H.M.S. Unseen (1999) Read online

  By early December the model was almost complete, and the commander had selected his personnel. In company with Admiral Badr he had made his way out to the building site to meet the busload of twenty young men with whom he would soon go on a mission of justice for their country.

  Both officers stood and watched as the select few disembarked and formed two lines of 10 men in each. The admiral and the commander walked carefully along each line, addressing each man by name and rank, talking for perhaps two minutes with each of them. They then ordered everyone into the air-conditioned conference room, set beyond the stern end of the 200-foot-long model.

  And there the world’s most notorious terrorist outlined their duties for them. Most of the men had some Arabic, but Ben spoke mostly in Farsi, using phrases he had learned especially for this talk. “Most of you,” he began, “are already familiar with the workings of a Kilo-Class submarine, and you will understand that I have deliberately selected officers who have worked in specialist areas—I mean, of course, those who have been in charge of propulsion, electronics, generators, sonar, hydrology, communications, navigation, and hydraulic systems.

  “The submarine I shall acquire for our mission will be one with which you are not familiar, and in anticipation of that, we have constructed here this full-scale model. In the coming three weeks I want each of you to familiarize himself with the workings of this submarine. Every switch, valve, and keyboard. And when I say familiarize I mean that I would expect you to go on board the real submarine in the pitch dark, find your area of operation, and work your systems without error, and possibly without light.

  “It is likely that during the course of the next four weeks some of you will not measure up, and we may have to replace you. That, however, will be up to you. This is a time of extensive study, note taking, and memorizing. Pure concentration. I have selected each one of you because I know you have the precise characteristics this mission demands.

  “It will not be without its dangers, but I am confident in our skills, and I am confident in the abilities of each one of you. Now perhaps we should go and make a tour of the model.”

  January 6, 2005.

  Office of the National Security Advisor.

  The White House, Washington, DC.

  The national security advisor himself, Admiral Arnold Morgan, was in deep conference, studying satellite photographs with Admiral George Morris, director of the National Security Agency, located in Fort Meade, Maryland.

  “What the hell’s that, goddammit?”

  “Er, a building, sir. A large building.”

  “I can see that, for Christ’s sake. What kind of a building is it? Looks like a fucking indoor football stadium. What the hell’s it doing in a Navy dockyard? Eh?” Then warming to his theme, as he was always prone to do, the admiral added, “Fucking Arabs taking up football? Nah, bullshit…they ain’t big enough. Betcha you couldn’t find a halfway decent lineman in the whole Middle East. Come on George, what kind of a building is it?”

  “Sir, at a guess, I’d say it was a concrete dry dock for a submarine, but it has another big building on its left-hand side. Which seems to have a steel roof judging by the sun glinting off it. I have no idea what’s inside, because there are massive doors at the seaward end with a thick concrete wall at the landward end.”

  “Hmmm. But let me ask you this. If it’s gonna be a dry dock, how come it’s not connected to the water? Look…you can see the land runs right across the entrance.”

  “Yessir. I do see that. But these buildings are pretty complicated, and I would guess they are fitting all the flooding systems right here where this excavation is. I’d say they would remove the strip of land along the shore, right at the conclusion of the project. That way the submarine could just float in and settle; then they just pump the water out.”

  “Correct.”

  The two men had worked together for years. Lifelong Naval officers, they were as different in character as it was possible to be. Morgan, tough, hard-looking, irascible, brilliant, rude, and, curiously, admired by many, many people. Morris, an ex–Carrier Battle Group commander, was soft-spoken, lugubrious in delivery and appearance, thoughtful in the extreme. He had followed Morgan into the position as director at Fort Meade, and his biggest problem was that Morgan frequently believed he was now doing both jobs. But the concentrated attention the president’s chief security advisor focused on the ultrasecret Fort Meade operation gave the place a greater importance than it had enjoyed for many years.

  “I wonder why the hell they’ve built a big secure dry dock,” Arnold Morgan mused.

  “Possibly, old buddy, because they don’t want us taking out their new Russian Kilo. They’re…er…a bit short of submarines these days. You wouldn’t have thought it necessary, would you?”

  “Not unless those stupid fucking Russians have agreed to sell ’em an entire new fleet of Kilos,” he rasped. “And if they have, we’ll remove them. Even Rankov understands that. When we saw the first new one in BA last week, I made it clear to him on the phone that the U.S. would not stand still while the Iranians hold up half the industrial world to ransom because of some mad fucking Muslim belief that they own the Gulf of Iran.”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  “Anyway, George, I guess that new building is big enough and serious enough for us to take an interest. Thanks for bringing the photographs. I think we better get a couple of guys in there to take a look, since the satellite can’t do it for us…You better get back. I’ll talk to Langley.”

  Five hours later the CIA’s Middle East chief, Jeff Austin, was on the secure line to the White House imparting the news that the Agency was well aware of the new building, but were at a loss to find out what precisely was going on.

