Scimitar SL-2 (32 page)

“Well, I remain unconvinced. I think that the Mount St. Helens eruption gave some crank the idea to write threatening letters to the U.S. military and by some off chance, they managed to coincide a threat with a very volatile volcano that erupts on a regular basis somewhere down in the Caribbean.

“That is not reason to ask the President of the United States to
activate an oceanwide search by the entire U.S. Navy at vast expense, to withdraw all of our forces from the Middle East at even greater expense, and then tell Israel they must evacuate their settlements in the Holy Land by next week.

“Can’t you see, General, that these are the actions of a hysteric? They are issues so great, almost impossible, and without any reasonable grounds—no President could possibly tackle them without becoming a laughingstock.”

“Sir, I must inform you for the final time that your military high command regards the threat from Hamas as serious. We think they can, and will, explode that volcano in the Canary Islands, which, not for the first time, will unleash a tidal wave. Only this one will flood our entire East Coast.

“I have not spoken to one volcanologist who disagrees with the theory. All these guys need to do is to hit the crater of the Cumbre Vieja with a big missile, probably nuclear, and it will happen. The ensuing landslide is a certainty. And nothing could then stop the tsunami from developing.”

“Please,” the President said scornfully. “Preserve me from Admirals, Generals, and scientists. Collectively you guys cause more unnecessary trouble than everyone else on this planet combined. You asked me a final question. I give you my final answer. I believe your theories are fairy tales. I have been proved right so far, and I have no doubt I will continue to be right.”

He was finished with the discussion, his mind clearly already occupied with other, most important, matters of state.

“As for the overwhelming actions you ask me to take, I must say again, No, General. I deny my permission to sweep the Atlantic for a nonexistent submarine at a cost of about a billion dollars an hour. I will not evacuate our armed forces from the Middle East. And neither will I call the Prime Minister of Israel and demand the creation of an instant independent Palestinian State. Do I make myself clear?”

“I’m afraid you do, sir. I’m afraid you do.”

General Scannell replaced his telephone and walked back into
the conference room. “I have spoken to the President again. His position has not altered.”

Admiral Morgan looked grave but unsurprised. “Then our plan for a transfer of power will have to be put into action. This day,” he said. “Gentlemen, I know we must prepare for an evacuation of these cities, but what we
really
need to do is to find and destroy that fucking submarine.”

“Arnold,” said Admiral Dickson, “do you have a preliminary plan for the Atlantic deployment? I mean this is a huge step involving possibly a hundred ships.”

“Alan, I have been giving this a great amount of thought. If this ship is carrying regular cruise missiles, top-of-the-line Russian-built, they have a range of 1,200 nautical miles. In my view, he stands well off, perhaps launching 500 miles, or maybe even 1,000 miles, from his target.

“So let’s assume a missile range of 1,000 nautical miles. Initially I suppose we’d have to use SSNs or TAFFs on an area search/patrol.”

Admiral Morgan, like all senior Naval officers, spoke to the entire room as if everyone habitually spoke in service jargon. It never occurred to him that not everyone knew an SSN was an attack submarine, or a TAFF was a towed-array frigate, or that the mysteries of the long, sensitive electronic listening device, trailing behind the ship, might not be clearly comprehended by every single person in Washington. Time was too short for explanations, though.

“And remember,” he added, “the TA will pick up nothing, unless
Barracuda
makes a mistake or goes unaccountably noisy, which I doubt. But we have to start somewhere.
Something
has to be done, since this is the most serious threat to the United States.
EVER
.

“Now, the Naval commanders at this table will know that the towed-arrays are highly variable. But working from just one at 10 knots, covering a circular area of 10 nautical miles radius…that’s 300 square miles per hour. We have a search area of
3 million square miles, which means that each towed-array unit needs 10,000 hours to sweep the area once. Fifty units would do it in eight days.

He looked around the room.

“We’ve got ten days, if we start tomorrow. And that massive sweep would not have covered the inshore areas, which are considerable, and extremely difficult. For that we need a fleet of helicopters with dipping sonars, covering all waters with depths of 15 fathoms, or deeper, to 50 fathoms.

“I suppose one might hope that active sonars might drive the SSN into deeper water, where the TAs have a better chance. But if you are only searching one given spot every eight days…Jesus Christ…the chances of success are negligible.”

He got up and turned to the navigational chart on the wall, indicating the vast body of water they were dealing with.

