Countdown to Midnight

Twenty-Five

Viktor Skoblin took the outside ladder up to the navigation bridge two rungs at a time. He came up onto the starboard wing, nearly one hundred feet above the tanker’s main deck. Two bearded IRGC Quds Force commandos were posted at the hatch leading into the bridge itself. Although they wore ordinary ship’s coveralls instead of their usual desert tan berets and camouflage battledress, the 9mm submachine guns they carried erased any illusion they were regular civilian sailors. Apart from Skoblin and his ten-man Raven Syndicate security team, all members of the ship’s crew were part of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps.

“I need to see the captain,” Skoblin growled to the guards. He found it ironic that those in Gulf Venture’s mixed Iranian and Russian crew were forced to rely on the language of their most powerful enemy, English, to communicate with each other. But only one of his men spoke any Persian beyond a few simple phrases, and very few of the IRGC soldiers and sailors aboard had any Russian. Then again, he knew that English was the standard tongue employed at sea — just as it was in air traffic control and commercial aviation in general.

Without speaking, one of the stern-faced commandos waved him through the open hatch.

Skoblin entered the dimly lit bridge. He stood off to the side for a moment, waiting quietly while his eyes adjusted. Together with its port and starboard wings, the navigation bridge ran the width of the six-story-high superstructure which occupied most of the tanker’s aft end. Large windows lined three sides of the bridge, offering almost unobstructed views over the deck and out to sea. The only place higher aboard the ship was an open-air platform studded with radar and radio masts located just above the bridge itself.

Down on the main deck, a damage control party had just finished extinguishing the last small fire. The blackened and twisted twin barrels of a Samavat 35mm gun mount were now slathered in foam. Three blanket-covered stretchers next to the wrecked antiaircraft gun held the mangled remains of its crew.

In other places, sailors were busy repositioning the painted wood panels that formed the fake shipping containers used to hide Gulf Venture’s newly installed guns and missile launchers until they were needed. By the time the sun rose, all of the oil tanker’s weapons would again be camouflaged.

Skoblin nodded approvingly. The Iranians apparently had matters well in hand. The tanker’s captain, Reza Heidari, stood near the helmsman’s station, listening carefully to a report from his second-in-command, Touraj Dabir. Heidari, lean and hawk-nosed, was a high-ranking officer in the IRGC’s naval forces, as was the somewhat younger and bulkier Dabir.

“All fires are now out, Captain,” Dabir said calmly. “The ship’s propulsion and steering, and the Zuljanah rocket storage and control compartments were not damaged. We have minor leaks in a few of the upper oil-storage bunkers, but those are being plugged rapidly.”

Heidari looked pleased. “Very good, Touraj. We certainly don’t want to leave a trail of crude oil floating behind us for an enemy to follow.” He moved to the front of the bridge and stared down at the deck. “What’s the current status of our defensive armament?”

“Two of the guns were knocked out, along with a pair of our Misagh-2 launchers. All other weapons are fully operational.”

Heidari nodded. “How much of our ammunition was expended?”

“The battle consumed approximately one-fourth of our stores of 35mm high-explosive and armor-piercing rounds and roughly a third of our surface-to-air missiles,” Dabir told him.

The captain frowned. Skoblin understood his irritation. Under attack, the ship’s gun and missile crews had fired wildly — hurling hundreds of shells and more than a dozen SAMs at the two enemy helicopters they’d engaged. True, they’d won, downing at least one, and possibly both, of the hostile rotorcraft, but their lack of fire discipline and control had been extremely costly. Without improvements, one or two more such attacks might leave the tanker out of ammunition and missiles, reduced to mere small arms for its own defense.

Still, what else could have been expected, the Russian wondered? The Gulf Venture was not a warship equipped with sophisticated, centralized fire-direction gear. In the short time Voronin had allowed, it had already required something of a miracle for the Shahid Darvishi shipyards to fit this ship with its improvised array of armaments. Jury-rigging the advanced fire direction radars and communications systems necessary to exert more control over a battle would have consumed months of dedicated yard time, not just a few days.

“What were our total casualties, Touraj?” Heidari asked after a moment.

Dabir shrugged. “We lost five men killed outright, with another four wounded.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve spoken to the medical staff. Three of the wounded will die unless we transfer them to hospitals with more advanced facilities.”

Heidari grimaced. “Arrange a rendezvous with a helicopter to fly them back to Iran? Making it that much easier for someone to find us at sea again?” He shook his head. “Impossible. We are at war now. And our first responsibility is to this ship and its mission. All those who die on this voyage are martyrs.”

