Scimitar SL-2 (28 page)

That was all forty-five minutes ago. And General Scannell still hadn’t heard anything from the Oval Office. He would undoubtedly have been even more furious had he heard the short, sharp conversation between the Chief and Hatchard half an hour previously. In essence it proceeded on the following lines:

“Sir, I wonder if you could return a call to the CJC’s office in the Pentagon?”

“What does he want?”

“Something about that Hamas business?”

“Have they received something new?”

“Don’t know, sir. He did not really want to talk to me, it was you he wanted.”

“Call him back and tell him if it’s new to try my line again. If it’s not, forget about it. I’m extremely busy.”

“Yes, sir.”

But the mighty nerve that had never deserted the slow-moving, ponderous Yale defensive lineman in a dozen games for the Eli’s now folded up on him. He simply could not bring himself to call the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and make him look small. This was nothing to do with tact and empathy. This was pure and simple dread. Bill Hatchard was not about to engage General Tim Scannell in open combat. And like many would-be executives, operating in waters too deep and too hot, he elected to do…nothing.

Which left an extremely angry General Scannell simmering in the Pentagon, currently on the line to Admiral Arnold Morgan—
the only person around here who understands precisely what is going on
.

The two men spoke very seriously. According to Admiral Morgan’s guess, the
Barracuda
was probably in the South Atlantic by now, somewhere in a million square miles of ocean off the east coast of Argentina.

He listened with interest to the General’s report of the troop movements out of the Middle East and was pleased to hear that there was no longer a Carrier Battle Group in the Gulf. Both men believed that the Hamas demand to vacate the U.S. Navy facility in Diego Garcia was insolent in the extreme. DG was, after all, an official British colony and, in any case, thousands of miles closer to Hindu India than Muslim Iran or Iraq.

But what occupied them most was the knowledge that the terrorist attack had been threatened for October 9. And that was a mere fifteen days away. Arnold was seriously worried about the deployment of one hundred U.S. warships in the Mid-Atlantic, both in terms of logistics and the fact that the C in C of all the U.S. Armed Forces knew nothing of the operation. And that he actively refused to know anything about the operation.

At this point, neither General Scannell nor Admiral Morgan cared one jot for the moral rectitude of the mission. As Arnold put it, “It cannot be right, just because the President says it’s right. And it cannot suddenly become wrong, just because the President refuses to consider it. The judgment itself, right or wrong, remains sacrosanct, whatever he thinks.”

The fact was that both men sincerely believed the United States to be under threat; a threat in which a million people or more might die, and several of its greatest cities might be destroyed. Unless, that was, the military moved fast and decisively. In General Scannell’s opinion, “If there is one chance in twenty this tidal wave might actually happen, we must either stop it, or harness all of our considerable defenses. Any other course of action represents a gross dereliction of duty.”

Given the evidence, the General put the chances of this attack on the lethal granite cliff face of La Palma not at one in twenty, but even money. They had to get the President on their side.

0100, Monday, September 28

Communications Center

The Pentagon.

The duty officer stared at the screen, punching the button to download and print. The E-mail signal, unencrypted, was addressed personally to:

Maj. Sam McLean, a veteran infantry officer in the Second Gulf War, was instantly on full alert. He ordered someone to trace the E-mail immediately and then, checking his watch, fired in a call to the senior officer on duty in the United States Army ops area on the third floor.

Just the word
Hamas,
like
terrorist
, caused him to relay the message immediately to the CIA in Langley, Virginia, and the National Security Agency at Fort Meade, Maryland.

It was circulated to the ops-area night staff, with a copy to the Director’s Assistant, Lt. Comdr. Jimmy Ramshawe, who was still in his office, poring over photographs and signals that might betray the whereabouts of the elusive
Barracuda
submarine.

The Army Colonel, holding the fort at 0100 in the Pentagon, did not hesitate. He opened up the hot line to the home of the CJC and reported the message to General Scannell, word for word. Jimmy Ramshawe was already on the wire to Chevy Chase, where Admiral Morgan came out of his sleep like a Fourth of July mortar shell.

He scribbled a short note and called Tim Scannell who was still on the line to his office. By 0130, all the key players were tuned in to the new threat. General Scannell convened a meeting in the Pentagon for 0700.

Meanwhile, the tracers in the communications center had come up with a vague solution. The E-mail had originated somewhere in the Middle East. Either Damascus, Jordan, Baghdad, or possibly Kuwait. Definitely not to the west of the Red Sea, nor to the south or east of the Arabian Peninsula. The investigation was so sketchy that Major McLean relayed it only to the CIA, for possible further clarification.

