Ohio Class

18

The sun had long ago turned the crumpled flanks of the Kuh-e Gab into a blazing furnace. During the night hours, the eight SEALs of Delta One had set up their OP, literally burrowing into the ridgetop above the military base by scraping shallow trenches into the stony soil, then stretching camouflaged tarps from pegs two feet above the ground to create a patch of shade.

It was still damned hot, but the shade and the insulating effects of the walls of the shallow trenches helped. Had they waited out the day laying in the direct sunlight, they swiftly would have succumbed to heat exhaustion or sunstroke. They moved as little as possible, and drank as freely as possible from their water stores.

Two SEALs at a time, however, were always on watch, laying side by side at the edge of the tarp shelter, in a position that let them look down both on the tunnel openings directly below and onto the fenced-in military compound three-quarters of a mile down the valley.

In the intense heat of the Gulf in late June, activity in the Kuh-e Gab base had slackened off considerably. Most of the sentries remained inside, or stood in patches of shade cast by buildings or vehicles. Even so, at around noon Tangretti and TM1 Avery were watching through powerful binoculars as a flatbed truck arrived at the main base from the north, escorted by a pair of BMP-2 armored personnel carriers and a truck full of soldiers.

Through their binoculars, they could see a large something on the back of the transport, a roughly cylindrical shape strapped down securely and covered by canvas. The convoy was waved through the main gate, and the flatbed and one of the APCs proceeded up the narrow valley to the tunnel entrances. In a brief flurry of activity, the flatbed was backed into the third tunnel from the left, vanishing inside. After a brief wait, the APC returned down the valley to the main base, and activity at the tunnel complex — at least outside in the sun — returned to the slow and languid pace of midday in the tropical summer.

Tangretti and Avery captured the whole operation through the powerful lenses of a digital video camera. Behind them, connected to the camera by a gray cable, was a sixteen-pound AN/PRC-117F satellite communications unit — affectionately called a "prick" — its separate cruciform antenna set up on a small tripod in the glare of the sunlight outside the tarp shelter. A KY-99 crypto device was hooked up to the prick, providing signal security. The antenna was focused on a military geosync satellite high above the southern horizon, which was relaying the image back down to the Ohio's Combat Center, as well as to watchers in the Pentagon basement, 6,500 miles and eight time zones away.

"What do you think?" Avery asked in a whisper. They were too far from the nearest Iranian troops to be overheard, but SEAL training and long habit are powerful conditioners.

"It's something important."

"A warhead, maybe? It was about the right size for a Sahab nose cone."

"Could've been an air conditioner, for all we know." Tangretti shifted the angle of his binoculars slightly. "Still… "

"What?"

"I see four more flatbed trucks down there, exactly like the one that just went inside the mountain."

"I see 'em."

"Tarps and chains lying on the backs, but no cargo loads."

"Five air conditioners?"

"Or something."

The upper end of the valley, just beyond the tunnel entrances where the canyon kinked around from northwest to southwest, was fenced off and guarded, effectively turning it into a part of the main base at the canyon mouth. The four empty flatbeds were parked side by side against this westernmost fence.

"I think we're going to want to have a closer look at those vehicles," Tangretti said.

Thunder rolled overhead. The SEALs glanced up, but then ignored a pair of Iranian MiGs streaking through the cloudless sky from northwest to southeast. Aircraft of various types had been in the sky all day, most of them headed east, toward Bandar Abbas, or southeast, toward the south side of the straits.

Ohio had broadcast the news of Iran's invasion of the Musand'am peninsula early that morning, before alerting the SEALs to the fact that they were going deep — and out of touch. The peninsula lay roughly east-southeast of the SEAL OP, and the Iranian flights no doubt were on their way to continue providing air support for their troops.

Tangretti returned his full attention to the tunnels below. The concrete reinforcement suggested bunkers: thick-walled and well-protected. The soldiers guarding them… that was the curious part. They weren't regular Iranian army. Their uniforms were more ragged, less like uniforms than a mix-and-match of cast-off army surplus.

Pasdaran, then, which confirmed what Black Stallion had reported. It also confirmed a key part of SEAL Detachment Delta's premission briefing, back in the States. Iran's unconventional warfare assets — their nuclear, biological, and chemical weaponry — were controlled by the IRGC and not by the army regulars.

A new sound gradually imposed itself on Tangretti's awareness… a low clatter approaching from the west.

"Uh-oh," Avery said. "Company."

"Alert the others."

Avery slipped away, backing deeper into the shade of the tarp. Some of the other SEALs would be asleep.

The clatter grew louder. West, through his binoculars, Tangretti could see six dark shapes low above the mountain ridge. Helicopters.

