Authors: Patrick Robinson
It was 1,200 miles up to Petropavlovsk, right across the northern Chinese provinces of Liaoning and Jilin, before entering Russian airspace and heading out across the iron gray wilderness of the Sea of Okhotsk to the Kamchatka Peninsula.
There are times in summer when the gigantic mountain range that runs down the backbone of this cold and rugged land can rival the Alps or the Rockies for pure grandeur. But in winter, which this most certainly was, the entire place looked like a travel commercial for Eastern Siberia, into which it most certainly fitted.
The new supersonic Tupolev was cruising through sunlit skies at 60,000 feet, like Concorde, and going very nearly as fast at 1.8 Mach. But the weather was ferocious down below on those snow-swept high peaks. Lashing winds off the tundra were gusting ninety knots. With a blizzard raging, human life was impossible. Even polar-bear life was marginal.
It was not that much better on the runway, east of the mountains above the Bay of Avacinskiy, but the blizzard had eased, and in a freezing, still-gusting wind, the Navy pilot put the Tupolev down, hard. It was a difficult landing, and not pretty, but the veteran Captain had faced worse—mainly landing the old SU-25 fighter-bomber Frogfoots on the gale-torn decks of elderly Kiev Class Soviet carriers in the Barents Sea back in the 1980s.
He taxied to the terminal, where a Navy staff car awaited them and drove them immediately to the Petropavlovsk Base. Ben Badr was outside the main offices to greet them, and he expressed no surprise at the sudden appearance of Shakira, but shook hands with her warmly, and then hugged Ravi.
“I did not know you were coming up to see us off,” he told Mrs. Rashood. “But I am delighted to see you and wish very much you were coming with us.”
“Well,” said Ravi. “That is a wish I am able to grant very easily. Lieutenant Commander Shakira is coming with us.”
He spoke in a very matter-of-fact voice, not smiling, and very much the Commander of the mission.
Ben Badr, who himself had now been promoted to Captain in the Iranian Navy, never missed a beat. “Of course, sir. I assume under your command, rather than mine!”
All three of them laughed. As they turned into the warm building, out of the biting Arctic wind, Captain Badr used the moment of levity to reiterate the delicate balance of power that would be observed in the Barracuda submarine.
“Sir,” he said, “this ship will sail under my command, as if it had a Fleet Admiral on board. That’s you. My responsibilities are solely involved with making sure we get safely from one place to another, without endangering the lives of the crew. However, all decisions appertaining to the actual mission, where we go, what we hit, when, and how, are made by you. You can overrule me. I cannot overrule you.”
“As we have always agreed,” replied Ravi.
“Correct. And as my father has agreed,” added Ben. “We should both be very clear. This is not a mission of the Navy of Iran. It is not a mission of the Navy of China. And it is most certainly not a mission of the Navy of Russia. This is an operation of the Islamic Resistance Movement, Hamas, which is committed to the total liberation of historical Palestine, and the creation of an Islamic State. Ravi, you are the highest-ranking military leader Hamas ever had. This is your mission.”
Ravi smiled. “Just so long as you do not think I am taking advantage of my exalted rank to bring along my wife, like some Roman Emperor.”
“The thought never crossed my mind,” replied Captain Badr. “Many people know of Shakira’s important contribution to Hamas operations. I am sure you have thought it through very well.”
“I made my decision based on her long weeks of work in the area of precision targeting,” said Ravi. “She has made a detailed study of our objectives, and put forward a plan which, if I am honest,
is more hers than mine. I know I should miss her in a strictly operational sense, if she were not on board.”
“Sounds like we should miss her,” said Ben Badr. And he stepped forward, and in the Muslim manner, lightly kissed her on both cheeks. “Welcome aboard, Lieutenant Commander,” he said.
“There is, of course, the question of where Shakira will work,” said Ravi. “And since it involves charts, and maps, and computer screens, I think it will need to be near the navigation officer.”
