The Shark Mutiny (2001) Page 11

  “Hold this easterly course,” he ordered. “And maintain speed.”

  The Chief Engineer, Jeb Duross, from south Louisiana, said routinely, “This course is gonna take us clear across the incoming tanker lanes. We’d better keep a good watch and a lot of radar.”

  “According to the Omanis, ’most every ship’s stopped, waiting for clearance,” replied the Captain. “So I don’t guess we’re gonna get a whole lot of tonnage coming across our bows. Anyway, we’ll pick ’em up miles away. No problem.”

  The Galveston Star plowed forward. Twenty knots was a good speed for a VLCC, but she was already late, and at this time Captain Packard was prepared to sacrifice fuel for speed. His ship had a range of over 12,000 miles, and up on the bridge, 100 feet above the surface of the water, Buddy Holly was about to rock the high command of the tanker down toward the Iranian end of Jimmy Ramshawe’s Straight Line.

  By now there were several “paints” on the radar, showing tankers making some kind of a holding pattern inside the gulf in the northeastern national waters of Oman. The far side of the tanker lanes, incoming, seemed more or less deserted. There was a depth of 180 feet below the keel, and, in clear seas on longitude 56.44E, Captain Packard made a southeasterly turn, selecting a course that would take him five miles north of the stricken Greek tanker, before he turned due south and went for the Line.

  Of course, only Admiral Morgan and Lt. Ramshawe were certain of the existence of the regular three-line minefield, the PLT-3-moored sea mines every 500 yards. The laying of mines in the dark is an inexact science, but in general terms, this meant there was a mine in the path of any ship separated by a maximum distance of around 170 yards.

  It also meant that if a ship slid by the first one, missing it by, say, 10 yards to starboard, the next one would come up 160 yards to port, and the next two after that 340 yards to port, and 170 to starboard. It was thus possible to miss them altogether, as many ships had. But it was still the maddest game of Russian roulette ever invented, especially for this particular tanker. The giant Galveston Star was 75 yards wide.

  Three miles short of the first line, Captain Packard received a formal warning from one of the Omani Navy Corvettes that it was dangerous to proceed. No one was yet admitting there may be a minefield, and the warning thus had no teeth so far as big Tex Packard was concerned. “Screw ’em,” he confirmed. “We’re outta here.”

  Up ahead the seas were clear. At least they were on the surface, and the Galveston Star came barreling down the strait in a freshly developed high wind off the Arabian desert, an early harbinger of the evolving southwest monsoon.

  This part of the gulf was a wind-convergence zone, where, in the late spring, the northeasters out of the central Chinese desert, which prevail all winter, gave way to the southwesters from Africa. This year they were early. And strong gusty breezes can catch the massive hull of a VLCC and cause a significant leeway.

  The Galveston Star was thus sliding infinitessimally east as she stood fair down the strait, plowing through the short surface waves, having completed her long gentle turn toward the south.

  In fact, she missed the first of Admiral Zhang’s mines by at least 150 yards to starboard. But the good news on Line One was almost certainly going to put her bows awfully close to the PLT-3 moored on Line Two.

  On she ran for another 600 yards, still drifting very slightly east, closing the gap between her own course and the murderous one-ton, steel-encased hunk of TNT that bobbed on its wire mooring 12 feet below the surface.

  The massive bows of the Galveston Star actually missed it completely, and the wash of the widening hull pushed the mine away on its wire. However, it swung back inward, hard and fast, crashing into the port side of the hull, 300 feet from the point of the bow.

  At four minutes past 8 P.M. it detonated with awesome force, blowing the plates apart, right through both layers of the hull, blasting a massive hole in Cargo Tank Four. And Buddy Holly was still singing as the onrushing crude oil blew up in a raging fireball above the ocean.

  “Stars appear and shadows a-falling…you can hear my heart a-calling…Oh boy!”

  Tex Packard could not believe his eyes. And the 420,000-tonner shuddered in its death throes as her colossal weight began to tear the entire hull apart. It was the biggest shipwreck in history, and it was only four miles from the Greek tanker that had been pouring out oil since Saturday. The Galveston Star was wallowing bang on Jimmy Ramshawe’s Straight Line, 12 miles off the coast of Iran.

  Captain Packard knew a career-blowing decision when he saw one. And he’d just made it.

  “What are you going to do, sir?” asked Jeb Duross, anxiety written all over his face.

  “Probably buy a cattle ranch,” replied Big Tex, thoughtfully.

  “Actually, I meant right now.”

  “Send out a MAYDAY! Radio Oman and Dubai, see if we can salvage any of the cargo, which I doubt. At least not yet, till we can get a couple of big ships out here to start pumping. Meanwhile we just gotta watch the fires. Crude sometimes doesn’t burn, but ours is doing just that, and once it gets started, it’s likely to go on for a long time.”

  “Looks like the fire’s inside the ship, and that might be real dangerous,” said Jeb.

