Red Metal

CHAPTER 59

The USS John Warner had spent hours on the shallow, sandy bottom just south of Moucha Island and north of Djibouti City. She now turned to the urgent task of making best speed, heading for open sea. The Tadjoura Trough was a deepwater cut that ran west to east and would give John Warner a fair run straight into the Gulf of Aden and away from the sweeping sonar of the searching Russian ships, which were closing on the Warner by the minute.

DelVecchio was all business now, giving rapid-fire orders to her crew. “Helm, focus on the cavitation bubble. OOD, I need max speed, but run silent. Sonar, keep us alert to any boat noise. And, Quartermaster, I want a depth beneath the keel every five minutes or by exception.”

The quartermaster was the first to respond. “Yes, ma’am. Depth is one hundred eighty feet under keel.”

The officer of the deck said, “Noise is limited. Divisions report all hands at QSO — at this time.” Quiet ship operations had been invented for times like this.

The helmsman spoke up last. “Ma’am, steady at six knots. I am holding speed and depth.”

“Very well,” DelVecchio responded mechanically, her mind racing as she tried desperately to think a few moves ahead.

They had just over seven and a half nautical miles to the Tadjoura Trough. At six knots that was almost an hour to reach the outlet to the deep sea. But she knew they didn’t have that kind of time. The Russian vessels were sweeping in too quickly. If she ordered a faster speed, the John Warner’s screws would cavitate: a bubble of air would form behind the sub’s screw, and the sucking noise would be audible to everyone with sonar equipment for miles around.

There has to be a way. The various algorithms she’d memorized over the years danced in her mind; the numbers arrayed themselves as she searched for the mathematical solution. The numbers represented speed, distance, depth, current, and noise — all the factors submariners had pined over since the inception of the first military sub.

The sonarman said, “Ma’am, contact three, bearing two-three-eight has picked up an active ping. She’s at eight nautical miles.”

The XO added, “She either thinks she’s got something or they are going to try to drive us out of cover.”

“Yes. The shadow of the island will give us some time, but it won’t be long before they converge on us.”

A hollow boom permeated the hull, and a jarring impulse made the John Warner shudder, chattering the crew’s teeth, making pens skitter across the map boards. Everyone knew the sound.

The sonarman threw off his earphones and rubbed his ears in pain.

“Depth charge,” the XO said, putting words to everyone’s speculations. “You okay, sonar?”

“Yes, sir… just didn’t expect that. I had gain and pitch all the way up, trying to differentiate ship noises. Thought I heard a fucking splash.”

“Guess you did.”

Commander DelVecchio turned to face the crew. It was clear she’d made a decision. “XO, I want to line up the closest Russians with this Moucha Island, and we’ll use the shadow of the landmass against them. We round the island, and then I want you to kick us up to full speed and follow the bottom down as it falls away. The sound waves from the screws will refract around the island. It will give the Russians two false signals to our location, as the sound waves will bend around in opposite directions and they’ll steam full speed off after one of the signatures. I’ve read about this being done before, but I’ve never been caught in shallow enough water to actually try it. It won’t fool them for long, but if they’re bombing the shit out of the south side of the island, it’ll at least give them some false vectors to chase.”

“Got it, ma’am,” said the XO. “Sonar, line up the two nearest Russian ships, then give me an azimuth. Helm, stand by for a course correction. Once we get the cardinal direction, we kick it into high gear.”

DelVecchio gripped the railing in front of her. Fooling the Russians with a false acoustic shadow, speeding into the trough, then diving deep enough to get below the thermocline and race for the Gulf of Aden.

Pascal watched through his Vortex binoculars as the last Russian vehicle drove out of Djibouti City; then he lowered the binoculars and closed his eyes, resting them with supreme relief.

It had taken more than eight hours for the entire Russian brigade to drive south from the still-smoldering harbor, down the Rue de Venice, onto the RN1, then the RN5, and finally out of town to the south. And Pascal had been there to watch every last piece of equipment, every single soldier visible.

The units had left the Djiboutian harbor warehouses interspersed by thirty minutes, organized in three separate fighting columns, likely for their own protection, because moving in one long column would have made them more vulnerable to air reconnaissance and air attack.

Unit by unit, in tactically ordered clumps, they seemed mainly centered around the motorized rifle regiments with some independent forces, mainly reconnaissance, Pascal surmised.

He had been furiously scribbling notes the entire day. While he was neither a military vet nor a Russia expert, he was perfect for this surveillance and reporting work. He was an old African hand, but he possessed intimate knowledge of Russian military equipment. It was no surprise, considering how many nations on this continent the Russians supplied with weapons of war.

He’d counted the equivalent of three motorized rifle regiments of Russian BTR-82As, a headquarters unit including medical companies, two battalions of artillery, a large battery of antiair vehicles, and a full battalion of anti-tank weapons. All told, about the size of a Russian rifle brigade.

Mon dieu, he thought, looking down at his notepad. A massive force. I have to send in a final report to the Direction Générale, he thought, and Apollo… The notes were all enciphered by Pascal and full of neat, hand-drawn tables filled with rows and rows of codes that symbolized and characterized Russian vehicles.