By 0700, there was a pervasive sense of unease throughout the Pentagon. Word had inevitably leaked out that there was a new threat from Hamas. And it had not been specified. It could be anything, even another lunatic driving a passenger aircraft into the building. By the time the meeting began, the entire place was moving to red alert.

In the CJC’s private conference room, Admiral Morgan again chaired the meeting, and there was no one who believed that the Hamas writer was not deadly serious.

“I suppose there’s nothing on any of the nets that might throw light on the
Barracuda
, is there?” asked Arnold. “I mean, a possible contact anywhere in the world?”

“Nothing, sir,” replied Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe. “I’ve been up all night searching. But there’s not a damn squeak. The only item on any Naval network of any interest to anyone came from France. They’re saying the C in C of the Senegalese Navy has gone missing.”

“Probably been eaten by a fucking lion,” growled Admiral Morgan. “Anyway, we’re going to find out what these Hamas guys are up to seventeen hours from now. If nothing happens, maybe the President’s right. Maybe all of our evidence is just coincidental.”

“Not a chance, Arnie,” said Admiral Morris. “Something’s going to happen, somewhere. And you know it.”

“Then we better get the President of the United States of America off his ass, right now,” replied Arnold Morgan. “Somebody tell him we’re coming over at 0900, and he better be listening.”

0900, Monday, September 28

The White House.

G
ENERAL TIM SCANNELL
and General Bart Boyce, accompanied by Admirals Dickson and Morris, arrived unannounced, in two Pentagon Staff cars, at the West Wing entrance to the White House. Three of them were in uniform, as instructed by the CJC. Only the retired Navy Battle Group Commander George Morris wore a formal dark gray suit.

Both Secret Service Agents on duty were somewhat uncertain whether to detain this illustrious military quartet while visitors’ badges were issued, or whether to escort them immediately to the reception area outside the Oval Office.

Like all guards, the Secret Service Agents were indoctrinated with a strict code to play every issue by the book. That meant badges. But this was different. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the Supreme Allied Commander of NATO—that’s two Four-Star Generals, plus the Chief of U.S. Naval Operations, and the Director of the National Security Agency. Both agents
arrived at the same conclusion. Fast. This was no time for visitors’ badges.

They escorted the four officers to the Oval Office holding area and informed the secretary precisely who was there to see the President. Within one minute, Bill Hatchard was on the scene and summoned them to his office down the corridor.

“You would like to see the President?” he asked amiably enough.

“Correct,” replied General Scannell.

“That’s going to be extremely difficult this morning,” he said. “President McBride has a very busy schedule.”

“That’s okay. You’ve got a full five minutes before we either walk into the Oval Office or instruct the Marine guards to search the place until they find him,” said General Scannell. “So hurry up.”

“Sir?” said Bill Hatchard, looking desperate. “Is this some kind of a National Emergency?”

“Find the President,” said General Scannell. “Now.”

Bill Hatchard was not an especially clever man, but he was long on native cunning. And he recognized real trouble when it reared its head. If he continued to defy four of the most senior military figures in the United States, he could very likely be out of a job by lunchtime. Quite frankly, he would not give much for the President’s chances either, if this situation was as serious as it looked.
Jesus, guys like this don’t just show up en masse unless something very big is happening.

Bill Hatchard rose. “I’ll be right back with some more information,” he said quickly.

“Forget the information, soldier,” snapped General Scannell, a lifetime of sharp commands to lower ranks suddenly bubbling to the fore. “Come back with the President.”

Bill Hatchard bolted out of his office. He was back in three minutes. “The President will see you now,” he said.

“Well done, soldier,” said General Scannell. “You accomplished that with forty-five seconds to spare, before we relieved you of command.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bill Hatchard. “Please come this way.”

They walked down to the Oval Office, where President McBride awaited them. “Gentlemen,” he said, “what a nice surprise. I have ordered you some coffee. Perhaps you’d like to sit down.”

All four of them sat down in large wooden captain’s chairs, and General Scannell immediately produced a copy of the communication from Hamas.

“May we assume you have read this short letter, Mr. President?” asked the CJC.

“You may.”

“And may I inquire as to your views?”

“Of course. I have taken on board the last communication, allegedly from Hamas, in which someone wrote, one week after the fact, to reveal that he had just exploded Mount St. Helens. It now looks as if the same person may have written again, to suggest he is going to do something else, somewhere, tonight.”

