Acts of Vengeance

CHAPTER FOUR KILO

Lt. Cmdr. Pietr Ilychin entered the control room. “It’s here, Captain. The updated point of intended movement.”

Capt. Yevgeny Manilov took the message from Ilychin and turned back to his keyboard. He inserted the coordinates of the new position into the Andoga navigational computer.

When he was finished, he tilted back and studied the display for a moment. “Almost no change, three kilometers perhaps. The wind must be shifting. They will change course to launch aircraft.” Manilov handed the message back to Ilychin. He glanced at his watch. “Ahead five knots, maintain ninety meters. Set course for the updated position.”

“Aye, Captain.”

This last message from Yemen, via satellite, had arrived just in time. It was almost sunrise. In daylight he could no longer risk raising the periscope-mounted antenna even for the few minutes it took to download messages.

Yevgeny Manilov was the commander of the Ilia Mourmetz, a Project 636 Kilo-class diesel/electric submarine with a displacement of 2,400 tons. During the pre-dawn hours he had sailed the Mourmetz on the darkened surface into the Gulf of Aden. Now that they were within fifty kilometers of prying eyes along the shoreline, they would submerge and enter the littoral waters off the Yemeni coast.

The old Kilo-class boats and their Amur — class derivatives were the stealthiest undersea vessels yet constructed in Russia. Even better than the brutish nuclear-powered Oscar subs, conventional boats like the Mourmetz could hide in shallow water, lurk beneath thermal layers — and emit virtually no acoustical signal. With the addition of the anechoic tile coating on the outer hull, the Mourmetz in a passive mode could elude almost all magnetic anomaly and sonar detection equipment.

Sitting at his table in the control room, Manilov considered his situation. Nineteen years it had taken him to get here. Nineteen humiliating, ruble-begging, egg-sucking years. Like every other uniformed member of the Russian Navy, he had endured months without pay, eaten food unfit for cattle, suffered the indignity of seeing their once-magnificent submarine fleet moldering like derelicts in the naval yards.

Manilov had remained in the Navy mainly because he had no other options. Being the underpaid captain of a derelict submarine was preferable to hammering nails or selling shoes or shoveling shit in the streets of Moscow. The nation’s economy was treading water. Mother Russia was at the mercy of gangsters, its own inept leadership, and, worst of all, her former enemy.

The thought of the United States and its overweening arrogance was enough to fill Manilov with rage. For years he had played Cold War games, tracking the profiles of American warships. He had yearned for the order to send a torpedo crashing into one of those gray hulls. In his mind’s eye he could see the crimson fireball, the gushing oil smoke, the specter of a bow tilting upward and sliding like a steel sarcophagus beneath the waves. It would have been wonderful.

The order never came. Instead, the Soviet Union had burst apart like a sledgehammered pumpkin.

Then the final indignity. Everything was for sale — space vehicles, medical research, military technology… submarines.

The Ilia Mourmetz, Manilov was informed one day, had been sold. It would be Manilov’s duty to deliver his vessel to the Iranian naval base at Bandar Abbas. It would also be, he knew without doubt, his last voyage as a submarine commander. Russia’s Navy was transforming into a maritime auction house.

Four weeks elapsed while the Mourmetz underwent modifications at the Vladivostok naval base. The old boat’s navigational gear was retrofitted with the newer, state-of-the-art laser gyro inertial guidance units. The sonar and fire control systems were replaced with an MGK-400EM digital sonar and the MVU-110 combat information computer. An oxygen/hydrogen generator plant was installed that allowed the sub to operate for weeks beneath the surface without snorkeling to recharge batteries or replenish air supplies.

This only exacerbated Manilov’s mounting anger. The Iranians were getting equipment that was vastly superior to anything Manilov had used aboard the old Mourmetz. All it took was money! They all had it — Americans, Iranians, Chinese, Japanese — everyone except the Russians.

The deathlike bleakness of the Russian winter had not yet released its grip on Vladivostok. While he waited for the Mourmetz’s renovations to be completed, Manilov spent his idle hours in a quayside bar frequented by naval officers and shipyard bureaucrats. Only with sufficient alcohol in his blood could he put aside the dismal thoughts of his final voyage.

