Primary Target

15

Resting in the quiet darkness of his private cabin, Navy Commander Robert Gillmore dozed fitfully as Hampton silently slipped through the cold depths of the Indian Ocean northeast of Madagascar. With the exception of the slower-than-usual transit through the narrow Strait of Gibraltar, the long voyage from the Mediterranean to the Gulf of Oman was progressing smoothly.

Operating alone and undetected, the Los Angeles-class nuclear attack submarine was nearing its destination. Gillmore and his executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Todd Lassiter, were the only men aboard the “boat” who were privy to their secret orders. The rest of the crewmen were aware that the captain was deviating somewhat from standard procedures, but the officers and sailors didn’t speculate on the nature of their mission, at least not openly. They knew the cerebral, tight-lipped skipper was not a man who tolerated scuttlebutt.

Bob Gillmore was a tall man who stooped to pass under normal doorways. In spite of his imposing size, he was adroit at navigating the narrow passageways in Hampton. His soft brown eyes peeked from under bushy eyebrows, and his thinning, sandy-colored hair was rarely out of place. Even in the confines of a cramped submarine, Gillmore seemed always to be immaculate and clean-shaven.

His quarters, no larger than steerage-class accommodations onboard a passenger ship, provided him with the only space he could call his own, his small kingdom away from home. To Gillmore, being here was like sitting in his living room in Groton, Connecticut — completely still, without even the slightest hint of motion. It was the only haven in the boat where he could relax and lose himself in the masterpieces of Count Leo Tolstoy.

Gillmore, a distinguished graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy and a third-generation submariner, was considered by his superiors to be one of the best and brightest skippers in the silent service. Unlike his colorful and gregarious father, Bob Gillmore drank sparingly, ate a healthy diet, and exercised on a regular basis. On duty, or at home with his family, he spent the majority of his time focused on the next hurdle in his highly competitive career. His primary goal in life centered on becoming the chief of naval operations.

To that end, the seasoned technocrat-manager was an excellent career planner. He carefully labored over every decision and how it might affect his future. As the admiral at La Maddalena had clearly explained, this operation would have to be flawlessly executed. The translation for Gillmore was abundantly clear; bungle the mission and your first afloat command will be your last. His future would be in the civilian world, not at the helm of an $870 million nuclear submarine.

At this stage of his delicate climb to the top, he cursed any involvement in operations that might jeopardize his plans. He desperately wanted to successfully finish his current tour of duty as skipper of Hampton, then get off the hot seat and report to the admiral’s staff at New London — the heart and unofficial capital of the U.S. submarine force.

He rolled on his side and squinted at the eerie red multifunction display near his narrow bunk. The databank provided an instantaneous readout of Hampton’s depth, speed, course, position, and the current tactical situation.

All was well, prompting Gillmore to yawn and stretch his long legs, then roll on his back. He clasped his hands behind his head and stared into the inky darkness, carefully calculating the risks involved in the special mission, Operation Desert Phantom. A few minutes later, after reassuring himself that everything would work out to his satisfaction, Gillmore drifted into a restless sleep.

Sixteen hundred miles to the northeast of Hampton, the attack submarine Cheyenne glided through the depths of the Arabian Sea off the western coast of India. Her mission was the same as Hampton’s — destroy the two Iranian missile sites. Cheyenne’s Raytheon Tomahawk/BGM-109 cruise missiles would follow a different course to their targets, arriving minutes after Hampton’s Tomahawk land attack missiles.

The Liberian-registered freighter Dauntless barely made headway through the placid waters while the picket ship’s thirty-nine-year old Iranian master trained his binoculars on a low-flying jet. The early-morning sky was hazy and visibility was limited, but he immediately recognized the stubby-looking twin-engine aircraft.

Known as “Hoovers” because the engines sound like vacuum cleaners, it was a U.S. Navy all-weather, antisubmarine and antisurface warfare plane patrolling for submarine activity near the approach to the Strait of Hormuz. The dull gray Lockheed S-3B Viking banked to the left and flew directly toward the rusty freighter, passing close to the fantail before resuming its search pattern.

A few minutes later, between bites of greasy lamb chops and sour rye bread, the captain watched as a mammoth aircraft carrier and her escort ships materialized on the opaque horizon. When the battle group drew closer, the skipper and his skeleton crew could see that the flattop’s flight deck bristled with aircraft. The captain consulted his dog-eared U.S. Ship and Aircraft Recognition Manual and identified the carrier as the nuclear-powered USS George Washington, one of the newest ships in the infidel’s Atlantic Fleet.

He raised his binoculars and studied the other vessels, recognizing the guided-missile cruiser USS Normandy and the destroyers USS John Rodgers and USS O’Bannon. Other escort ships included the guided-missile frigates USS Boone and USS Underwood, plus three support ships. The attack submarine USS Annapolis went undetected.

With tensions running high between the United States and Iran, Tehran claimed that the Americans were attempting to make their presence and vast influence in the region irreversible. Underscoring Tehran’s worst fears, the “Arabian Gulf” had become the focal point of U.S. global strategy. Since the Gulf War, the crucial waterway off the coast of Iran had become the one place where the world’s only military superpower openly and consistently showed its strength.

As the Iranian master knew, Washington’s powerful fighter planes would soon be screeching up and down the length of the Persian Gulf, swooping low over the waterway at speeds nipping the sound barrier. Occasionally, a young jet jock would nudge his sleek Tomcat or Hornet past Mach one, sending a sonic boom reverberating across the narrow Gulf. The intimidation factor was causing a great degree of angst to military and political leaders in Tehran.

At the captain’s direction, the communications technician punched in a code at his console and sent a scrambled message to Tehran. After receiving a confirmation reply and further instructions, he sent a warning message to seven of Iran’s aging regular Navy Combattante 11B guided-missile patrol craft.

When the last skipper checked in, the comm tech changed radio frequencies and sent a message to the eight Houdong-class patrol boats manned by sailors of the more politically favored fleet of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps Navy. The skippers of the small Chinese-built warships raced to take up their assigned positions near the entrance to the Strait of Hormuz.

The communications tech would have to wait almost an hour to contact the first of three Iranian Project 877 Kilo-class submarines operating in the area. Venturing farther from port and remaining submerged longer than ever, the Russian-built, ultraquiet boats only poked their communications masts above the surface at preset times. After making contact with Dauntless, one of the submarines would be instructed to reposition in the southern waters of the Arabian Gulf. The other two boats would remain on station in the Gulf of Oman and Arabian Sea.

Equipped with computer-driven weapons control systems and Russian Novator Alpha (NATO SS-N-27) antiship missiles, the Iranian Kilos fielded the latest generation of torpedo-tube-launched cruise missiles. The Russian equivalent to the antiship version of the Tomahawk, the Alpha ejects a supersonic submissile that can defeat almost any terminal defense system.

Minutes after Tehran had been notified of Washington’s current location, the supercarrier erupted with activity as one fighter plane after another blasted down the bow catapults and roared into the air. As the launches continued, the Iranians watched the blazing action while a few aircraft began landing on the carrier’s angled flight deck. While the Iranian crew was absorbed with the air show, an F-14 Tomcat came in low from behind them and blasted over the freighter’s bridge. The shocked crew ducked in unison and simultaneously cursed the cocky Americans.

The Iranians continued to watch air operations until the carrier disappeared in the dark haze. Dauntless and her crew would remain in the area and monitor events until the American armada left the region.