Checkmate

54

Fisher hurried to the console and got Lambert and Grimsdottir on the screen. “It’s not a U.S. base, Colonel. It’s here — it’s somewhere out here.” He explained about Redding’s study of the Mandarin documents. “One character means worm; cloth could be silk; the other one, cat.”

“Silkworm missiles,” Lambert finished.

“Right. And Cat could be Cat-14.”

For decades the Chinese government had been exporting surface-to-surface/antiship HY-2/3/4 “Silkworm” missiles to Iran, and had in the last five years begun selling them Cat-14 Fast Patrol Boats, mostly for special Pasdaran units. Each Cat was capable of fifty-plus knots — almost sixty miles per hour — and carried twelve Silkworm missiles, each of which had a range of sixty miles and carried a twelve-hundred-pound ship-buster warhead.

“Good God,” Lambert murmured.

“Okay, let’s think it through: Silkworm shore batteries are heavily defended, especially right now. Abelzada’s men wouldn’t have a chance of sneaking onto an Iranian Naval base, stealing a Cat-14, and getting away with it clean. What does that leave?”

“Given Zhao’s influence, we have to assume he could, for the right price, get his hands on some Silkworms. Suppose Abelzada’s men have their own supply. How would they deliver them? What would be the best way to strike the Reagan Group?”

Fisher thought for a moment, then said, “Shipyards.”

“Explain,” Lambert said.

“The Reagan’s recon aircraft have taken shots of every military facility on the coast. We’re looking for a shipyard that does repairs on Cat-14s. Find one’s that’s being refitted… some minor repairs… Shipyard security isn’t as tight as a Naval base’s.”

Lambert caught on. “A Cat that’s operational, but stripped of missiles.”

“Right.”

Grimsdottir went to work, and came back ten minutes later. “The Iranian Navy has twenty-six Cat-14s in service. Twenty-two of them are operational and the Navy’s tracking all of them. None are within eighty miles of the Group. Four are docked — one for crew rotation and three for repairs or refit.”

“Put the shipyards on my screen.”

The monitor resolved into an overhead view of the Iranian coastline. Two spots were marked by red circles: one at Halileh, south of the Bushehr naval base deep inside the Persian Gulf; and one near Kordap, just outside the mouth of the Strait of Hormuz.

“We just flew over Kordap,” Fisher said to Lambert. “Get a hold of the Port Royal and tell them to cut us loose. We’ll circle back and check it.”

Redding said, “The Tomcats—”

“They’re BARCAPs,” Fisher said. “They’re not loaded for surface targets. They’ll have to divert some Hornets.”

“How sure are you about this, Sam?” asked Lambert.

“Fifty-fifty. If we’re wrong, fine. If we’re right…”

“Okay, hold on, I’ll get back to you.”

Fisher got up and jogged to the cockpit. “Bird, slow us down and get ready for a U-turn.”

Lambert was back. Fisher took the call in the cockpit. “You’re cut loose,” Lambert said. “Just don’t make any sudden turns back toward the Group.”

Fisher nodded to Bird, who eased the Osprey into a gentle turn.

“Are they sending planes to Kordap?” Fisher asked.

“Negative. I got the polite brush-off from NAV–CENT’S operations officer. He says they haven’t got time for a wild-goose chase. They know where each and every Cat-14 is.”

“As of how long ago?”

“Don’t know. What’s your ETA to Kordap?”

Sandy mouthed, Thirty.

“Half hour, Colonel.”

“Don’t get shot down. The Iranians have F-16s up; they’ve been playing tag with the Reagan’s BARCAPs. They’re getting pretty aggressive.”

Bird interrupted. “Colonel, get me clearance into Dubai.”

“What? Why?”

“Trust me. I’ll explain later.”

“Okay…”

Off the air, Fisher asked Bird, “What’s that about?”

“A little sleight-of-hand. The Iranians have been tracking us since we left Pakistan. I’m lining up with Dubai’s final approach lane. I’ll drop some altitude to simulate a landing, then once we’re below the radar, we’ll swing back around. It’ll add some time, but it’ll save us a missile up the heinie.”

Fisher smiled. “I like the way you think.”

