Run With The Brave (23 page)

“The Shahab-4 could hit targets in central and southern Europe. On that basis I believe we should put pressure on the international community to stop this menace. A nuclear holocaust in this region would quickly spread to others and no doubt eventual oblivion for us all,” stated the minister of defence.

Silence as they waited for the prime minister to reply.

“Let's hope this constitutes a reality check for our American friends. Perhaps now they will do something positive about it,” he eventually said, then after a short pause, “Is
Tekumah
still in the Gulf?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Major General Nemen, commander-in-chief of the Israeli Navy.

Barak was referring to one of five Dolphin-Class German-made submarines belonging to the Israeli Navy, capable of firing modified ‘Popeye' long-range cruise missiles beyond 1,500kms.
Tekumah
(Hebrew for ‘revival') was at present patrolling the Gulf of Oman at the entrance to the Strait of Hormuz.

“Ariel, we cannot – should not, even consider that,” said a concerned Mitsa, knowing full well what Barak had in mind and voicing reason. “We'll plunge the whole of the region into a nuclear holocaust. It would be madness – suicidal.”

“It would be suicidal not to,” shot back Marok, knowing also what was on the PM's mind. “That attack was to test our defences. For some reason they did not follow up. But, what will happen tomorrow, the next day, next week – six months from now? They failed today… ” His voice trailed off and he shrugged.

“The Cabinet will decide,” said Mitsa.

“The Cabinet will do what I say,” retorted Barak, coldly. “Look at us, look at our nation: so small, so vulnerable. We must teach the Arabs and the Persians we are here to stay peacefully, or otherwise. One day all will have the technology to wage war on equal terms, and then, God help us.”

“We must strike now, but why
Tekumah
?” questioned Marok.

“Our silos in the Negev and elsewhere, Biny, are monitored by the Americans and God-knows who else,” replied the PM in quiet, measured tones. “I want retaliation by stealth. This way we create confusion, gain time and can be ready for the inevitable – and deny all responsibility after the event. In the meantime I recommend we accept the latest missile defence systems the Americans are offering.”

Mitsa began to protest, but thought better of it. He could see Barak was clearly set on this path.

“Is
Tekumah's
position Classification One?” the PM asked Nemen, almost as an afterthought.

“Yes, Prime Minister. She has been on station now for almost a week monitoring traffic in and out of the Strait.”

“Good. Thank you.”

A stunned silence filled the room. Barak stared at the papers on his desk then eventually looked up at Nemen. “Begin the process for a nuclear strike at Tehran and a mountain called Kuh-e Mohammadabad in the southern Zagros range. I want
Tekumah
on stand-by, ‘Grand Slam' is to commence five days from now, or immediately should we be attacked again. When it is done, I want her out of the Gulf and deep in the Indian Ocean as quickly as her turbines will take her,” he paused for a few seconds, then to all: “Do I make myself absolutely clear?”

“Yes, sir,” came the quick reply from around the table.

Moments later Barak stood up and left the room, watched by the stunned officials now charged with the responsibility to activate Grand Slam, the long standing code name for a nuclear attack on Iran.

Ryder, Shiron and Afari made ground south through the valley away from the mountain. Dawn light began to touch the top of the peaks, tinging them pink, when they finally decided it was safe to rest after a gruelling non-stop twenty miles. Exhaustion and the stress of the past twelve hours had clearly taken its toll. They found a small cave and Ryder decided to rest, risking a fire for warmth, and to eat what little food remained. Once the meagre rations had gone, they settled down to ease their tortured, aching bodies until darkness came again.

Ryder studied the map. “According to this, the road below leads to Bandar Abbas, 200 miles directly south. It's the shortest route to the sea; the port is only fifty miles from Oman across the Strait of Hormuz. If we could make it to the other side, we would be safe.”

“A navy vessel could still be waiting off Nay Band,” said Shiron.

Ryder thought that was highly unlikely after all this time; Shiron was letting his imagination stray. “Nay Band means we have to go west over the main range, a longer and more hazardous route, with no guarantee your navy would be there.”

“I agree with Frank,” Afari said, “easier and quicker to go south.”

Shiron gave in. “Okay, south it is. But bear in mind, the port is also Iran's main naval base on the Gulf.”

“It's a risk we have to take. It will be easier there to find a vessel capable of taking us across the Strait.”

With that, Ryder offered to take first watch and the others stretched to sleep.

