Scimitar SL-2 (47 page)

Blake Gill had been in an army missile team seconded to the U.S. Navy’s cruisers during the Patriot testing programs off Hawaii. He was an acknowledged aficionado of the Patriot system, and a glittering career awaited him with either Raytheon or Lockheed Martin, if and when he ever finished with the Army.

But Blake Gill was like his missile, a Patriot. He was a man cut in the mold of Adm. Arnold Morgan himself, a sworn enemy of his country’s foes, a man to whom personal gain was a total stranger. The heavyset Southerner, with his scorched-earth haircut, was plainly headed for the highest possible rank his branch of the Service had to offer. If anyone was going to slam the Scimitar, it was Blake Gill, husband of Louisa, father of Charlie and Harry. Missile man.

He rode in the lead truck in front of the launcher, the four hunter-killer Patriots towering behind him. He carried with him three different ground elevations of the Cumbre Vieja site—one, a satellite photograph of the entire area, taking in the coastlines; another, a map drawn from much closer in; and the last one, a detailed map of the undulating terrain directly around the crater.

Since no one had an exact estimate as to which direction the incoming missiles were to be fired, Blake Gill was relying on the facts presented to him at the Pentagon on his way to the Charleston Air Force Base. He knew he must cover the westerly approach and the more unlikely north, but he had been carefully briefed by both Adm. Frank Doran and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs himself, Gen. Tim Scannell, that the biggest threat was from the east and southeast.

The
Barracuda
ultimately had to get out of the way of the tsunami or it too would be destroyed. And that meant it had to seek cover on the eastern side of La Palma or Gomera if it launched at close range.

Major Gill had penciled in one of his mobile launchers to face outwards from the eight principal points of the compass. Any preprogrammed cruise missile could be directed on the most circuitous route into any target, but not without GPS. Therefore a major detour around the volcano, and then a route in from the north or west, seemed utterly unlikely.

Yes, the Pentagon was nearly certain that the missiles would come straight in, out of the east or southeast, simply to give the submarine a chance to save itself. Major Gill knew he must place
launcher number five to the southeast. The problem of the northeast occupied him, however. There would be no course correction to the incoming weapons, and no cover out there in open water, nor any place the submarine could reach to find shelter before the tidal wave slung it straight onto the sandy beaches of Western Sahara.

And yet…he knew these suicide bastards from the Middle East…Maybe sacrificing himself was the master plan…Maybe they just did not care…They would fire and forget from any spot they pleased and let Allah do his worst. Paradise, perhaps, beckoned. It was not, after all, particularly unusual for the young braves of Hamas to terminate their lives willingly in the Jihad against the West.

Major Gill was thoughtful. Clearly, the
Barracuda
was on its final mission. They were never going to take it home. To where? It could never again come to the surface, never again fire a missile. The forthcoming launch would betray its position, and the odds of it evading a strike force like the U.S. Navy currently had at sea were close to zero.

No, the Hamas terrorists almost certainly knew the game was up the moment they opened fire within a very few miles of ASW warships and helicopters. So they just might launch from anywhere. And he, Blake Gill, had to be ready for a threat from any direction with plenty of overlap.

He would position his mobile launchers, evenly spaced around the compass, facing out from the crater, in all directions. His maps showed the ground to be extremely rough and uneven, once the end of the road had been reached, and he was grateful for the huge U.S. Marine Chinook helicopter awaiting him up at the summit, which he knew would place the launchers with effortless efficiency precisely where he wanted them.

They drove on down to the village of Los Canarios de Fuencaliente, where hot springs had once bubbled but, long buried by the eruptions of various volcanoes, now formed part of the deadly, roughly 10-mile-long cauldron beneath the mountain.

Major Gill studied his maps. To the south, he knew, was the Volcan San Antonio. A signpost directed visitors to a pathway and a visitors’ center around its gaping black crater. Even farther south was the Volcan Teneguia, which is off the beaten track and where only a few adventurers could struggle up its slopes and peer in over the shattered rim.

