Scimitar SL-2 (2004) Page 22

  Ben Badr stayed well offshore here, keeping right of the shallow Rio Grande Rise, and pushing on north, up towards Ascension Island. And long before they arrived in those waters, he cut the speed of his submarine, running through the confused seas above the craggy cliffs of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge on his starboard side, as he made his way silently past the U.S. military base on this British-owned moonscape of an island.

  This was probably the only spot in the entire Mid-and South Atlantic they might be detected. And they ran past with the utmost care, slowly, slowly, only six knots, deeper than usual, at 700 feet. The Barracuda was deathly quiet on all decks. Lieutenant Commander Shakira huddled in the navigation room; Admiral Badr and the Hamas General were in the control room, listening to the regular pings of the passive sonar.

  On Friday, September 18, the Barracuda crossed the equator, the unseen divider of north and south in the center of the earth’s navigational grid. This was the zero-degree line that slices in, off the Atlantic and through Brazil, a few miles north of the Amazon Delta.

  Ahead of the Hamas warship was another 1,000 miles through which they made good speed, covering the distance in a little under three days. By midday on Monday, September 21, they were at their rendezvous point, running slowly at periscope depth, eight miles off the port of Dakar in the former French colony of Senegal, right on the outermost seaward bulge of northern Africa.

  1100 (Local), Same Day

  Monday, September 21

  Chevy Chase, Maryland.

  Arnold Morgan was entertaining an old friend, the new Israeli Ambassador to Washington, sixty-two-year-old General David Gavron, former head of the most feared international Intelligence agency in the world, the Mossad.

  The two men had met and cooperated at the time David Gavron had served as military attaché at the Israeli Embassy seven years previously. They had, by necessity, stayed in touch during Admiral Morgan’s tenure in the White House, when the General had headed up the Mossad.

  Today’s was an unorthodox meeting. David Gavron, like every other high-ranking military Intelligence officer in the world, knew the Admiral was no longer on the White House staff. But this certainly had not diminished his towering reputation, nor his encyclopedic knowledge of the ebb and flow of the world’s power struggles.

  General Gavron guessed, correctly, that the U.S.A. had a serious problem. He had for years been a close friend and confidant not only of Ariel Sharon but also of the former Yom Kippur War tank-division commander Maj. Gen. Avraham “Bren” Adan. General Gavron was possibly the most trusted man in Israel.

  He was a pure Israeli of the blood, a true Sabra, born a few miles southwest of the Sea of Galilee near Nazareth. On October 6, 1973, the first day of the Yom Kippur War, as a battalion tank commander, he had driven out into the Sinai right alongside “Bren” Adan himself. On that most terrible day, hundreds of young Israelis, stunned by the suddenness of the onslaught by Egypt’s Second Army, fought and died in the desert.

  For two days and nights, David Gavron had served in the front line of the battlefield, as one of Bren Adan’s bloodstained young commanders who flung back wave after wave of the Egyptian tank division. Twice wounded, shot in the arm and then blown into the desert sand while trying to save a burning tank crew, David Gavron’s personal battle honor was presented to him by Mrs. Meir herself. It was inscribed with the same words as Great Britain’s coveted Victoria Cross…FOR VALOR.

  This was precisely the kind of man Admiral Morgan now needed urgently because only someone like David Gavron, a man who had faced the onslaught of a merciless invading army, could ultimately decide whether his beleaguered little country could comply with America’s request to vacate the West Bank of the Jordan River.

  So far, in unofficial but probing talks, the signs had not been good. From Tel Aviv, there had been zero enthusiasm. The big hitters in the Israeli military had almost shuddered at the prospect of a Palestinian State. Hard-eyed men from the Knesset, the Mossad, Shin Bet, the interior secret service, had intimated this was too big a favor to ask.

  Arnold Morgan stared at the jagged scar on the left side of the Israeli’s face. He knew it was a legacy from a far-distant tank battle in the desert. And that scar ran deep. David Gavron’s reaction to a polite request for an end to hostilities with the Palestinians would have a major bearing on the next approach by the Americans.

  Admiral Morgan did not know precisely how much General Gavron knew, but he suspected Hamas may have informed the Mossad directly of their threat to the United States, and their demand that Israel back up and give their Arabian enemy some living space.

  It was a warm autumn day, and they sat outside on the patio surrounding the pool area. Arnold sipped his coffee and gazed into the cool blue eyes of the tall, fit-looking Israeli diplomat, with his close-cropped hair and tanned skin.

  “David,” he said. “I want you to level with me.”

  “As always,” smiled the General.

  “Are you aware of the threat made upon my nation by the high command of Hamas?”

  “We are.”

  “Do you know of the twofold nature of the demands that we vacate the Middle East in its entirety, and that we compel you to agree to the formation of a Palestinian State inside the present borders of Israel?”

  “Yes, we are aware of precisely what they threaten.”

  “Okay. Now, you also know we have begun to make troop and armament movements in our Middle East bases.”

  “We do.”

  “And do you think Hamas now believes we intend to comply with their demands?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you are probably not doing nearly enough. Just playing for time, while you get ready to obliterate your enemy, in the time-honored American way.”