After a full day of resting, twilight began to fall and they left the cave, quickly moving over the sparsely-covered terrain, keeping well away from the road. In the distance could be heard the throb of helicopters and single-engine airplanes flying low, following the snaking road well down into the valley. Military traffic on the road was frequent and caused Ryder some concern; it meant troops might be in the hills ahead. Darkness and the rugged nature of the valley slowed them considerably. Thankfully, the sky was overcast and the wind light, but high-altitude fatigue plagued them. Only experience and training kept the two men going and Ryder continued to be amazed at the strength and tenacity shown by Afari keeping up without complaint.

The night trek passed uneventfully and at dawn, after covering almost twenty-five miles, Ryder, tired and hungry, searched for a place to rest; they would sleep during daylight at least until clearing the valley. Soon he found a suitable gap amongst rocks big enough to accommodate all three with entrance concealed by scrub. Exhausted and almost too tired to eat, they forced themselves to chew on the last of the dried meat. Fatigue finally took hold. Ryder took first watch, Afari would take the second and Shiron, the last until nightfall.

* * *

Not long into the Israeli's watch, Ryder awoke with a start, staring down the barrel of an AK47 brandished by a tribesman gesturing sharply for him to get up; another had a gun to Afari's head; both were pushed out from the gap. Staggering into the late afternoon sunshine he saw Shiron's body sprawled by the entrance with throat cut. Seeing the Israeli almost crushed his spirit. While Ryder was roughly searched and knife removed, Afari was given a more intimate search, hands feeling all over her body. Ryder could see her humiliation and made to intervene but was sent sprawling with the butt of a rifle. He and Afari were then roughly manhandled at gunpoint down towards the road snaking through the narrow valley below. Ryder despaired; they had come so far, achieved so much and now with exhaustion fogging his brain he wanted to give up. Something deep within, however, urged him not to, not ever.

Halfway down, he heard one of the captors behind slip and curse. From the corner of his eye he caught the other, just slightly back and to one side, turn and look.

Ryder saw his chance, instantly swung the side of his hand hard against the tribesman's throat and sprang at him. As he fell, Ryder swiftly grasped the man's head in a vice-like grip and, with one violent wrench, broke his neck.

At the same time, Afari leapt at the other struggling to get to his feet.

A gun fired, Ryder heard a gasp and knew instantly Afari had been hit.

Before the tribesman could push her away, Ryder dived at the two struggling bodies.

The tribesman kicked Afari violently to one side, then Ryder, before rolling away, rifle slipping out of his grasp. He sprang to his feet, dagger in hand and lunged at Ryder; the blade missing by inches. Ryder grabbed and twisted the outstretched arm; the dagger fell and he threw him to the ground. Scooping up the knife, Ryder leapt on the back of the sprawled man, lifted his head by the hair and sliced his throat from ear to ear. Within seconds the gasping tribesman died; severed jugular spurting blood with every last pulse.
That was for Afari and the Israeli sergeant.

He went quickly to where Afari lay, saw the bloodied patch on her right shoulder and pulled part of the jacket and the under-shirt away to expose a neat hole. He turned her over, looked at the other side and saw another hole, not so neat, where the bullet had passed right through. A flesh wound, luckily, as far as he could tell the bullet had not damaged the collarbone. Stripping away the shirt from one of the dead men, he tore it into lengths and pressed a bundle hard against both holes in an effort to stem the bleeding before wrapping the remainder around her neck and upper arm to hold everything in place. Without wasting any more time, as others could have heard the shot, he helped her gently to her feet, asked if she was able to walk, and when she nodded, led her down the valley southwards. The task to reach safety had now become much harder, but in no way was he going to give up.

Captain Ben Lehmann, the youthful looking, grey-haired commander of Israel's latest and most sophisticated diesel-electric submarine,
Tekumah
, looked up from the plotting table in the control centre.

“Confirm depth, speed and position,” he said in a smooth, deep voice.

“Depth 250 feet, speed seven, position 26.43N, 56.23E,” the immediate reply.

“Bring to periscope depth.”

“Aye, sir.”

Here in the command and control centre, positioned directly below the submarine's sail, stood two central plotting tables and in front the ‘conn' – a raised half-circular platform with metal railing on the curved side on which two periscopes sprang. Lining the periphery bulkheads were consuls, chart stands, instruments and banks of digital screens. The whole centre was crammed into an area no larger than an average household living room.

