Authors: Patrick Robinson
“Of course,” said Zhang, “we will make every effort to capture a berth for the first delivery in the Russian Naval Base at Petropavlovsk. But their dockyards are so crowded these days,
with ships laid up, it may not be so simple. They’ve just about reached the point where they are cannibalizing one ship in three for spares, and even then they can’t really afford to go to sea. I read somewhere last week that two of the dockyards in the Northern Fleet were threatening to seize ships from the Navy and sell them for scrap unless their bills were paid.”
“Sounds like an ideal atmosphere in which to purchase a couple of laid-up submarines,” said General Rashood. “Perfect, in fact, for us.”
“It would seem so,” said Zhang. “And with your agreement, we will inform the Russians we intend to bring in crew of perhaps twenty-four to thirty personnel on the journey from the Submarine Base at Araguba to Petropavlovsk. Thereafter, we will take control and leave with our own crew.”
“Correct,” said Admiral Badr. “And you’ll attend to the question of training our men. The nuclear engineers. But we’ve always found the Russians especially cooperative in that regard. Especially if they know they are about to get paid.”
“Do you have any thoughts about the terms of payment?” asked Admiral Zu.
“Yes,” replied Admiral Badr. “We intend to try for $500 million for the two. But that may not work. If we have to go to $600 million, we will pay a $200 million down payment with the order, then $100 million when the first ship is ready to accept our crew. Then $200 million more when the first
Barracuda
docks in Petropavlovsk. That’s our terms, on that first ship, delivered-freight Petropavlovsk.”
“And the final $100 million?”
“That’s payable when the second
Barracuda
clears Araguba.”
“Sounds acceptable, particularly when the seller is close to bankrupt,” said Zhang.
“Meanwhile,” said the senior Ayatollah, “you might like to tighten up your new oil futures, especially the contracts with the Royal Family of Saudi Arabia.”
“Yes, that would be sensible,” replied Zhang. “But we never look forward to it. They are hard to deal with, probably because they are about as royal as I am. Just a group of nomads who
found a sugar daddy in Washington, someone to find their oil, drill for it, lay the pipelines, store it, refine it, and then buy it.”
General Rashood chuckled. The process had not been a lot different when the Pahlavi Dynasty took over Persia with successive Shahs declaring themselves Royal. And Ravi noticed the Ayatollahs, avowed enemies of the Peacock Throne, subtlely joining in the Chinese merriment about the Saudis.
“Do you really think the United States will have to buy from us?” asked Zu Jicai.
“If the Alaska pipeline suddenly dries up, they’ll have to get oil from somewhere, in a very major hurry,” said the Ayatollah. “And China’s big contracts in the Middle East will make them the logical seller. Direct from our joint refinery. There may also be a little price rise, to our mutual advantage.”
“You are thoughtful people,” said Admiral Zhang. “And I think we are about to embark upon a great adventure together.”
The coded message from Qingdao to the Commander-in-Chief of the Iranian Navy was succinct:
OLD RAZORMOUTH 600 AFFIRMATIVE.
The agreed satellite signal if the Russians accepted a deal to sell the two submarines at an agreeable price.
Mohammed Badr, who had always enjoyed a spot of deep-sea fishing, had thought up the name for the
Barracudas
himself, remembering a trip he had once made in the western Pacific near Miyake Island south of Tokyo. The young Lieutenant Commander Badr had actually landed one of these lightning-fast, dulled-silver predators after a one-hour battle, and he recalled his captain’s shouted warning, “You watch out for old razormouth—he’ll bite your dick off!”
He now stared with immense satisfaction at the satellite communication, confirming Iran’s purchase of the two nuclear ships. He also experienced an even greater satisfaction; that he had heeded his captain’s warning so assiduously.
He hit the telephone wire to a number in Damascus and instructed the answering voice to meet him in Bandar Abbas immediately. An Iranian Navy jet would pick him up at 7:00
A
.
