Scimitar SL-2 (2004) Page 42

  The giant helo had already deposited all the equipment needed for the Engagement Control Station farther up the escarpment, to a slightly higher peak to the north. Twelve more technicians who had traveled across the Atlantic in the Truman had already begun to erect the station, ensuring it had views in all directions overlooking the Atlantic to the east and west, where the frigates were patrolling. And, of course, overlooking the Patriot batteries around the crater to the south, with clear radar range at every point of the compass.

  The Engagement Control Station was the only manned station in a Patriot Fire Unit. It could communicate with any M901 Launching Station and with other Patriot batteries, and it also had direct communications to the higher command facilities, in this case Admiral Gillmore’s Coronado.

  Three operators had two consoles and a Communication Station with three radio-relay terminals. The digital Weapon Control Computer was located next to the VHF Data Link terminals. One of the C-17 Globemasters had brought in the trailer-mounted Raytheon MPQ-53 phased-array Army radar unit, a band-tracking radar capable of identifying one hundred targets at a time. It was a superb component of any top-of-the-line shore missile batteries, and it would carry out search, target detection, track and identification, missile tracking and guidance, plus electronic counter-countermeasures (ECCM) functions.

  Its radar was automatically controlled, via a cable link, by the digital weapons control computer in the Engagement Control Center sited farther up the hill. The radar had a range of up to 55 miles, and could provide guidance data for up to nine missiles at any one time. Its wideband capability provided target discrimination never before achieved.

  In normal circumstances, this overwhelming piece of electronic equipment might have been considered overkill in the search for one or possibly two incoming “birds.” However, in this case, by express orders of Admiral Morgan, there was no such thing as overkill.

  As the Patriot missile came flashing into its target, the TVM guidance system would be activated, and the weapon could scarcely miss. And it would not require a midair collision to blow Admiral Badr’s Scimitar clean out of the sky. The Patriot just needed to be close enough for a proximity fuse to detonate the high-explosive warhead, in this case, an M248 91kg—200 pounds—TNT blast fragmentation.

  The MIM-104E was over 17 feet long, 16 inches in diameter, and weighed 2,000 pounds. At Mach 5, its range was 43 miles and, if necessary, it could fly to a ceiling of 80,000 feet. Arnold Morgan had estimated a very high trajectory from the Barracuda’s missiles, which, he thought, would aim to lance down very steeply at the crater of the Cumbre Vieja.

  Major Gill had a copy of that shrewd assessment from the Supreme Commander folded neatly in his breast pocket, as he prepared the U.S. Army’s ring of steel around the volcano’s black heart. As he watched the mighty Chinook flying the Patriot launcher trucks right over the crater and into position, he knew that if the frigate’s batteries were not in time, out in the open ocean, his own guided missiles would be the United States’ last line of defense.

  2330, Tuesday, October 6

  The Atlantic Ocean, 27.25N 20.50W.

  Five hundred feet below the surface, the Barracuda had cut its speed from six knots to five, after a very slight swing to the south. Its course would take it 14 miles south of the flashing light on Point Restinga, the southernmost headland of the Canary Island of Hierro. Right now they were a little under 40 miles to the west, and several days out of satellite contact with General Rashood.

  Ben Badr was in the submarine’s control room with his XO, Capt. Ali Akbar Mohtaj, who was coming to the end of the First Watch.

  The Admiral ordered the submarine to periscope depth for a swift GPS check and a visual look at the surface picture.

  In the clear autumn night skies they could see that the ocean around them was devoid of shipping. The GPS numbers were accurate, according to their own navigation charts meticulously kept by Lt. Ashtari Mohammed, Shakira’s old colleague.

  “DOWN PERISCOPE…MAKE YOUR DEPTH 500…SPEED FIVE…” Admiral Badr wore a soft smile as he felt the ship go, bow down, 10 degrees. He felt safe—so far as he could see—no U.S. Navy dragnet was trying to hunt him down.

  The time was 11:30 and 15 seconds. What he didn’t know, as the Barracuda glided back towards the ocean floor, was that in precisely 24 hours, 29 minutes, and 45 seconds, the world’s GPS systems, U.S. and European, were shutting down. Ben Badr was proceeding to a long-range launching, which could not work. First blood to the United States.