Tekumah's
Electrical Intercept (ELINT) and Communications Intercept (COMINT) were full on. The Electronic Support Measures (ESM) mast jutted just out of the water picking up signals and noise of surface traffic. Spread out behind the sleek, black craft, the towed array of sonar equipment could detect all underwater traffic within a radius of some fifty miles.

“Up periscope,” ordered the captain, and stood waiting by the two grey tubes dominating the conn platform as No.1 periscope hissed into position. He reached for the foldout crossbars, then lowered and placed his forehead against the rubber eyepiece. Turning the scope for a full 360-degree view of the Strait of Hormuz above, he scanned the sensitive choke-point at the eastern end of the Persian Gulf through which twenty per cent of the world's oil supplies passed. It was dusk and the sea was calm. He studied the myriad of tankers and freighters plying the Strait; this was regular, routine work and a task he would be glad to see the end of after almost a week watching traffic in and out of the Iranian naval base at Bandar Abbas. One more week and he would thankfully head back to Israel.

He rotated the periscope towards the Iranian coastline and suddenly froze. In the murky distance he could just make out profiles of two submarines on the surface, heading across
Tekumah's
bow.

“Down periscope, come left two-seven-zero. Make your depth 200. Speed eight,” he ordered.

The submarine responded.

He turned to his younger executive officer, Lieutenant Joseph Levi. “Iranian Kilos, two in line on surface.”

His XO looked at him incredulously, “On the surface; two-thirds of the entire sub-operational flotilla? Do they want everyone to know they're out?”

“Obviously,” the commander replied. “Captain – sonar: plot position and course. Get on the SAT immediately.”

“Sonar, aye.”

“Captain – sonar: Contact, faint engine lines. Relative zero-two-five, not surface machinery.”

“Captain – roger. Come left two-eight-five. Resolve ambiguity.”

Tekumah
turned to allow sonar to confirm the bearing.

Three minutes later the faint engine signature came on the operator's screen again and the computers began to determine type, speed and range.

Seconds later, “Captain – sonar: Contact too weak to translate.”

“Captain, aye.”

“Captain – sonar: translation, negative.”

“Captain, roger. Reduce speed to six knots. Maintain course.”

“Aye, sir; reduce to six; maintain course,” repeated the operator.

At a rate of knots less than seven
Tekumah
was almost undetectable to searching sonar.

“What do you make of that I wonder?” asked the commander to his XO.

“Sub on the outer limit of the ELS?”

“Possibly, on a westerly course out of Bandar?”

“We're bang in the middle of the Strait. If it had come from anywhere else we would have picked it up long before this,” said the XO.

“The Iranians have three serviceable Kilos. Two we have just seen. Where's the third?”

“Still in port?” offered the XO.

“Maybe,” the commander said thoughtfully. “Anyway, log the signal and get out what we have on the SAT as quickly as you can.”

“Do we take a closer look at those two?” questioned the XO, voice expressing anticipation.

“Our orders are to monitor and record, and stay on station; but I think this is important enough to take a closer look. Don't you?” he grinned.

The CO returned his attention to the charts. Then a few moments later, “Left standard rudder. Course: two-six-zero. Make your depth 300 feet. Increase speed to ten knots.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Captain – comms: Urgent signal coming in.”

“Thank you, comms. See that I get it as soon as translation completed.”

Moments later, “Captain – comms: Translation completed. Code A, your eyes only.”

“Bring to the conn.”

Seconds later the communications officer arrived in the control centre and handed a sealed envelope to the commander.

“Thank you, comms.” He turned to his XO. “You have the conn.” With that he left the control centre and made for his day-cabin to decode the signal.

Once in the small area he used as an office, the captain opened the envelope, removed a single sheet and placed it on the desk. Next he opened the safe, reached for the Code Manual and began to translate the contents.

Minutes later he stared incredulously at the decoded signal:

Captain Lehmann left the cabin and headed grim-faced towards
Tekumah's
control centre, recent events forgotten. As he made his way, he thought of his family and the awful consequences of carrying out the order he had just received.

He entered the control centre and took the conn, “Left standard rudder. Course: two-three-zero. Make your depth 300 feet. Make your speed ten knots.”

The 1925-ton Dolphin Class Type 800 submarine's diesel-electric turbines increased speed and propelled the 187-foot-long warship silently through the shallow waters of the Strait, now on a mission which could well herald the end of Israel, if not the world.

