Chapter 7

USS Springfield, Persian Gulf
Saturday, November 15, 1997
8:30 P.M. (GMT + 3.00)

The USS Springfield slid through the dark waters beneath the Persian Gulf—a black hull on a black night in black water. She was a phantom cruising the sea on patrol. A constant vigil against enemies emanating from Iranian ports or interlopers emerging from lands further away. The United States had made it abundantly clear; they would tolerate no interference to keep oil flowing from the Arab spigots. This was a policy of national survival overriding the leadership vagaries residing at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

Designated 761, she was one of the improved Los Angeles Class fast attack boats. This meant there were more options available in terms of armament coupled with a stealthier sound signature. The Springfield was a hole in the ocean constantly searching, listening, tracking—and if called upon—killing. She was a long way from Groton, Connecticut, the homeport of Submarine Group Two, Submarine Squadron Two. Her sister ships escorted carrier surface action groups like unseen terriers, watching and waiting. The Pittsburgh and the Toledo were improved 688 fast attack boats as herself—the rest were first generation boats.

She wore her colors proudly. Her crew of one hundred forty ventured out on six-month patrols, and sometimes longer. This time they were attached to the USS George Washington task force.

The George Washington was one of the newest Nimitz Class aircraft carriers. The aircraft carrier was a symbol of American power. Two carriers working in tandem provided air power totaling one hundred sixty aircraft. They were the forward presence of American authority and might.

The Springfield’s task was to ensure troublesome underwater predators did not come close enough to endanger the 80,800 ton behemoth. She was one of the silent killers that roamed the seas beneath 6000 man boats. If the National Command Authority gave the order, the small one hundred forty man crews in deadly boats would ensure the George Washington could deliver the 4,600,000 pounds of ammunition she carried. While some may question America’s leadership resolve, no one should ever doubt the ability of the American Navy to deliver.

Considering the Springfield’s mission, the FLASH message traffic she received tonight disturbed Executive Officer Rob Bremmer. He carried the message folder to the Captain’s quarters. Somehow, a Chinese Han Class boat had penetrated the protective barriers surrounding the carriers. Certainly, the Chinese Boat must have come close to the Nimitz or the George Washington. He knocked on the Captain’s cabin door.

“Come,” summoned Captain Jeff Andrews.

Rob entered and closed the door behind him.

Andrews looked up. “Robbie, what’ve you got?”

Rob set the folder on the Captain’s table and took a chair across from him. “FLASH message traffic from COMSUBGRP2. It seems we have a visitor.”

Andrews examined the photograph taken by the U-2. He looked at the map plot and let out a long, low whistle. “What’s a Han doing here?”

“It doesn’t look they were enforcing the UN embargo,” suggested Rob.

He pulled the photo from the papers and stared at it. “Any idea what they were giving the Iraqis?”

Robbie shook his head.

“Okay. It’s too small to be a missile, and no one in their right mind would try a nuclear transfer in the middle of the night on a choppy sea.” He reached behind him and pulled an Intel folder from its rack. “According to this, we’ve found most of the nuclear sites. What does that leave?” He stared at his XO.

Robbie followed his boss’s thinking. “Chemical or biological.”

Andrews nodded.

“It says here they think this boat might be hurt.”

“Yeah, I saw that too, but I don’t know what they’re talking about. All this photo shows is the sub and the surface ship.” He paused, “You have any idea what this is?” He pointed at the black square barely visible at the top of the Han’s hull.

“Looks like a hole to me.”

“Square?”

“Isn’t this where their missile hatches should be?”

Robbie traced the square shape backward along the spine of the boat. There were no missile hatches. “Yeah, you’re right. I don’t see anything like what should be there.”

Andrews picked up the photo again. He tilted his reading glasses forward to get a better look. “If I wasn’t looking at a sub, I’d say this was a cargo hold.”

“Maybe they know something we don’t.”

One thing submarine drivers despised were cute little intelligence boys sitting in their nice Virginia office buildings deciding what could and could not be shared with ships at sea. Andrews had a nasty feeling about this one. “Maybe they do.”

