Scimitar SL-2

He picked his way through the piles of paper, and studied the photographs again in a thoroughly Ramshavian way…Well, they were taken on top of a volcano, but we can’t see it…We can only see the top of this cliff…a very high one…right on the shoreline of the Canary Islands…So the volcano must be behind the photographer…Wonder what it looks like…Suppose it’s dormant…They wouldn’t be standing around on top of it, not if the bastard was chucking molten lava all over the place…I didn’t even know they had volcanoes in the Canary Islands.

But he had no time for reveries. He called for someone to come and make copies and for someone else to draw up a list of all the U.S. Embassies in the Middle East. He buzzed U.S. Army Capt. Scott Wade down in the Military Intelligence Division and asked him how to circulate the pictures to the U.S. Middle East Bases. Then he summoned Lt. Jim Perry and asked him to put the whole thing into action.

He drafted the letter of request himself, E-mailed it to Jim, and told him to download, print, and distribute it, together with the pictures, as soon as they were ready tomorrow morning. Then he turned his attention to something he thought might really matter.

Fresh from the National Surveillance Office there was a satellite shot of a Russian-built Barracuda nuclear submarine making its way north through the Yellow Sea, presumably to the Chinese naval base at Huludao, because there’s not much else at the dead end of the Yellow Sea to interest anyone.

He also had a three-day-old picture of the Barracuda clearing the breakwater outside the base at Zhanjiang, headquarters of China’s Southern Fleet.

The satellite had taken two shots of the submarine, the second one about 25 miles out of the base, just before she dived. The next snapshots of that stretch of ocean showed absolutely nothing, and Jimmy had wondered where the hell the ship was going.

There was only one operational Barracuda in all the world, and the new photograph of the submarine cruising north on the surface meant this one in the Yellow Sea was the same that had cleared Zhanjiang four days ago.

He still did not know who owned it. The Russians had been evasive, claiming they had sold it to the Chinese, and the Chinese flatly refused to reveal anything about their submarine fleet to a Western power, even to the U.S.A. whose money they so coveted.

Thus, there were unlikely to be any definitive answers. Jimmy Ramshawe would write a brief report and keep a sharp eye on the photographs from northeast Asia, ready for the moment the Barracuda sailed south again heading for God knows where.

Again he pondered the mystery of the Barracuda. Why the hell’s the damn thing going to Huludao anyway…That’s their nuclear missile base, where they built their two oversized, primarily useless Xia-Class ICBM boats. Beats the shit out of me. The ole ’Cuda’s too small for an ICBM. Maybe the Russians are really selling her this time.

But then, they could just as easily have sold her in Zhanjiang. Why take her north for 2,500 miles? What’s in Huludao that the Barracuda might need…Maybe specialist engineering for her nuclear reactor…Maybe, and more likely, missiles. The Chinese make cruises up there…I don’t know…but I’d better watch out for her if she leaves port…

He scanned the photographs again, pulling up a close-up of Huludao and its docks and jetties. It was a busy place, full of merchant ships in a seaport geared to handle well over a million tons of cargo per year. The place was groaning with tankers and merchant freighters.

He tracked the activity at the Huludao base for the next two days, and was pleased with the NSO’s very clear photograph of the Barracuda arriving, and heading straight into a covered dock.

The next set of prints showed the unusual sight of a civilian freighter, with a longish flat cargo deck parked bang on the submarine jetties. Must be bringing in spare parts, he thought, not knowing that the Yongdo’s lethal illegal cargo had been unloaded in another covered dock, two hours before the satellite passed.

He fired in a request, purely routine, for the CIA to identify that ship, but did not have much luck. Langley said it was a pretty old vessel, probably Japanese Navy in origin, but converted like so many old warships in the Far East for civilian freight. They were uncertain of the owners, but guessed it was either still Japanese, if not, North Korean.

Probably bringing in a couple of fucking atom bombs for onward shipment to the Arabs, he thought, sardonically. Nothing serious. Only the end of the bloody world.

Another week went by without event. The Barracuda had not been seen since, and no one had been able to identify the Japanese-built freighter in the submarine yards at Huludao. And then something fascinating happened. The United States ambassador in Dubai, who had previously served in the embassy in Tehran, sent a note to say that he recognized two of the four men in Admiral Morgan’s photograph.

His Excellency Mark Vollmer, a career diplomat from Marble-head, Massachusetts, was absolutely certain. According to his note: During my tenure in Iran I was personally asked to process the visa applications from two extremely eminent professors from the Department of Earth Physics at the University of Tehran. One of them was Fatahi Mohammed Reza, the other was Hatami Jamshid, both natives of Tehran.

Ambassador Vollmer recalled that they had each accepted a one-year degree course at the University of California in Santa Cruz. Both men were specialists in volcanology and in the ensuing landslides that could devastate areas in the immediate vicinity after an eruption. He had thoughtfully marked on the photographs which prof was which. Jimmy Ramshawe guessed from the men’s body language that Professor Hatami was the senior man, and the serious, frowning look of Professor Fatahi suggested he too was an expert in his field.

Ambassador Vollmer’s phone call to the University of Tehran confirmed that they were both back in Iran, members of the faculty, and lecturing at the Department of Earth Physics. Both were resident in Tehran, and traveled widely, observing and researching the behavior of the subterranean forces that occasionally change the shape of the planet.

“Wow,” said Jimmy. “That Vollmer ought to be working here, not scratching around in the bloody desert with a bunch of nomads.”

He was both relieved and amazed that the matter had been so easily cleared up, and with some slight feeling of pride, he drafted a note to the Big Man.

His E-mail ended with a flourish…A couple of volcano professors doing their thing…here endeth the mystery of the Arabs on the mountain.

Kathy picked up the E-mail, as she always did. Her new husband was always threatening to hurl the expensive laptop computer into the Potomac—It was so goddamned slow.

Arnold read the note with great interest and thanked Jimmy, asking him to keep a careful watch for any information on the other two anonymous figures in Harry’s cliff-top snaps.

“Typical Admiral Arnie,” Jimmy reported to George Morris later in the day. “He gets a ten-million-to-one triumph, and still wants to know more. You’da thought the two professors would be plenty. Cleared it all up. Just four volcano academics having a careful look at their subject.”

“You know him nearly as well as I do,” said George. “It’s not his fault. It’s his brain. The damn thing is unable to relax while there are questions to be answered. And he wants to know who those other two guys are…Can’t help himself.”

“He’ll be lucky,” replied Jimmy.

Prophetic words indeed.

Four days later an encrypted signal from the CIA landed on Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe’s desk. It was the cyber note heard round the world…MI5 London passed on your request of June 5 to British Army Special Forces. Colonel Russell Makin, Commanding Officer 22 SAS, says the figure on the far right, not facing the camera, is the missing SAS Maj. Ray Kerman. Four other SAS personnel confirm. Mr. and Mrs. Richard Kerman driving to Stirling Lines tomorrow. Please forward date, time, and place of photographs soonest.

Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe nearly jumped out of his skin.

He strode along the corridor, knocked and barged into the office of Rear Adm. George Morris. The room was empty, so he stormed out again and found the Admiral’s secretary.