The most interesting thing to Pascal was actually not something apparent in the vast Russian arsenal but something missing: tanks. There was a distinct absence of any heavy armor. Pascal couldn’t imagine a Russian brigade forgoing their tanks. He understood speed and surprise, but certainly the Russians did not expect to maintain surprise once they landed in Djibouti. This was a major weakness he’d have to ensure his superiors understood. The rest of the regiment was about what he’d expected: loads of BTR-82As, BRDM-2M reconnaissance vehicles, Kornet-D anti-tank trucks, a unit of Pantsir-S1 antiaircraft vehicles, and some BM-30 Smerch multiple-launch rocket systems. He also counted twenty big ZSU-23 tracked antiaircraft vehicles.

Those tracked machines will slow them down. Probably no faster than forty kilometers per hour, thought Pascal.

Pascal assessed, all told, that he’d seen more than two thousand troops riding on light-armored vehicles or in heavy trucks, and he presumed there were thousands more inside the hundreds of BTRs and other armored vehicles.

He checked the Inmarsat satellite phone to see if he’d received any news from his son. He had not, but it had a strong signal now, and two messages had been left while his attention had been on the column. One was a coded note from Direction Générale requesting his status, and the other was from one of his contacts in Djibouti requesting a meeting to share intelligence.

While he’d been watching the column, Pascal had received a visitor about every half hour here at his rooftop observation post. A gas station attendant, a truck driver, several employees from the docks. All contacts of his.

For the first time in a long while, Pascal felt relevant.

He read the contact’s message first, and sent a reply agreeing to meet him here at La Mer Rouge at ten p.m. The message from Direction Générale was a simple series of code words ordering him to report in, which he responded to as well, telling them he had picture messages to send to them and would do so immediately.

More than anything in the world, however, Pascal wanted to call his son. But this would have to wait for now. Business first, he thought.

He started to take pictures of his notebook with the sat phone’s built-in camera so he could send them digitally over the satellite. It was all written in a shorthand code he’d been trained to use many years before. The young field agents used digital encoding — Pascal doubted anyone under the age of forty could understand what he was photographing — but he knew they still had old-timers around at Direction Générale who could translate the codes.

He flipped the pages in the notebook and took one picture after another, storing them in the sat phone’s onboard memory module. It had taken him the better part of a year to learn how to use the device. Even when direction came down for all field agents to refrain from using cables and encrypted letters, he had resisted until he received a stern warning from the Direction Générale to cut it out and get on board with the modern era.

Finally, when he was finished photographing all his notes on the sat phone, he began transmitting them up into space and then back down to Paris.

This process always took several minutes, so he put the phone on the table by the balcony railing. He was exhausted from the hours of careful surveillance, meeting with contacts, and recording his notes.

He could still see the joint French and American base at Camp Lemonnier on the horizon. Smoke continued to rise from the buildings and Pascal could only imagine the fate suffered by any of his compatriots who’d still been there when the Russians arrived. The Russians’ first order of battle, clearly, after mustering up their forces and leaving the harbor, had been to send a regiment to destroy the base and the airfield.

He stepped to the edge of the balcony railing now and looked over at the traffic passing below. A rush hour had begun after the departure of the Russians. Setting his tea and binos down on the wide wooden railing, he sighed a heavy sigh and glanced at the Inmarsat phone. The phone’s digital upload display read “66 %.”

“Allo,” said a voice in stilted French behind him, startling Pascal from his thoughts.

He turned around to face a large man in a tan shirt and Bermuda shorts standing at the top of the stairwell. His relaxed apparel was more Western in design than anything common in Djibouti. At first glance he thought maybe Tristan had hired some new waiters at La Mer Rouge.

Then Pascal’s heart sank and he began to perspire even more from the instant recognition. He knew this man. This was one of the young men he’d seen at Restaurant L’Historil.

He was a Russian special forces soldier.

Pascal slipped a hand behind his back, picked up the Inmarsat from the railing, and nonchalantly tucked it into his waistband under his jacket.

The high-end binos were right behind him on the railing. He kept them shielded with his body.

“Bonjour,” said Pascal, trying to appear relaxed. Sometimes it just took a moment for his fieldcraft to kick in.

With a casual motion he backed up to the railing, tipping the binos over the edge with his butt. He’d angled the nudge just right to knock the binos onto the awning over a portion of the pool deck below. Without looking, he listened for the soft, almost noiseless bump and slide across the canvas surface confirming the optics had survived the fall and wouldn’t alert any of this man’s compatriots who might be downstairs.

Satisfied with his concealment of the sat phone and more than a little pleased with himself for his quick thinking with the binoculars, Pascal spoke to the man in fast and fluid French. “I’ll have a wine — make it a Merlot. Something from Tuscany, if you please.”

Seeing no response, he continued in a haughty and condescending French tone as he took his seat at the little table. “A glass of the Tenuta dell’Ornellaia is my choice. Actually, let’s make it a bottle, shall we?”

Still no reaction. The man just stared at Pascal.

Then the man’s attention turned to the stairs, and Pascal followed his gaze.