  “Sure might. She gets much hotter, we’ll have to abandon. Sure hate to leave her, but this stuff can really burn gets hot enough. I’m not planning to be the hero, least not the dead hero…. Have the lifeboats ready, Jeb, and have someone turn off the music, willya?…Just don’t want Buddy singing in a death ship. ’Sides I wanna get mah CDs home to Texas…Buddy wouldn’t wanna be singing to no towelheads.”

  All mah life I been a-waiting…tonight there’ll be no hesitatin’…Oh boy!

  Midday (local). Fort Meade, Maryland.

  Lieutenant Ramshawe had his small office television turned on several minutes early for CNN’s 12 o’clock bulletin, and when he heard the lead item there was no longer any doubt in his or anyone else’s mind.

  “We are receiving reports that one of the biggest oil tankers in the world, the four-hundred-twenty-thousand-ton Galveston Star out of the Texas Gulf port of Houston, is currently on fire and breaking up in the Strait of Hormuz at the entrance to the Persian Gulf.

  “The cause of the accident is at present unknown, but the Captain and his crew are believed to be preparing to abandon her. Fires are reported raging over one hundred feet into the skies.

  “This is the third major shipping accident in the strait in the past four days, following the inferno of the liquid-gas carrier Global Bronco of Houston, on Friday, and the explosion in the Greek crude carrier Olympus 2004 on Saturday.”

  The newscaster ended the report by stating the U.S. Navy would be issuing a statement later in the afternoon, but as yet there was no suggestion that any nation had elected to place sea mines in the strait to endanger world oil-shipping routes.

  Right at that moment Jimmy’s phone rang, and he heard the gruff and distinct tones of Admiral Morgan. “Okay, Jimmy, I guess that does it. Go keep your boss up to speed, but keep me personally alerted to any information you get off the overheads.”

  The phone went down before Lt. Ramshawe could even answer. And before he could gather his wits, his other phone went, and Jane was on the line, telling him how clever he was, and would he be able to have dinner tonight with her, and her parents, at the embassy.

  “You seen the television?” he asked her.

  “Darned right I did. I was watching it with my dad. He said immediately the Iranians had mined the area, just as they’d been threatening to do.

  “I told him that was my considered opinion, too. Told him I’d suspected something like that since the Bronco went up last Friday…. He gave me a real old-fashioned look.”

  “I should think he did. But he doesn’t know about the phone call, does he—the one from his private line?”

  “No. At least he hasn’t said anything. Anyway, are you coming tonight? He’s got some Aussie sailors coming, yachtsmen,
America’s Cup guys. Might be fun.”

  “Yup. I’ll be there. ’Bout seven.”

  1300. Same day. The Oval Office.

  Admiral Morgan recounted the events in the gulf swiftly and with no elaboration.

  The President sat impassively, and asked curtly, “Your recommendations?”

  “Sir, I have already ordered the Constellation CVBG south from the Iraqi coast, and the John C. Stennis Group is closing the strait immediately from the Arabian Sea. Our third Group in the area, the Harry S Truman’s, should clear Diego Garcia by tomorrow morning and head north. I’ve arranged for the Indian Navy to begin a hunt-and-sweep operation with their Pondicherrys as soon as they can get there. Right now they’re on their way from Bombay, probably be in Hormuz waters by tomorrow morning our time…. I had them leave on Sunday.”

  “Do you think there could be full-scale hostilities, Admiral? I don’t want to get drawn into an unpopular war with Iran. Dead American sailors don’t play well politically.”

  “Sir, this is probably the height of our national interest. Do you have any idea what might happen if the gulf had to be closed off for a month?”

  “I cannot say I have given it deep thought, Admiral. But I am much more concerned about sitting in this chair being universally blamed for death, destruction and burned Americans. Because that’s what happens when you start flexing the muscles of big warships.”

  “If we don’t start flexing them, sir, the entire world oil supply could go right up the chute. And if the lights went out in the USA, you’d get yourself a very special place in history. Especially if you had refused to act in the Persian Gulf in the face of hostility and threats from Iran and their buddies in Beijing.”

  “As usual, Admiral, you have my best interests at heart.” There was an edge of sarcasm in the President’s voice.

  “Perhaps not, sir. But I always have the best interests of this nation at heart.”

  “Then proceed as you think fit, Admiral. You always do, anyway…. Just let me know if I need to make a speech, will you? And perhaps Harcourt should make some kind of diplomatic overtures to the Chinese and the Iranians?”

  “Two reasons not to, sir. One, it will alert the entire world to a crisis we may be able to strangle at birth. Two, they’ll just deny everything anyway, and probably be very amused at our concern. ’Specially if they’ve done it, which I already know they have.”

  Arnold Morgan did not wait for a reply. He just turned on his heel and left, muttering to himself, “What a lightweight. What a goddamned lightweight. In five years he’s gone from being a damned good president to a self-serving wimp.”

  By late afternoon every evening newspaper in the country was speculating about the possibility of a minefield in the Strait of Hormuz. The longtime threat of the Ayatollahs was uppermost in the mind of every defense correspondent in every corner of the media.

  Television networks waited with scarcely contained excitement for the statement from the U.S. Navy. But when it came it was stark and noncommittal, precisely the way Arnold Morgan had instructed.