MiGs traveled too high and too fast to have any chance of spotting the SEAL OP on the ridgetop below, but helicopters were something else. Behind him, the rest of Delta One came fully awake and alert, grabbing their weapons. Hutchinson swiftly pulled the satellite communications antenna out of the sunlight and under the tarp.

Moments later the shapes resolved themselves into a flight of Iranian CH-46 transports, the same big, twin-rotored aircraft favored by the U.S. Marines. They were flying in a rough V-formation less than two hundred feet above the mountain, and appeared to be on a course that would take them directly over the SEAL hide.

At the last moment, though, they sheared off, swinging south and out over the steel-blue waters of the Gulf. Brilliant sunlight flashed off Plexiglas canopies and windows. It was not a patrol, then, searching for intruders on the Kuh-e Gab, but another load of soldiers en route to the war zone over northern Oman. Their new course was actually more dangerous for the SEALs than their old, since, at a lower angle, the patch of shadow beneath the tarp was more visible, and a bored-soldier looking out one of the aircraft's windows might see them. After a tense moment, though, the helicopters continued on their new course, evidently having been routed away from the mountain base. The SEALs relaxed back into routine. Richardson and Hutch set up the satcom antenna again, realigning it on the coded signal transmitted by the satellite. Tangretti and Avery went back to watching the sleepy base below.

Patience was one of the SEALs' key weapons. They would wait, and watch.

At least until nightfall.

"Periscope depth, Captain," Lieutenant Hanson, the Diving Officer of the Watch, reported.

"Very well. Up scope."

He rode the periscope up as it rose, angling the head straight up to check the surface directly overhead before it even pierced the roof, then circling carefully, taking in everything on the horizon, and checking the sky above as well.

They were in the clear, at least for the moment. "Communications," he said. "Transmit our position."

"Aye aye, sir."

With Ohio's Type 18 scope above water, they were again in satellite communications with the outside world, could take a GPS fix on their precise position, and with the ESM receiver affixed to the mast — the acronym stood for Electronic Support Measures — they could sample the flood of radio and radar signals passing through the air above the waters of the Gulf.

And there was a lot to listen to. Iranian military radar was thick and constant, and the air was crackling with radio calls on military frequencies. Much of it was short-range FM, signals that didn't go beyond the horizon and therefore weren't even encoded. Ohio's communications center quietly recorded everything, uploading it to Washington via satellite as it came through.

Radio waves weren't the only thing coming thick and furious, however. Active sonar pinging was picking up fast, most of it coming from the north. The sonar department had reported heavy search activity all along the Iranian coast, both from submarines and from surface vessels, and the Iranians were making extensive use of air-dropped sonobuoys as well. By plotting all of the active sonar sources on a chart, it became clear that the Iranians were attempting to create a wall of sound all the way from the bight of the Straits of Hormuz to Ra's al Mutaf, halfway up Iran's Gulf coast.

Most of the activity was, of course, focused around the two points of greatest American interest — Bandar Abbas and the area where the two U.S. patrol boats had been intercepted the previous month, off Bandar-e Charak. Stewart was glad he'd decided to move off into deeper water. There was less search activity out here, and the bottom was deeper, with more room to hide.

Things were going to get dicey, though, when Ohio had to move back to the shallows to retrieve the SEALs. Somehow, they were going to have to penetrate that wall of sound without being detected, and that was going to take some doing.

They'd moved thirty miles to the southwest, to a point just north of the island of Abu Musa, a triangular speck of land less than three miles across at its widest point, with scarcely room enough for a single runway and a small port.

This was close to the center of the Gulf's main shipping channel. The water was over two hundred feet deep here — still damned shallow for an Ohio-class boat, but offering better protection than the shallows tucked in close under the lee of Qeshm, where there was barely enough for them to remain submerged.

Bandar-e Charak was over seventy miles to the northwest. Technically, the SEAL ASDS could make it all the way out here for retrieval, but after spending a couple of days close inshore, the minisub's batteries would be running on the electrical equivalent of fumes.

As of the last report, the ASDS had dropped Delta One off near Bandar-e Charak. Those SEALs were at Objective White Scimitar now, carrying out their primary mission. Taggart had then piloted the ASDS farther east along the coast, and put the second SEAL group ashore to check out reports of mobile missile launchers in the vicinity of Bandar-e Lengeh, thirty miles away.

According to the mission track, both SEAL teams would complete their ops tonight, exfiltrate, and execute retrievals on the ASDS. The SEAL sub would then bring them all back to Waypoint Bravo for pickup, an empty stretch of water fifteen miles off the coast and halfway between Bandar-e Charak and Bandar-e Lengeh.