“That is correct, sir,” replied General Scannell, deferring to the President’s rank as Commander in Chief of the U.S. Armed Forces. “And do you have an opinion on what, if any, action, we should take?”

“Yes, I do. Since both letters are plainly the work of a nutcase, my answer is to do nothing. In the great offices of State we can’t spend our lives chasing around in pursuit of every damn fool threat that comes our way.”

“Sir, there were in fact three communications, as you know…suggesting he blew the volcano, demanding we vacate the Middle East or he would blow another volcano in the eastern Atlantic and wreck our East Coast. And reminding us that we are ignoring him at our peril. And that tonight he will show us precisely how dangerous he is.”

“Well, we do not have one shred of proof that he’s ever done anything. So why should you expect me to turn the world upside down, moving half the U.S. Armed Forces around the world?”

“The answer to that is very simple, Mr. President,” replied General Scannell. “Because he might actually be telling the truth.
Maybe he did blow Mount St. Helens, maybe he is going to pull off some outrage tonight. And maybe he could cause one of the world’s great landslides, and put New York and Washington under 50 feet of water.”

“Well, I don’t think so. I think we’re dealing with a crank.”

“Sir. In the military we are taught to think precisely the opposite. What if he did? What if New York was underwater?”

“What if, General. What if, what if?” The cry of the civil servant, the cry of the frightened executive. “What if…I would remind you that I did not get to sit in this chair by running scared. I got here, to use your parlance, by facing down the enemy…Do you really think that one man could possibly wreak the havoc and destruction you are forecasting?”

“Yes, Mr. President. I do. For a start, we have incontrovertible evidence that cruise missiles may have been fired at Mount St. Helens. And if they were, they came from a submarine.”

“From the documents I have read, you were relying almost entirely on a bank manager who appeared to have drunk a half-gallon of Dewars Scotch?”

“The bank manager was actually the President of one of the largest financial institutions in the West,” interjected Admiral Dickson. “He will probably run for State Governor at the next election, and the half-gallon of Dewars was unopened. The proof that he heard what he heard is evidenced by the fact that he escaped from the foothills of the mountain, when no one else did.”

“All he heard was a couple of gusts of wind, and that’s not enough hot air to have me redeploy half the U.S. Army, Navy, and Air Force.”

“Sir, we have come to see you to offer advice involving the safety of this country. If our enemy is indeed planning to do something tonight, something quite possibly beyond the scale of 9/11 and Kerman’s last attack on our soil, we should be on full alert. I do not need to confirm that the Pentagon is already in a state of readiness. I suggest the White House do the same.

“I also ask your permission to begin deploying the fleet into the eastern Atlantic on a search for the submarine, which might be carrying nuclear missiles, and to begin a substantial troop and aircraft evacuation of our bases in the Middle East. Essentially I’m trying to buy us some time to locate the Hamas assault ship.”

“I’m certain we’d be chasing our tails, General. Permission denied on both counts. Let’s just wait till midnight and see what happens.”

“I should warn you, sir, that if anything drastic happens at midnight, either to ourselves or to someone else, you will have to consider your position very carefully. Remember, unlike politicians, we in the Military are not trained to lie.”

“General, I resent that remark…”

“Do you? Then I suggest you spend the next fourteen hours wondering what you’ll say…if you are proven wrong. Good day to you, sir.”

With that, the two Generals, and the two silent Admirals, stood up and took their leave. Alone in the White House, the President shook his head, muttering to himself…
Goddamned paranoid military. Nothing’s going to happen…these guys are crazy…
and he hit the button for Bill Hatchard to come in for a sensible chat about the real issues of the day.

2300, Monday, September 28

56.59W 16.45N, Western Atlantic

Speed 6, Course 270, Depth 500.

Admiral Ben Badr’s
Barracuda
moved slowly through the outer approaches to the Caribbean. He was due east of the Leeward Isles, and somewhere up ahead, two days’ running time at this low speed, were the playgrounds of the rich and famous—St. Kitts and Nevis, Antigua and Barbuda.

Admiral Badr’s target was located 25 miles farther into the Caribbean than Antigua. It was much less of a playground than its
bigger palm-strewn brothers, since half of it had been obliterated in the ferocious eruption of 1996–97.