Reluctantly, Dabir nodded his understanding. “Very well, sir. I’ll speak with the sick bay staff. They’ll do what is necessary.”

Skoblin knew what that meant. Their ship’s doctor would euthanize the critically injured men, injecting them with enough pain-killing drugs to kill them quietly. It was harsh, but Heidari was right. Now that the Gulf Venture had broken contact with the enemy tracking them, providing them with another opportunity to detect the ship would be foolish.

He waited while Dabir saluted and then left the bridge before approaching the Iranian captain.

Heidari watched him come with a carefully neutral expression on his narrow face. During the frenetic rush to prepare the tanker and its cargo for sea, it had become abundantly clear that the IRGC navy officer was not especially happy to have a group of foreigners aboard who were not explicitly under his direct authority. “What is it, Major?” he asked coldly.

Skoblin smiled thinly. He’d opted to use his former Spetsnaz rank for the remaining duration of MIDNIGHT. He’d done so hoping Heidari would feel more comfortable dealing with the Raven Syndicate team as if they were still fellow professional military men rather than highly paid mercenaries. So far, however, his gambit hadn’t made the captain any more welcoming. “I’d like to send a radio message to Moscow, reporting your repulse of the enemy’s attempted helicopter raid,” he explained. “The news of your success will be very welcome there.”

Left unsaid was the fact that Skoblin hoped to bask in the shared glory. After the fiasco in Vienna, he needed to seize every available chance to rehabilitate himself in Voronin’s eyes.

Heidari shook his head firmly. “That will not be possible, Major. You heard what I told Dabir with regard to our own wounded.” His lips compressed. “My superiors have decreed a total communications blackout for the duration of this mission. I intend to obey their orders to the letter. Therefore, we will not break radio silence for any reason. Is that understood?”

“Of course, Captain,” Skoblin assured him smoothly. Exasperating though it was, he wasn’t really surprised by this diktat. Before they sailed, Voronin had privately warned him that the Iranians might take such a step. Besides the clear military rationale, the hardline radicals in Iran’s revolutionary government undoubtedly wanted to make sure no one else in Tehran could suddenly get cold feet and attempt to order an abort of this high-risk mission. It was equally obvious that these same radicals did not entirely trust their Russian mercenary allies and technical experts. So it made sense for them to sever all communications links between Moscow and the Raven Syndicate team aboard the Gulf Venture.

Excusing himself, Skoblin turned and left the bridge. His request had been a formality — a polite nod to the niceties involved in working within an informal alliance. Now he was free to act according to his own orders from Voronin. What Heidari and his fellow Iranians might not completely understand was that their lack of trust was fully reciprocated. For now, Russia’s interests and those of its radical Islamic partner coincided. That might not always be the case.

After he reached the Raven Syndicate’s own closely guarded section of the tanker’s superstructure, he ordered the doors locked and sentries posted in the corridor outside. As a further precaution, all of their compartments aboard the ship were routinely swept for listening devices.

Satisfied that they were safe from Iranian observation and interference, Skoblin turned to Yvgeny Kvyat. “Get your gear ready,” he ordered. “I need to talk to the Raven’s Nest as soon as possible.”

Kvyat swung into action. The short, slightly overweight former GRU intelligence officer had been Skoblin’s drone operator in Vienna. Now he was chiefly responsible for the shipboard team’s communications and other high-tech equipment. He dragged a large metal case out from under his bunk and opened it, revealing a neatly packed assortment of spare magazines and boxes of extra ammunition for their assault rifles. Pushing two small catches inside the case allowed him to lift out its interior — exposing a smaller compartment hidden underneath. There, securely packed in foam, was a military-grade satellite phone, complete with lengths of cable and a long, flexible black antenna.

Working quickly, Kvyat connected a headset to the phone. When carefully extended through an open porthole, the antenna was virtually invisible at night. He listened closely while the phone hunted for the nearest Russian military communications satellite that could route their rigorously encrypted signals. Within seconds, he heard the soft chime that indicated success. “We’re in contact, Viktor,” he confirmed.

Skoblin took the phone and headset and dialed the special number he’d been given just before they left Bandar Abbas. After a series of soft clicks, it connected. Their call was answered immediately.

“Go ahead,” a voice on the other end said coolly. It was Voronin himself.

Skoblin swallowed hard. “BIRD STRIKE. WELCOME PARTY. FREE RIDE.” Those were the pre-set code phrases to let Moscow know that they’d been attacked by hostile helicopters, but the assault had been defeated — and that the Gulf Venture was currently proceeding as planned toward the launch point for MIDNIGHT.