“Not a problem. We’ve room there. She will, of course, outrank him. He’s only a Lieutenant. Still, we might as well get used to that. As the wife of General Rashood she will outrank almost everybody!”
They retired to a private room for lunch during which they discussed the most awkward part of the entire mission—where to go when the operations were complete. They had the world’s ultimate getaway vehicle—a fast, silent nuclear submarine that would never need refueling and, properly handled, would be impossible to detect.
Ravi had always been unhappy about the lack of planning that had gone into this final aspect of the mission. But he now took some assurance in the report of Captain Badr.
“I have talked to the Chinese Political Commissar and he has pointed out that China, above all others, cannot be associated with the activities of the
Barracuda.
As a nation they have too much to lose. They must not be caught with an involvement in this.”
“They could, of course, eliminate us, and then claim to have helped the Americans by doing so,” said Ravi. “In my native land, it’s known as playing both ends against the middle.”
“Like the Americans, China too, would be quite unable to find us.”
“Yes. That’s true,” said Ravi. “Which leaves us out in the cold rather. Can’t return to Bandar Abbas, can’t go anywhere near China, can’t even think about Russia. That’s a lot of coastline to be banished from. Half the world. A lot of people to embarrass.”
Ben Badr was thoughtful. “Ravi, I must tell you what the Chinese have told me. They have a plan they say is foolproof. They have a
place for us to go, to get rid of the submarine, and to make a simple escape, all of us, back to Iran and Syria. They are saying by air. They are also saying the submarine will never be found.”
“That sounds very like them,” said Ravi. “Devious Orientals. But do we have any guarantees?”
“Not many. They just say they have helped us from the start. That it is equally in their interests, as much as ours, that no one should be caught. They will continue to help until every one of us is safe. They honor us and trust us, as we should honor and trust them.”
“If anyone should find even a trace of the submarine,” said Ravi, “China is in big trouble. That’s true. It will come out they bought it from the Russians. Whatever crimes were perpetrated against the West, China would have to accept the blame. Even worse for them if they should be forced to admit they bought a nuclear submarine for a known stronghold of terrorism. No, I agree with one thing. Discovery of this mission is worse for the Chinese than anyone.”
“The tricky part is they are paranoid about security. And they are not prepared to divulge their getaway plan. They have stored it in an impenetrable safe onboard the submarine. It will open on a timed device ten days into the mission. That way no one will ever have the chance to reveal to anyone where we are ultimately going.”
“I thought we were honored and trusted?”
“Up to a point,” said Ben. “Until Chinese self-preservation kicks in.”
“Do we trust ’em?”
“No choice really. And anyway, what’s the point of worrying. We are undertaking this mission on behalf of Islam. If Allah requires us to be martyrs, then martyrs we shall be. I’m not afraid to die.”
“Neither are we,” interjected Shakira Rashood. “But if there is a chance of postponing it, I think we should do our best.”
“I think Allah would always agree with that,” said Ben. “We are here to complete his work. Certainly not to squander the great opportunities he has given us. Allah is great.”
“Okay, Ben. That’s all very clear then. Do we have an ETD yet?”
“Saturday morning. February 9. First light. Meanwhile, we’re moving into the submarine. I had the Russians construct an extra private office, larger than the regular COs. As the overall commander, that one’s yours. It has a bed that folds into the wall, a fairly large table, and a chair. I’ll have a second one delivered. The bed’s only a single but there’s room for a small sofa or an armchair in that room. I’ll get one.”
“Thanks, Captain,” said Ravi. “Shall we go now?”
A Russian Naval driver took them down to the submarine jetties, where Iranian seamen awaited them to help with the bags and move the Mission Commander into his quarters. Ben Badr introduced Lieutenant Commander Shakira, and told them she had accepted a position as the Precision Targeting Officer and would be working in a special office close to the navigation area.
He revealed the news in an understated way, communicating an unspoken gratitude that one as accomplished as Shakira had condescended to join their humble operation along the West Coast of America. He realized the news that a female naval officer was joining the ship’s company would travel around the crew in a matter of seconds.
