Scimitar SL-2

Elrod and the Nicholas were slightly behind the eight ball, but on standby. Right off the northeast headland of Tenerife, he had Capt. Clint Sammons’s Klakring and Comdr. Joe Wickman’s Simpson. He ordered them to make good speed south for 100 miles and to begin their search as they crossed latitude 27.30N. ETA Barracuda: 2200 hours.

So far as Admiral Gillmore could see, he had the submarine strapped between his four frigates. But he also knew that the Barracuda was so quiet, it could creep 500 feet beneath them, at a silent 5 to 6 knots, and not be detected by passive sonar, though it might be “active.”

Admiral Gillmore fired off a signal to Adm. Frank Doran, who was still in the command center at Atlantic Fleet Headquarters in Norfolk…“070800OCT09 Possible detection Barracuda, course zero-nine-zero, 14 miles south of Hierro Island. Course and speed correlates possible six-knot transient submarine detected 070100OCT09. Elrod and Nicholas tracking, Klakring and Simpson running south to intercept. Gillmore.

Eight minutes later, Arnold Morgan leapt to his feet from his desk in the sparsely furnished Oval Office, punched the air, and gritted…“Come on, guys…let’s tighten the fucking screws, put that little bastard on the seabed…”

“You’re not beginning to take this personally, by any chance, are you Arnold?” asked President Bedford, disarmingly.

“Christ no, sir. I just love chasing boatloads of underwater terrorists around the oceans — I just get a little edgy after the first year…”

Meanwhile, back in the eastern Atlantic, Admiral Gillmore ordered the carrier the Ronald Reagan southwest towards the coast of Gran Canaria, from its holding position 15 miles north of Lanzarote.

The U.S. Navy’s dragnet was closing in, but Admiral Gillmore was taking a calculated risk that the transient contacts were indeed the Barracuda. If they were not, and the Hamas terrorists were coming in from farther north, he would be heavily dependent on the steel cordon of guided-missile frigates out of Norfolk, which currently circled La Palma, inshore and offshore.

Right now, a carrier was flying two continuous patrols between the west coast of La Palma and the towering coast of the island of Gomera, where the precipitous cliffs crash headlong into the ocean, just 35 miles northeast of Hierro.

All of the Navy’s assessments claimed that the submarine, if it was to fire its missiles visually, must come in towards the Cumbre Vieja from either Gomera’s southwest or northeast coast. The Barracuda might ultimately duck back behind this rocky fortress for shelter in the moments before the mega-tsunami surged outwards into its horrendous reality.

Oblivious of the bear trap closing in around them, the Barracuda had somewhat carelessly failed to detect the closeness of USS Nicholas, and now the Russian-built nuclear boat proceeded deep along her easterly course, slowly and quietly.

Down in the Navigation area, Lt. Ashtari Mohammed estimated that by midnight, they would reach a point 24 miles southwest of Playa de Ingles, the seething gay Mecca of the island of Gran Canaria, winter headquarters of Sodomites International, and a place likely to be crushed beneath a 50-foot tidal wave one hour after impact. Still, death by drowning would probably arrive on fleeting wings, which would doubtless beat the hell out of being turned to stone.

That particular point on the chart would be critical for the submarine, because they would arrive there just as the world GPS was scheduled to crash. And the precise moment that Admiral Badr ordered his ship to the surface would determine how swiftly he would know that a long-range launch was out of the question.

And they ran quietly and silently all day, without the U.S. frigates locating them. At 0030 on that moonlit Thursday morning, Admiral Badr ordered the Barracuda to PD, and her periscope came thrusting out of the water, alongside her mighty ESM mast, which was almost as thick as a telegraph pole. The two steel poles jutted right into the path of the radar sweeping across the water from all four of the trailing U.S. frigates.

The Barracuda sucked down a signal from General Rashood in the couple of seconds before the submarine’s ops room picked up the frigates on their ESM. Continuous sweeps. Captain Mohtaj simply said, “We’re surrounded, sir.”

“I understand that,” replied Ben Badr. “But they’re six miles away and we’re not finished by any means… 10 BOW DOWN 600…MAKE YOUR SPEED TEN…COME RIGHT TWENTY DEGREES…”

At that moment, young Ahmed Sabah came bursting out of the comms room with the communication from Damascus…U.S. GPS satellite communications crashed at midnight…Zhanjiang naval base making no contact with French version…world GPS black. Abort long-range launch. Repeat abort long-range launch…Change course northwest and proceed to coast of Gomera…Then head into La Palma launch zone 25 miles off the east coast, for visual setup. Allah goes with you. Rashood.

All four U.S. frigates picked up the radar contact, and all four had solid contact. Both previous detections had been along the 27.25 line of latitude, and so was this third one. Each of the four Commanding Officers — Eric Nielsen, C. J. Smith, Clint Sammons, and Joe Wickman — was now certain that they had their quarry under surveillance. And they all knew, of course, that the GPS was down, and that the Barracuda was almost certain to change course right here at 27.25N 16.06W.

Admiral Badr’s navigation room had not immediately understood the extent of the GPS blackout. Lt. Ashtari Mohammed had observed that they were receiving nothing from the satellites on their screens, but he was looking for a technical fault at first. It was not until Ahmed Sabah read out the signal from General Ravi that Ashtari fully realized the implications of his blank screen. There was no GPS, and there was not going to be any. The U.S. Air Force’s 50th Space Wing, out in Colorado, had placed a four-minute transmission delay on their formal announcement:

No GPS signal before 0100 Saturday October 10.

That had been Admiral Morgan’s order, on the grounds that four minutes would be too long for the Barracuda to leave a mast up, and it might just run on for several more miles before they realized the GPS was down permanently.

General Ravi had dealt with that, however, and now Ben Badr ordered an immediate course change… “COME RIGHT ONE HUNDRED NINETY DEGREES…STEER COURSE THREE-ZERO-ZERO…MAKE YOUR SPEED FIVE…DEPTH 600.”

Captain Mohtaj, at the helm of the Barracuda, now making course west-nor’west, handed the ship over to the CPO, Chief Ali Zahedi, at 0100. There was a 90-mile deepwater run to the shelter of the eastern shore of Gomera, and there was no problem staying “below the layer,” 600 feet under the surface, since the Atlantic all around the Canary Islands was nearly two miles deep.

But the sudden course change had unnerved the crew. Even though just a few of the senior command were aware that they were surrounded by U.S. warships, and their long-range launch plan had been scuppered, everyone quickly knew there was something amiss.

They were headed into the jaws of the United States Navy, which was not a great place to be. But General Rashood had made no mention of aborting the mission. Rather he had urged them forwards, as the soldiers of Allah, to strike the fateful blow against the Great Satan.

Admiral Badr called a briefing meeting in his small private office. In attendance were Captain Mohtaj, Comdr. Abbas Shafii, the nuclear specialist, Comdr. Hamidi Abdolrahim, the chief nuclear engineer, Lieutenant Ashtari, the navigator, and Ahmed Sabah.

“Gentlemen,” said Ben Badr. “I am no longer able to say with any certainty that any of us will survive this mission. However, my orders are that it must be completed, and it will be completed.”

He poured tea for them all from a silver pot into the little glass cups with their silver holders. And he paused carefully, to allow his words to sink in. It was the first time in two underwater missions that anyone had ever suggested martyrdom.

But the anticipation of death is not so very far from the minds of any Islamic freedom fighter, and the fear of