One evening in the bar, Manilov found himself in conversation with a dark-skinned man in an ill-fitting suit. Manilov guessed from the accent that he came from one of the newly independent republics — Uzbekistan or Azerbaijan, perhaps — somewhere in the southern Caucasus.

After several vodkas the man surprised Manilov with his knowledge of the Mourmetz and its upcoming voyage. Then he surprised him even further by presenting him with a business proposition. For an amount of money that exceeded anything Manilov could imagine, would he consider taking the Mourmetz not to its new owner, but to a different destination?

Manilov wondered if he was hearing correctly. Was it the vodka? It couldn’t be real.

There was more. Instead of turning over the Mourmetz’s weaponry to the Iranians, would he be interested in fulfilling his nineteen-year dream? Would he, perhaps, be interested in sinking an American warship?

Manilov felt his skin prickle.

The man — he identified himself only as Hakim — suggested that they meet again the next day. In the closed booth of a hotel restaurant, Hakim gave Manilov a glimpse of his briefcase. It contained what appeared to be millions of stacked Swiss francs. Manilov, if he accepted the terms, could live the rest of his life in unimaginable luxury.

“It is too incredible,” Manilov murmured. “Who wants this to happen? He must be insane.”

Hakim shook his head. “His name does not matter for now. He is not insane. He is a military leader who will change the balance of power in the Middle East.”

“By sinking one American warship?”

“It will be just one blow in a coordinated battle.”

It was too much for Manilov to comprehend. For the moment he had no more questions. He gazed out at the dreary shipyard and its ghost fleet. He let his imagination run, thinking of a life away from this miserable place.

After a minute had passed, Hakim said, “You have had time to consider. You must decide. Do you agree to what we discussed or not?”

For the first time Manilov noticed an edge to the man’s voice. Gone was the breezy vodka talk, the affable business manner. The man’s eyes had darkened, and his voice was clipped. Manilov understood that they had crossed a point of no return. He knew almost nothing, but even that was too much. Without realizing it, he had allowed himself to be drawn into a minefield.

Hakim’s eyes bored into him. Manilov ignored him, thinking about his situation. Life as he knew it was over. He was childless, with a plump and indifferent wife who lived with her parents in Minsk, in Belarus. He had nothing of value in Russia. But at the depth of his being, Manilov knew he would forever be a Russian. Russians were dreamers. Woven indelibly into the Russian psyche was a gloomy belief in mysticism, fate, and an inescapable destiny.

Through the grimy window Manilov looked out at the sprawling remnants of Russia’s once-proud Navy. Yes, he thought. Some things were meant to be. He was a Russian dreamer. He believed in destiny.

“I agree.”

Hakim smiled. The men raised their vodka glasses in a toast. You have made a pact with the devil, Manilov thought. So be it. So long as the devil wanted to sink American ships.

Thereafter, his task was to select his crew. He would sail with only eight trusted officers instead of the usual fourteen. He handpicked a dozen warrants, all known to him and chosen for their loyalty. Only the officers were told of the Mourmetz’s true mission and, as Manilov anticipated, each had agreed. The warrants were not informed until after the Mourmetz departed Vladivostok. Only one, a torpedoman named Kalugin, had flatly refused to cooperate, even when informed about his share of the reward. Kalugin was placed under arrest and confined to the ship’s dispensary.

Six enlisted sailors embarked on the Mourmetz, all recruits still in their teens or early twenties. They were wide-eyed and respectful. Manilov expected no trouble from them.

Captain Manilov would go to sea with half his normal crew complement for a combat patrol. What they lacked in manpower they would make up for in tactical surprise.

The Ilia Mourmetz completed its voyage to the Gulf of Aden in ten days.

“Am I interrupting?” said Claire.

Maxwell looked up from his seat at the wardroom table. She was wearing her working outfit — a blue jumpsuit with the silk scarf that he had given her in Dubai.

