basic preflight guidance instructions for the missile. Then, in trade terms, we just ‘fire and forget.’ If the target’s not too fast, we should have time to get a second bird away, should the first one fail.”
“Ben, I’ve mentioned this before. You are a very clever man.”
“Still breathing, Admiral. In my game that’s a major plus.”
“I have a distinct feeling you’re likely to go on breathing for a long time. So long as you always stay a couple of steps ahead of the enemy.”
“I hope to, but right now I’d like to conclude this topic by making certain you follow our principal problem, that is fitting the ‘box’ to the submarine without dangerously reducing her surface stability. Like she might be so top-heavy she rolls right over. But that’s easily solved with a couple of buoyancy tanks, regular saddle tanks on either side of the hull.
“Our only other problem is to build our own fairly simple fire-control system to work from inside the hull. Then we need just to connect them up on a permanent and reliable basis, despite the difficulties of the underwater environment.”
“And you truly believe we can manage all that?”
“Certainly I do. Otherwise, I would never have begun the project.”
“But it’s never been done before, has it? Not by
“No. But only because there’s never been an operational requirement for it. If there had been, every major maritime power would have such a system. It’s just that submarines have never been sufficiently under threat from aircraft. They still aren’t.”
The big Iranian naval barge, edged along by a following tugboat had reached its destination now, 600 miles north up the coast from Bandar Abbas in the Gulf of Iran, a little more than 40 miles offshore. Commander Adnam, Admiral Badr, and the missile director from
They took the covers off the consoles, which were situated right back on the stern, and the missile director sat in the bolted-down chair in front of it. There was little swell on the ocean that hot Arabian night, and everyone was in shirtsleeves. The radar on the barge scanned the skies for aircraft but found nothing within a radius of 100 miles.
Ben Adnam checked his watch, which now showed 2025, and he knew that the pilotless target aircraft was off the ground above Bandar Abbas, banking out over the Gulf, then back along the coast, climbing all the while to a huge altitude of 60,000 feet. Soon it would head north for around 100 miles, or seventeen minutes, then turn south for the final time and come racing back at 600 mph toward the skies above the barge.
They picked it up on the search radar on the southern leg of its journey, and the missile director found it again, incoming from 40 miles out. His fingers flew over the keys as he programmed in the information to the missile’s guidance system.
“Climb out position in.”
“Target course and speed set.”
“Target height preset at 60,000.”
“Weapon One ready.”
At two minutes before 2100 he called: “
Then he hit the launch key, and the big Russian Grumble-Class SAM missile, in a thunder of flame and exhaust, ripped out of the launcher, dead vertical, and screamed straight up into the sky. Everyone watched it, like a huge firework, and they all saw it change course after twenty-five seconds, reaching its 11.5 miles altitude.
They saw it swerve north toward the target, still making 1,700 mph And they watched it obliterate the incoming empty aircraft in dark, but crystal-clear skies more than 20 miles from where they stood. A great sheet of flame seemed to light up the universe. It was a perfect front-lobe attack, of such awesome speed and power, no one felt able to say anything for a few moments.
Except for Commander Adnam, who said crisply, “Thank you, gentlemen. That will do very nicely. I think we can go home now.”
Fifteen minutes later, the 275-ton Kaman-Class fast-attack craft
Admiral Badr and his submariners would be in Bandar Abbas in twenty hours. They would dine on board while the French-built Iranian ship sped through the Gulf at 30 knots all the way.
Conversation at dinner, during which the admiral and Commander Adnam sat alone, had an edge of elation to it. The system had worked, which, of course, at $300 million, was only to be expected. But the question of time was important.
Ben’s view was sanguine. “I cannot see it taking that long, sir. The hardest part is behind us. The modifications to the submarine are comparatively simple. It’s just a matter of ordinary submarine engineering, nothing very complicated.”
“And the dates, Ben, are you happy with them?”
“Well, I’m happy with one, January 17, the fifteenth anniversary of the day the allies attacked Iraq for the first time. But thereafter I think we’ll avoid anniversaries. I’m afraid it might look as if Iraq were being set up. And that would lead the Americans right to us. The missing submarine, the big new submarine dry dock in Bandar Abbas, into which they cannot see. Three hits against the West plainly designed to get Iraq blamed.
“No, Admiral, I think January 17 would be nicely subtle. It might take everyone a while to figure that out, but there are better ways to persuade the Americans that Iraq is responsible. Incidentally, we must not forget to put the new Kilo back in the new dock, as soon as I sail…and make sure we’re seen doing it for a few minutes right at the beginning of a satellite pass.”
Commander Adnam had drafted a totally bogus signal, to be transmitted from Navy Headquarters in Bandar Abbas to an Iranian Navy patrol craft in the northern end of the Gulf. The message ran as follows:
Intelligence received of Iraqi surface-to-air missile test in area east of Qal At Salih. Four missiles flown. One at fast high-altitude airborne target — apparently successful at time 222101JUN05. Launch platform unknown. Investigate. 240100JUN06.
It was encoded in a comparatively low-level operational system. And, as Ben Adnam had anticipated, it was intercepted by local American radio surveillance at the time of transmission. Fort Meade had decrypted it three hours later. Langley had a copy one hour after that. And the CIA’s chief field officers in both Jordan and Kuwait had it soon afterward
Ben’s plan was proceeding, as usual, with the inevitably of sunrise over the desert. This was not a drastic message, just one of several reports sent out on a daily basis. And it scored a bull’s-eye, ending up in the hands of Chuck Mitchell, an Arab-speaking American from Boston, who operated under deep cover in the main telegraph and fax office on the east side of Rashid Street.
Chuck had two messages that evening. The first was from Kuwait, which quoted an inquiry about missile test-firing in the marshes, east of the Tigris. The second message was from the CIA man in Jordan, asking baldly: Anything on Iraqi missile tests in the marshes near Qal At Salih? It added that there had been an inquiry from HQ.
The CIA man had heard nothing. But that did not mean nothing was happening. He contacted another CIA field man in Baghdad, Hussein Hakim, a recruit of some twelve years, and they arranged to meet at 2000 in a dingy coffeehouse in the poor south part of the city, both in Arab dress.
Hakim was late because he thought, neurotically, that he might have a tail, but it turned out to be a false alarm. He finally found Chuck, who was also getting nervous, at 2045. They did not wish to spend long together, and the conversation was terse. Yes, the idea of a big missile-testing program somewhere new was serious. But