He flipped to the orders page. “Did you take care of this already?”

Rob nodded. “Yes. I’ve plotted a course to the southern gulf about fifty to seventy-five klicks inside the strait.” There was only one strait as far as the Persian Gulf was concerned. The Strait of Hormuz is a narrow choke point where an inordinate amount of the world’s supply of oil flowed in huge supertankers. It was another duty of the US Navy to ensure no one took it into their fancy to block the Strait. The only way for the Chinese boat to exit the Gulf was through the Strait, and it simply was not possible to do that without being noticed.

“It says here we’re supposed to be goal keepers,” Andrews scowled. “I wonder what they think that means. Deny sea passage to a Chinese sub? Does that give me authority to sink him?” He shook his head. An Admiral had not written this order. This order was issued by some flunky in Washington—or worse yet—Langley. Why would Langley write orders to submarines on carrier protection patrol concerning specific tactics in regard to a Chinese sub? He flicked his finger at the photo.

“I wonder how they got into the Gulf.”

“The Russians used to have a trick with the SOSUS line where they would try and get their boomers through by riding the wake of one of their surface freighters. A really dangerous game in case someone stopped too soon.” Andrews laughed. “It never worked really. The boys with the big ears at the NSA always heard them. We always knew when they were going to sortie a boomer and simply waited until they left their freighter before picking them up. I’d guess the Chinese followed a tanker through the Strait and we plain missed it.”

He shook his head and snapped a finger at the map. “Fifty klicks south of Al Faw.” He shook his head gravely. “That means they snuck up as close as possible to the coast without showing themselves.” His mind started to churn with the possibilities—the same possibilities that had surfaced half a world away earlier that same day. The inescapable conclusion surfaced for Andrews. China was working with Iraq. Nothing good could come from such an alliance. He remembered the rumors from back home about campaign contributions, the Chinese manipulation of the elections, and Iraq’s continued intransigence over UN weapons inspectors. Now, he had to find a Chinese sub. It all began to smell.

Sometimes it’s better to ask forgiveness, rather than permission. Andrews could ask for clarification from COMSUBGRP2, or he could use his latitude regarding the orders. He sighed.

“Robbie, make sure we have fish in tubes one, two, three, and four. Tubes flooded, doors closed.” He looked back to the photograph. “If we find this guy, he doesn’t get to open water. If he twitches, we send him to the bottom.”

Robbie looked across the table. Those were war fighting orders. “You think that’s wise?”

“According to this message there is a suspicion that the Han might be damaged.”

Robbie nodded slowly. “Damage can cut two ways. He may be slow or noisy or both.”

“Yeah. Put yourself in his shoes. Say you’ve got a damaged boat and some casualties. First thing you’ve got to assess is whether you can fix the problems at sea.” Andrews shrugged. “Maybe—maybe not. It would take some time to figure those things out and come up with a plan. I would rig for ultra quiet and go slow hoping to avoid detection.”

“So you think a sub driver with a damaged boat is more dangerous?”

Andrews shook his head. “More desperate. And desperate men tend to gamble closer to the edge of their performance envelope. Until we know otherwise, we treat this one like a hostile.”

Chapter 6 / the rest

The sites were disguised from the air; there were no surface installations besides the simple blockhouses with security teams within a fifteen to twenty kilometer radius. Of course, there were teams inside the installations, but due to the need for stealth and secrecy those teams were limited in size. Iraq had maintained extensive communications during the Gulf War using fiber optic cables buried in the sand. While the arrogant Americans were searching for conventional copper communication cables, Saddam was calmly prosecuting his war from his German made bombproof bunkers. Unless the air assault obliterated a position, Saddam rarely lost contact with his commanders.

The same fiber optic network remained in place after the war. No one knew for sure whether the Americans could trace the fiber network, but it continued to send data throughout the dispersed weapon centers. The Americans knew there were secret labs, and the Iraqis knew the Americans knew. Saddam relied on the current administration’s lack of political will, and his belief in America’s naiveté to keep his regime intact.