  He and Captain Mohtaj sipped hot tea with sugar and lemon and stared meditatively at the charts. They would be inside the grid of the seven islands shortly after dawn, and he would now head east, according to their original plan, to launch 30 miles south of Fuerteventura, 30 miles off the coast of Western Sahara.

  “If we can launch long-range,” said Ben, “we’re bound to hit. The missile takes longer to get there. We have longer to get into shelter, and our chances of being detected are close to zero. So far, I like it very much.”

  By the time they finished their tea, and Captain Mohtaj had retired to his bunk, the GPS was still transmitting. But in twenty-four hours, there would be a mind-blowing change to their plan.

  Worse yet, the U.S. guided missile frigate the Nicholas was still in the area, and Captain Nielsen’s ops room had very nearly picked them up when they put up a mast for that last GPS check. The U.S. frigate was less than 20 miles away, and it caught a slight paint on two sweeps of the radar. It had disappeared on the third, but the ops room of the Nicholas was very sharp, and the young seaman watching the screen had called it immediately. His supervisor had logged and given it a numbered track. It was now on the nets, circulating to the rest of the fleet. Of course, it could have been anything—a flock of birds, a rainsquall, a breaching whale or a dolphin. But the operator was not so sure, and the Nicholas hung around for an hour, wondering if the “paint” would return.

  But nothing unusual occurred, and Captain Nielsen proceeded on slowly through the night down the coast of Hierro, before making for Tenerife. He was steaming only a little faster than the Barracuda, which was traveling in the same direction, 20 miles off their starboard quarter, deep beneath the waves.

  13

  Wednesday, October 7

  The Eastern Atlantic.

  THE BARRACUDA, still making only 6 knots, steamed quietly past the flashing light on the stark southern headland of Hierro’s Point Restingo shortly after 0700. They remained 500 feet below the surface, 14 miles south of the lighthouse, on a bright, sunlit morning.

  Twenty miles to the north, moving slowly south, four miles off the rust-red volcanic eastern coastline of the island, was the gunmetal-gray 3,600-ton U.S. frigate the Nicholas. She was on a near-interception course with the Barracuda, but Capt. Eric Nielsen would turn east for Tenerife 10 miles north of the submarine.

  On the west coast of the island, Capt. Josh Deal’s Kauffman was combing the Atlantic depths electronically, searching, searching for the telltale whispers that may betray the presence of the lethal underwater marauder.

  If Captain Deal held his course, he too would eventually reach the submarine’s track, but he was also under orders to swing east for Tenerife. Both ships were proceeding with caution, not too fast to miss anything, but with enough speed to cover the wide patch of ocean allotted them by Admiral Gillmore.

  The tiny island Hierro, only 15 miles wide, used to be about three times the size. But a massive eruption around 50,000 years ago blew it asunder and, according to modern volcanologists, dumped about 100 square miles of solid rock onto the bottom of the Atlantic.

  The shape of the island conformed precisely to the geological pattern of a great volcano rising up from the seabed. It shoaled down steeply to 850 feet right off the rock-strewn beach, then, in less than seven miles, plummeted to a narrow plateau 5,000 feet below the surface. From there, the ocean floor dove steeply for one mile and a half, straight down to a depth of more than 12,000 feet. Almos
t identical ocean statistics to those of La Palma, 50 miles to the north.

  At 0800, Adm. Ben Badr ordered the Barracuda to creep up slowly from these massive depths to access the satellite, check the GPS, and to report course and position to the private satellite receiver above the house on Sharia Bab Touma in Damascus, the command headquarters of the operation where the former Maj. Ray Kerman already lurked, awaiting the signal.

  Admiral Badr’s Executive Officer, Capt. Ali Akbar Mohtaj, ordered the periscope and the ESM mast up. There was no threat radar on the surface, and the comms room instantly retrieved a message off the Chinese navy satellite. It revealed the wave-band numbers of the French GPS, should the U.S. take the precaution of blacking out the main access channels. General Rashood had received intelligence of possible “limited GPS interruption,” but the Pentagon had been cagey, releasing the news only on the restricted shipping and airline channels. The Arab newspapers hardly mentioned it, and it would be several hours before the General could access the Wall Street Journal, since he was operating eight hours ahead of the U.S. East Coast.