* * *

At his desk in the offices of the US National Security Agency at Fort Meade, Maryland, the navy analyst studied the latest photographs from the satellite which regularly ran a corridor pass over southern Iran. After a few minutes he looked up, pondered for a few moments, then reached for the phone and rang his divisional commander.

“Sir, Lieutenant Davis here. Can I see you? It's important, regarding Bandar Abbas.” He paused listening to the voice at the other end of the line. “Thank you, sir. I'll be right up.”

The young lieutenant, tall and gangly, entered Captain Alen Jackson's office, saluted and was invited to take a seat.

“Well, Lieutenant, what have you to show me?” said the stocky, grey-haired commander.

The lieutenant produced photographs from the previous day together with those taken that day and laid them out side by side on the desk.

“Two Kilos have left the base, both heading south on the surface. But where is the third?”

The commander reached for a magnifier and scanned the photographs.

“Definitely Kilos,” he said eventually, “and you're right: all pens are empty. That means the whole operable flotilla is out.”

“The third could still be in the covered pen.”

The commander looked up, “I agree.”

He studied the latest photo more closely. “No activity about the covered pen.” He then studied the previous day's photo. “Something different here. The mooring stays right on the line of cover edge. It appears to have taut rope attached – but not in the latest shot.” He paused, seemingly in deep thought, then, “Okay, Lieutenant, thank you, I'll take it from here.”

Lieutenant Davis saluted and left the room.

One hour later the captain, together with the agency's director, Admiral John Martin, sat in the Pentagon offices of Admiral Harry Peters, Chief of Naval Operations and Admiral Bill Johnson, Commander-in-Chief Pacific Fleet.

“What do you make of it, Harry?” asked Admiral Johnson.

“Intriguing to say the least,” the chief replied. “I can only assume Iran is getting its subs out in case Israel decides on retaliation for the failed strike against them. Those missiles were undeniably Iranian Shahabs.”

“Iran may well attempt another strike. Baffling why the first wasn't followed quickly by a second,” said Admiral Johnson.

The others nodded.

“Unusual for the subs to stay on the surface; they know we would catch them on the overheads,” said Jackson.

“Maybe that was the intention,” said Admiral Martin, “but why only two Kilos?”

“Could be a diversionary tactic, allowing the third to slip away unnoticed,” offered Jackson.

“For what purpose?” Admiral Martin asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” replied Admiral Johnson.

“It wasn't that long ago the Iranians purchased several SL-1s from the Chinese. Could they have already converted a Kilo?” asked Admiral Jackson. He referred to Chinese first-generation submarine-launched ballistic missiles (SLBMs).

“Possibly, but I doubt it,” replied Johnson. “They don't have the know-how.”

“If they decide on a swift second strike, how can they best do that without detection?” asked Admiral Peters.

“Lobbing JL-1s from a submerged sub,” offered Admiral Martin.

“Correct, but the JLs only have a range of some thousand miles; that means they can only be launched from the Mediterranean, Red Sea, or the northern half of the Persian Gulf. The Med and the Red are out, takes too long to get there; that leaves only the Gulf. To gain the attention of the watchers, and create a major diversion, why not send out Kilos in full view, heading south away from the intended action whilst, under cover of darkness, slip a missile-carrying sub unseen west into the Gulf? Interesting scenario, don't you think, gentlemen?”

The men were silent for a few moments, absorbing what Admiral Peters had said, then Admiral Johnson spoke, “Very plausible, Harry, if you are referring to a converted Kilo-class. It seems unlikely, but just in case we should inform our Israeli friends of the possibility. Do we have any subs in the Gulf?”

“
Louisiana
,
Memphis
and
Alabama
,” replied Admiral Peters. “All our carrier groups are heading for the Gulf.”

“Okay, warn the groups,” said Admiral Johnson. “And get our subs to locate and track the Iranians. It may well be a diversion, but we need to keep an eye on them… Oh, and by the way, while you're here, and for the record, our SATS monitored low-level thermal activity bordering a major explosion in a remote part of the Zagros Mountains three days ago. The Iranians have said nothing so far and we have no record of any major industrial or military activities in that area so it remains a mystery. Unusual, but no doubt we'll get to know in due course what caused it.”

With that the meeting broke up and the men dispersed.