To The Death Part 21

Captain Abad kept going, transmitting as little as possible. He would sneak past the Sicilian port of Marsala, moving more slowly, and then accelerate through this stone-silent ocean, almost on the surface, in the dead of night, moving forward making course nor-nor-west, as swiftly as possible.

Neither he nor General Rashood realized that up ahead of them, a mere two hundred miles, ran the great, jet-black monster Los Angeles Los Angeles-cla.s.s submarine USS Cheyenne, Cheyenne, her captain already alerted to the possible presence of a rogue Iranian Kilo patrolling in the Med, doubtless up to no good. her captain already alerted to the possible presence of a rogue Iranian Kilo patrolling in the Med, doubtless up to no good.

No submarine in the world escapes the eagle eye of the United States Navy. The American admirals, without fail, know the whereabouts of every seaworthy underwater boat, nuclear or diesel-electric. Their attention is sharpened when a submarine goes missing from its home base, perhaps having ducked out between pa.s.ses of the overhead U.S. satellites. Thereafter a swift, penetrating search from inner s.p.a.ce is conducted, using secret technology that would make the Russians or the Chinese blink in amazement.

In the case of Iranian Hull No. 901, the Americans tracked her all the way to St. Petersburg as a matter of pure routine. Six months later, they observed her leaving the Russian shipyards, and tracked her easily through the Gulf of Finland, headed east around the coast of Estonia and through the Baltic. She went deep right there, and the U.S. observers merely switched their sights on the narrow Copenhagen Channel through which the Kilo must pa.s.s in order to make the open sea.

Captain Abad brought her through right on time, and the Americans watched her run past Norway's mountainous southern coast, and then into the North Sea opposite the Scottish city of Aberdeen.

It would have been a lot quicker to head down the North Sea and exit the Royal Navy's home turf through the English Channel. But the Americans knew the Kilo would never do that, and they saw her go deep and make a northern swing around Scotland, finally heading for the open Atlantic, running swiftly past the coast of Northern Ireland and out toward the granite ocean rise of Rockall.

The planners of the U.S. Navy's Atlantic Command guessed the Kilo would run through the Strait of Gibraltar into the Med and head directly for the northern entrance of the Suez Ca.n.a.l, the shortest route to the Gulf of Oman. They were correct. Almost. But the Kilo made a sudden swerve north, and the next time the Americans picked her up, she was directly off the coast of Lebanon, ten miles west of Beirut.

They had kept a weather eye on her ever since and watched with interest as the Syrian helicopter deposited a pa.s.senger on her casing on Tuesday afternoon, July 3. Captain Abad was already running west, and the Americans had, essentially, no G.o.dd.a.m.ned idea where the h.e.l.l that submarine was going, and certainly no clues about the intentions of her commanding officer. no G.o.dd.a.m.ned idea where the h.e.l.l that submarine was going, and certainly no clues about the intentions of her commanding officer.

They picked her up snorkeling, around midnight on Wednesday, July 4, and kept a loose fix on her all the way to Marsala. The ops room of the Cheyenne Cheyenne knew where Captain Abad was on the GPS, accurate to about thirty feet. knew where Captain Abad was on the GPS, accurate to about thirty feet.

On this Sat.u.r.day evening, the U.S. submarine was around fifty miles south of the Sardinian port of Cagliari. Her task was to locate the Kilo and then track her to the gateway to the Mediterranean, the Gibraltar Strait, and then let her head out into the Atlantic where another U.S. nuclear boat would follow her into really deep water.

It had not been definitely decided to sink the Kilo, but opinion in both the White House and the Pentagon was certainly swaying in that direction. There were a couple of firebrands among the Navy top bra.s.s who were perfectly happy to take her out in the deepest waters of the Med, but there was something irresistibly local about that area.

Ships from North Africa, Spain, France, Italy, and Great Britain, warships, freighters, tankers, and cruise liners ply their trade through here. And in general terms, the American Navy bra.s.s were more comfortable opening fire in the vast, bottomless anonymity of the Atlantic, where no prying eyes would ever catch a telltale sign of a submarine split asunder by a Mark 48 torpedo.

Captain Abad was oblivious of the mindset of his enemies, unaware that anyone even knew he had left Beirut, and he was certainly not contemplating the possibility of instant death and the destruction of his newly refurbished submarine.

The Iranian would be well past Marsala before he even found out that the Cheyenne Cheyenne was patrolling these waters. The Kilo would be at periscope depth, with its air intake above the surface, when Commander Hank Redford's sonars gained POSIDENT, and the was patrolling these waters. The Kilo would be at periscope depth, with its air intake above the surface, when Commander Hank Redford's sonars gained POSIDENT, and the Cheyenne Cheyenne could begin to move in closer. could begin to move in closer.