  The Barracuda’s comms staff checked French and American GPS wave bands. Both were onstream. Suddenly they heard U.S. Navy radar. Captain Mohtaj quickly ordered mast and periscope down, and the submarine back to a depth of 500 feet. Too late. Eric Nielsen’s Nicholas had picked up a suspect at extreme range with three sweeps, 12 miles north of the jutting periscope.

  The frigate’s computers flashed into action, bringing up the previous “paint,” seven hours previously at 40 miles to the west. If the same ship had caused both sightings, they were looking at a transient contact, making around six knots, bearing zero-nine-zero, due east, along latitude 27.25N.

  Within seconds, the computerized deductions hit the comms room in the Coronado up to the northwest of Lanzarote, and Admiral Gillmore immediately appreciated the situation. For the moment, the Elrod and the Nicholas were slightly behind the eight ball, but on standby. Right off the northeast headland of Tenerife, he had Capt. Clint Sammons’s Klakring and Comdr. Joe Wickman’s Simpson. He ordered them to make good speed south for 100 miles and to begin their search as they crossed latitude 27.30N. ETA Barracuda: 2200 hours.

  So far as Admiral Gillmore could see, he had the submarine strapped between his four frigates. But he also knew that the Barracuda was so quiet, it could creep 500 feet beneath them, at a silent 5 to 6 knots, and not be detected by passive sonar, though it might be “active.”

  Admiral Gillmore fired off a signal to Adm. Frank Doran, who was still in the command center at Atlantic Fleet Headquarters in Norfolk…“070800OCT09 Possible detection Barracuda, course zero-nine-zero, 14 miles south of Hierro Island. Course and speed correlates possible six-knot transient submarine detected 070100OCT09. Elrod and Nicholas tracking, Klakring and Simpson running south to intercept. Gillmore.

  Eight minutes later, Arnold Morgan leapt to his feet from his desk in the sparsely furnished Oval Office, punched the air, and gritted…“Come on, guys…let’s tighten the fucking screws, put that little bastard on the seabed…”

  “You’re not beginning to take this personally, by any chance, are you Arnold?” asked President Bedford, disarmingly.

  “Christ no, sir. I just love chasing boatloads of underwater terrorists around the oceans—I just get a little edgy after the first year…”

  Meanwhile, back in the eastern Atlantic, Admiral Gillmore ordered the carrier the Ronald Reagan southwest towards the coast of Gran Canaria, from its holding position 15 miles north of Lanzarote.

  The U.S. Navy’s dragnet was closing in, but Admiral Gillmore was taking a calculated risk that the transient contacts were indeed the Barracuda. If they were not, and the Hamas terrorists were coming in from farther north, he would be heavily dependent on the steel cordon of guided-missile frigates out of Norfolk, which currently circled La Palma, inshore and offshore.

  Right now, a carrier was flying two continuous patrols between the west coast of La Palma and the towering coast of the island of Gomera, where the precipitous cliffs crash headlong into the ocean, just 35 miles northeast of Hierro.

  All of the Navy’s assessments claimed that the submarine, if it was to fire its missiles visually, must come in towards the Cumbre Vieja from either Gomera’s southwest or northeast coast. The Barracuda might ultimately duck back behind this rocky fortress for shelter in the moments before the mega-tsunami surged outwards into its horrendous reality.

  Oblivious of the bear trap closing in around them, the Barracuda had somewhat carelessly failed to detect the closeness of USS Nicholas, and now the Russian-built nuclear boat proceeded deep along her easterly course, slowly and quietly.

  Down in the Navigation area, Lt. Ashtari Mohammed estimated that by midnight, they would reach a point 24 miles southwest of Playa de Ingles, the seething gay Mecca of the island of Gran Canaria, winter headquarters of Sodomites International, and a place likely to be crushed beneath a 50-foot tidal wave one hour after impact. Still, death by drowning would probably arrive on fleeting wings, which would doubtless beat the hell out of being turned to stone.