That pickup point could easily be changed if the tactical situation warranted, but Stewart was determined to get as close to shore for the retrieval as he could. Those SEALs deserved no less, and, if things got hot for them ashore, they were going to need all the help with their travel arrangements he could manage.

He took an extra long time studying Abu Musa through the scope, recording it on 70mm film and giving the electronic warfare boys plenty of eavesdropping time. The Iranians were known to have Chinese Silkworms on the island, and possibly other antishipping assets as well. The island was also a possible flashpoint for a widening of hostilities. So far, all of the fighting appeared to be limited to Iran against the Omanis, but if the United Arab Emirates decided to get involved — or if Iran decided it wanted more than just the tip of the Musand'am peninsula and went after the UAE as well, the UAE might decide to take back the island, which had been snatched from them back in the 1970s.

Still, the bottom dropped off in a steep cliff just north of the island, providing a good hiding area. The only time Ohio risked being sighted was, as now, when she had to come to periscope depth to stick her satcom antenna above the surface. Still, those times were few and kept as brief as possible. The chances of their being spotted from the air were—

"Control Room, Sonar."

"Control Room. Go ahead."

"I'm picking up aircraft noises, sir. Close and to the east."

Quickly, Stewart pivoted, bringing the Type 18 around to the left. Nothing on the horizon. He angled the head of the scope up, scanning empty blue sky….

No, not empty. Sunlight flashed from a canopy.

"Down scope!" Stewart snapped. "Diving Officer! Take us down! Deep as she'll go!"

He'd only had a glimpse, but he thought it was a Fencer.

And it was damned close…

Sheer luck… or, possibly, the munificence of Allah. But that, always, is the way of battle.

Lieutenant Colonel Alireza Tolouei was on his way back to Bandar Abbas, his munitions expended after a long-range strike against the Omani air base at Muscat. His aircraft was a Russian-built Sukhoi-24, a fighter bomber that had carried the NATO designation Fencer since it was first introduced in the early 1970s. Iran had purchased fourteen of the aircraft from the Soviet Union, but this one had come into Iran's inventory by way of Iraq, one of eighteen Su-24s flown across the border by defecting pilots during America's first war with that country. It was a rugged and fairly dependable aircraft with a swing-wing variable geometry similar to that of the U.S. F-111.

A straight-line flight from Oman's capital to Bandar Abbas would have taken him east of the Musand'am peninsula, but Military Air Traffic Control had routed him far to the west, over the Gulf, to avoid heavy helicopter traffic currently operating over the Straits of Hormuz. He was flying north low and slow, a few miles east of Abu Musa, and just happened to be in exactly the right place, with the sun at exactly the right angle.

All he saw was a shadow, a long and very narrow black shape in the water, but he knew instantly what it was — a submarine just beneath the surface.

He also knew it wasn't an Iranian vessel. This thing was a monster, two and a half times longer, at least, than a Kilo attack boat. All Iranian pilots had been briefed to be on the lookout for an American Ohio-class submarine believed to be operating now inside the Straits of Hormuz.

And Tolouei had found it.

His bomb racks were empty, and in any case he'd been carrying munitions designed to crater Omani runways, not sink enemy submarines. Putting the Sukhoi into a sharp left bank, he began to orbit the enemy's position.

"Bandar Abbas Control, Bandar Abbas Control," he called over the radio. "This is Mountain Eagle. I have a sighting…. "

"Do you think they spotted us?" Shea asked, looking up at the control room overhead as though to see through steel and water and up to a threatening sky.

"I don't know," Stewart replied. "No torpedoes in the water yet."

"They might not have been loaded for ASW work."

"No. Probably wasn't, in fact, if it was a Fencer… and I think it was. It was in a tight left bank, and the wings were extended."

"Swing wings," Shea said, nodding.

"Yup. But he was swinging around and heading our way. He might have spotted us, if the sun angle was right. We have to assume he did."

"Right."

"Helm… come right to three-zero-zero."

"Helm, come right to three-zero-zero, aye."

"Mr. Kelly, what's the depth beneath our keel?"

"We're scraping barnacles, Captain. The bottom is dropping, but we only have about three fathoms to spare."

"Follow the bottom down. Our friend topside could have an ASW helo overhead inside of five minutes. I want to be lost by that time."

"Aye aye, sir."

"Sonar! This is the captain."

"Sonar, aye aye, sir."

"Stay especially sharp. We may have company any time now."

"Aye aye, sir. Uh… you should know, though, that the background pinging is washing everything out."

