a rendezvous with the Russian mines. Captain Rahirimi knew with the greatest confidence that the American fleet would soon be decimated. The power of Islam was far too great. Death and a watery grave awaited the nonbelievers.
“Allahu Akbar,” he whispered, as another mine rolled off the Tareq.
Chapter 2
A thick, gray haze had suddenly descended upon the tranquil waters of the Persian Gulf. Hours before, the skies had been clear and the stars unusually bright. Now the light from the moon struggled to pierce this ominous veil.
Their batteries fully charged, the Iranian submarines Tareq and Yunes were submerged and rigged for silent running. Six supercavitation Hoot torpedoes had been loaded into the bow tubes earlier, but the outer torpedo doors remained closed.
Yunes was positioned a thousand yards north, and Tareq a thousand yards south, of the respective minefields each submarine had lain. The trap had been set. It was now a waiting game. The captain appeared calm and collected, but tensions amongst the crew ran high. All were convinced that a historic sea battle was about to commence.
“Captain, I am picking up a low frequency vibration!” Sonarman Jannati shouted as he strained to identify the unusual sound he had just picked up.
“Bearing?” Captain Rahirimi requested.
“Zero-zero-five, sir.”
“Our Los Angeles class submarine, no doubt. The Americans are so predictable,” Nasrin whispered to the captain.
“Yes, and this gross error in judgment will be their downfall. Allah is great! This shall be a glorious day,” Captain Rahirimi assured Nasrin as the American submarine continued on its course, its underwater signature quickly fading.
Hours before, the John C. Stennis Carrier Strike Group had passed through the Strait of Hormuz and entered the Persian Gulf. The aircraft carrier USS John C. Stennis (CVN-74) was accompanied by the guided-missile cruiser USS Antietam (CG-54) and the ships of Destroyer Squadron 21: USS Wayne E. Meyer (DDG-108), USS Dewey (DDG-105), USS Kidd (DDG-100), USS Milius (DDG-69), and USS Jarrett (FFG-33). All were steaming in formation, yet nowhere to be seen by the naked eye. Visibility had been reduced to less than one hundred yards.
It was 3:00 a.m. Admiral Ted Frederick, commanding officer of the Carrier Strike Group, had an uneasy feeling and had been unable to sleep. He stood on the bridge of the Nimitz class nuclear-powered aircraft carrier with Captain David Crisalli, the carrier’s commanding officer. Both were long-time personal friends and Naval Academy classmates. Given the low visibility, flight operations had been temporarily suspended. The deck, which was usually bustling with activity, was eerily quiet.
Both officers were gazing out to sea when the admiral broke the silence. “David, I’ve never liked operating in the Persian Gulf. We must remain extremely vigilant.”
“I share your concern, admiral. Frankly, I’m not comfortable operating in this Persian puddle either,” Captain Crisalli complained.
“It’s not just operating in restricted waters that I find troublesome—it’s operating in restricted waters so close to hostile, irrational countries,” the admiral emphasized.
“Surely you can’t be referring to Iran?” Captain Crisalli quipped.
“Well, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and his band of Islamic fanatics are certainly at the top the list, but in reality, danger could come from any point on the compass.”
“I concur. We’re effectively surrounded, and there’s no telling from where the threat will originate,” Captain Crisalli replied.
“You know, David, my dad was stationed at the US consulate in Tehran in the early sixties. I found the people, their culture, and the history of the Persian Empire fascinating. And the country—the country is one of startling contrast and great beauty,” Admiral Frederick confessed.
“That’s interesting. Well, I can’t imagine what the Iranian people have had to endure since the fall of the Shah. What worries me are the recent crippling economic sanctions imposed by the United Nations. I can’t help but believe that Iran is going to behave like a wounded animal,” Captain Crisalli rationalized as Petty Officer First Class Wolfgang approached the officers.
“Agreed. However, I am more concerned with Iran’s accelerated development of nuclear weapons, their sponsorship of worldwide terrorism, and the threat that country poses to the State of Israel,” the admiral replied, although he did not want to get into a political discussion. Yet he found himself briefly reflecting on how dangerous the world had become and the recent discovery of a Russian Akula-class nuclear submarine armed with long-range ballistic missiles patrolling in the Gulf of Mexico. Yes, indeed, the world had become a more dangerous place, and, with a five-hundred-billion-dollar cut in defense spending looming, he felt certain that the greatest nation on Earth would soon be ill-equipped to defend either herself or her allies. Additionally, he carried a heavy burden. Before deploying, the admiral had been briefed by Naval Intelligence that a strike by Israel was imminent. Indeed, Iran’s uranium enrichment facilities would have to be destroyed. Would this attack launch World War III? he wondered.
“Admiral, Captain, there is nothing better than a steaming cup of java on a hot and muggy night,” Wolfgang said as he handed each man a cup of coffee. “Of course, that’s coming from a snipe who was lucky enough to escape the confines of the boiler room for the wide-open space on the bridge,” the petty officer added appreciatively.
“It was my pleasure to have approved that transfer, Wolfie. Thanks for the supercharged caffeine,” Captain Crisalli replied.
“You’re welcome, Captain. By the way, this special brew contains my magic beans. Just one cup will bring you incredible luck—assuming it doesn’t eat through your stomach lining,” Wolfgang added reassuringly, but with a broad grin.
“That’s comforting. Thanks, Wolfie,” Admiral Frederick responded before cautiously taking the liquid stimulant from the petty officer.
“Yes, sir, Admiral,” Wolfgang replied with pride before returning to his duties.
“Admiral, why don’t we move outside to the bridge wing for some pristine Persian humidity?” Captain Crisalli joked.
“Good idea, David. I could use some fresh, damp air.”
“Officer on the deck,” Captain Crisalli barked.
“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Kuo Wei responded promptly.
“The admiral and I will be on the bridge wing,” Captain Crisalli announced.
“Aye, aye, Captain,” the lieutenant acknowledged as both men stepped out onto the open bridge.
“This soup is so thick, Admiral, that I can’t even see the running lights of the vessels in formation,” Captain Crisalli complained as he set down his coffee cup.
“I should say,” the admiral replied while gazing off into the darkness.
“Hell, the Antietam is only a thousand yards off our starboard beam, and she’s not visible. Even the light emitted from the carrier seems to be absorbed by this dark haze. It’s as if we’re in a black hole,” Captain Crisalli concluded with a sense of real concern.
“In my thirty