Another man appeared at the top of the staircase. This one wore the tan “Tetris”-style digital desert camouflage uniform of a Russian Spetsnaz soldier. His shoulder boards were large and adorned with three stars, denoting him a full colonel.

Pascal’s face blanched. A cold sweat broke out across his brow.

Stay calm, he told himself.

For a fleeting second he considered trying to rush past the new man, to launch for the stairs and race down. Certainly the colonel was not as big and imposing as the other Russian.

The Frenchman stood calmly and took a step in that direction, but the colonel immediately held up a hand, stopping him from coming closer. “Yes. Tuscan Merlot would be nice,” said the Russian colonel in heavily accented French. “I think I’ll ask the proprietor to set out a glass. Or maybe two. But you may not be staying for the cheese, monsieur.”

The man in civilian attire pulled a pistol from under his shirt, walked behind Pascal to the vacated table and chair, and started perusing Pascal’s notebook.

The Frenchman’s adrenaline was now pumping and he entertained three thoughts. One, jump. Two, push past the bigger man and leap for the adjacent roof. Three, push past the colonel. But he just stood still.

More cold sweat dripped down his neck, and he gripped the railing behind him. He cursed his old and overweight frame. A younger spy would just leap and probably land on the awning below and probably still have the energy and reflexes to scamper off.

But Pascal was not that man. He sighed lightly and his shoulders slumped.

Reading his mind, the Russian colonel spoke up. “Oh, I would not challenge Serzhánt Ketsov. He has an itchy trigger finger, and… you know what I just found out downstairs? He really hates the French.”

This last statement made Pascal wonder what the Russian might have done to poor Tristan.

The colonel smiled, then signaled the man he had called Sergeant Ketsov to search Pascal.

Pascal raised his jacket with his free hand, fished the phone from his sweaty pants waistband, and took a quick glance at the screen. It read “75 %.” He handed it to Sergeant Ketsov with a smile.

He turned to the colonel. “I didn’t catch your name?”

“My name is Colonel Borbikov.”

“DeGuzzman,” Pascal said. “François DeGuzzman.”

“I see. And you are here on a military mission of some kind, watching my troops move through Djibouti? Perhaps for the French government? Maybe even for La Sécurité Extérieure?”

Pascal adopted a look of genuine humor. “A spy? Non, I am merely a diplomat.” The big Russian handed the sat phone to the colonel, who took it and glanced at the screen. Pascal said, “I’m a member of the French diplomatic monetary fund mission with the Bank of France. We are here to supervise the transition of La Banque Centrale de Djibouti and offer support in stabilizing its currency against the euro.”

“Good. I am thankful for that, because if I understand my Geneva conventions correctly, a man caught sending information to La Sécurité Extérieure while out of uniform would be… a spy, non?”

Pascal said, “I confess, I have no idea about that.”

The colonel gently pressed the sat phone’s off button. It emitted a familiar three beeps as it shut down. Then, just as carefully, he removed the plastic back cover and pulled the battery free, pocketing both phone and battery.

The sounds of others echoed up the narrow stairwell and three more Russian soldiers now joined the trio on the rooftop of La Mer Rouge hotel and restaurant. These troops all carried AKs and wore advanced military hardware and equipment but over civilian attire that was similar to Sergeant Ketsov’s.

Pascal recognized another two of them, also from Nadal’s restaurant. One man and one woman.

Their expressions looked severe now. No-nonsense. Gone were the calm, fun countenances they’d held while drinking coffee and socializing at Restaurant L’Historil.

Borbikov said, “You will not mind if we have a look at your credentials, though I’m certain they are all in order.”

Pascal smiled and walked toward the woman, handing her his wallet. The identification and credit cards carried his false name, false addresses, all under the identity of Monsieur DeGuzzman, a legitimate banking cover he’d held for years in Djibouti.

Now we are getting somewhere, thought Pascal confidently. They would buy his cover story. It was elaborate enough and all the details in his wallet fit perfectly. If they needed more information, he had plenty of contacts in the city who could confirm his identity.

The colonel looked over the documents and waved him forward, stared into his eyes, and handed them back. Then, smiling, he pointed to the stairs and made a motion for him to go.

Well, that was easy, thought Pascal, stepping confidently to the stairs.

He made it one step from the stairs, when Colonel Borbikov spoke again. “Oh, one question before you go, Monsieur DeGuzzman. Are these yours?”

The woman handed the colonel a pair of high-definition Vortex VK binoculars from a tactical pouch on her waist.

He looked at the optics as though he’d never seen binoculars before. Not skipping a beat, Pascal answered hastily, “No.”

“It is all just a misunderstanding, then,” said the colonel, waving him away.

“Good. Adieu,” Pascal said, and then feeling emboldened, he added, “I must have my phone back, if you please.”

“That won’t be necessary, Monsieur… Pascal, is it?”

“As I’ve said, my name is François DeGuzzman.”

“You will first join me for a little discussion,” said the colonel, and he drew his pistol from the holster on his hip. Leveling it at the Frenchman, he said, “Ariadne, take Monsieur Pascal downstairs; then tie him up next to the old man.”