  That particular point on the chart would be critical for the submarine, because they would arrive there just as the world GPS was scheduled to crash. And the precise moment that Admiral Badr ordered his ship to the surface would determine how swiftly he would know that a long-range launch was out of the question.

  And they ran quietly and silently all day, without the U.S. frigates locating them. At 0030 on that moonlit Thursday morning, Admiral Badr ordered the Barracuda to PD, and her periscope came thrusting out of the water, alongside her mighty ESM mast, which was almost as thick as a telegraph pole. The two steel poles jutted right into the path of the radar sweeping across the water from all four of the trailing U.S. frigates.

  The Barracuda sucked down a signal from General Rashood in the couple of seconds before the submarine’s ops room picked up the frigates on their ESM. Continuous sweeps. Captain Mohtaj simply said, “We’re surrounded, sir.”

  “I understand that,” replied Ben Badr. “But they’re six miles away and we’re not finished by any means…10 BOW DOWN 600…MAKE YOUR SPEED TEN…COME RIGHT TWENTY DEGREES…”

  At that moment, young Ahmed Sabah came bursting out of the comms room with the communication from Damascus…U.S. GPS satellite communications crashed at midnight…Zhanjiang naval base making no contact with French version…world GPS black. Abort long-range launch. Repeat abort long-range launch…Change course northwest and proceed to coast of Gomera…Then head into La Palma launch zone 25 miles off the east coast, for visual setup. Allah goes with you. Rashood.

  All four U.S. frigates picked up the radar contact, and all four had solid contact. Both previous detections had been along the 27.25 line of latitude, and so was this third one. Each of the four Commanding Officers—Eric Nielsen, C. J. Smith, Clint Sammons, and Joe Wickman—was now certain that they had their quarry under surveillance. And they all knew, of course, that the GPS was down, and that the Barracuda was almost certain to change course right here at 27.25N 16.06W.

  Admiral Badr’s navigation room had not immediately understood the extent of the GPS blackout. Lt. Ashtari Mohammed had observed that they were receiving nothing from the satellites on their screens, but he was looking for a technical fault at first. It was not until Ahmed Sabah read out the signal from General Ravi that Ashtari fully realized the implications of his blank screen. There was no GPS, and there was not going to be any. The U.S. Air Force’s 50th Space Wing, out in Colorado, had placed a four-minute transmission delay on their formal announcement:

  No GPS signal before 0100 Saturday October 10.

  That had been Admiral Morgan’s order, on the grounds that four minutes would be too long for the Barracuda to leave a mast up, and it might just run on for several more miles before they realized the GPS was down permanently.

  General Ravi had dealt with that, however, and now Ben Badr ordered an immediate course change…“COME RIGHT ON
E HUNDRED NINETY DEGREES…STEER COURSE THREE-ZERO-ZERO…MAKE YOUR SPEED FIVE…DEPTH 600.”

  Captain Mohtaj, at the helm of the Barracuda, now making course west-nor’west, handed the ship over to the CPO, Chief Ali Zahedi, at 0100. There was a 90-mile deepwater run to the shelter of the eastern shore of Gomera, and there was no problem staying “below the layer,” 600 feet under the surface, since the Atlantic all around the Canary Islands was nearly two miles deep.

  But the sudden course change had unnerved the crew. Even though just a few of the senior command were aware that they were surrounded by U.S. warships, and their long-range launch plan had been scuppered, everyone quickly knew there was something amiss.

  They were headed into the jaws of the United States Navy, which was not a great place to be. But General Rashood had made no mention of aborting the mission. Rather he had urged them forwards, as the soldiers of Allah, to strike the fateful blow against the Great Satan.

  Admiral Badr called a briefing meeting in his small private office. In attendance were Captain Mohtaj, Comdr. Abbas Shafii, the nuclear specialist, Comdr. Hamidi Abdolrahim, the chief nuclear engineer, Lieutenant Ashtari, the navigator, and Ahmed Sabah.