In 1992, a two-man team penetrated the Iraqi Data Center. Duri had been a captain then. He watched the piecemeal commitment of fire teams to the emergency. In the main computer room, there had been a firefight between one of the internal teams and the intruders. The closed circuit cameras caught most of the action. A great deal of damage resulted from the intrusion. The intruders were obviously from a Western power; they wore body armor and fired American made weapons. One man raged with an M-16 A2; the other blasted with a short-barreled shotgun.

The firefight caused the intruders to abort their mission early as self-preservation overrode duty. They fled, leaving supplies and weapons behind. A trail of blood marked their passage until they encountered the second internal team. The cameras showed incapacitation within seconds. The cameras also captured the best photographic evidence of the intruders. The faces were now part of a computerized database designed to match a face to existing graphics. Every Israeli, British, and American Special Forces intelligence officer known to the Iraqi SSS had been entered. It also included rogues like the two who penetrated the Data Center.

By the time sufficient security teams converged, the intruders had escaped into the desert. Iraq’s computer systems were crippled for nine months. It had cost the General responsible for Data Center security his life. Second chances were not available in the Iraqi security services.
Duri survived the purges and came to Saddam’s attention during the spring of 1996. He helped uncover a large-scale embezzlement ring inside the Sixth and Fourteenth Republican Guard divisions. Military weapons and material were being sold off to civilians in exchange for gold, hard currency, and sometimes food. Over one hundred fifty administrative officers were arrested. They took up new residence at Abu Gharib prison.

Abu Gharib had become a holding center for human guinea pigs. As with so many other things, the arrest and punishment of the Republican Guard officers became an object lesson. This lesson was directed both to those who might consider similar actions against Saddam’s regime as well as to those who were the regime’s defenders. Duri was charged with the transportation of the entire group from Abu Gharib—where they might have simply starved to death or received a merciful bullet—to Al Salman.

Al Salman had become a place cloaked in mystery. It was one of the secret special warfare sites people entered and never came out. It had started out as an agricultural facility. There were even studies published regarding strains of wheat and corn. Most of this information was culled from the Internet and regurgitated for international consumption. Al Salman’s true purpose was to test chemical and biological agents, first on animals, then on human subjects. The stench of urine, feces, and vomit lingered throughout the facility. It was protected by Special Republican Guard troops wearing biohazard uniforms and respirators. Visitors were not issued respirators or earplugs in order that the sites, smells, and sounds from Al Salman would have a lasting impression. Failure could cost much more than death. The lesson was not lost on Duri.

This night found Colonel Duri rushing towards the waters between Al Faw and Jazirat Bubiyan. He had risen through the ranks to become a responsible and trusted member of the security forces. Responsibility and success now raised the twin specters of failure and disappointment. Duri had no desire to join those he had sent to the chemical and biological warfare labs as test subjects. Even a man who had cut himself off from the pleasures of family and devoted his energies to survival could not erase the sights and sounds he witnessed at Al Salman.

His particular charge was a delivery from the Red Chinese, and his specific problem was the two idiots riding chained together behind him. While those two would find their deaths this night, Duri intended to see the sun rise many more times. To do that he had to recover what he could of the shipment. Saddam’s precious target list and his goal for revenge would probably cost more lives before it was over.

The lorry came to a halt on the shoreline of the Gulf. The sound of the surf rolling against the rocks and sand replaced the engine noise. Only a faint light from stars was visible over the sand. Duri got out of the cab and walked around the end of the truck. He pounded on the side of the vehicle. The flap covering the interior flipped open.

“Bring them,” he commanded and walked towards the surf casually unsnapping his holster.

His driver remained seated inside the truck. He, too, had learned the object lessons of Al Salman.

The two sailors were prodded forward at bayonet point. Chains jingled with their shuffling steps. The divers hung back by the truck, waiting for instructions.

Once the shuffling stopped, Duri turned from the surf to the prisoners. He looked at both of them. Even in the cool autumn night, these two were sweating. He shrugged. “I will ask these questions one time.”

