To the Death

Like Ravi, Captain Abad, who was thirty-four years old, had a younger wife, who was, judging by the photographs he showed the Hamas military boss, just as beautiful as Shakira. Well, nearly. Mohammed himself was a tall — six-foot-two — somewhat imposing officer. He tended to speak quietly, and when he did, his staff listened. Mohammed had attended all of the long months of lectures and practical submarine craft in Russia.

He was the most experienced underwater operator in the Iranian Navy, an expert in navigation, hydrology, electronics, mechanics, and weaponry. Upon the slightest problem in the ship, the crew always called on the commanding officer, who understood the workings of his ship better than anyone else.

Mohammed Abad was a member of the new breed of Islamic jihadists, men who were almost as competent as the best of the Americans or the British. They were men who believed in their nation’s right to total independence from the West and were quite prepared to fight to get it. Twenty-five years ago, such men had not existed. But the desert nations learned, and spent billions training the best of the best. And now the Middle East was bristling with these young, brilliant commanders, strategists both at sea and on land. There were two of them on Kilo 901.

The eight bells of the watch tolled out the midnight hour. Ravi and Mohammed sat companionably sipping sweet tea in the control room. The submarine captain knew better than to question the general about the forthcoming operation, but he could not miss the importance of the mission, the landing of the most renowned Hamas terrorist leader in a desolate civilian harbor in one of the most remote corners of the British Isles.

Whatever was going on was big. Mohammed understood that. And on this particular evening, as they neared the end of their long journey together, he risked a subtle probe. “Will you be working alone, sir?” he asked.

“I will,” replied Ravi. “There is only one task for me, and no one can provide much help. Plus, it’s quieter on your own. Less chance of attracting attention.”

“Will I be picking you up, sir? I have no orders as yet. But no one’s told me to go home.”

Ravi smiled. “My exit from Ireland has not yet been established. I just have to see how things play out.”

“Well, sir, I’ll be here if you need me. And I think you might. Because it’s unusual to be this late in the mission with no further instructions. I have a feeling they want me to wait around for your exit.”

“I’d be grateful for that, Mohammed. You really know how to drive this thing.”

“Give me a bit of deep water and a fully charged battery, and I can make this ship vanish if I have to,” replied Mohammed. “And it would be my honor to pick you up and take you home.”

“Those words will be a comfort to me in the few difficult days ahead. But I expect to come through it okay.”

“Everyone has great faith in you, sir. Whatever it is, you get it done, and I’ll be waiting for you.”

General Rashood climbed to his feet, and he patted the captain on the shoulder. “You’re a good man, Mohammed,” he said. “I enjoyed the journey. And now I must get some sleep. Let’s pray for calm seas when we reach Ireland.”

The Kilo ran on, mostly making twelve knots. Captain Abad made no course change. He just continued running hard, snorkeling along the surface, on a course that would give the southwest coast of England a very wide berth. Right now, they were west of the Bay of Biscay, moving north through the Atlantic, straight up the ten-degree line of longitude, which passes ten miles west of Mizen Head.

Even with England and the west coast of Wales between two and three hundred miles off their starboard beam, Captain Abad was nervous about running into any patrolling Royal Navy submarines. These are deep waters, and all along the rocky shores of Great Britain’s west there were, he knew, listening stations, usually operated in conjunction with the Americans.

He also knew that the two major Western sea powers would, by now, be aware that the Kilo had left the Cheyenne and was somehow out of their reach. Whether the Americans now knew the Iranian Kilo was heading into British and Irish waters was a difficult point. Captain Abad thought they must, and he also thought they would be much more likely to try to whack him out here than they would in the Med.

Right now Captain Abad did not wish to be detected, and he ordered the Kilo to two hundred feet, hammering his battery at ten knots and counting on the enormous area of the ocean to keep him out of harm’s way. They ran all through the night, forced to snorkel every hour. By late afternoon, they were less than two hundred miles off the Irish coast.

As soon as night fell, they contacted the satellite and reported their course and position. There were no signals from home base, so once more Ravi dared to hope that Shakira was safe. Mohammed Abad expected them to run into their insert area sometime after 0400 on Monday, July 16.