M
. from Damascus International. The Admiral informed General Rashood they would both then fly to Qingdao, in company with a lawyer to read and sign the contracts on behalf of the Islamic Republic of Iran.
Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe scrolled down the list of coded messages the CIA had deciphered off the satellite of the People’s Liberation Army/Navy. In fact, the signals were originally overheard by the eavesdroppers at the NSA itself, but the CIA then sorted them out, reading the routine Navy messages and forwarding them on with anything that looked mysterious, sinister, or unusual. Old Razormouth 600 was right up there with the unusual.
It landed amidst twelve other pages of Naval and military signals, and it stopped Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe dead in his tracks.
Old Razormouth 600! What in the name of Christ is that all about?
Jimmy ran the word through his mind with alacrity, which came naturally to him, and total disdain for the confusing, which came even more naturally to him.
Razor blade, razor wire, razor’s edge, razorback—Arkansas. Beats the shit out of me. Might even be a misprint. Who the bloody hell’s Old Razormouth?
“Funny word, that,” he muttered to himself. “Never even heard it before. Suppose it means sharp-tongued, kind of Waspish. Bloke with a quick turn of phrase. Probably some Chinese Captain taking the piss out of his boss. Hope for his sake Old Razormouth never reads the comms. The guy’d probably get fucking shot.”
At which point Jimmy Ramshawe consigned the signal to his private filing system on computer, just a little list he always kept of all things baffling yet interesting. “Get in there, Razormouth,” he said, hitting the
SAVE
button.
The gray-painted Tupolev Tu-22, the multimission ASW Russian Bear, was making five hundred knots as it thundered through the freezing skies, fifty-five thousand feet above a stark white frozen landscape, toward the equally stark white frozen White Sea. The time was 1:40, which was essentially irrelevant, since the sun never makes it above the horizon up here, not during the “polar nights” between November and January.
On the ground the temperature was minus six degrees, and there was still an hour’s flying left of their 950-mile journey from Moscow, all of it due north, before landing at Severomorsk, Headquarters of Russia’s Northern Fleet, 125 miles inside the Arctic Circle.
It was almost impossible to distinguish land from ocean, so thoroughly icebound was this petrified corner of northwest Russia. The Bear was actually headed straight on over Murmansk, the most northerly city on this planet, to an airfield right on the shores of the Barents Sea, which does not freeze thanks to the Gulf Stream flowing around the North Cape. When the wheels of the Tupolev reached out for the last rock-hard runway on the Kola Pensinsula they would be positioned at sixty-nine degrees north, way closer to the Pole than Iceland, on a latitude identical to the shores of the Eastern Siberian Sea.
“Looks a bit cold out there,” said General Rashood, staring through the window into clear sunlit skies, above the White Sea. “You ever been this far north before?”
“I’ve never even been cold, never mind this far north,” said the Iranian Admiral, chuckling. “Are you sure this was absolutely necessary?”
“Well, I need to meet the guys who will be driving the ship, and you better check up on that $200 million you just handed over.”
“I’m just joking,” replied Mohammed Badr. “I’m looking forward to seeing Ben. He’s been up here for almost two months now.”
They arrived at Severomorsk a little before two o’clock in the afternoon, stepping out of the plane into almost total darkness. All the runway lights were on, and the airport was lit up everywhere. A Russian Navy staff car awaited them on the runway, and the driver set off immediately across a light snow covering toward a wide road that plainly led down to the dockyards.
It took only twenty minutes and they were escorted immediately to a waiting high-speed fast-attack Mirazh patrol boat, which made a little over forty knots up the flat-calm Kola River estuary, thirty minutes to the port of Polyarny. And from there they were driven up the small “Navy” road running behind the granite cliffs, which sweep down into the Barents Sea. It was about thirty miles to the top-secret Russian submarine base of Araguba, which lies in sinister seclusion at the head of a long steep-sided fiord.
Admiral Badr thought it was touch and go whether he would be able to breathe the frigid air without his lungs caving in completely. He stood gasping, astounded at the temperature, as Commander Ben Badr came hurrying over to greet his father.