Stewart understood. The splash of a torpedo or a sonobuoy hitting the water, the soft beat of a diesel-electric sub in stealth mode, the sound of an aircraft overhead— those were all remarkably subtle sounds, tough to pull from the background clutter under the best conditions. With all of the sonar banging away in the distance, it was like trying to hear a coin drop with the stereo speakers cranked up to the max. It was amazing the sonar boys had picked up that Fencer.

If the Iranians had one of their submarines out there, there'd be very little chance of hearing it, unless it went active.

And by then it might well be too late.

"Sir!" The naval aide was excited. "We've located the American Ohio submarine, sir."

Admiral Baba-Janzadeh turned, gesturing toward the large chart unrolled on a table nearby. "Show me."

"Yes, sir. One of our fighter-bombers spotted a shadow in the water… just here." The aide pointed, indicating a spot five miles north of Abu Musa.

Out in the middle of the shipping channel. Interesting. That was farther out than he'd expected. If the quarry was one of the new ballistic missile submarine conversions, it should have been much closer inshore, the better to drop off and recover naval commandos.

"Does our plane still have the enemy in sight?"

"No, sir. He reported it was already going deeper when he spotted it, but we have a course, and the pilot's report that it was moving very slowly. We have naval ASW aircraft en route now."

General Ramezani, his chief of staff, cleared his throat. "Sir. The Tareq is on patrol less than twenty kilometers from this location." He pointed to another spot on the map, to the northeast. "We could have Captain Jalali plot an intercept course. Ring this area with sonobuoys, and we have him."

Tareq was the first of the Kilo submarines purchased from the Russians: hull number 901. Jalali was experienced, one of the best of Iran's submarine skippers. Baba-Janzadeh nodded agreement. "Transmit the orders."

"Yes, sir."

"Admiral," one of the other staff officers said. "That is in international waters. We were ordered to find and trap the American inside our territorial waters."

"That no longer matters. With Bold Fire now under way, we can claim an accident of war, if necessary. However… have you forgotten that Abu Musa is Iranian territory?"

"Uh, no, sir. Of course not."

"Of course not. The lawyers can argue about lines on the map, but the rest of the world — the Islamic world— will know that we discovered and destroyed an American nuclear submarine just a few kilometers off of our coast. The Guardian Council will have their excuse for a full-scale confrontation with the Americans."

"Yes, sir."

"But we must not let them slip through the net again! I want the American found. I want him destroyed. Clear?"

"Clear, Admiral!"

"Good. Make it clear to our people in the operational area as well."

"Yes, sir. At once."

Baba-Janzadeh turned his attention back to the chart, where an aide was marking the position of the sighting, and drawing a straight line toward the northwest, indicating its last known heading.

The fact that the enemy vessel was there, almost fifty miles from the mainland and over seventy from the sensitive area near Bandar-e Charak… what did it mean? That the Americans had not been able to get close enough to send in their commandos? Or that they had already done so? Abu Musa was a good point from which an American submarine could conduct electronic surveillance of the air, sea, and land Omani operations. But had they put their special operations commandos ashore? If they had, were the commandos still in Iran, or had they been retrieved already?

And… if the Americans knew the key details about the secret beneath Kuh-e Gab, what were they prepared to do about it?

A very great deal was riding on the answers to those questions.

Caswell was pretty well fried. Emotional stress had taken its toll, and, in some ways, his talk with the COB had made things worse. He was no longer actively contemplating suicide, but with that option slammed shut, he felt more trapped than before. It was as though there was literally no place to go, nothing to do, to escape the intolerable pain.

Ohio's duty schedule was adding to the stress. Six hours on, twelve off… except that he'd been standing extra shifts when the boat was under high alert. Then rules said he was supposed to get eight hours sleep, but for days now sleep had been impossible. Doc Kettering had offered him something to help him sleep, but he had refused. He needed a clear head.

Which, of course, he didn't have to begin with. Dobbs had picked up the sound of that approaching aircraft.

Caswell knew he'd screwed up again, and it could have been a bad one.

Damn but the hash was loud outside! He could hear an almost constant barrage of chirps and cheeps, echoing and reechoing across the shallow waters of the Gulf. How the hell was he supposed to hear—

Ping!

The sonar pulse was loud, loud and close, coming literally out of nowhere. "Control Room, Sonar!" he yelled, mashing down the intercom switch. "Active sonar transmission, bearing zero-five-five, range… range less than two thousand yards!"

"Acknowledged."

Ping! Ping!

The barrage of sound was so loud now you didn't need earphones to hear it ringing against the hull. "Control Room… he's locked on to us!"

And, despite the noise, Caswell heard what was just possibly the most ominous sound a submariner could hear and recognize.

It was the grating broadband squeak of the outer doors to the torpedo tubes on another submarine as they slid open.