At the conclusion of these three death-trapped parallel lines, six miles long, the minefield would make a 10-degree swing north, and then run for 24 miles dead straight, all the way across the Strait of Hormuz to the inshore waters of the Iranian coastline, at a point 29 miles due south of the new Sino-Iranian refinery outside the little town of Kuhestak.
And right now the three Chinese mine-laying frigates were moving into position. Shantou, Kangding and Zigong, a half mile apart, heading east-nor’east, slowly in the darkess, the soft thrum of their big diesel engines interrupted only by the splash, every 500 yards, as they sowed their treacherous seed in a barrier across the world’s most important oil sea-lanes.
The 60 mines on board each frigate would last for 17 miles. The final coastal area would be handled by the destroyer, and they would designate a sizable three-mile gap through which Chinese and Iranian tankers could pass, principally because they would be the only tankers informed of the position of the safe passage.
Meanwhile the newly laid mines sat at the bottom of the ocean secure on their anchors, awaiting the moment when they would be activated electronically, released on their wires to rise up toward the surface and then hang there in the water, 12 feet below the waves, until an unsuspecting tanker man came barreling along and slammed it out of the way, obliterating his ship in the process.
It was a two-and-a-half-hour journey back to Bandar Abbas and the surface convoy set off at 0400, leaving the Kilos to make their own way back to Chah Behar, running at periscope depth (PD). There was time to spare because the big U.S. satellite did not pass overhead until 0800.
The frigates and their 6,000-ton bodyguard docked in Bandar Abbas at 0630, when the next stage of Admiral Zhang’s plan went into operation. The Hangzhou was immediately reloaded with 40 PLT-3 contact mines, plainly visible, as her original cargo had been the previous evening. When “Big Bird” took her photographs a few minutes after 0800, the fully laden Chinese destroyer would look precisely the same as she had on the last daylight satellite pass, just before the grand parade yesterday evening.
The signal back to Zhanjiang was as agreed, in the event of a successful mission: DRAGONFLY.
There is an irritating eight-and-a-half-hour time difference between the East Coast of America and Iran. This is caused by a time zone that runs bang through the middle of the country near Tehran. Instead of one half of the nation being four hours in front of GMT, and the other half only three, they compromised and put the whole place three and a half hours ahead of London, which is of course five in front of New York.
Thus satellite pictures taken at 1930 (Iran) were shot at 1100 (Fort Meade) the same day. And this particular set of pictures of Bandar Abbas Dockyard landed on Lt. Ramshawe’s desk just as he arrived a half hour early for work.
Before him, in sharp focus, was the major event Admiral Borden had mentioned. Jimmy could see civilian cars parked in the dockyard with the joint Sino-Iranian fleet lit up brightly in the gathering darkness for the public to see. He guessed he would receive new pictures, intermittently, throughout the day, showing more or less what was happening in Iran’s Navy Headquarters.
Still allowing the issue of the Russian mines to burn away at the back of his brain, Lt. Ramshawe searched the decks of the Chinese frigates, under a powerful glass, to see if there was a sign of them. But there was none. Not so the destroyer. All 40 of the mines she carried could now be seen on her rails, though they had plainly been covered during her journey from China.
A new set of pictures arrived midafternoon that actually caught the little fleet on the move. It was very dark in the gulf now, and the photographs were not of the same quality. But this hardly mattered. What did matter was the sight of three Chinese frigates, one destroyer and two Iranian Corvettes heading off on a mission in the middle of the night.
For all he knew, they were off to attack Iraq or Oman, “or some other godforsaken place,” and Jimmy Ramshawe hit the button to the Director’s office, from where he was given his usual short shrift.
“I wouldn’t worry about it, Lieutenant, if I were you…they’re probably going to conduct a night exercise together…not unusual at one of these international junkets between two navies….”
“Yessir. But I can see a full load of mines on the destroyer….”
“I expect they’ll still be there in the morning, Lieutenant. That’s all.”
Jimmy Ramshawe put the phone down slowly. And the same question he had asked himself a thousand times popped into his mind: Why had the Chinese plainly ordered an extremely expensive consignment of specialist contact mines from Russia if they weren’t planning to lay out a bloody minefield somewhere?
He also considered it a slice of blind luck that the Andropov freighter had been spotted taking off from Moscow, and then again at secretive Baykonur. No one ever traced its second refueling stop, and in Lt. Ramshawe’s opinion it was entirely possible there had been a second trans-Asian flight of the giant aircraft. That would have brought the total mines carried to 240, sufficient to fill all four surface ships with their combined quota of 220. He had not given the three Kilos much thought since they had not been seen for a few days. But he could not get those mines out of his mind.
It was all very well Admiral Borden saying it was best to forget the whole thing until something more definite emerged, but, streuth! What if those crazy bastards were out there right now planting a minefield in the middle of the strait? What then?
Lieutenant Ramshawe wandered off in search of a cup of coffee, reasoning to himself that if the satellite pass was made at 0800 over Bandar Abbas, which he knew for certain, then he might see some good pictures of the ships back in harbor sometime after midnight Fort Meade time.
Anyway, he was going nowhere until he had seen those pictures. And he knew this was a state of affairs guaranteed not to thrill his girlfriend, the dark-haired Jane Peacock, daughter of the Australian ambassador to Washington. The Peacocks and the Ramshawes were lifelong friends, and it was widely assumed that Jimmy and Jane would ultimately marry.
Right now he looked forward to telephoning Jane even less than he dreaded calling his boss. The pair of them could probably run a contest to see who could give me the hardest bloody time.
He was right, too. “Jimmy, for crying out loud, why this sudden interest in an Arab Navy?”
“They’re not Arabs,” he corrected her. “They’re Persian. That’s different.”
“I don’t care if they’re bloody Martians!” she yelled. “We were supposed to have supper with Julie in Georgetown, and you’re hopeless…. I’m not going by myself.”
“Janie, listen. I believe this is really important. Like maybe a life-and-death matter.”
“Well, there must be more important people than you to deal with it.”
“There isn’t anyone more important than me who even believes it, never mind wants to deal with it.”
“Well, leave it alone, then, until someone instructs you to do something.”
“I can’t, Janie. I have to stay. But I’ll pick you up early tomorrow and we’ll have breakfast before you go to your class — I’m free till eleven-thirty, same time you have to be in Georgetown.”
“Okay,” she grumbled. “Nine at the embassy…but you’re still a bloody nightmare…. Even your own mother thinks that.”
Jimmy chuckled. He adored his beautiful, clever fiancée, and he hated letting her down. But in his own mind, he alone stood between world order and possible world chaos. Well, something like that. I just don’t trust the bastards. That’s all.