Bird descended steadily, crossing first into UAE airspace and then over coastline. When their alititude reached one hundred feet, he banked hard and swung around on a reciprocal course, heading back into the Gulf of Oman. Twenty minutes later, he called, “Iranian coast coming up. Kordap Shipyard dead on our nose, three miles. Powering up the FLIR.”

“Give me a picture back here,” Fisher called, and sat down at the console.

The FLIR image came on the monitor; it looked like an X-ray. As Fisher watched, the image slowly glided over the ocean.

“Shipyard in one mile,” Bird called. The cockpit radar warning alarm started beeping. “They’re just tickling us,” Bird called. “They haven’t got us yet.” Ten seconds later: “Should be seeing something at the edge of the FLIR.”

Fisher did. Enclosed by twin pincers of land, Kordap Shipyard came into view. Fisher could clearly make out four piers, some cranes jutting up into the sky, and a cluster of manufacturing and refit buildings. He counted four ships at dock.

“Swing right,” Fisher called. “I need a better look at the piers.”

Bird banked the Osprey slightly and realigned the nose with the piers.

Fisher studied each vessel. The Cat-14 had a unique outline, mainly from its twin Silkworm launchers jutting at an angle from the port and starboard decks.

“It’s not there,” Fisher said.

“You’re sure?” Redding asked.

“I’m sure. Bird, bring us about. Get us out of here.”

The Osprey banked, swinging over the shipyard and back over the water. A minute and half later, they were out of Iranian territorial waters. Bird started climbing.

Trouble, Fisher thought.

In normal circumstances he wouldn’t be worried about a lone patrol boat getting anywhere near the Reagan. Her picket ships, most of which were Aegis cruisers, would lock onto and destroy the Cat long before it came within Silkworm range. But these weren’t normal circumstances. The Reagan’s Group was split, with DESRON 9 moving through the Strait of Hormuz and the remaining picket ships restationing to give the huge carrier room to manuever. The mouth of the strait was a mere sixty miles wide — a tight fit for an entire battle group. Under those conditions, a fast boat might be able to get close enough to strike. And with as many as twelve Silkworms, at least one had a good chance of hitting something.

“Get Lambert on the line,” Fisher called. “Have him contact NAVCENT—”

“Hold your horses!” Bird called. “Check your screen, Sam.”

Fisher looked at the monitor. Dead ahead, cast in the FLIR’s negative image, was the missing Cat-14. It was sitting still in the water beside a cargo ship. As they drew nearer, Fisher could see figures on the decks of both vessels scrambling for cover.

From the cockpit came the radar warning alarm.

“We’re being painted!” Bird called.

The alarm went to a steady beep.

“Missile lock!”

On the monitor, Fisher saw a bloom of white appear on the Cat’s aftderdeck. “Got a launch!” he yelled. “Shoulder-fired missile. Left side!”

The Osprey banked hard. Fisher was tossed from his seat. He and Redding collided and tumbled across the deck together. Fisher snagged a cargo strap and dragged Redding to it.

“Active homing!” Bird said. “It’s got us!”

The Osprey heeled over again.

“Launch chaff!” Bird called.

There was a series of rapid pops outside the Osprey.

“Chaff away!” Sandy replied.

A long three seconds passed. Fisher heard a whump on the Osprey’s right side. A dozen jagged, quarter-sized holes appeared in the fuselage.

“Hit!” Sandy called.

Through the cockpit door Fisher could see Bird’s and Sandy’s hands moving from control to control, their voices overlapping as they checked the aircraft’s vital readouts: oil pressure, hydraulics, temperature, fuel…

“We’re okay, we’re okay,” Bird called.

“Where’s the Cat?” Fisher said.

“Right side, two miles. They’re thirty miles from the outer ring of the battle group.”

Already within missile range, Fisher thought. He ran to the cockpit. “Can you get ahead of them — line up right on their bow?”

“Yeah… Whatchya got in mind?”

Fisher told him.

Bird looked sideways at him. “Jesus, Sam… That’s gonna get us another missile. We were just plain lucky this time. Next time, maybe not.”

Fisher knew this, but if Abelzada’s men managed to put even a single Silkworm into a U.S. warship, there would be no pulling back from war. An Iranian patrol boat armed with Iranian missiles, laying in wait in an Iranian shipyard…

Within hours, U.S. warplanes and cruise missiles would begin raining down on Iran.

“Do it,” Fisher ordered.