0900 Sat.u.r.day 7 July Dublin, Ireland.

Shakira Rashood waited in St. Stephen's Square for her hired chauffeur to arrive. She had been in the Shelbourne Hotel for three and a half days, which she considered to be quite long enough even for a girl as un.o.btrusive as Maureen Carson of Michigan, who had died several years previously in Bay City up on the sh.o.r.es of Lake Huron.

Shakira had been furnished with this information when she was given her second forged U.S. pa.s.sport. G.o.d alone knew how the forgers had laid hands on the data, but somehow they had. And so far as the Shelbourne Hotel was concerned, Maureen Carson had just checked out, having scarcely left the premises during her entire stay.

Mrs. Rashood had made her own car-rental arrangements with the Iranian emba.s.sy, which had offices on Mount Merrion Avenue at Black-rock, on the south side of Dublin. The emba.s.sy overlooked the Irish Sea, beyond which lay the sh.o.r.es of England.

She had liked the Shelbourne, and indeed had dined there each night, once falling into conversation with a very cheerful sixtyish Irishman at the next table who told her he was in town for the Irish Derby, the million-dollar cla.s.sic run each year in early July.

Shakira had wanted to know where, in a busy city like Dublin, did they have room to run a major horse race. The Irishman, whose name was Michael O'Donnell, explained it was run on the Curragh, a few miles outside the city, in County Kildare, Ireland's most historic racecourse being set on a ma.s.sive swath of grazing land that dates back to Roman times.

"And how far did you come to see this horse race?"

"More than a hundred miles," said Michael. "I'm up from County Tipperary. I breed a few thoroughbreds down there."

"And is one of them running in the Irish Derby?"

"Not exactly. But a colt named Easter Rebel is. And I bred him. I still own the mare, Mighty Mary, and she has a filly foal at foot. I'll get a big price for her if the Rebel goes well."

Shakira, unsurprisingly, did not understand one single word of that. But she was one of those people who cannot bear just to say, "How interesting," and move on. Shakira Rashood had to know precisely what was happening.

Of course, she was so endearingly beautiful that she was, generally speaking, indulged, especially by men, and particularly by important men, from terrorist commanders to Irish stud farm owners. Women blessed with great beauty live by an entirely different set of rules.

"You mean a mare named Mighty Mary is the mother of Easter Rebel?"

"Precisely. I sold him as a yearling, but he won four races when he was two, and two more this past spring, one of them a group race over a mile and a quarter in England."

"Does that mean they all run together-a group race?"

And so on, until Shakira thoroughly understood that Mr. O'Donnell's broodmare Mighty Mary would be very valuable if Easter Rebel should win the Irish Derby, and that her foal, the filly, could go on to be an excellent racer if she could run half as fast as her brother.

"She's what's known as a full sister," said Mr. O'Donnell. "Same father, same mother."

"I a.s.sumed they all had the same father and same mother," said Shakira. "Is this like a marriage with horses?"

Michael O'Donnell laughed. "h.e.l.l, no!" he said. "We switch 'em around all the time, breeding the mares to any stallion who takes our fancy."

"What if she doesn't like him?"

"Oh, we tether 'em good and well so they can't escape, and then bring the stallion in at precisely the right moment in her cycle."

Shakira looked shocked. "But that's terrible," she said. "What if Mighty Mary hates every moment of it? That's rape."

"Ah, jaysus, Maureen," said Michael. "We're trying to breed winners, not run a dating agency. Tipperary is one of the most famous horse-breeding places in the entire world."

"Well, I'm not sure I like your att.i.tude," she replied, "forcing those horrible stallions on the mares."

"I'll tell you one thing," said Michael. "The sire of Easter Rebel and the filly foal is not horrible. He's one of the best-looking stallions you'll ever see."

"Hmmmm," said Shakira. "What's his name?"

"Galileo."

"Could he run fast?"

"Maureen, there are three major twelve-furlong races run in England and Ireland in the high summer of the year-June and July. In 2001, Galileo won them all. And that does not happen very often."

"Is one of them the Irish Derby?"

"Sure it is."

"Then I hope Easter Rebel wins it, like his father."

"I hope he wins it for his little sister."

"Why is that important?"

"Well, today she is a very nice foal and may command 50,000 in the sale ring. If the Rebel wins this weekend, she'll be known as a full sister to an Irish Derby winner and may be worth 400,000."

"Who would pay that for a horse?"

"Probably the Arab sheiks, but in this case more likely the owners of the Coolmore Stud in Tipperary. She was born there, and they'd probably like her to come home eventually."

"Is it a beautiful place?"