He scrambled to his feet and pulled out a chair. “No, ma’am. I’ve been waiting for you.”

Claire sat next to him and squeezed his hand. A half dozen officers sat at tables in the wardroom. A white-coated steward shuttled trays of coffee. The gentle motion of the deck beneath was the only clue that the Reagan was under way.

She nodded across the wardroom to where Whitney Babcock was holding court with several reporters. She lowered her voice. “The honorable Mr. Babcock is a media hound. He really expects that we will make him out to be the grand pooh-bah of military affairs in the Middle East.”

“Well, won’t you?”

“I’m a good reporter, but not that good.”

Maxwell nodded. He still hadn’t adjusted to the notion of having the girl he was in love with being aboard his ship — headed to war. The world had changed. So had the Navy.

He felt another pair of eyes on them. Then he remembered B. J. Johnson, seated at the end of his table. She was watching them with a strange look on her face. “Excuse me,” Maxwell said. “Claire Phillips, meet Lieutenant Johnson. Call sign B.J.”

As the women shook hands, Maxwell detected an instant coolness. Claire put on a polite smile. B.J.’s face was frozen in a tight mask.

Claire tried to coax B.J. to talk about what it was like to be the only woman pilot in a squadron. B.J. wasn’t having any of it. She replied in terse, wooden answers. Yes, she liked flying fighters. No, she didn’t care if she was the only woman pilot. Yes, she was doing fine, thank you. And so on.

Maxwell watched the exchange with curiosity. He wondered what had come over B.J. Until Claire arrived she had been carrying on an animated discussion about the history and topography of Yemen. In the ship’s library she had mined every bit of reading material and turned herself into an expert on the ancient country. He decided that B. J. Johnson was the one to give the in-country brief on Yemen to his squadron.

B.J. was now as talkative as a clam.

Claire had an idea. “B.J., would you consider doing a taped interview for the evening report?” She glanced at Maxwell. “With your commanding officer’s approval, that is?”

“No,” said B.J.

“But you’d be perfect. You’re so… you’re unique. Our viewers would love—”

“No interview.” B.J. folded her arms across her chest.

Claire looked to Maxwell for help.

He shrugged. “I think she means no.”

“What a shame,” said Claire. “It would be a great human-interest piece.”

A silence fell over the table. B.J. seemed to be focused on a spot on the far bulkhead. Claire drummed her fingers on the table, saying nothing. Maxwell tried to think of something cheery. He couldn’t, so he summoned the steward to bring them more coffee.

Women. He had never understood them. Never would.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Secretary, you can count on it.”

Whitney Babcock hung up the secure phone and tilted back in his chair. Before he went back into the conference room to inform the officers about his conversation with the Secretary of Defense, he wanted to indulge himself.

He gazed again at his image in the mirror over the desk. He was wearing his favorite shipboard outfit — starched khakis, aviator glasses, collar worn open in the MacArthur style. He tilted his chin and struck another pose. Yes, in fact, he definitely looked like a young MacArthur, with that flint-eyed, aristocratic gaze, the keenly intelligent eyes. It was a face that would grace an upcoming cover of Time. The caption, he expected, would read something like Whitney Babcock: Warrior-Statesman.

He rose and strode into the adjoining room. Seated at the conference table were the Battle Group Commander, Admiral Fletcher, his Group Operations Officer, Capt. Guido Vitale, and the Flag Intelligence Officer, Cmdr. Spook Morse. In a huddle by the coffee mess were the Reagan’s skipper, Capt. Sticks Stickney, and Capt. Red Boyce, the Air Wing Commander.

Everyone in the room looked up. Babcock waited a second, extracting the maximum dramatic effect. “It’s a go,” he said, enjoying the moment. “The President has authorized a strike on the terrorist base in Yemen.”

Murmurs passed through the room. Fletcher nodded his head approvingly. Stickney and Boyce exchanged sober glances.

