded. And every senior naval officer in the country knew of Morgan’s continued obsession with submarines and their activities.

The smallest inquiry from the National Security Agency involving submarines—anyone’s submarines—usually prompted the question “This for the Big Man?” even though Arnold had been retired for several months. Even though he had not sat in the big chair at Fort Meade for several years. He had never quite left. And a lot of very senior people, including the President, wished to hell he’d come back.

One hour later, SUBLANT put Jimmy Ramshawe’s information on the Net to Fort Meade. The French sent submarines through Suez and into the Red Sea about four times every six months. Four in ten returned the way they had arrived, back through the canal and on to either the Toulouse Navy yards, in the Mediterranean, or Submarine Fleet Headquarters, in Brest.

The other six always headed out into the Gulf of Aden and usually went south, to the French base at La Réunion. Occasionally a French underwater ship headed up into the Gulf of Iran, but not often.

The United States Navy had no record of any French submarine exiting Bab el Mandeb sub-surface. According to the analysts at SUBLANT, no one particularly liked making that voyage below the surface. And in five years, U.S. Navy surveillance had always picked up any French submarine heading south out of the Red Sea on the surface of the water; although they had three times recorded Rubis-Class ships at periscope depth on satellite pictures.

Jimmy Ramshawe hurried back to the Director’s office, turning over in his mind the now unassailable truth that France had put two guided-missile submarines through Suez with ample time to creep quietly into position and lambaste the Saudi oil industry.

This did not of course mean that they had done so.
But that bloody Frog in the Desert was looking a lot more menacing right now.
At least that was the opinion of Lt. Cdr. James Ramshawe.

Four minutes later, Admiral Morris instructed Ramshawe to keep the Big Man informed, but above all, to find out what he thought.

TUESDAY, MARCH
23,
MIDDAY
KHAMIS MUSHAYT BAZAAR

Mishari al Ardh, at the age of twenty-four, was a market trader with his father. Their stall was always busy, selling fresh dates and a mountain of local fruits and vegetables. The old town, which stood more than 6,000 feet above sea level, enjoyed afternoon rain in March and August, which put local producers way, way in front of their brethren in the hot sandy deserts to the north.

Today was especially hard work. It seemed the news from the oil fields was so bad that people had developed a siege mentality and were ordering more of everything, much more than their families required—the way it is all over the world when the normal rhythms of daily life seem threatened. The Khamis Mushayt marketplace was seething with activity, much like gas stations in the United States.

Mishari was trying to bring order to five wooden cases of dates when a friend of his, Ahmed, a local boy his age, came rushing through the narrow street and beckoned him to cross over and speak with him.

Both young men were freedom fighters for al-Qaeda. Mishari crossed the street and accepted the folded piece of paper Ahmed handed him, and the terse instruction “Get this to General Rashood, on the heights, now.”

Mishari walked to his father and spoke to him briefly. Then he walked through an alleyway to a parking lot where the aged family flatbed truck was kept. He jumped aboard and gunned it out onto the main road, deeper into the hills, up toward the village of Osha Mushayt, which was situated a mile from the al-Qaeda “hide” where General Rashood and his men were preparing for the attack on the air base on Thursday night.

He left the road after three miles and headed straight down the old desert trail to Osha. When he arrived he kept going, straight through the town and out into some really rough desert. Five minutes later he pulled up to the guard post and was immediately waved through. He came up here most days, with fresh supplies and, usually, the morning newspaper.

Mishari parked to the north of the camp and walked through to speak to the tall Bedouin who commanded it. He explained that a message had been dictated through the al-Qaeda network in Riyadh, by phone to Ahmed, who had written it down and requested that it be shown to General Rashood as soon as possible.

The Bedouin thanked Mishari gracefully and went directly to the General, who unfolded the notepaper and read to himself:
Situation on streets here volatile. King might want his soldiers. Can’t risk that. Essential you go tonight. We have clearance from the curator. I’ll go first thing in the morning. Godspeed, Ravi. Le Chasseur.

General Rashood walked to one of the barbecues where the cooks were preparing the midday meal for everyone, and he slipped the note through the iron grill and watched it curl up and then burst into flame, directly below a roasting leg of lamb.

Then he turned to the Bedouin and said softly, “Okay, my friend. Our work is done here. Call a staff meeting right now. We attack tonight. And may Allah go with us.”

SAME DAY
, 1400
RIYADH

Col. Jacques Gamoudi sat in the shaded tent that housed the Crown Prince out on the desert floor. They both knew the message to the General was now delivered. They could only wait to hear that the Khamis Mushayt Military City and Air Base had fallen, and then they would move, hard and fast.

They had possibly thirteen hours to wait, and Prince Nasir would have to retire to one of the city palaces in order to be on the spot when the news came through. It would not be necessary to wait until General Rashood made contact. The military networks would be much quicker.

But when the news did arrive, they had to launch their attack on the royal palace. And at the precise, correct time, Prince Nasir must make his broadcast, announcing the death of the King and the shining future that now awaited the country. They would rebuild their oil fortunes.

In accordance with our ancient laws, as Crown Prince, I have assumed leadership of our country. I have taken my vows with the elders of the Council. And I have sworn before God to uphold our laws, both secular and religious. I am both your humble servant and proud leader, King Nasir of Saudi Arabia.

With those words the lives of 30,000 Saudi princes would never be the same. And neither would there ever be such unashamed opulence associated with the ruler of the desert kingdom. In his own way, Prince Nasir intended to avenge the disgraceful grandeur of the recent kings of his nation.

Meanwhile, in the busy streets to the south of Dir’aiyah, the city of Riyadh was once more in the throes of self-destruction, vast mobs of citizens again rioting, hurling stones and bottles, overturning cars.

At 3
P.M
. (local) the king ordered the Army to take up a position of high alert. Like everyone else, he feared some sort of invasion might be imminent. And still no one had the remotest idea who was responsible for the destruction of the oil industry.

In the military cities of Tabuk in the northwest, King Khalid in the northeast, and Khamis Mushayt in the southwest, troops deployed immediately into pre-planned defensive positions. However, there were so many deficiencies in manpower and equipment that only around 65 to 70 percent of the total force managed to muster.

The King ordered naval forces at sea to form a defensive line around the coast, and his Air Minister ordered surveillance flights. There were not enough ships to defend anything much bigger than Long Island on a calm day, and the surveillance flights reported nothing unusual.

Even the helicopter patrols that the National Guard had ordered to overfly the city reported nothing except civilian unrest, despite one of them making a detour almost as far to the north as the ruins of Dir’aiyah. The pilot presumably considered the remains of the ancient city largely a waste of time.

There was no sign of the Saudi Air Force. Its fleets of fighters and fighter-bombers remained grounded, for one critical reason. For many years the Air Force had been commanded by royal princes, many of whom had been sent to train in England. And now these particular scions of the al-Saud family were quietly on their way out of the country. Vital instructions were simply not being issued to the pilots by these royal chiefs.