Both nodded quickly.

Fear induced such compliance in people. Certainly, these fools knew what was coming. Their cooperation simply bought them the mercy of a quick death versus a prolonged torture at Al Salman. Duri enjoyed the fear he induced. He understood the nature of accelerated heart rates and adrenaline pumping like a raging river into their blood streams. It would change nothing.

“Where did you come ashore?”

Both sets of eyes leaped from his face to the shoreline. A manacled hand rose and pointed down the shoreline. “I think I see the raft we landed in.”

Duri followed the raised hands to where they were pointing. A crumpled yellow shape lay some two hundred meters down the beach. Duri started walking towards the spot. The others followed him in the jingling shuffle through the sand. No one spoke over the shuffle, jingle, and surf. Their fear spilled forth like a spreading oil slick on a calm sea. Both were praying to whatever gods they might know that it was the survival raft.

The divers and truck followed at a distance. Eventually, they arrived at a punctured raft pulled up on the beach. Two life preservers lay in the bottom of the raft. “This is it?”

“Yes.” They nearly fell over answering him.

Duri turned to the pair. He considered shooting one of them. His hand fingered the leathered flap on his holster. Perhaps these two could still be useful. After all, no one would want to handle the casks any more than required. Dead men should have no qualms about cleaning up the mess that they had created. The guards tensed, expecting the Makarov to emerge in Duri’s hand.

The moment passed.

Duri motioned the divers forward. They were special troops from his SSS command.

“Where’s the ship?”

“Out about one hundred meters,” explained the first officer. “It’s about twenty meters below the surface.”

Duri pursed his lips. He waved the truck and divers forward. He looked back to the two sailors. “Sit.” They dropped to the beach like pair of highly trained dogs.

Now the wait began. Duri lit a cigarette and paced down the beach towards the surf. He took several deep drags before flipping it into the sea. An entire crew poisoned by the Chinese gift. If the story was to be believed, the entire crew succumbed to the chemical agent—men clawing at their respirator masks while their eyes dissolved at the same time. A toxin so deadly, the Captain made the decision to scuttle his ship rather than risk moving through the Shatt Al Arab waterway.

Instead of a few sailors lying dead at the bottom of the Gulf, an epidemic could have spread on both sides. The Captain could have killed both Iraqi and Iranian citizens. Duri doubted the Mullahs would understand such a mistake. The Captain pulled his ship away from the densely populated banks of the Tigris River towards the waters between Iraq and Kuwait. He managed to scuttle the boat before they all died, and more importantly, before dawn.

Duri wondered about the American satellites and the spy planes. Did they know what had happened? Did they have pictures popping out of their computers and analysts examining the evidence? No one doubted their ability to search for things, but Iraq had developed an even greater ability to hide things.

A buoy broke the surface. Its tiny red lamp flickered advertising its position. Duri leaned forward. Perhaps he would survive this setback. His own heart rate accelerated as he began to believe his life would continue after tonight.

A second buoy sprang up two meters closer. Both casks had been found. Duri turned back to his prisoners.

“You have a chance to redeem yourselves. I want you to get those casks into the truck and make sure they are secure.” He lit another cigarette. “Release them.”

Incredulous, they lifted their hands to the guards. A key appeared and the manacles dropped to the sand. They galloped towards the surf.

Duri walked back to the truck and pulled out a map from his tunic. He opened the map for the driver and pointed to a red X. “Do you know how to get here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. We leave immediately after the casks are secured in the rear. I don’t care how fast you drive, but no accidents; that would be the least of our problems.” He turned back to the surf. His prisoners were gleefully pulling the casks back towards the shore. If they dropped dead from anything other than bullet holes Duri had another problem. They were his canaries in the coalmine. The miners knew enough to leave when the canaries died.

He walked back to the guards. “I intend to leave you here to clean up the mess. When they have finished with the casks, shoot them. I’ll send another vehicle for you in the morning.”