"The best. Full of perfectly mown paddocks, hors.e.m.e.n who have looked after thoroughbreds for generations, and many of the finest stallions in the world. All of it right down there in the heart of Tipperary, so many foals and yearlings. That's the place, Maureen. Where the dreams begin."

"And sometimes end?" said Shakira.

"Ah, no, my girl," said the Irishman, somewhat mysteriously. "Nature never closes the book."

And with that, Michael O'Donnell took his leave, heading out of the dining room to meet his wife and daughter. As he went, he called, "There'll be some kind of a hooley at home on Sunday night if we win."

Her reply "What's a hooley?" was lost in the busy Shelbourne dining room.

And that, in a sense, was why Shakira was standing on the sidewalk in St. Stephen's Green, her forged pa.s.sport in her bag, awaiting her driver. She had decided, pending the arrival of her husband in a few days, to visit Tipperary, somewhere near this Coolmore Stud, 110 miles south of Dublin.

0900 Sat.u.r.day 7 July Brockhurst, Virginia.

Detective Joe Segel was becoming an expert on brick walls, dead ends, and roads leading nowhere. In the past five days, he had experienced all of them-in his fruitless search for the vanishing barmaid. In his own mind, he was as certain as an experienced detective ever could be that Miss Carla Martin had indeed stabbed Matt Barker to death. It also seemed certain that the big garage proprietor had launched some kind of s.e.xual attack on her and paid for it with his life.

The only other certainty about Carla was that she had most definitely disappeared off the face of the earth. Just about every radio and television news station in the United States had carried the story. Not just the media in the local Virginia/Washington, D.C. area; the tantalizing mystery of the Barker p.e.c.k.e.r had transported the murder story far and wide.

If Carla had been anywhere in the USA, and indeed been innocent of the crime, she would surely have called in to the 800 number at Joe Segel's police station to clear her name. But she had not done so, which meant one of two things: she had fled the country, possibly before the body was found, or she was hiding out somewhere in the States until the murder hunt died down.

It was now obvious that her pa.s.sport was a forgery. The two establishments in London that she had submitted as references had never heard of her. Her apartment yielded absolutely nothing, and the film on the closed-circuit system at Chesapeake Heights was so indistinct and the exiting figure so awkwardly presented, not even Fred Mitch.e.l.l could swear to G.o.d it was Jane Camaro.

The lady had covered her tracks with astounding efficiency. The fact was, Joe Segel did not even know her name. He did not even know her nationality. And he sure as h.e.l.l did not know where she was. He'd even had the FBI and the CIA launch an international search looking for a port-of-entry clue in every major nation in the Middle East, not to mention London, Paris, Rome, Madrid, Amsterdam, Brussels, Geneva, Berlin, and Milan. Nothing.

Joe did not even have a car description or a license-plate number. There was nothing to go on. This particular murder hunt was headed for the "unsolved" file with near-record speed. There was only one suspect. And that suspect seemed not to exist.

Like Fred Mitch.e.l.l five days ago, Detective Joe feared for his resume.

1000 Sunday 8 July National Security Agency, Maryland.

Lt. Commander Ramshawe had to be at the Australian emba.s.sy for lunch. His time was thus limited, and he moved fast to make sure he caught Admiral Morgan before he went out.

And again he spelled out his fears to the great man, to no avail, even though he stressed the danger that must be prevalent since it was entirely possible that Emily Gallagher had revealed too much detail to the girl now wanted for murder.

"Arnie, is it not possible for you simply to change the dates?"

"Out of the question. After London, we're going up to Scotland to stay a couple of nights with Admiral Sir Iain MacLean, then we're all going to Edinburgh for the Festival and the Military Tattoo."

"I've been to that with Dad," said Jimmy. "It goes on for about a month. Can't you just go on a different night?"

"Jimmy, I'm taking the salute on a very carefully planned evening. The dates were only finalized on Friday. I have to go when I said I'd go. Anyway, it's a pretty big honor. A lot of very big-deal military men have taken the salute at Edinburgh Castle. Churchill did it. The prime minister of England is doing it the night after me. I wouldn't miss it."

"Hmmmmm," said Jimmy, reverting to his rich Aussie accent, as he normally did when under stress. "Basically, I'm wasting my time, right? Just trying to save your b.l.o.o.d.y life."

"Which is of course threatened by a barmaid. C'mon, kid. Let's stay real. I got plenty of protection, not to mention half the British Army."

"I'm not worried about the G.o.dd.a.m.ned barmaid. I'm worried about her employers. That's all. You know there's some hotshot special operators in those jihadist groups. I'm just trying to keep you out of the crosshairs."

"Don't worry about me, kid. I'm fireproof. Gotta go."

Crash. Down phone.

"Stubborn old p.r.i.c.k," muttered Jimmy.