“Understood,” Voronin acknowledged. There was a short delay. “Report your current status.”

“ECLIPSE. I say again, ECLIPSE,” Skoblin replied. That confirmed for the Raven Syndicate’s leader that the ship’s crew had cut all communications with its home base, as he had anticipated.

“Very well,” Voronin said. “Listen carefully, Skoblin. From here on out, you will report your current position, course, and speed to this station once every twenty-four hours. Otherwise, continue as planned. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Skoblin said forcefully. “You can rely on me.”

“I’m counting on it,” Voronin told him with a hint of frost in his voice. “Don’t fail me this time, Viktor. It would make me extremely unhappy. Raven’s Nest, out.”

The phone went dead.

Slowly, Skoblin unplugged the headset and handed everything back to Kvyat to stow away out of sight. He shivered, despite the warm night air flowing in through the open porthole. Logically, he knew that he was currently far beyond Voronin’s immediate reach. And yet, for some strange reason, he still felt as though the cold muzzle of a pistol was pressed firmly against the back of his neck.

One deck below the tanker’s bridge, Captain Reza Heidari turned away from the accommodation ladder and strode down a narrow corridor. Several closed doors lined each side of this hallway, which ended in a massive armored hatch. Three more Quds Force commandos stood in front of this sealed entrance. Their leader, a battle-scarred chief warrant officer, stepped forward to stop him with an upraised hand. “Your identity card, please, Captain.” The other two covered him with their submachine guns.

Heidari handed it over with a gratified smile on his lean face. These troops were following his own explicit orders. No one was permitted past that hatch without prior permission and a thorough check of his identity.

Carefully, the Quds Force noncom compared the photo on the ID card with his face and then handed it back with a nod. He turned away and entered a quick series of numbers on a keypad below a bulkhead-mounted intercom.

“LCC,” a voice answered over the loudspeaker. “Yes?”

“The captain is here,” the chief warrant officer answered. “Status verified.”

In reply, the hatch undogged and swung open, revealing a windowless compartment almost as large as the bridge just above it. Computer consoles and display screens filled almost every square meter. Several civilians sat at the consoles, carefully monitoring the data flowing to their stations. Video feeds from cameras mounted at various places around the ship offered their only views of the outside. Heidari stepped through the hatch and waited while the Quds Force sentry on duty closed and sealed it behind him.

A short, stocky scientist with a scruffy white beard looked up from the central console. He smiled pleasantly. “Welcome to the Launch Control Center, Reza,” Dr. Hossein Majidi said. “I understand that we’ve overcome the first hurdle on this long ocean voyage?”

Heidari nodded. “The Israelis attacked us as expected,” he said calmly. “And we drove them off. Again, just as we expected.”

His little quip drew quick, relieved smiles from the missile technicians on duty. Completely isolated from the rest of the tanker by design, all they could have seen on their screens during the attack were the repeated, pulsing flashes of guns and SAMs firing. He walked over to Majidi’s side.

“Come to inspect our cargo?” the scientist asked. Heidari nodded. Majidi flicked a finger at one of his technicians. “Bring up the missile compartment on my display here, Kamshad,” he said indulgently.

Instantly, the screens at his console brightened, showing views of a long white rocket with a black nose cone lying on its side, securely cradled inside a metal framework. A web of thick data cables ran to ports located along the flanks of the finned Zuljanah launch vehicle. Since they were unable to physically inspect the rocket currently hidden deep inside the Gulf Venture, below storage bunkers containing tens of thousands of barrels of crude oil, Majidi and his technicians were forced to rely on a complex network of remote sensors. These devices provided constant updates of the status of the missile’s engines, electronics, and other internal systems — including those of its special nuclear payload.

The scientist indicated the numbers and graphs flowing across other screens at his console. “As you can see,” he said to Heidari, who could actually see nothing of the kind, “both solid-fuel stages remain completely stable.” He tapped a control on his keyboard. New graphs appeared. “And the volatile hypergolic fuels for the rocket’s third stage are safely stored. There are no problems.”

“What about the warhead itself?” Heidari asked sharply. “Will it work as planned?”

“Relax, Reza,” Majidi said confidently. “All you and your sailors need to do is deliver us safely to the planned launch point.” He waved a hand around the compartment. “Once that’s accomplished, you can sit back and watch while we finish this mission.”

Heidari leaned forward, peering intently at the missile concealed deep in the bowels of his enormous ship. It could only be his imagination he realized, but now the rocket seemed almost to be straining at the data cables and other webbing holding it in place — as though it were a hunting falcon straining at its leash, eager to soar and kill.