  “It’s damn difficult to obliterate Hamas. Since we can’t see them.”

  “I assure you, there is no need to tell us that. We can see them a lot better than you. And we can’t get rid of them either.”

  “Well, David. We can certainly step up our evacuation plans sufficiently to make us look real. But we plainly need your cooperation, just to demonstrate we have persuaded you to make a lasting peace, with redrawn borders for the West Bank and the Gaza Strip.”

  David Gavron, somewhat ominously, did not answer.

  “So I have two questions to ask you,” said the Admiral. “The first because of your known expertise dealing with terrorist enemies of your nation…Do you think we should take the Hamas threat seriously?”

  “You mean, their assurance that they will cause this giant landslide and then a tidal wave to flood your East Coast?”

  “That’s the one, David.”

  “My answer is yes. Because the Hamas have become very dangerous in the past two or three years. You will have noticed several of their spectacular successes—some at our expense, others at yours…?”

  “Of course. We have. And now they are threatening again. Goddamnit, David, they never used to be that dangerous.”

  “Not until they found a new Sandhurst-trained military assault leader.”

  “You mean the SAS officer who absconded from the Brits?”

  “That’s the man, Arnold. And I’ve no doubt you realize he went over the wall in my own country during the battle of the Jerusalem Road

  in our holy city of Hebron.”

  “Actually, David, my information was that he went around the wall, not over it.”

  “Very precise of you,” replied General Gavron, smiling. “We do, of course, have the same sources. Anyway, he’s never been seen since, and Hamas has never been the same since.”

  “Don’t I know that. But now we’re stuck with this volcano bullshit.”

  “I wonder if you also heard,” replied the Israeli, “that he undoubtedly kidnapped and murdered that Professor in London earlier this year, the world authority on volcanoes and earthquakes?”

  “We only surmised that very recently.”

  “We w
ere perhaps quicker in Tel Aviv. But we knew there was an active cell of the Hamas high command in London. Matter of fact, we just missed them. One day earlier might have saved everyone a lot of trouble.”

  “Or, on the other hand, left you on the short side of a half-dozen assassins…”

  “Yes, we are always aware of that possibility when dealing with such a man,” said General Gavron. “Nonetheless, I should definitely take his threats seriously if I were you…We can surmise by his London activities that he is now an expert on volcanoes. And I’m told by our Field Chief in Damascus that they definitely planned to erupt Mount St. Helens. We’ve never had confirmation of that, but the coincidence is a little fierce.”

  “Which leaves our East Coast on the verge of extinction,” said Arnold. “I’ve read up on the subject, and the truth is obvious. He hits the Cumbre Vieja volcano, that mega-tsunami will happen. And that’s likely to be sayonara New York…”

  “Of course I see your problem. You are obliged to buy a little time by making moves in the Middle East to look as if you are leaving. But what you are really doing is getting a great battle fleet into operation in the Atlantic in order to find and destroy the submarine, or intercept the missile as it flies into La Palma?”

  “How the hell do you know they’re in a submarine?”

  “Please, Arnold, give us some credit. We know about the missing Barracuda s. We know you found one of them, already scuttled. And we know the other one is on the loose. There is plainly no other way to hit the volcano except with a submarine-launched missile. An aircraft is out of the question, so is a surface ship, and a blast from the mainland of black North Africa would be to invite instant detection by the U.S. satellites.

  “No, Arnold. They have informed you what they plan to do. And quite obviously, they are going to launch their missile attack from a submarine creeping around, deep, somewhere in the North Atlantic, somewhere off the coast of Africa. And since that Barracuda is the only suspect…the rest is academic.”

  “Correct. And if I am not able to demonstrate that the nation of Israel is prepared to acquiesce to our instructions, I guess Hamas will open fire, and we’ll just have to see if we can stop ’em. I should warn you, however, that if that little scenario should occur, the Knesset ought not to hold its breath for any more help from the U.S.A…. finance or weapons.”

  “I do realize that,” said General Gavron. “And quite honestly, I have tried to stay out of the talks. I know there has been nothing formal yet, but these things get around fast. And we are aware that sooner or later we will have to answer a very serious question from the United States.”

  Admiral Morgan poured them both more coffee. He stood up and walked a few paces, then retraced his steps. “David,” he said, “what is your personal reaction to the Hamas demand for immediate recognition of the Independent, Democratic, and Sovereign State of Palestine based on the territories on the West Bank and the Gaza Strip…as they say, ‘occupied by the forces of Israel since June 4, 1967’?

  “I guess you know that they want all Israeli troops out of these territories, right away?”

  “That’s what they always demand, Arnold. But they are asking the rulers of Israel to commit political suicide. And you know what your great hero Sir Winston Churchill said about that?”

  “Not offhand. What was it?”

  “The trouble with committing political suicide is you usually live to regret it…”

  Arnold Morgan laughed, despite the seriousness of the conversation. He sat back and sipped his coffee thoughtfully.