Montserrat—battered, dust-choked, grieving, almost wiped out, workaday Montserrat—tonight slumbered peacefully beneath a Caribbean moon. For those who remained in residence on the island, there was always the hope that the great steaming, smoke-belching heart of the Soufriere Hills would soon calm down and relapse into its dormant state, beneath which generations of islanders had grown up, safe and sheltered.

At least they had until that fateful hour in 1997, when the south part of the island was literally bombarded with massive molten rocks and lava, as the mountain exploded like an atom bomb. Nothing was ever the same, and the islanders have lived ever since in the fear that it would happen again, against the hope that the high-surging magma would finally subside.

Volcanologists had not been so optimistic. People were periodically advised to leave. But too many had nowhere to go. And they merely fled to the north, away from the lethal south side of the volcano. And the Soufriere Hills continued to growl and blast steam, dark smoke, fire, and occasionally lava on an uncomfortably regular basis.

Below its shimmering peak, set to the west, the town of Plymouth, former home to the island’s seat of government, lay virtually buried under the ash. One tall British red phone booth is long gone. The high clock on the war memorial juts out almost at ground level above the gray urban landscape of dust and rocks.

As Professor Paul Landon had said to General Rashood in a house in West London, six months previously…“
Montserrat! You could probably blow that damn thing sky-high with a hand grenade. It could erupt any day.”

Ravi Rashood’s master plan to frighten the Pentagon to death, to scare them into obeying the Hamas demands, was within one hour of execution. The launch time of midnight in the eastern Caribbean was one hour in front of Washington. General Rashood had allowed thirty-five minutes running time for the missile, and
maybe twenty-five minutes for the news of the eruption to make it to the networks.

Admiral Badr was confident. His orders were to launch four missiles, the Scimitar SL-1s (nonnuclear warheads), straight at the high crater in the Soufriere Hills. In 1996, the entire island, roughly the form of a pyramid if seen from the sea, had looked like an exploding Roman candle in the night.

Like Mount St. Helens, the Soufriere Hills volcano was not a proud, towering queen, standing like a sentinel over the lush green island.

Instead, like her ugly sister in faraway Washington, she was an unstable, dangerous bitch, rotten to the core, unable to control herself, a lethal pile of shifting black rubble, swollen by mammoth carbuncles that every now and then lanced themselves and released the satanic magma.

Admiral Badr kept the
Barracuda
going forwards to the edge of his launch zone. He checked his watch.

In the past hour, they had made dozens of checks on the prefiring routines and settings. Lieutenant Commander Shakira had personally supervised the numbers that had been punched into the tiny onboard computers in each of the Scimitars’ nose cones. They had pored over the little screen that displayed the chart references. All four were the same—
16.45N 62.10W
, the very heart of the volcano high in the Soufriere Hills on the island of Montserrat.

With the competence of the North Korean technicians, and the electronic engineers of Huludao, the quartet of Scimitars could not miss. They would plunge into the crater within 10 feet of each other, each one drilling deeper into the upper layer of rock, all four of them driving substantial fault lines into the flimsy pumice stone crust that held back the deadly fire.

Shakira had selected a southerly route for the missile attack on the grounds of her uncertainty about U.S. tracking stations either in or near the old Roosevelt Roads Naval Base in Puerto Rico.

The Scimitars would swerve 20 degrees off their due-western course and swing through the Guadeloupe Passage, passing five
miles to the north of Port Louis on the French island’s western headland. They would make their big right-hand turn out over the open water northwest of Guadeloupe, and then come swooping in to Montserrat out of the southwest.

They would flash over the half-buried ghost town of Plymouth, and then follow the infamous route of the 1997 magma, two miles at 600 mph over the rising ground, straight up to Chance’s Peak, before diving into the crater.

And this time, there would be no Tony Tilton below, no observer to hear the eerie swish of the rockets’ slipstream through the air. These days, this southern part of Montserrat was deserted. Shakira’s plan was for no one to hear, or see, anything. Until the vicious old mountain exploded again.

Ben Badr checked with the sonar room. Then he ordered the submarine to periscope depth for a lightning fast surface picture check. The seas were deserted and nothing was showing on the radar—critical factors when launching a missile with a fiery red tail as it cleared the ocean, visible for miles.

He ordered the
Barracuda
deep again. Then he made a final check with his missile director. And at one minute to midnight (local), he issued the order to activate the immaculate preprogramming plan. The sequencer was watching his screen. The
Barracuda
was facing west, running slowly, 300 feet below the surface.

“STAND BY TUBES ONE TO FOUR…”

“Tubes ready, sir.”

“TUBE ONE…LAUNCH!”