He and Shakira were almost too tired to eat anything. But the coffee was good and they each ate a small chicken sandwich with tomato on pita bread, before falling asleep.
Two hours later, Ravi, who never slept longer than that, awoke and checked their whereabouts with the pilot. Right now they had crossed the Mauritania border and were flying over Mali. Ravi had consulted his treasured
It would take another three and a half hours to get there, and he instructed the first officer to wake him and then prepare to slow the aircraft down, losing height to around 5,000 feet for the ejection.
He went back to the sleeping Shakira and held her hand, but he dozed off only fitfully himself, as they flew above the mountains of northern Chad. A few minutes later, they entered the airspace over the Libyan Desert, one of the loneliest parts of the Sahara, 750,000 square miles, stretching through northwestern Sudan, western Egypt, and eastern Libya.
Ravi had chosen a 100-mile-wide area of unmapped sand dunes between the oases of Ma’tan Bishrah and Ma’tan Sarah. There was not a town for 100 miles in any direction. Down below, in this burning, arid, uninhabitable Al Kufrah district, the temperature hovered around 105 degrees.
Only the GPS could tell the pilot precisely where they were, and Captain Kani was watching it carefully. Ravi, with the first officer, dragged the body to the rear door, as they came down through 10,000 feet and slowed to a just-sustainable 190 knots.
Ravi and the airman were both standing, strapped in harnesses attached to the fuselage. And as they approached the drop zone, they both heard the Captain call out…
The first officer unclipped the door and pulled it sideways to swing it open. The noise was deafening, as the wind rushed into the gap. Both men held on and shoved the body into the doorway with their boots.
“NOW!” yelled the Captain, and with two more good shoves, they rolled the former Oxford University golf captain out into the stratosphere, watched the body fall towards the desert floor, and then hauled the big aircraft door shut, fast.
“
As a measure of his profound relief at having eliminated the talkative Senegalese sailor from all contact with the Harrovian Golf Society, Ravi poured himself another cup of coffee.
Captain Kani pressed on across Africa’s fourth largest country all the way to the border with Egypt, about 550 miles shy of the Nile Valley. “Little more than an hour to Aswan,” called the Captain. “And that’ll be the first 3,000 miles behind us.”
“How far’s that from home?” asked Ravi.
“It’s around 1,500 miles from the Nile to Bandar Abbas. ’Bout another three and a half hours. We’ll be on the ground in Aswan for about an hour.”
Ravi slept while the Orion inched its way across the desert, awakening only when they could see Lake Nasser, the 350-mile-long stretch of water that started backing up against the southside wall of the High Dam when they halted the natural flow of the Nile.
They came in over the 1,600-square-mile artificial lake, dropping down into the flat, barren brown terrain west of the river, and landing at the little airport, which stands 16 miles from Egypt’s southernmost city. It was 0100 back in Senegal, but three time zones later, it was 0400 here in the land of the Pharaohs.
Captain Kani had organized food for his distinguished passengers, the Egyptian dish of
It was, after all, still pitch dark, but they had lost all track of time, and the
Refueled and refreshed, they set off again shortly after 0500 (local), flying out towards the Red Sea and the Arabian Peninsula. Their halfway point was the western end of the dreaded Rub Al Khali, the “Empty Quarter” in the most inhospitable desert on earth. From there they headed up to Dubai, and crossed the Gulf just west of the Strait of Hormuz, landing at Bandar Abbas at ten o’clock on Tuesday morning, September 22.
A Navy staff car collected General and Mrs. Rashood direct from the runway the moment Captain Kani switched off the Orion’s engines. They were driven immediately into the base and delivered to the Iranian Navy’s suite for visiting dignitaries. It represented the final word in air-conditioned hotel luxury, from its vast green marble-floored bathroom, redolent with soaps, shampoo, aftershave, and eau de cologne, to its wide four-poster king-size bed.
There were two Naval orderlies dressed immaculately in white uniforms, shirts with epaulettes, and shorts with long white socks. They had already filled the bathtub with scented, oiled water and laid out two soft dark green bathrobes. Black silk pajamas were on the bed.
There was an assortment of clothing in the wardrobe — newly pressed shorts, slacks, navy blue skirts, shirts, socks, underwear, and shoes, for both male and female personnel. Shakira thought she might look like a freshly bathed deckhand when finally she emerged, and Ravi reminded her it was she who had requested permission to join the Navy.
The orderlies had placed a bowl of local fruit salad on the table in the outer room overlooking the harbor. There was fresh coffee, tea, and sweet pastries. The television was tuned to the American news station CNN. Two newspapers — one Arabic, one English — were on a table set between two big comfortable chairs.
One way or the other, it compared very favorably with the General’s living quarters in the
To Shakira Rashood it looked like paradise, and she languished in the bathtub for almost an hour, washing her hair three times “to stop smelling like a submarine.”
The two Iranian assistants left at midday, taking with them all of the two submariners’ laundry. They drew down the shades and suggested sleep, since Admiral Badr had convened a meeting in his office at 1630 that afternoon. “You will be collected from here,” he said. “The Admiral wishes you both a very pleasant day.”
Outside the door, there were four armed Naval guards. At the base of the stairs there were two more. And a four-man detail was on duty outside in the heat. Admiral Badr was keenly aware of the importance of his guests. He was also keenly aware that half the world would have paid a king’s ransom to know where the Hamas assault Commander was at this precise moment.
Ravi and Shakira were awakened by telephone at 1600 and informed they would be collected in thirty minutes. They dressed slowly, poured some coffee from the heated pot, and headed downstairs to the waiting car.
Admiral Badr greeted them both warmly and told them how dramatic it was in the base when news of the eruption of Mount St. Helens came through. “It was a wonderful moment for us,” he said, “after all the months of planning. But we have heard no response from the Americans with regard to the new Hamas threat and demands.”
“I did not really expect any word from them,” said Ravi. “However, I did expect to see some activity in their Middle Eastern bases. And perhaps a general communique from the Israelis to the principal Arab and Gulf nations, of which Iran would be one.”
“That really is the object of this meeting,” replied the Admiral. “We have not been informed of any new initiative with regard to the West Bank. And neither has anyone else. However, I do have a list of movements of U.S. troops and equipment in the bases.”
“Perfect,” said Ravi. “I would like to consider them, and we can decide immediately what further action to take.”
“I think that’s correct,” replied the Admiral. “I have all the information here…but, first…How is my son? Is he handling the submarine well?”
“Oh, Ben’s great,” said Ravi. “He has plainly developed into a first-class nuclear submarine CO, perfectly in command, and trusted by all of his crew. The ship is behaving very well. We’ve had nothing beyond minor problems, and I expect them to carry out successfully the rest of our plans.