“The joint chiefs are signing off on the op plan, and we’ll be getting it within the hour. the Reagan battle group gets to carry the ball on this one because of the political sensitivity. We can’t launch strikes from bases in any other Arab country. There’s a symbolic issue, also. The terrorists attacked the U.S. Navy, and it is appropriate that we carry out the reprisal.”

“An eye for an eye,” said Admiral Fletcher. “Something the Arabs understand.”

Babcock gave the admiral an indulgent smile. Fletcher was full of banal little aphorisms like that one. Babcock had tapped him to be the replacement Battle Group Commander precisely for the reason that hewasn’t one of those old Navy mossbacks who thought they knew more than their civilian commanders. At one time it was unheard of that the Carrier Battle Group Commander was not an aviator, but in the new Navy, that was changing. Fletcher was a pragmatist. He could be counted on to implement, not interpret, the policies of his civilian chiefs.

Babcock was less sure about the others. The Group Operations Officer, Vitale, was an aviator, and he seemed to be a team player. Captain Stickney, who commanded the Reagan, accorded him a cool respect, but nothing more. He had not welcomed Babcock onto his bridge or invited him to his table. Stickney was due for a lesson in deference.

Boyce, the cigar-chomping Air Wing Commander, was one of those dinosaurs from the old days when fighter pilots thought they ran the Navy. Babcock had already tagged Boyce for an early departure from his air wing command.

Morse, the Flag Intelligence Officer, was a wild card. Like all intel types, he had the maddening trait of hoarding critical information and then parceling it out in incremental pieces. He possessed that air of intellectual superiority that made everyone, Babcock included, want to smack him down.

But there was another side to Morse, one that intrigued Babcock. The man had a formidable knowledge of Middle East geopolitics. Unlike most of the others in this room, he actually cooperated with Babcock and his staff. With a little urging, Morse might be a useful player.

“How much time do we have to do the load out?” Stickney wanted to know.

“We steam into the Gulf of Aden tonight,” said Admiral Fletcher. “By tomorrow morning we’ll be at the launch point. The Arkansas will deliver a salvo of Tomahawks in coordination with the Reagan strike group. It will be a concentrated air strike, nothing more.”

“No assault force?” asked Boyce. “Isn’t the Marine Expeditionary Unit going to clean out the terrorist nest?”

“No,” Babcock interjected from across the room. “Absolutely no American troops on Yemeni territory. The President has ruled that out.”

Boyce shook his head. “You really think we’re gonna put this Al-Fasr away with just a single air strike?”

“Certainly,” said Fletcher. “When you see the reconnaissance data, you’ll get the picture. Their shacks and storage buildings are out in the open. The bivouac areas will be easy targets for your laser-guided weapons.”

“What if we have downed pilots? We gotta have SAR and gunships and covering troops.”

Fletcher was getting annoyed. “That won’t be a factor. Commander Morse has shown me the intel data, and I can assure you, our adversary does not have the assets to bring down any of our strike aircraft.”

Boyce’s eyes narrowed. He removed the cigar from his teeth. “Sir, with all due respect, I have to tell you we always run the risk of having pilots go down. Even in a peacetime exercise. If I’m gonna run this strike, I intend to inform my pilots exactly how we’re gonna extract them if someone goes down in Indian country.”

Fletcher had no answer. He looked to Morse for help.

“The admiral has already covered that,” Morse said. “Let’s not waste time going over the same subject. Anyway, the poststrike details will be handled by the flag intel department. You’ll get the information in due time.”

A thundercloud passed over Boyce’s face. He glowered at Morse as if he wanted to seize his windpipe and throttle him. Air Wing Commanders didn’t take rebukes from intelligence officers.

Morse ignored him while he scribbled a note on his yellow pad.

Watching from the head of the table, Babcock smiled his approval. This was going better than he expected. He liked it when a squarehead like Boyce was put in his place.

“I’m expecting a call from the Pentagon,” said Babcock. “We will adjourn until Admiral Fletcher’s staff has had a chance to review the op plan; then we’ll schedule a full briefing.”

Boyce was about to raise another troublesome question, but Babcock cut him off. “You’re dismissed, gentlemen.”