Duri turned back to the truck. He climbed into the cab and lit another cigarette. He closed his eyes wondering how much longer he could continue in this present life. Sometime soon, it would be time to get out. He dare not ascend to the rank of General Officer. The truck engine turned over. A noisy putter overpowered the surf outside. The gentle rumble worked its way through the frame and a drowsy Duri barely heard the stutter of two automatic rifles. Another failure was buried in the sand.

Chapter 6 / Page 3

During the Gulf War, Duri stood behind hunkered down troops waiting for the Americans. Incredibly, men under his watch began surrendering en masse to the United States Army and Marine battalions as they punched through the berms without slowing. The Iraqi regulars broke under the pressure to fight. They emerged from the holes in the sand throwing away rifles and raising their arms. These men had survived the relentless air war. Day and night without end, the air forces of Desert Storm pounded their positions. Incendiary and anti-personnel bombs rained from the sky. They never knew a moment’s rest.

Duri attempted to stop the mass desertion. He took his pistol and fired at men until he ran out of bullets. Stupidly, he yelled himself hoarse, his uniform torn and smoke blinded his eyes, an empty Makarov in one hand. Nothing more than a fool overrun by the Americans. They crisscrossed the sky in their Apache Gunships, and churned the sand with their Abram M1 Tanks. When dawn finally came during that hopeless night, he found himself a prisoner of war.
American and British medics were tending his wounds and plastic restraints held his wrists tight. He still limped from the 5.56mm round he took that day in his leg.

Iraq’s utter humiliation before the world was complete. For some unknown reason, the Americans stopped after one hundred hours. There was hardly anything left. The road leading from Kuwait to Al-Basra was nothing more than a smoking wreckage of armor and men. Nothing survived the horrendous pounding delivered by the A-10 Thunderbolts. Death on land and in the air was complete. Baghdad lay defenseless before the American armies. Oh, there had been token brigades from other countries, but no one doubted the aggressor. The Americans decided to stop before obliterating Baghdad and the Iraqi government. They left them in place as a gesture, perhaps to serve notice to others as to what they were capable of accomplishing.

Slowly, Iraq emerged from the rubble. Bridges were rebuilt; some equipment restored. The precious secret weapons were dispersed around to special sites. Duri had been repatriated after the war. He was attached to the Data Center security team—another fiasco. Iraq’s strategy for hiding banned weapons became a refined shell game. With oceans of trackless sand deserts and sixty-nine Presidential palaces, Saddam had plenty of places to hide things. His chemical weapons labs, two hundred anthrax bombs, and eighty SCUD and modified SCUD al-Hussein missiles were dispersed. The existing infrastructure facilities, such as the central Data Center and the nuclear separation labs, remained hidden beneath tons of rock and sand in buried bunkers.

Chapter 6 / Page 2

During the Gulf War, carrier based aircraft used the same inlet leading to Umm Qasr to navigate towards targets in Kuwait and southern Iraq. The shoreline’s angle points like a dagger towards Al Basra, and the Tigris leads straight to the heart of Baghdad. Even when navigation computers failed in the shot up A-6 Intruders, pilots still found their way home following the inlet back to the waiting carriers. Had an amphibious landing taken place, as many speculated, part of it would have been against Jazirat Bubiyan—the island forming the eastern Kuwait border.

Tonight Al Faw took on a greater significance. A single lorry drove away from the populous riverbanks and into the desert night. A curious mixture of men rode into the darkness this night. Two sailors huddled in the rear of the lorry. Each was bound with heavy police-restraint handcuffs and leg irons. One was the hapless crane operator, who had killed several Chinese sailors the night before. His inattention with the crane and the ensuing panic left several men to the mercy of the sea. The other sailor was the first officer who had made the mistake of reporting the disaster.

Four members of the Special Republic Guard watched them. None of the soldiers spoke. They knew the price men paid for failure under Saddam’s regime. These men had failed on a particularly important mission. They had no need to know the specifics of the mission, and if the truth were known, they had no desire to learn further secrets of their masters. Knowledge could get a person killed. It certainly doomed these sailors. No one doubted the outcome of tonight’s activities.