  “Admiral,” he said, “everyone in the area is aware of the construction. Apparently they dug out a foundation half the size of the Grand Canyon and dumped the sand back in the desert. Caused a daily dust storm. Our best guess is a dry dock, possibly for submarines. I believe they lost their little fleet…er…coupla years back in some kind of an accident.”

  “Oh, yes…that’s right. I remember reading something about that.”

  “Well, sir…I’m not sure how strongly you feel about it…and the security at the Bandar Abbas base is very hot right now. But I could try and get a couple of guys in there to take a look. Trouble is they’d have to swim in, and even if they reached the building, I’m not sure they could get close enough. Even then, they wouldn’t really know what they were looking at.”

  “Uh-huh. I see that. Do we have anyone inside the base?”

  “One man, an Iranian, white-collar guy in the procurement office…middle level…useful, too. We find out most of the ships they’re buying before the order gets placed.”

  “Didn’t find out about the new Kilo, did he?”

  “Nossir. He did not.”

  “Could he get one of our top guys into the base?”

  “Possibly, sir. Leave it with me. I’ll get back to you in the morning. It’s the middle of the night in Iran.”

  “Okay, Jeff…make it early. I don’t like submarine activity among the towelheads, right?”

  “Nossir.”

  At 0830 the following morning Jeff Austin reported back. “They’re working on it, sir. There is, it seems, the possibility of a VIP pass to the base. Our man in there has used it before. He thinks the pass might just get him through the gate out near the building…but he’s not sure. They’ll be back to us in a couple of days.”

  “Fine. Keep at it. I’m concerned about the Iranians.”

  “Yessir.”

  Midday. January 14, 2005.

  Special Ops Room.

  Bandar Abbas Naval Base.

  “Did you see this report, Admiral. The one just in.”

  “Not yet, Ben. What’s it say?”

  “It’s brief, from the security chief out on the main gate to the new dock. It reads:

  In accordance with your instructions, I am reporting on
two men we turned away at 1052 this morning for having incorrect identification passes. One of them was an office executive, Abbas Velayati, who has some clearance but not enough to enter the site. The other was a VIP guest with a correct pass, but again without clearance to the site. He said he was from Ukraine. I believe both men may be found in the procurement office, according to Velayati’s identification pass.

  “We must place them under immediate arrest,” snapped Admiral Badr. “Neither of them could have any reason for going out there except to snoop around. We should interrogate them both. Harshly.”

  “I would be inclined to do none of that,” replied Commander Adnam. “In fact I’d prefer to do the exact opposite. I think we should apologize for treating a guest here in such a brusque manner, then issue the correct documents for them to go out and visit the new dock, and even the model room…perhaps at around 1800 when the day shift is packing up. Then we can shoot them both. It would save a lot of time…and we would be confident our secrets were safe.”

  “My God, Ben. You mean I should instruct one of the guards to execute them?”

  “Absolutely not. Say nothing to anyone. I intend to deal with them myself. Out by the new pumping station…in my new capacity as tour guide. I believe they’re pouring the concrete foundation in the morning. Most convenient, don’t you think?”

  January 19, 2005.

  Office of the National Security Advisor.

  The White House.

  “Bad news I’m afraid, Admiral,” said Jeff Austin, even before he pulled up a chair to Admiral Morgan’s desk.

  “Lay it on me.”

  “We’ve had a disaster in Bandar Abbas. Lost two men, one of them our only insider in the Naval base; the other one’s Tom Partridge, senior field officer, speaks Russian and Iranian. They both disappeared five days ago.”

  “Where?”

  “Out at the base. Our man at Abbas got Tom in, on some kind of a VIP pass, and neither of them have been seen since. The Iranian’s wife has kicked up a huge fuss, but the military police say they have no knowledge of anything. They say both men left the base at the regular time. The civilian police say it is nothing to do with them. My guess is they were both caught, and shot.”

  “Jesus Christ, Jeff. That’s bad. Did it get in the papers out there?”

  “Not a word. Ever since that building got started, the security’s been cast-iron. We have a man in the local newspaper, and he knows absolutely nothing. Nor is he planning to investigate. We only found out when both men missed their check calls, two days after they went missing.”

  “Hmmmmm. We better sit on this for a few days. See if anything pops up. One thing we do know…they’re pretty damned touchy down there, whatever the hell it is they’re up to.”

  January 20, 2005.

  Special Ops Room.

  Bandar Abbas Naval Base.

  “Okay, Ben. We got a communication back from Moscow. They’ve agreed to sell us the systems…four of the new SA-N-6 Grumble Rifs…the one you suggested in the first place. It took ’em long enough…and it’s not cheap…$300 million, including 50 SAMs.”