He hugged the Admiral and shook hands with the General, though Ben was hardly recognizable in his coarse, heavy Russian Navy greatcoat, dark blue scarf, and thick fur hat that looked to contain the hides of an entire pack of grizzlies.
Behind Ben, moored alongside, was the unmistakable shape of a 350-foot-long Russian-built nuclear attack submarine. To Admiral Badr it bore the hallmarks of the Sierra I, with a relatively short sail, tapered forward. But it looked somehow more expensive, more serious. It bore the white painted Hull number K-239. This was it, the jet black Russian nuclear hunter-killer:
Barracuda Type 945.
Right now she flew the Russian Navy ensign, pure white with a blue diagonal cross. It would be many months before she flew
any other flag, if ever. Admiral Badr could see her Commanding Officer,
Kapitan
Gregor Vanislav, standing at the head of the gangway to greet them. A native of Murmansk, he wore no overcoat, just his uniform, the thick gold bar with one star on the sleeve denoting his seniority.
He saluted in deference to the rank of the shivering Admiral Badr, and then said carefully, in English, “I am pleased to meet you, sir. You have fine son, Commander Ben, very, very fast learner.”
He welcomed, too, General Rashood and led the way into the submarine, Ben Badr’s place of work since November. On board, awaiting them were four Iranian Naval engineers, trained in nuclear physics but currently acclimatizing themselves in the
Barracuda
’s reactor room—they were Cmdr. Ali Akbar Mohtaj, Lt. Comdr. Abbas Shafii, and CPOs Ali Zahedi, and Ardeshir Tikku.
They were all currently registered as personnel in the People’s Liberation Army/Navy, and they were all wearing Chinese Naval uniforms, surrounded by ten officers, plainly Chinese, and crew executives. If the Russians had any suspicions, they never voiced them. Not a word or inquiry about either the trainees or the recently arrived guests, whom they obviously knew represented their valued clients, the Iranian Navy.
They knew precisely who Admiral Badr was, and they had always known the identity of Commander Ben Badr. As for the rest, the Russians had obviously decided they were from central Asian Muslim States halfway between Russia and China—Turkmenistan, Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan, or Godknowswhereistan. Either way, it was no one’s business.
Anyway, the Iranians had an office in the main dockyard in the Ukraine, right there in Sevastopol on the northern shores of the Black Sea. And the Ayatollahs are very important customers for all manner of Russian Naval hardware. Also, the Russians knew very well of the slightly unnerving and robust partnership between China and Iran in oil and arms deals. Six hundred million dollars had plainly helped to instill a keen sense of discretion among the former owners of the nuclear submarine. For Three Wise Monkeys, read Three Hundred Wise Russian Admirals.
Two further local crewmen, both Petty Officers, joined the party and they moved through the
Barracuda,
informing the visitors of her excellence…
. She very fast, thirty-four knots dived, no trouble, very comfortable at that speed
…
good wide submarine
…
considerable standoff distance between hulls
…
makes big advantage for radiated noise reduction
…
also for damage resistance
…
all titanium hull
…
excellent
…
very, very quiet
…
made her expensive
…
maybe too expensive
…
they don’t build no more
…
probably big mistake
…
she was our best
…
dives to almost 2,500 feet
…
we all sorry Barracuda going
…
good ship
…
very, very good ship
…
keep you safe, eh?
Admiral Badr nodded. He was getting the message. This had been an excellent buy. The
Barracuda
was almost twenty years old, but she was built in the outstanding shipyard at Nizhniy Novgorod, the former Gorky, in the opinion of many experts the home of Russia’s finest marine craftsmen. They had floated her proudly up the Volga and all the way through the Belamorsk Canal all those years ago, on one of the great 600-foot-long Tolkach freight barges. Her weapons and reactor room were fitted out in the high-tech nuclear workshops in Severodvinsk on the White Sea, west of Archangel. Again, the home of some of Russia’s best scientists and engineers.