“And any success depends on us getting there before the
Barracuda.
If we do, and if we are certain of this, we could perhaps form an outer ring through which the fucking
’Cuda
must pass. Total ring length would be 6,000 nautical miles (3.142 X diameter). Fifty TA units would cover 2,000 nautical miles. So to be effective, you’d need to be pretty damn sure from which direction the SSN was making his approach…I mean, a sector of less than 120 degrees.

“Gentlemen, not to put too fine a point on it, this is going to be difficult, with the chances of success in the 5 percent bracket at the most. Which, given the effort, is a depressing thought, to say the least. It means a huge deployment of ASW assets—and even if we had weeks and weeks to continue the search, the likelihood of actually tripping over this little bastard is remote in the extreme. I’m afraid we need to think this out much more carefully.”

He sat back down, the worried look on his face deepening.

“Obviously we have to get our warships out of port regardless, unless we want them all crushed or capsized by the tidal wave. But we can’t just send them charging out into the Atlantic into the possible teeth of a tsunami.

“I could stand the cost…you know, in fuel, food, and personnel…but not if I believe we have almost no chance of success. And the prospect of that massive Naval search actually gives me the creeps. Remember, we have not really picked up this damned
Barracuda
in months. Their CO is very good, and we know he’s in a very quiet boat. He could creep slowly underneath our frigates and
never
be detected. We’ve just got to think this out, gentlemen.”

“A rather pessimistic speech, Arnold,” said Admiral Morris, wryly. “Illuminating, but pessimistic. For Christ’s sake, don’t repeat it in front of the President this afternoon. He’ll think you’ve become some kind of a fellow liberal traveler.”

“George,” chuckled Arnold. “That day ever comes, I’ll step out of this room with my service revolver, and do the honorable thing, like an officer and a gentleman.”

1330 (Local), Tuesday, September 29

The Atlantic Ocean, 18.00N 53.00W.

T
HE
BARRACUDA
was making 15 knots through deep waters, east of the Puerto Rican Trench, 600 feet below the surface, with 2,500 fathoms under her keel. Shortly before first light that morning, they had come to periscope depth for a seven-second satellite check, and the signal awaiting them, more than 20,000 miles above the planet, confirmed their course and mission…
A cruel sea for the songbirds…

Gen. Ravi Rashood, plotting and planning in faraway Bandar Abbas, did not consider the sin of self-congratulation to be among his faults but he did harbor one small vanity—he believed he composed one hell of a military signal…and
a cruel sea for the songbirds
was one of his finest, prearranged with Ben Badr. It was stuffed with hidden information.
The Cruel Sea
, the famous book by Nicholas Monsarrat, meant that the attack on Montserrat had been a total success, the mention of the songbirds referred to…
“Onward! My brave boys to the Canary Islands.”
Three
words to explain that the sensational Scimitar missile attack on the Soufriere Hills had been accurate, devastating, and world-news-worthy. Three more to confirm the
Barracuda
’s next mission, and to seal the fate of the arrogant Satan who dominated the Middle East. Not to mention most of the world.

Admiral Ben Badr was ecstatic as he and his cohorts crept along towards the destiny Allah had awarded them. Everything was going according to plan.

The
Barracuda
was now 560 miles from Montserrat, steering zero-eight-three, in open water, approximately halfway between the burning Caribbean island and the relative safety of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge.

Admiral Badr and his Chief of Boat, CPO Ali Zahedi, were down in the missile room sipping coffee and inspecting the arsenal they had left—ten Scimitar cruises, eight of them with conventional warheads, plus two Mark-2s, with their 200-kT nuclear warheads. Two hundred kilotons—the explosive equivalent of
200,000 tons of TNT
. Ten conventional warheads (500 pounds each) pack a combined wallop of a couple of tons of TNT.

Ben ran his thumb over the sharp reinforced-steel nose cone of the nearest Mark-2, and he trailed his hand lightly, hesitantly, over the casing, as if stroking a dangerous lion. And he bowed to the golden lettering
SCIMITAR SL
-2—“It is the will of Allah,” he said softly, contemplating the coming thrust to the heart of the Cumbre Vieja.

1500, Tuesday, September 29

The White House.

President Charles McBride had agreed with undisguised irritation to a short meeting with Gen. Tim Scannell and the Chief of Naval Operations, Adm. Alan Dickson. He agreed because he had no choice. Even his Chief of Staff Bill Hatchard had managed to shake his massive head when the President tried to evade seeing
the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs…“Forget it, sir,” he had hissed from across the Oval Office. “You have to see him.”

In the following minutes, Big Bill pointed out that no President can avoid his CJC. “It’s simple, sir,” he said, unnecessarily, because if it had not been simple he would have had trouble with the concept himself. “If he has some really important information for you, and you refuse to see him, and the worst happens, he has it in his power to see you impeached. You
have
to see him, and that’s that.”