  The CNO had declined a press conference and issued his written statement, deliberately late, at 21.30, through the main wire services, carefully avoiding anything that would suggest panic to either the Chinese or the Iranians.

  It read: “The United States Navy has noted the three tanker incidents in the Strait of Hormuz during the last four days. In particular we noted that two of them burned, and one suffered an apparent explosion that released large quantities of oil into the sea. In addition, we noted that all three incidents occurred in a narrow seaway between the countries of Oman and Iran.

  “We have been in contact with our major allies in the area and have agreed to support them in their efforts to ascertain the causes of these incidents, and to discover whether there might be a link between them.

  “However, it is too early to arrive at any conclusions. We expect at least one of our aircraft carriers and her escorts to arrive on station in the strait in the next 24 hours. Another U.S. CVBG is currently steaming toward the strait from the Arabian Sea.

  “In company with several other industrial nations, we are extremely concerned to ensure the continued free passage of the world’s fuel tankers through the strait both into, and out of, the Gulf of Iran.

  “We have assured our allies of our continued assistance, should it become necessary to rectify any wrongdoing by any nation in these peaceful trading waters upon which so many countries depend.”

  It was signed, “Admiral Alan Dixon, Chief of United States Naval Operations.”

  It was good, but not good enough. Four East Coast tabloid dailies were already setting headlines like: MINEFIELD TERROR IN THE GULF…TANKERS BLOWN UP IN GULF MINEFIELD. IRAN’S MINES BLAST U.S. TANKERS.

  All through the evening the television networks developed their stories, bringing in experts to discourse on the dangers in that part of the Middle East; recounting Iranian threats over the years; debating the possible involvement of China; discussing the consequences of an oil blockade.

  By midnight, the President had called an emergency cabinet meeting in President Reagan’s old Situation Room in the West Wing. And there the major brains in the Administration attemped to walk the tightrope between being prepared militarily and creating mass panic at the gas pumps.

  Arnold Morgan, whose voice would be heard the loudest, since he had been effectively on the case since Friday, was, uncharacteristically, urging caution. He wanted the CVBG in the strait to protect and assist the Indian Navy’s minesweepers. However, he saw no real advantage in making overt threats to either the Iranian or Chinese navies, save to make them absolutely aware that if any of their warships attempted to interfere, they would be sunk forthwith by U.S. Naval firepower.

  As far as the National Security Adviser was concerned, the U.S. Navy had the matter well in hand. And with the strait now well and truly off-limits to all world shipping, there seemed little point in looking for trouble until the Indians’ Pondicherrys had begun work clearing the mines. In order to clear a three-mile-wide safe passage on the Omani side, Admiral Morgan estimated they might have to sweep 40 of them, which might take several days beginning Tuesday night (local time).

  Minesweeping was a thoroughly dangerous business, and it had to be conducted and executed with extreme care. The President wanted to know how it was done, and Arnold Morgan suggested that Admiral Dixon enlighten everyone.

  “Sir,” said the CNO, “when you locate the mine, it’s going to be ten or twelve feet below the surface, attached by its cable to a mooring on the floor of the ocean. Basically it’s buoyant, and it’s trying to float up to the surface, but is held down by its own cable.

  “Well, you sweep them by towing cutting cables from the minesweeper, pulled down to the right depth and out from the side by an otter board. When the sweeper’s cable snags a mine’s mooring line, it keeps moving until both cable and line are taut. Then the cutter severs the line, allowing the mine to float to the surface. There it can be detonated by small-arms fire from a safe distance. They’re easy when they’re on the surface, but of course impossible when you can’t see them. However many times you’ve done it, you’re always astounded by the size of the explosion.”

  “Hey, that’s pretty neat,” said the President.

  “And pretty time-consuming,” replied the Admiral.

  “How many sweepers are the Indians bringing?”

  “Six,” replied Admiral Morgan. “That’ll help speed things up.”

  “Cost?” asked the Secretary of Defense, Bob MacPherson, predictably.

  “I told the Indian Navy Chief that we would arrange for all affected nations to share the costs. Between us, the U.K., the Japanese, Germans, France and some of the Middle East exporters, it’ll come out as peanuts.”

  “No problem,” said MacPherson.

  “Look, Arnold,” said the President, using his adviser’s first name for the first time in months, “I know you want to play this down righ
t now. But I’m not sure we shouldn’t go straight into Beijing and demand to know if they have played any part in this whatsoever.”

  “Sir, they will simply deny any knowledge, whatever we say…and that brings me to a very serious point.”

  “It does?”

  “Yessir. From our observations it looks very much as if the mines were transported to Iran in Chinese warships. And now we have a situation where, for the next couple of weeks, the Iranians are going to get pretty rich. And to an extent so are the Chinese. They seem to have a way through the minefield, in Iranian national waters, and the price of oil futures is probably going to forty dollars a barrel for West Texas Intermediate on NYMEX and the same for Brent Crude on the London market.

  “However, I completely fail to see what the Chinese are doing. How could it possibly be worth it?”

  “Maybe they just want to show us they can be real world players in the oil game with their new Kazakhstan pipeline,” offered Harcourt Travis.