  “All of those Russian missiles are pretty reliable. I’d say a 95 percent chance of a successful launch and flight. Kill probability depends on target maneuvers and countermeasures. But this one is very fast, hits Mach-2.5—1,700 mph—almost immediately. It’s good to altitude 90,000 feet. Carries a 90kg warhead. The export version may need minor modification.”

  “Are the Russians using ’em?”

  “Uh-huh. I think they’re replacing a lot of the old SA-N-3s with them. I read somewhere they completely tested it on one of those old Kara-Class cruisers. The Azov, I think. She’s in the Black Sea. What do they say about delivery? You know what they’re like.”

  “Well, Ben, I think we can look forward to something in the next month. This system is fairly new, and it’s in production, and we are very good customers. All four of them are coming on a freighter, direct from the Black Sea, and through the canal. According to this, it will clear Sevastopol in four weeks, pending receipt of our money.”

  “They do not, of course, have the slightest idea why we are buying Grumble-type surface-to-air missiles?”

  “No. They do not. We told them we live in fear of an air strike against us from the U.S.A. We require the missiles strictly for anti-aircraft defensive purposes, to protect our navy base here in Bandar Abbas. These things could take out an incoming American fighter bomber…and the Russians had no reason to question us further. Anyway, I think they’ll take the money from anyone these days.”

  The admiral looked at his watch. “Ben, we have to go. The flight’s taking off in a half hour.”

  “Since we’re the only passengers, I expect they’ll wait for us,” the commander said, smiling. But he stood up, quickly tidied his desk, checked out with security downstairs, and joined Admiral Badr on the upstairs landing.

  1700. January 20, 2005.

  The home of the Ayatollah in the Kheyabon area of Tehran.

  One of the disciples opened the side door to the courtyard for the two Naval officers. He touched his left hand to his forehead and brought it down in an elegant arc. “Admiral,” he said, nodding with respect. And to Ben he added, “Good afternoon, Mr. Dundee,” barely suppressing his overwhelming joy at the keenness of his wit. Commander Adnam smiled, turned to the admiral, and said, “Sir, in the Royal Navy that would be described as an in joke.”

  They walked past the fountain and into the cool stone-floored room in which the Ayatollah sat, accompanied by the hojjat-el-Islam and a robed Iranian politician from the Ministry of Defense. Greetings were exchanged with grace and eloquence, as is the custom among the educated classes of Iran. But there was an edge to this gathering, and both Ben and the admiral sensed it immediately.

  The Ayatollah was anxious to begin, but he did not rush into the most pressing aspect of the discussion. Instead, he began carefully, summarizing the progress report he had received from the top-secret project down on the south coast.

  He confirmed that he understood the team had been selected from among the best men in the Navy. The dry dock was just about complete and would be flooded inside ten days, and the new missile system would leave the Black Sea on a freighter within a matter of days. Everything was slightly ahead of schedule, and there had been no serious outside inquiries as to the nature of the operation, save for two CIA spies who had tried and failed to gain entrance to the building site.

  For all of this he congratulated his admiral and his new commander. But then his face took on a look of concern, and he spoke very quietly. “Commander Adnam,” he said, “before I approved this project, you told me you intended to fit this missile system to a submarine. You even undertook to provide one. As you know, I authorized the expenditure because the dock would always be useful for our new Kilo, and the SAM system will serve as strong air defense for the base. However, before I authorize further funding, I need to know a great deal more detail about how you intend to proceed from here.

  “For instance, upon which vessel do you intend to attach this extremely expensive Russian missile system? I think the time has come for us to know that.”

  “Sir, it will be engineered onto a submarine, right behind the fin for vertical launching.”

  “I see. Is this liable to be a difficult operation? I refer to fixing a surface-to-air missile system onto the deck of a submarine.”

  “I don’t believe so, sir. It’s just that it has never been done before. You see it’s not the same as the big intercontinental ballistic missiles, with their extremely complex systems. We are operating with a much smaller, simpler beast, a wickedly accurate guided missile that travels at two and a half times the speed of sound, but only for around 40 miles.”

  “Well, Ben. Why do you think no one has ever before wanted to fire such a weapon from a submarine?”

  “Oh, I think it’s been talked about often, but there was never a very strong reason for doing it. They fit better on surf
ace ships. Nonetheless, I have always considered it the most formidable possibility. A missile fired, as it were, from nowhere.”

  “Commander, do you envision using our only suitable submarine, the new Kilo from Russia?”

  “Nossir. The Americans will be watching that too vigilantly. I am afraid we will have to be a great deal more subtle than that.”

  “You mean we must acquire another submarine, one which the Americans do not know about?”

  “Yessir. I do.”

  “Then my colleagues and I believe that now is the time for you to explain precisely how you propose to obtain it. Are you suggesting the British, of all people, will sell us one? Or are you asking us to rent one, an old one from some moribund navy around the Gulf or North Africa? You have never told us, you know. And, so far as I can see, the entire project depends on the acquisition of the right submarine and the skill of our engineers.”

  “Yessir. It does.”