Charles McBride gave General Scannell and the Chief Executive of the United States Navy ten minutes at 3:05
P.M.
They arrived five minutes early, in two staff cars because there were rather more of them than the President was expecting.

In the backseat of the first car sat the CJC in company with Adm. Arnold Morgan. In the front passenger seat was Gen. Kenneth Clark, Commandant of the United States Marines.

In the second car was Admiral Dickson, with Adm. Frank Doran, Commander in Chief of the Atlantic Fleet, and Gen. Bart Boyce, NATO’s Supreme Allied Commander. With the exception of Admiral Morgan, the rest were in uniform.

They came in through West Executive Avenue, parked in front of the steps leading up to the Diplomatic driveway and the “front” door to the West Wing. Then they strode in tight formation, accompanied by a detail of four Marine guards who had been awaiting their arrival.

They marched to the Marine Guard Station right on the West Wing door, where a tall, polished guardsman in full-dress uniform of red and blue with gold braid, snapped to attention and said crisply, “Good afternoon, sir.” The remark was addressed to General Clark, who smiled and nodded as the Marine pulled the brass handle to open the door.

Inside, the White House “greeter,” a six-foot-six-inch former Naval Petty Officer, plus one of the resident Secret Agents, were plainly ready for this onslaught of military power. The agent ventured to ask the CJC if he could help.

“Two things,” said General Scannell. “A U.S. Navy helicopter from Andrews will be landing on the lawn in less than ten minutes. Make sure the military office knows about it. Inform the main White House telephone executive next to the ops room over in the Old Executive Office Building, we are conducting an emergency exercise, strict security. No further calls for one half hour, incoming or outgoing, as of now.”

“Right away, sir,” said the agent, a former Army Captain himself. “Oh…er…Admiral Morgan, sir…Will you be requiring a visitor’s badge?”

“Sit down, Tommy, I’m busy.”

The agent, who had always held an almost hero-worshiping view of the former National Security Adviser, laughed despite himself. And he utilized the Admiral’s favorite phrase, one he had heard so many times during his five-year career in the West Wing.

“No bullshit, right, sir?”

“No bullshit, Tommy,” replied Arnold.

And with that, all six of them, plus the Marine guard detail, marched along the corridor towards the office of the President of the United States.

Outside the Oval Office, Bill Hatchard was speaking to the President’s secretary, who bid General Scannell a polite “good afternoon,” curiously looking at the little group. She had not realized there were so many people scheduled for the short meeting, she said, apologetically.

“Don’t worry about it.” General Clark turned to one of the two Marine guards already on duty outside the Oval Office and ordered him to summon at least eight more to the corridor.

“SIR! YES, SIR!”
the guard snapped, obeying quickly and instinctively. The secretary now looked vaguely anxious and her alarm deepened when General Clark said to the other guard, “Head down to the main telephone switchboard and ensure that there are no incoming or outgoing calls. The order to suspend all service in and out of the White House has already been issued.”

“SIR! YES, SIR!”
he replied to his Commandant, and set off instantly for the Old Executive Building, where the lines of telephone operators guard the President and his senior people from unwanted calls.

General Scannell now walked straight past the stunned secretary and opened the door to the inner sanctum of the U.S. Government. Charles McBride was at his desk, reading some papers, and he looked up in surprise, as five senior military figures strode in behind the General.

“General, this is unacceptable. I agreed to see two people, not six. Please ask four of them to leave.”

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs simply ignored him. “Mr. President, at 10
A.M.
you informed me you would not give permission for the United States Military to take steps either to prevent, or otherwise cope with, a threat from the Middle East terrorist organization Hamas. May I presume you have not changed your mind?”

“You may. It’s just a load of nonsense. Now, if that’s all you have to say, I’ll thank you to leave now.”

“Sir. This is by no means all I have to say. I must confirm that the Head of your Navy, the Head of your Army, the Supreme NATO Commander, the Commander in Chief of the Atlantic Fleet, the Commandant of the United States Marine Corps, plus Admiral Morgan are unanimous in their belief that you are wrong.

“Each one of us believes that the East Coast cities of the United States are in mortal danger from a ruthless enemy. You are not just absolving yourself from the responsibility, you are hindering our efforts to protect the citizens and their property. Not to mention the historical documents and treasures of this country, which are held in those important cities.”

“Listen, General, these decisions are mine to make…not yours, nor any other Military Officers in the Pentagon.”

