they moved quietly out of the bay before Rabigh.
Once in open water they steered course one-five-zero down the main deep-water seaway of the Red Sea, 400 feet below the surface. They would not see daylight again for two weeks, until they reached the French Navy Base on the tiny subtropical island of La Reunion in the Indian Ocean, 3,800 miles away.
And no one, on the entire Arabian peninsula, would ever know what they had done.
Night comes crashing in over the Arabian desert and its shores far more suddenly than in more temperate northerly regions of the globe. However, on this particular night, twenty-five miles off Saudi Arabia’s Gulf Coast, it was never going to be fast enough for Capt. Alain Roudy.
The forty-one-year-old commanding officer from Tours, in the Loire Valley, was for the first time in his naval career on the edge of his nerves, though he would not have betrayed that to anyone, even his much younger second wife, Anne Marie. Actually, especially not his much younger second wife.
Captain Roudy was a disciplinarian, a man cut in the mold of eighteenth-century French battle commanders. And while he understood he might have been under pressure to defeat Great Britain’s ferocious Admiral Nelson and his veterans in 1805, he reckoned he would have fought Trafalgar a sight better than the somewhat defeatist Comte de Villeneuve, who lost his ship, was taken prisoner, and later committed suicide.
Alain Roudy, who still lived in his hometown of Tours, was currently boxed into an extremely tough time frame. Right now it was around 5:30 P.M., and the light was not fading over these waters, twenty miles west of the Abu Sa’afah oil field. The
The trouble was, he needed to be in those lanes by 1815, and every time he risked a thirty-second glance through the periscope he was seeing more moving traffic than there was on the Champs-Elysees at this time on a Sunday evening.
It was supposed to be a restricted area, but he’d seen at least two patrol boats circling the oil fields, four aged freighters to the north, three big fishing dhows, a trawler, and a ninety-foot harbor launch, plus two helicopters heading out to the landing platform in the middle of the Abu Sa’afah field.
In only sixteen fathoms of water, he really should have been moving west with a continuous lookout through the periscope. But he could not risk running with a mast jutting out, which may very well have betrayed him, or even identified him. He knew the Saudis would not have a submarine in these waters, nor probably a warship, but the
The governing factor in his operation was that he needed to be fifty miles from the datum, in the launch zone, by 0400 tomorrow morning, Monday. And that meant there would be all kinds of deadlines to observe…
And it all meant being in there, with those tankers, running south almost in a convoy, like them, at ten knots, not later than 1815, forty-five minutes from now. Otherwise, much later tonight, he would have to unleash his missiles before he reached the launch area specified by Admirals Romanet and Pires. He could not slow down, or ask for more time, because Louis Dreyfus would be accomplishing his much easier task over in the Red Sea, and they needed to be identical.
Fifteen more nail-biting minutes went by, and Captain Roudy called, “PERISCOPE!”
“Aye, sir.”
And once more he heard the smoothest of machinery carrying the telescopic mast upward, to jut out of the water. He seized the handles long before they were at eye level and took an all-around look at the surface picture. The speed and grasp that had once made him leading student at the French Navy’s Ecole de Sousmarin had not deserted him. No one could record a surface picture in his mind faster than young Roudy. And twenty years later, nothing had changed. Capt. Alain Roudy was still the master of his profession, in all of France.
The careful surface check took him exactly thirty seconds. And for the first time in several miles he could see nothing in any direction. It was also, he noticed, at last growing dark.
The
The waters in a five-mile radius around the submarine were palpably deserted. Alain Roudy ordered a two- knot increase in speed. That, he knew, would bring him down to the tanker throughway in good time.
Again he ordered the periscope up for as short a time as possible. And then again, even though he was still relying on passive sonar to warn him of any ship coming close aboard. And suddenly, dead ahead, were the Gharibah sandbank lights, fine on his starboard bow.
Alain Roudy saw a green buoy a hundred meters coming up to starboard, and he knew they were almost in the
The turbines thrust her forward, and the
No one even got a sniff of her as Captain Roudy pressed on, and then, five minutes later, took a final look at the incoming lane to the right. This was his direction and his runway. Captain Roudy wanted a couple of miles between his submarine, fore and aft, and any other ships running down to the LPG dock this eventful Sunday night.
If necessary, he would wait around to ensure he had it, but in fact the
Captain Roudy ordered a forty-degree turn to port, and the
Steer course two-two-zero…make your speed fifteen knots…stay at PD…mast down…ten kilometers to ops area.
Two decks below, Cdr. Jules Ventura now summoned his men to complete their checks — attack boards, Draegers, rifles, and ammunition to be loaded into the Zodiacs. Combat knives, flippers, det-cord, timers, detonators, wires, cutters, screwdrivers, bombs securely packed. All six of the men going in were now barefoot in their jet black wet suits, hoods down, goggles high on their foreheads, faces smeared with black camouflage cream.
Final preparations were made for the boats. The Zodiacs would be hoisted first, then the two black Yamaha outboard engines, tuned like racing cars by the engineers, just in case. The two inflatables could probably outrun the
Three minutes later, Capt. Alain Roudy ordered the helmsman to make a hard turn…
The
On the command of the Captain, Commander Ventura led his men up the unlit companionway and out onto