So he hit search again, looking for any and all Sierras still floating. And he came up with just one, a ship called the Tula, stationed in Araguba, Hull K-239, a Sierra I, Barracuda Class Type 945.
'It's fucking Razormouth! H-o-o-o-o-l-y shit! ' he yelled to his empty office.
And then, 'No. Wait a minute. It can't be. Razormouth's in Petropavlovsk. I checked it in myself, straight into a covered dock, beginning of last September… lemme see… hold hard… yeah… here we go… sighted it eight times since then, making short patrols. Probably Sea Trials. It's always back in the evening, because we always catch it at the same time. Last sighting… February 3.'
Lieutenant Ramshawe knew beyond any doubt that whatever the guys in Pembrokeshire heard, it was NOT, repeat NOT, the Barracuda, Hull K-239. Because there was no way that ship could have got within ten thousand miles of the west coast of Ireland in three days.
'Mind you,' he told himself, 'they never said it did. They just said they picked up some lines. I suppose they could have hauled a second Barracuda out of mothballs, if they've got one. But Jesus… the west coast of Ireland is a bloody long way from home, for an old ship that's been out of service for several years. Beats the shit out of me.'
Nonetheless, Jimmy Ramshawe was left with a puzzle. If Admiral Arnie found out there was a rogue Russian submarine running loose in the Atlantic and no one knew anything about it, there'd be hell to pay. He requested a copy of the last signal asking the Russians for an explanation, found it, and noted Moscow still had not replied.
Then he sent a message to Rear Adm. George Morris suggesting they send another, this time personally to the Commander-in-Chief, the Admiral of the Fleet, Vitaly Rankov.
George Morris knew this ex-Soviet battle cruiser Commander was a former Intelligence officer and a friend of Arnold Morgan. He also knew that if Rankov did not reply to a communique from Washington, Admiral Morgan would be on the telephone to him. He expected that Admiral Rankov would not view that possibility with much enthusiasm, and would probably reply soonest. He told Ramshawe to resend the signal to Moscow.
It took two more days for the giant ex-Soviet Olympic oarsman to send an answer, personal to Admiral Morris, who sensed it was carefully worded, in the extreme:
'111200FEB08. The Russian Navy currently has no patrols in that part of the Atlantic. We have only the two Kondors moored alongside in the Northern Fleet. And one Barracuda Class conducting trials out of Petropavlovsk. Your operators could be mistaken. I am told there is sometimes a similarity between our boats and the new French nuclear SSN, which is replacing their old Rubis Class. It's not yet named, but it is working in the Atlantic out of Toulon. The French refer to that program as Project Barracuda. Sorry can be no more help. Rankov (Commander- in-Chief).'
Admiral Morris called Lieutenant Ramshawe into his office to examine the reply. They both came to the same conclusion. It did not state flatly there was no Russian-built submarine there. Only that they were not patroling that part of the Atlantic. Which was slightly different. But the reply had been sufficiently friendly, and sufficiently helpful to make another communique seem rude, unnecessary, and undiplomatic. Admiral Morris would have to let the matter rest. As Vitaly Rankov knew he would. He was, of course, keenly aware of the 600 million reasons he had for remaining very discreet about Chinese activities.
Jimmy Ramshawe left the Director's office muttering, 'From what I can see, there's bloody Barracudas all over the place — but at least the French have warm water.' He returned to his own office, concerned that there was no further information they could present to the President's National Security Adviser, no hard copy whatsoever on the identity of the disappearing submarine. Jimmy was frowning when he entered Admiral Rankov's message into his mystery file. Right next to Old Razormouth.
The following evening, February 12, 2,500 miles away, right off the Portuguese Azores, clear now of the North Atlantic SOSUS traps, Captain Mohtaj ordered an increase in speed. He was headed for lonely waters now, down the Coast of Africa, which the U.S. Navy regards as largely irrelevant.
The water was at least two miles deep all the way to the Cape of Good Hope, 4,700 miles away. For the first time the Barracuda was in near-deserted waters, but Captain Mohtaj's propulsion team only marginally opened the throttles of the 47,000-horsepower GT3A turbine.
The nuclear reactor responded with a little increased steam. 'Make your speed eight,' called the CO. 'Depth five hundred. Keep steering one-eight-zero.'
Old Razormouth II was on her way, at nearly 200 miles a day. And no one in the Western world had the slightest idea where she was, even whether she was. And certainly not where she was going.
8
Shakira Sabah, at the age of twenty-seven, married the former Major Raymond Kerman in a Muslim ceremony in their Damascus home on Sharia Bab Touma in early November 2007. The marriage was conducted by a local law officer, and because of the groom's lack of family, indeed any relatives, they were obliged to dispense with most of the traditional Muslim five-day festivities, and the giving of many gifts. They did, however, receive a private blessing from the imam at the nearby beautiful Mosque of Sheik Farrag.
For the wedding ceremony, attended by only six people, Shakira wore a simple long, white dress, with, a traditional hat and veil, which made her look even more like a goddess than usual. The groom wore a dark gray Western suit and promised to care for Shakira for all the days of her life, having already deposited $100,000, the Muslim mehmet, into her private bank account.
This lifelong pledge appeared to reflect the ancient Islamic creed that women, beyond the home, must play a somewhat subservient role to that of men. General Rashood thought that was not too bad an idea, given his new wife's inclination to assert herself, not to mention her flair for blowing up the armed battle tanks of those who displeased her.
However, as the cool, wet month of January wore on, the newly weds were hovering around the edges of their first major row. Not beating about the bush, Shakira Rashood wanted to take part in the Barracuda's mission to the eastern side of the Pacific Ocean. Not in a shore-based, nonoperational, executive role, which Ravi assumed she meant. Shakira actually wanted an executive position on the submarine itself.
On this rainy Friday evening, as it grew dark outside, they returned to the subject for the third time in twenty-four hours.
'Locked up under the water with sixty men, the only woman in the crew — you can't do that,' said Ravi, smiling but dismissive.
'Yes, I can,' said Shakira, not smiling, not submissive.
'Might I remind you that no woman has ever served on board a submarine, not in any Navy, anywhere in the world? It's too confining, too claustrophobic, and it's surely no place for a woman.'
'Yes, it is,' said Shakira. 'When I work, I'm no different from you. Oh, yes, I understand the Arab world believes you to be some kind of a God of War — and I know I'm not in that league — but I'm as good as most of your soldiers, you'd have to admit that.'
Shakira's gaze was steady. Ravi knew that look only too well. His wife had no intention of backing down. He was obliged to resort to reason.
'Look,' he said, 'there have been great strides to include women in the Navies of both the U.K. and the United States. They have recruited them, allowed them to serve on warships. But they've often proved to be a complete bloody nuisance — people falling in love with them, trying to get their clothes off in parked helicopters, and God knows what. And that's just in big surface ships. No one has ever dared to recruit them to serve in submarines.'
'I expect the instances of women getting into sexual situations with the other members of the ship's company are less than one in ten thousand. It's just that newspapers are not interested in the other 9,999.1 bet there are more examples of theft on board warships. Anyway, it won't apply to me, will it? No one's going to try to undress the Commanding Officer's wife, are they?'
'I should bloody well hope not,' said Ravi, in mock effrontery. 'But I'm sure you see, it's such a close confinement in an operational nuclear submarine, working underwater. It's just not a suitable environment. No