The last two in the rear of the lorry were dressed in neoprene diving suits. In the dim light, they meticulously checked over their SCUBA gear, and the additional gear required for the salvage operation. An inflatable rubber raft, grappling hooks, lines, and underwater lamps lay in the far corner of the lorry. Each checked their weight belts, survival knife, regulator, and tanks. They would be operating underwater at night—something akin to near total blackness. Should the lamps fail, they might never find their way back to the surface from inside the ship’s hold.

Colonel Taha Duri sat in the passenger side of the lorry. He had no friends. Colonels of the Al Amn al-Khas—Iraq’s Special Security Service—were supposed to be feared, not liked. He understood better than most the shifting tides within Iraq’s security structures. It was like riding a wild horse through the night. He had learned to expect the unexpected. Betrayal and treason were always just beyond the horizon. A sharp knife between the ribs or a bullet in the back of the head often became a remedy for troublesome issues.

Chapter 6 / Page 1

Fao Peninsula, Iraq
Saturday, November 15, 1997
8:30 P.M. (GMT + 3.00)

The Al Faw oil depot sits on triangle shaped strip of land called the Fao Peninsula. It is the southernmost Iraqi outpost and serves as the final surface oil depot for the underground pipeline running from the massive Rumaila and Zubair oilfields. The pipeline runs parallel to the Tigris River as it races towards the Persian Gulf. Once out of land, the pipeline continues submerged to the twin oil terminals, Kohr al Amaya and Mina al Bakr.

It is amazing the sand is still gray and not blood red. Across the Fao Peninsula, the Iraq/Iran war extracted a two-year vengeance from the hapless people living there. The Iranians gained the peninsula, and the Iraqis were determined to regain the same piece of land. The cost was horrendous. At one point, the Iraqi army stored tens of thousands of corpses in huge refrigerators. To prevent an uprising against the regime during the Iraq/Iran War, the dead bodies were parceled out as carefully as any other rationed commodity. Saddam believed that if people learned the truth regarding the toll in human life, a revolution might have brought the regime down.

River traffic navigates north on the Tigris moving shallow draft boats from the Persian Gulf to as far north as Al Basra. Traditionally, Al Basra is Iraq’s port city, serving as the gateway to the Gulf. The Gulf War, and the resulting southern uprising, changed everything. The Republic Guard crushed the rebellion with murderous rage, leaving Iraq’s port city barely functioning. The port lies unused, and the city’s sewer system has never been repaired.

On the Tigris’ eastern bank lies Iran—sometimes ally and sometimes enemy. To the west is the waterway leading to Umm Qasr. It is a natural inlet between Kuwait and Iraq. The Raudhatain oil fields lay along the once contested border. Between Al Faw and Umm Qasr, there is nothing but rugged terrain, burnt out hulls, and craters left from the Gulf War.

Chapter 5 / page 8

“Look, Jim, I know this is a painful subject for you, but I really do need you. I don’t have any time to get someone else prepped for this kind of mission. You know the desert.”
Harper focused his eyes on Louis again.

“All right, Louis,” he said calmly.

Edwards stopped talking and stared. A smile began to curl under his fading mustache.

“This is what it’ll cost you.” He flipped the lock on the door shut again. “You’d better get something to write on, Louis, and you’d better have it all taken care of before you come to pick me up.”

“What exactly do you want?” He pulled out a notebook.

“One million dollars, tax-free, for Jerry’s widow, and full scholarships for his kids—you never took care of them after he died, now, we make it right. No strings attached. Jerry already earned it. For anybody going on this mission, same deal—this time the million and scholarships pay off in case of death or serious injury. That’s a phone call for you, Louis.” He pointed at the office. “Go on, make the calls while I change. I want confirmation faxed back to this number.” He started back towards the locker room, then turned back to Louis. “Don’t even think of double crossing me on this Louis. You’d never be able to run far enough to save your miserable hide.”

“Now Jimbo, I can’t exactly—”

“You’ve got ten minutes.” Jim turned and walked towards the end of the school.