“PREPARE MISSILES FOR LAUNCH!”
They detected no close-active transmissions, and Admiral Badr nodded curtly to the helmsman, CPO Ali Zahedi, who cut their speed to just three knots.
“UP PERISCOPE, ALL-ROUND LOOK!”
Twenty seconds later—“DOWN!”
Ahmed Sabah, keenly aware of the seven-second rule drummed into him by Admiral Badr, knew the mast had been up too long. And he stared at the CO, trying to read either “rattled,” “desperate,” or “confused” into his leader’s facial expression. But he saw nothing, apart from a certain bland acceptance. And he did not like what he saw. Not one bit.
Allah! thought the brother of Mrs. Ravi Rashood. He’s given up, he thinks we’re trapped.
“Sir?” he said, questioningly.
And Ben Badr, apparently unhearing, said mechanically, “The place is swarming with helicopters. And I thought I saw a frigate inshore.” And then:
“STAND BY FOR FINAL FIX AND LAUNCH! UP!”
“Point Fuencaliente Lighthouse. Bearing. MARK! DOWN!”
“Two-eight-six.”
“UP! Point de Arenas Blancas Lighthouse. Bearing MARK! DOWN!”
“Three-zero-seven.”
The planesmen held the submarine at PD. And the seconds ticked away before Ben Badr again ordered:
“UP! High Peak, Cumbre Vieja Mountains. Bearing. MARK! DOWN!”
Lt. Ashtari Mohammed, drawing swift, straight pencil lines on his chart, connected the final X that marked the High Peak and the launch point, then called clearly:
“TWO-NINE-SEVEN…range 26.2 miles.”
“Plot that pilot — and get the positions into the computer right away — for launch.”
To the east, the American guided-missile men, manning the ring of Patriot rockets, had a sensational view of the Atlantic Ocean, beyond which the sun was shimmering dark red as it eased its way above the horizon. The rose curtain of dawn reflected the burning west coast of Africa, and it seemed to illuminate their battleground.
The Americans stared down-range towards the waters that shielded their enemy. They were out there somewhere, but hidden, an unseen force waiting to strike at them from out of the blue. But the men of the Patriot batteries were ready, and many of them stood, fists clenched tight, watching the tireless Navy helicopters and Vikings clatter over the distant ocean wilderness, sonars probing.
Maj. Blake Gill had snatched some sleep late the previous afternoon, but had been wide awake ever since, patrolling his eight missile batteries ranged around the crater. He made his patrols on foot, accompanied by four Special Forces bodyguards. At each one, he stopped and stared at the looming launch platforms above his head, as if probing for a mistake, a wrong angle, a wrong electronic connection. But he found nothing.
The MIM-104E-enhanced guidance Patriots, the only SAM that had ever knocked a ballistic missile out of the sky in combat, were immaculately deployed on all points of the compass. All thirty-two of them were in place, ready to go at a split second’s notice. Blake knew he was looking at the greatest interceptor ever built, a steel hit-to-kill weapon.
He had towering pride in the equipment he controlled, and he told each and every team as they gathered around him up there in the dark, on the summit of the volcano…“I been in the ole missile game a long time. And I seen a lot of guys come and go. But if I had to name the one team I ever met who would damn-and-for-sure knock this bastard out of the sky, it would be you guys. And hot damn! I mean that with all of my heart.”
He left them all feeling 10 feet tall, ready to operate at the absolute top of their game. And now he was watching the screens inside the Engagement Control Center, just a little higher up the hill from the eight batteries, and he was demanding a last-minute check on communications, ensuring they were in constant touch with the missile launch and tracking stations on the four frigates in the immediate area, the Elrod, the Nicholas, the Klakring, and the Simpson.
Major Gill opened up the lines and checked with Admiral Gillmore’s ops room in the Coronado. He checked the computer lines and the comms to the patrolling airborne helicopters. Blake left nothing to chance. Any one of those guys out on the water — radar men, lookouts, sonar rooms, pilots, or navigators — anyone who saw anything was just two touches of a button from instant contact with the Patriot Engagement Control Center.
They needed to move fast. But they still had time. In Major Gill’s opinion, the U.S. defense forces were heavy odds-on to win. Just as long as everyone stayed on top of their game.
The big 17-foot-long Patriots would do the rest. At least the 200 pounds of TNT jammed inside the warheads would, as they streaked in towards the Scimitars at MACH 5. The Hamas missiles had the element of surprise in their favor, but the U.S. Patriot was six times as fast, and well proven over the course.
Major Gill spoke to Admiral Gillmore, and the two men once more checked their entire comms systems. The new Patriot could cope with bad weather — a long, 40-mile-plus range, any altitude, and it did not need to collide with the incoming missile. The Patriot’s state-of-the-art proximity fuse would detonate when it came close, which would blast the Scimitar to bits without even hitting it.
“UP! Better all-round look…”
Ben Badr looked and felt relaxed. He marked a helo in the dip three miles to the west, and another in transit two miles to the north. He noted the class of the Oliver Hazard Perry frigate inshore of him, and its bearing.
It was a rather leisured survey of the waters around the submarine, conducted by a man who believed he had all the time in the world, but knew, in his heart, that there would be no escape in the end. They couldn’t stop him firing, and they probably would not have time to stop the Scimitars. But whatever happened, they would not let him out of the waters around the Canary Islands. This had become, most definitely, a suicide mission.
The Barracuda’s periscope was jutting out of the water for all of sixty seconds — too long, too hopelessly long. And the U.S. helicopter in transit, piloted by Lt. Don Brickle, caught it on radar, at 0635.
He swerved towards it for a dip on the last known position, and instantly alerted the ops room in the Nicholas, plus any other helicopter in the vicinity.
Three minutes later, the Barracuda’s sonar room reported the helo’s hydrophone effect (HE) and sonar transmissions from close astern.
Simultaneously Lieutenant Ashtari called out the positions inserted into the Scimitar’s fire-control computer.
“MISSILES READY TO LAUNCH!”
Lieutenant Brickle banked his Seahawk hard to starboard and spotted the great black shadow of the Barracuda just below the surface as he overflew. It was holding its two-nine-seven course, and over his right shoulder he saw the Nicholas’s second helo, piloted by Lt. Ian Holman and hurtling in from the southeast.
And at that precise moment, Ben Badr ordered his missiles away.
“STAND BY!”
“READY!”
“FIRE!”