Hunter Killer

“And Lt. Commander Ramshawe, personal assistant to our esteemed NSA leader, George Morris, believes he is building a very powerful case against France. And if he can nail ’em, that’s your way out of this whole goddamned mess. Because then you’ll attack the French verbally, shouting and yelling about their unfailing selfishness, their total disregard for anyone else.

“And you tell the world how they helped bring down the Saudi King entirely for their own profit. Never mind half the world falling into a blackout, never mind hospitals and schools closing down because of power shortages. Never mind stock market crashes, highways coming to a halt, the world’s airlines grounded through lack of fuel.

“They — the great, imperious, and haughty French, la grande civilisation—must go their own way, steering their own course along the road to prosperity. Gallic pricks. And you will step up to the plate and demand, with all the wrath and righteous indignation of the United States, that France be hauled before the United Nations to explain their conduct.

“You will once more look like the leader of the world. But trust me. You cannot sit here and hope to Christ this stuff goes away. Because it’s not going to.

“And if the French have really done this, sir — effectively taken Saudi oil off the world market, for their own ends — they deserve every last kick in the ass we can give ’em.”

“Yes,” said the President. “That they do.”

SAME DAY, SAME TIME

NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY

Lt. Cdr. Jimmy Ramshawe would have been pacing his office, except the floor was such a complete mess with piles of paper he would probably have killed himself. As it was, he sat staring at transcripts of messages and wondering why he was drawing a complete blank on every lead he had on the shattering events in Saudi Arabia.

The two French submarines were still missing. And for the umpteenth time Ramshawe counted the hours since the missiles must have been fired—0100 local on Monday morning…that’s sixty-five hours, and all that time the two missing Rubis, the Perle and the Amethyste, were moving away from the datum, probably at a dead-silent seven knots.

Ramshawe took his dividers and assessed where on the chart the submarine in the Gulf had fired her missiles, calculating that they had also landed and retrieved a team of frogmen…somewhere up here, northeast of the Abu Sa’afah oil field…must have been somewhere up here, because they couldn’t make a getaway straight through the bloody oil field…they must have gone north.

He hit the buttons on his calculator, multiplying sixty-five hours by seven knots…455 nautical miles…that puts him somewhere here, through the Strait of Hormuz, and about 120 miles southeast running down the Gulf of Oman. One more day, and she’s free and clear, steaming down the Arabian Sea in deep water — straight to the French naval base at La Reunion, unless I’m very much mistaken.

Ramshawe adjusted his dividers to appreciate distances in the Red Sea…the second submarine fired at the same time, somewhere off Jiddah…and they also ran away making seven knots…455 nautical miles… that puts them in the narrowing part of the Red Sea, off this long coastline of Eritrea and Ethiopia…one more day and they’re through the Strait of Bab al Mandeb, home free, running out of the Gulf of Aden…straight to La Reunion.

Ramshawe considered this was essentially a blind alley. The French would admit nothing, probably would not even reply to an inquiry from the United States. And yet he could not stay away from the possible routes of the Perle and the Amethyste.

“I just wish to hell one of the other leads would come up,” he muttered. “Maybe a little more on the Frog in the Desert. Maybe a fix on where his message went. If we could just find out who dined with Major Kerman that night in Marseille. Anything would help. And what about the new Saudi King confirming that the French were getting the cream of the rebuilding programs in the oil fields?”

Ramshawe felt he was on the right track. He was certain this was all to do with France. But like many another detective before him, he was just waiting for a break, just a tiny chink of light in some obscure corner that might one day illuminate the whole picture.

“Doesn’t seem much to ask,” he stated to the empty room.

“Just one small break for Jim, one giant leap for the industrial world.”

At 1100 local time, right there in the National Security Agency, he got it.

The CIA were just beginning to push through the system the firsthand reports from their own people in Riyadh. That included several field officers working for Aramco, several informants who worked for the agency out of local businesses, banks and construction corporations, and, of course, the serious professional operators inside the U.S. embassy.

Most of them were Americans, and all of them were passing back their accounts of the events in the capital city as it fell to the “forces of the people.” And there was little in dispute, since almost everyone described the military convoy led by the big M1A2 Abrams tanks trundling through the city, taking the ministry, taking the television stations, taking the airport and then the royal palaces.

There was of course the hair-raising account of the suicide bomber crashing into the King’s palace, and there were hazy accounts of the sporadic firefights inside the walls of the palace, and the burning of the two Chinooks that many people had seen fly over the Diplomatic Quarter. But it was the firsthand report from the veteran U.S. diplomat Charlie Brooks that instantly caught the eye of Lt. Commander Ramshawe. Because this was a man who had served the United States in many parts of the world, and understood the stakes. And what Brooks had written, from his vantage point along the direct route of the convoy, was nothing short of riveting. At least it was to Jimmy Ramshawe.

“All of the armored vehicles carried the insignia of the Royal Saudi Land Forces, and it was assumed we were watching a military exercise, except of course the presence of the Abrams tanks was unusual. However, I was struck by the presence of the commander who was standing up in the turret of the leading tank. He was a heavyset bearded guy wearing combat gear and a red-and-white Arab ghutra on his head. Like all of the other soldiers he was carrying a submachine gun and an ammunition belt across his chest.

“I was certain I recognized him, and of course I had to consider the fact I may have encountered him at any number of Saudi diplomatic receptions. It is perfectly usual that we meet serving Saudi military officers. And this man was most definitely an Arab in appearance.

“However, it took me a few minutes to place him. And I am now certain where I first met him. He was the leader of the French Special Forces team that rescued the staff of the U.S. embassy in the Congo, back in June 1999. I refer to the embassy of U.S. Ambassador Aubrey Hooks, in Brazzaville, where I served for several months.

“The forward commander on that leading tank was the same man. He had carried my bags into the French Army truck outside the Congo embassy. I stood with him while he loaded the packing cases full of documents, and I shook his hand when we boarded the aircraft for Kinshasa. He was definitely French. His men called him, I think, Major Chasser…”

Jimmy Ramshawe almost choked on his stone-cold coffee.

He read the communication over and over, digesting the stick of dynamite Charlie Brooks had sent by encrypted e-mail direct to the CIA sometime during the past couple of hours. And essentially his question was the same as Brooks’s: what the hell was this French Special Forces officer doing leading an armored convoy to attack the palace of the King of Saudi Arabia in the middle of the capital city of Riyadh?

He realized of course the explanation could have been very simple. Many Middle Eastern defense ministries had, over the years, employed retired Special Forces combat soldiers to help train their own armies. It was not unusual to find SAS men helping the Israelis. Indeed Maj. Ray Kerman had served in just such a role.

And certainly the Saudis had employed many Army, Air Force, and even Naval special advisers from Great Britain, the United States, and, less often, France. The officer in the leading tank may well have been hired by the Saudis after he had retired from the French Special Forces.

But, according to Charlie Brooks, this guy was not serving in the capacity of a “special adviser.” This guy, a foreign national, was commanding the entire Saudi assault force, the one that took down the King.

Lt. Commander Ramshawe understood something of those desert people, and he had read often of the fierce