The fact that it was Shakira Rashood, wife of the God-like Hamas warrior General Ravi, would probably render them speechless on the subject. Captain Badr hoped they would stay that way.
Shakira herself, far from seeming overawed, was apparently oblivious to the fact that she was storming one of the last all-male garrisons in the entire world. She strode confidently up the gangway, huddled in her unlabeled dark blue Iranian Navy greatcoat and scarf, black fur hat, lined fur seaboots, and gloves, and stepped on board
Barracuda Type 945.
She was the first woman ever to do so, anywhere, in anyone’s Navy, as a member of a submarine crew.
The ship was running on electric power from shore cables right now, and Ravi hoped there would not be a cut in supply owing to unpaid dockyard bills. But the Russians had done everything in their power to make this mission run flawlessly. The Chinese had been prompt with their payments, and although no Russian personnel
would accompany the voyage across the Pacific, there were several seamen from Murmansk still in attendance, particularly in the area of torpedoes (for self-defense only), cruise missiles, and sonar.
Lieutenant Commander Abbas Shafii had been back working in the reactor Control Room for more than a week, and the CPOs, Ali Zahedi and Ardeshir Tikku, who would assist him as chiefs of the propulsion and auxiliary control panels, were also in residence. All three men had spent nine months in Araguba, and then made the long journey along the Siberian coast in the
Barracuda.
There were eight other Iranian officers in the ship’s company, all of whom had made the Arctic voyage from Araguba. They would, however, now set sail without their Russian and Chinese tutors, relying entirely on their intensive study courses in nuclear submarine management. Some forty Iranian seaman, new to the ship, had all served in the Kilos.
Only six men would sail from Petropavlovsk devoid of any experience in submarines. They were all members of the twenty thousand-strong Islamic Revolutionary Guards Corps (IRGC), Iranian Special Forces, modeled on U.S. Navy SEALs and the British SAS. All six were veteran “hard men” trained and bloodied as hit men in the long war against Iraq. All six were expert frogmen, who believed they were fighting for Allah and that He would protect them, and, if necessary, guide them home, into His arms forever.
Their leader, Lt. Arash Azhari, a superb soldier, could have been offered a position as a SEAL instructor anytime, had his politics been somewhat different, not to mention his nationality and his religious beliefs.
Aside from Arash and his boys, every other man who would occupy a critical position, particularly in the
Barracuda
’s reactor area, was trained and experienced. Captain Badr was the most experienced of all of them, and his father Admiral Mohammed Badr had been closely associated with the fine detail of the mission. He had, for instance, eliminated all uniforms, thus preserving anonymity in the event of capture. The two Commanding Officers, and now Shakira, would all wear navy blue sweaters.
Lieutenant Commanders and Lieutenants would wear royal blue, Chiefs and regular Petty Officers, maroon, and the remainder, Seamen, Cooks, Laundry men, gray. Everyone would wear jeans (made in the United States), with white socks and trainers (also American made). To further preserve their anonymity, latex gloves were required to be worn at all times.
General Rashood asked to inspect the torpedo room and the missile director’s section of the Ops Room. He authorized only twelve torpedoes, since they were only for self-defense and he did not imagine any need for the full complement of forty. He noted there were twenty-four land-attack cruise missiles as he had specified. The programming area for the electronic computer brain carried by each missile in its nose cone was adjacent to the navigation area, where Shakira would work.
Ravi already knew the ship well, and he toured all three decks, meeting again the men who would sail with him, and carefully introducing Shakira as the Precision Target Officer who had masterminded the original plan and who would be responsible for further adjustments and variations.
Mrs. Rashood was a model of politeness. She made certain of everyone’s name, rank, and area of responsibility, jotting down the details in a small leather notebook. She told everyone she met how greatly she looked forward to working in cooperation with all members of the crew. She mostly did not sound very maritime, but she sounded sincere, and intelligent. Everyone was captured by her beauty, which was more or less why women had been banned from every submarine service in the world for almost a century.