41

They’d lost the Iranian Kilo. Halberg stood in the combat and control center of his sub, sweating profusely. He took a drink of water and silently watched his men work. They’d lost plenty of contacts before, but never in a situation this tense. His steel blue eyes darted from one screen to the next. A digital readout on the plotting screen read 14:32 and counting. That was how long it had been since the Kilo had broken contact. They were nearly three months into a six-month patrol and the men had conducted themselves wonderfully, until now.

Halberg had been in the engine room hitting the heavy bag when the officer of the deck had sent word that the Iranian sub had vanished. Without saying a word, Halberg peeled off his boxing gloves, grabbed a towel, and headed to the CACC. His XO met him at the plotting table and played back the tactical information on the screen starting two minutes prior to losing contact. Ten seconds of footage told Halberg all he needed to know. He saw what the Iranian captain must have done. The man had timed things perfectly. Just as he finished one of his lazy figure eights, he had made a dash across the outgoing channel and the bow of a heavily laden supertanker that was making a lot of noise and churning up a lot of muck. When the supertanker had finally passed, the Iranian Kilo was gone. They did a quick sweep and came to the conclusion that she had headed back into the strait sandwiched between two container vessels that were separated by less than a mile. Halberg ordered a new course and they fell in behind the second container vessel. As best they could figure it they were approximately two miles back from the Kilo.

The executive officer finished speaking with the navigator and then walked across the CACC to where Halberg was silently standing watch. In a hushed voice meant for only the two of them Strilzuk said, “I’m sorry I lost her, Skipper.”

“No need to apologize. She made a good move.”

“You would have seen it coming.”

Halberg shrugged. “Maybe.”

“No. You would have seen it, and we both know it.”

“You will too one day. You’re almost there.”

“I don’t know about that.” Strilzuk looked deflated.

“Stop beating yourself up, and tell me what he’s going to do next.”

Strilzuk looked down at the tactical screen and started weighing options. The Kilo really had only two choices. She could head back into port, which based on the fact that practically the entire Iranian navy had been put to sea, didn’t seem very likely. The most probable scenario was that she would transit the strait and head back into the gulf.

“She’s going to head back into the gulf, and make a sprint while we’re stuck in the channel.”

Halberg nodded. “How long will she run?”

Strilzuk checked his watch, and looked at the tactical screen. It marked the estimated location of the Kilo, the two freighters, and their speeds. Based on the Kilo’s known top speed Strilzuk answered, “Roughly five and a half minutes.”

“Any other possibilities?”

“She could head back into port, but I don’t see that happening.”

“Neither do I. What else?” Halberg asked in a tone that told Strilzuk he was missing something.

Strilzuk studied the tactical for a moment. He looked at the clump of islands off Bandar Abbas. “She might decide to partially surface, run to the leeward side of one of these islands, wait for us to pass, and then fall in behind us.”

“That’s possible, but not likely.” Halberg hit a button and rewound the tactical to the point where they lost the Kilo. He pointed to the screen and said, “What if she ran clear across the inbound channel, looped around to the east, and headed back out, or worse, fell in behind us?”

Strilzuk looked embarrassed. “That’s possible.”

“But unlikely,” Halberg offered in consolation. He read his friend’s frustration and said, “Dennis, you’re practical and straightforward. This guy,” Halberg pointed at the screen, “is a little crazy. Running across the outbound channel that close to a fully loaded tanker with all this other traffic around is not exactly a conservative move. Would you ever try something like that?”

Strilzuk sighed, “Not under normal conditions.”

“Which tells you?”

“This guy’s either got a screw loose or these aren’t normal circumstances.”

“Exactly. Send a message to CTF 54. Let them know we lost contact.”

“You sure?” Strilzuk studied his captain’s face. “You don’t want to wait and see if we reacquire her on the other side?”

Halberg clicked a button and the tactical zoomed out to show the entire Persian Gulf and the northern half of the Gulf of Oman. The screen was filled with hundreds of contacts. The Eisenhower Strike Group was positioned smack-dab in the middle of the Persian Gulf with the bulk of the noisy Iranian navy headed her way. It was the perfect screen for a quiet diesel submarine. One missing Kilo was bad enough. Two could wreak havoc on the strike group.

Halberg decided to swallow his pride. “The sooner we let them know the better.”

“I’m sorry, Skipper.”

Halberg brushed off the apology. “I’m sure we’ll find her when we clear the channel, and then we’ll fall in behind her and make sure she behaves.”

42

Rapp looked through the thick windshield of the up-armored Humvee as they rolled through the main gate. He had his satellite phone held to his right ear and a look of impatience on his face. The bulk of the quick-reaction force was still back at the site of the attack securing the perimeter and collecting bodies. Rapp had commandeered a Stryker and two Humvees to transport him and the three prisoners back to the base so he could begin interrogating them immediately.

“Chuck,” Rapp said to the man on the other end of the line, “it’s the Wild West out here. I have no idea who took her. But I’m going to find out, and I can guarantee you it isn’t going to be pretty.”

“Mitch,” said the deputy director of the CIA, “get her back, but I’m telling you this as a friend. This thing is going to attract a lot of heat. Every reporter and politician in Washington is going to want to dissect every aspect of not just the kidnapping, but the aftermath as well.”

“And they can all go fuck themselves.”

“Mitch,” Charles O’Brien sighed, “that’s the kind of attitude that’s going to get you into a lot of trouble.”

“Let me make this real clear for you, Chuck.” Rapp’s voice was tense. “I don’t want to hear another word about my attitude. I don’t want anyone looking over my shoulder, and I sure as hell don’t want anyone second-guessing what I do. We’ve got maybe twenty-four hours before they break her. The rule book is out the window. This is gangland violence time. Don’t send me any analysts from Baghdad. I need knuckle draggers. I need guys who are going to kick down doors and kick the shit out of people until they give us answers.”

“Mitch, I think you need to take a step back and reassess how you’re going to handle this. I’ll be at the White House in…”

“They’re going to torture her!” Rapp growled.

“Mitch,” O’Brien sighed, “none of us want to see that happen, but you can’t go running off half-cocked. You need to…”

“Don’t tell me what I need to do!” Rapp screamed into the phone. “You and everyone else in Washington need to stick your fucking heads in the sand for the next twenty-four hours, and let me do whatever it takes to get her back.”

“That’s not going to happen. I can’t let you do that.”

“Then you’d better go on vacation.”

“You’re too close to this thing,” O’Brien said forcefully. “You need to take a step back and cool down…remember that there are laws.”