  “Arnold,” Gavron said, “there are thousands of families whose relatives died for those new Israeli lands, died defending them against the Arab aggressor. My grandfather was killed in the Sinai in 1967, my beloved and brave grandmother died on a human ammunition line, passing shells up to our tanks on the Golan Heights in 1967. My father’s two brothers were killed in the battle for the Sinai in 1967, and my niece, age eleven, was killed by a Palestinian bomb in a supermarket twelve years ago.

  “I’m sorry, Arnold, I could never agree to a Palestinian State within our borders. Not one that causes us to surrender the lands we fought for, against overwhelming aggression from the Arab nations. My government might agree if America were to get very rough with us. But would I? Never.”

  Arnold smiled a rueful smile at the old warrior from the Holy Land. “But what about us, David?” he said. “We, who have done so much to keep your nation secure. What about us, in our hour of real need?”

  “Well, the East Coast of America is a very long way from Israel. More than 5,000 miles. And just for once, we are not the ones being threatened by an armed enemy.

  “In my country, there are vast numbers of young Israelis who were not even born when Egypt split the Bar-Lev line and attacked us on our most holy day of the year. We’d be asking them to support their government giving away great slabs of the only land they have ever known…to the Palestinians. Well, Arnold, that’s what civil wars are made of…”

  “You mean Israel is never going to agree to the creation of a Democratic Palestinian State, never going to withdraw from the occupied territories?”

  “No, I don’t mean that. I don’t mean never. But probably not in the next five weeks. That’s just asking the utterly impossible. For a problem that is not even ours. Remember, it’s the U.S.A. under threat. Not Israel.”

  “For an officer and a diplomat, that’s a rather shortsighted answer,” replied Admiral Morgan.

  “Not really. The U.S.A. would find it very difficult to get rough with us. No American President is going to risk losing the massive Jewish vote in New York.”

  “I was not referring to the U.S.A. getting rough,” said Arnold.

  “Oh…what were you implying…?”

  “I was suggesting that if we get jackhammered by this tidal wave, that will somewhat preoccupy us for a while. And since you did nothing to assist us, you’ll probably find us too busy to help you.”

  “But we don’t need help, Arnold. We’re not threatened.”

  “If the U.S. Navy and Military are effectively disabled on the East Coast for a period of several months, how long do you think it will take Hamas to turn their thwarted anger on Israel?”

  David Gavron was thoughtful. He said nothing for a few moments and then replied, “They are essentially a hit-and-run organization. Terrorists. They do not have our training, our combat readiness. They have no answers to heavy artillery. And we can withstand terrorism. We always have. The Hamas are simply not a big enough force to take down a nation like ours.”

  “That may have been so three years ago,” said Arnold. “But it’s not so now. They have a general as accomplished in the field as anyone we’ve seen for years…”

  “This damn Kerman character?”

  “That’s the man, David. That’s the man.”

  1530 (Local), Monday, September 21

  The Atlantic Ocean, 14.43N 17.30W

  Speed 5, Course Unconfirmed, PD.

  The Barracuda cruised in warm waters out among the blue-fin tunas just below the surface, less than 10 miles off the most westerly port in Africa. Dakar, capital city of the old French colony of Senegal, was in the middle of its rainy season, and warm tropical rain lashed the calm waters of the deep Atlantic way out to sea.

  They’d been waiting for almost four hours now, and the rain had not let up. Every fifteen minutes, Ben Badr ordered his mast up and scanned the surface picture, looking in vain for the patrol boat from the Senegal Navy, which had been due to arrive at around midday.

  When it finally did show up, shortly before 1600, both he and Ravi became extremely jumpy. Running this close to the surface, even in waters in which the U.S. Navy had zero interest, it was still unnerving. Just knowing the U.S. satellites, if correctly focused, could pick them up in moments.

  The unrelenting rain reduced visibility, and the Senegalese were more than a mile away when Admiral Badr saw them. Immediately he ordered the Barracuda to the surface. With
a blast of emptying ballast and an increased hum of the accelerating turbines, the Barracuda surged up into the fresh air for the first time for ten weeks. It was the first daylight they had seen since the submarine went deep, just south of the Japanese island of Yakushima, and headed out into the north Pacific.

  The great underwater warship shouldered aside the blue waters of the eastern Atlantic, and the helmsman brought her almost to a halt on the surface, facing south awaiting the Senegalese patrol ship that would pull alongside.

  The seas were otherwise deserted and the Barracuda’s deck crew waved the incoming ship into position on the starboard side of the hull. They could already see a special long gangway out on the scruffy-looking deck, and they sent over lines to help the two Senegalese crewmen to shove it out between the two ships.

  General Ravi, standing on deck with Shakira, gazed in some distaste at the condition of the patrol boat, a U.S.–built Peterson Mark-4 Class 22-tonner, almost twenty years old, black-hulled and in dire need of a coat of paint. The once-white deck was rusted, and further rust marks stained the hull. A couple of black tires were leaned against the superstructure. As a Navy ship, it looked like a Third World fishing smack. But it was the only way to leave unnoticed, and the Senegalese, sharing their Muslim faith, had been willing to help, although Ravi guessed his colleagues in Bandar Abbas had paid expensively for this short Inter-Navy 10-mile voyage, probably as much as the boat was worth.