1400 Sunday 8 July Western Mediterranean.

The Kilo Kilo-cla.s.s submarine that bore General Rashood to his destination still ran fast at periscope depth, still snorkeling. Captain Abad was conning her through nine thousand feet of ocean depth, 150 miles south of Majorca in the Spanish Balearic Isles. That put her around fifty miles northwest of Algiers, 37.30 North, 02.30 East.

She ran just below the surface, making twelve knots. In this snorkeling mode, she was, by modern submarine standards, quite extraordinarily noisy, and she was picked up instantly by the sophisticated sonar carried by USS Cheyenne. Cheyenne.

Right now, Commander Hank Redford had the big LA- LA-cla.s.s submarine patrolling slowly, approximately a hundred miles south of the island of Formentera, around 110 miles northwest of the oncoming Iranians. The American sonar operators were scanning the wide deep seas to the east, their long electronic towed array strung out astern of the ship like a giant black snake, catching and processing any electronic movement in the ocean. The sonar team, to a man, was watching, waiting for the distinctive engine lines of the Russian-built Kilo with its trademark five-bladed prop.

The bells of the watch came and went. The day finally gave way to night, and by now the Kilo was sixty-five miles closer. In waters this deep, there is no appreciable advantage to any ship, because it is not possible to "back up" against a "noisy" landma.s.s and force your quarry to aim its sonars into the most confusing area. Out here, where the ocean is vast and empty, bereft of any land, all's fair. The hunter must stay quiet, and the hunted is supposed to stay even quieter, though in the case of Captain Abad this was impossible.

Generally speaking, a U.S. Navy underwater boat has it all over any perceived opponent, but the Kilo was only weeks out of refit, and in recent years the Russians had done a great deal of catching up.

Cheyenne, with that towed array with that towed array, would certainly locate the Kilo first, but there was an excellent chance the Kilo would pick up the Americans in the end. Thereafter, it was a matter of Captain Abad holding his nerve and hoping to h.e.l.l the U.S. commanding officer did not feel especially trigger-happy. would certainly locate the Kilo first, but there was an excellent chance the Kilo would pick up the Americans in the end. Thereafter, it was a matter of Captain Abad holding his nerve and hoping to h.e.l.l the U.S. commanding officer did not feel especially trigger-happy.

A bookmaker would almost certainly have made the Americans favorite to do anything they liked. And that would be logical, if if it was just any old Kilo sliding through the water. But this particular Kilo was state-of-the-art, and there was a chance that some U.S. advantage might have been eliminated in the secretive laboratories of St. Petersburg's Admiralty Yards. it was just any old Kilo sliding through the water. But this particular Kilo was state-of-the-art, and there was a chance that some U.S. advantage might have been eliminated in the secretive laboratories of St. Petersburg's Admiralty Yards.

The watch changed at midnight. But no one left the sonar room. Everyone knew the Kilo must be approaching. Her course was plainly direct to the Gibraltar Strait, and, so far as the American navigators were concerned, she was already late.

The satellite pictures had recorded her leaving the coast of Lebanon, and she'd been snorkeling all the way at a steady twelve knots. In the hot still of this Mediterranean night, the Kilo kept going, oblivious of the presence of USS Cheyenne. Cheyenne. Captain Abad was confident out here in the dark, in deep lonely waters, but he was instinctively concerned about the sea-scape further west in the busy shipping lanes which lead into, and out of, the Atlantic Ocean. Captain Abad was confident out here in the dark, in deep lonely waters, but he was instinctively concerned about the sea-scape further west in the busy shipping lanes which lead into, and out of, the Atlantic Ocean.

At 0034, still at periscope depth, with the air-intake mast up and the big diesel generators, deep within the submarine, running smoothly, the Kilo was picked up by the Cheyenne Cheyenne twenty miles away. twenty miles away.

Chief Petty Officer Skip Gowans said quietly, "I might have something right here, just a faint rise in the level. It could be a rain shower, swishing on the surface-but I thought it was something . . . arrived kinda sudden . . . give me a few minutes."

Commander Redford was standing right at his shoulder. No one spoke, and the chief did not say anything more for at least four minutes. Then he said, "I have a definite rise in the level. I don't think it's weather-I'm getting something."

Again there was silence. Chief Gowans was a study in concentration. The entire operations center was hanging on his decision, and at 0044 he gave it: "Captain-sonar . . . I have faint engine lines coming up on the array. Relative eight-nine. Lines fit the sample, sir."

Commander Redford moved nearer to the "waterfall" screen, which now showed definite engine lines. The computer had already compared them with the Kilo engine sample built into the system.

Chief Gowans muttered, "They fit, sir. No doubt."

Hank Redford snapped, "Gimme the range."