“Sir, I assure you that if we consider this nation to be threatened, and we have an incompetent President in this office, he will go, not us. We are the permanent guardians of this nation. And I
think you’ll find that the people of the United States trust us more than a politician.”

The President stared at him, disbelief on his face.

“How dare you speak to me in that manner? I’ve had enough of it, do you hear? I have had quite enough. Now get out, all of you, before I have you escorted out by the guards.”

“Perhaps I should remind you, sir, that the White House is guarded by the Marine Corps, and their Commandant is standing right next to me…”

The President banged his fist on the desk. “We’ll see about that,” he shouted, picking up the telephone. But the line was dead, as were all lines in the White House. And that was the way they would stay for another twenty-five minutes.

He crashed down the phone, his hands shaking. In short angry bursts, slightly disjointed, and too loud, he hissed “
I’ve always thought you were all crazy…You’re asking the impossible…I can’t just evacuate the East Coast…I can’t persuade Israel to help…I don’t even understand deployment of ships…Why are you doing this? Why the hell can’t you leave me alone? To do what I was elected to do…”

“Sir, it is our opinion that you are not competent to lead this nation in the crisis we now find ourselves in. The President has to talk to the people…today…and it plainly cannot be you.

“On behalf of the United States Armed Forces, I am relieving you of office. For the next ten minutes, this country will be under a self-imposed Martial Law. By that time, we shall have sworn in the new President…As you know, under our Constitution that’s Vice President Paul Bedford…”

“YOU CAN DO NO SUCH THING!”
yelled Charles McBride.

“Can’t I?” replied the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “General Clark, summon a Marine Guard of four men…”

“Yes, sir.” General Clark walked to the door and ordered four armed Marines into the Oval Office. “Stand on either side of the President’s chair and be prepared for him to do something careless,” said the Commandant.

“Sir,” said General Scannell. “This sheet of paper contains your resignation. You will see it already has the Presidential Seal embossed on it…Read and sign…”

The President read the sentence…“
I hereby resign the office of President of the United States for reasons of failing health. Signed by my own hand on this twenty-ninth day of September 2009.”

“And if I refuse…?”

“We shall place you under arrest for deliberately, and willfully, endangering the citizens of the United States by refusing to take military precautions in the face of an enemy threat. That would mean, of course, your instant impeachment, and disgrace. Sign it, sir, and sign it now, or we’ll carry you out of here. Time, for us at least, is very short.”

“But you cannot just appoint a new…”

“SHUT UP, McBRIDE!” rasped Admiral Morgan. “You’ve said plenty.”

The President was stunned into silence. With the generals glaring, he signed the resignation paper.

“You will now be escorted to a Navy helicopter out on the lawn and be flown to Camp David, where you will remain under house arrest until we have dealt with the Hamas threat…Is the First Lady in residence? Any other members of family?”

“Just the First Lady upstairs in the residence.”

“She will be brought to the helicopter immediately. At Camp David neither of you will be permitted any contact with the outside world whatsoever. No phones will be connected. Mobile phones will be confiscated.” General Scannell glanced at his watch and muttered, “Have him escorted out right now. We’re going straight to the office of the new President. Judge Moore is already in the Old Executive Building, specifically to swear him in.”

The operation had been conducted, so far, with immense precision.

The High Command of the United States Armed Forces was trusted implicitly to tell the truth and to operate objectively, free
from political or civilian agendas. The members of the Supreme Court understood that perfectly, and the two Supreme Court Judges, required to authorize Judge Moore’s powers, had instantly complied to the request from the Pentagon.

The only politician who had been informed of the palace coup was Senator Edward Kennedy, the senior member of the Senate Armed Forces Committee, whose patriotism was unquestioned and whose personal motives to act on behalf of the United States were always impeccable.

In this instance, Admiral Morgan had assured everyone of the Senator’s support since, he said, the entire Kennedy compound was situated on the shores of Nantucket Sound, in the direct path of the ensuing tsunami.

“But I know Teddy,” he said. “If he lived on top of the goddamned Rockies, he’d still do the right thing about a threat like this. Also, he knows us, and he knows the Navy. He’s head of the Subcommittee on Sea Power. And he knows we wouldn’t be making this up. He’ll trust us, and he’ll give us his total support. You can count on it.”

And now Charles McBride was on his feet, with a Marine guard on each elbow, being frog-marched to the door of the Oval Office. Upstairs, Mrs. McBride was being escorted more gently along the corridor, carrying only her purse. Their personal possessions would be ferried up to Camp David in the early part of the evening. The announcement of his retirement, to a shocked nation, would be given in a broadcast within the hour, when President Bedford would cite McBride’s nervous breakdown.