The convoy of launchers was headed the other way, north, up towards the Cumbre Vieja, glowering under the crystal-blue arc of the sky above the islands. As they drove on in a cloud of black dust, the Major could see the Chinook parked up ahead, about 200 yards off the main road.

It took about twenty minutes to secure the cables that would take the weight of the launcher. Major Gill and the missile crew climbed aboard for the short ride to the summit, and under his direction, the Navy pilot put the launch truck exactly into position, facing due east, overlooking the Atlantic and the distant shores of Gomera and Tenerife.

The giant helo had already deposited all the equipment needed for the Engagement Control Station farther up the escarpment, to a slightly higher peak to the north. Twelve more technicians who had traveled across the Atlantic in the
Truman
had already begun to erect the station, ensuring it had views in all directions overlooking the Atlantic to the east and west, where the frigates were patrolling. And, of course, overlooking the Patriot batteries around the crater to the south, with clear radar range at every point of the compass.

The Engagement Control Station was the only manned station in a Patriot Fire Unit. It could communicate with any M901 Launching Station and with other Patriot batteries, and it also had direct communications to the higher command facilities, in this case Admiral Gillmore’s
Coronado
.

Three operators had two consoles and a Communication Station with three radio-relay terminals. The digital Weapon Control Computer was located next to the VHF Data Link terminals. One of the C-17 Globemasters had brought in the trailer-mounted
Raytheon MPQ-53 phased-array Army radar unit, a band-tracking radar capable of identifying one hundred targets at a time. It was a superb component of any top-of-the-line shore missile batteries, and it would carry out search, target detection, track and identification, missile tracking and guidance, plus electronic counter-countermeasures (ECCM) functions.

Its radar was automatically controlled, via a cable link, by the digital weapons control computer in the Engagement Control Center sited farther up the hill. The radar had a range of up to 55 miles, and could provide guidance data for up to nine missiles at any one time. Its wideband capability provided target discrimination never before achieved.

In normal circumstances, this overwhelming piece of electronic equipment might have been considered overkill in the search for one or possibly two incoming “birds.” However, in this case, by express orders of Admiral Morgan, there was no such thing as overkill.

As the Patriot missile came flashing into its target, the TVM guidance system would be activated, and the weapon could scarcely miss. And it would not require a midair collision to blow Admiral Badr’s Scimitar clean out of the sky. The Patriot just needed to be close enough for a proximity fuse to detonate the high-explosive warhead, in this case, an M248 91kg—200 pounds—TNT blast fragmentation.

The MIM-104E was over 17 feet long, 16 inches in diameter, and weighed 2,000 pounds. At Mach 5, its range was 43 miles and, if necessary, it could fly to a ceiling of 80,000 feet. Arnold Morgan had estimated a very high trajectory from the
Barracuda
’s missiles, which, he thought, would aim to lance down very steeply at the crater of the Cumbre Vieja.

Major Gill had a copy of that shrewd assessment from the Supreme Commander folded neatly in his breast pocket, as he prepared the U.S. Army’s ring of steel around the volcano’s black heart. As he watched the mighty Chinook flying the Patriot launcher trucks right over the crater and into position, he knew
that if the frigate’s batteries were not in time, out in the open ocean, his own guided missiles would be the United States’ last line of defense.

2330, Tuesday, October 6

The Atlantic Ocean, 27.25N 20.50W.

Five hundred feet below the surface, the
Barracuda
had cut its speed from six knots to five, after a very slight swing to the south. Its course would take it 14 miles south of the flashing light on Point Restinga, the southernmost headland of the Canary Island of Hierro. Right now they were a little under 40 miles to the west, and several days out of satellite contact with General Rashood.

Ben Badr was in the submarine’s control room with his XO, Capt. Ali Akbar Mohtaj, who was coming to the end of the First Watch.

The Admiral ordered the submarine to periscope depth for a swift GPS check and a visual look at the surface picture.

In the clear autumn night skies they could see that the ocean around them was devoid of shipping. The GPS numbers were accurate, according to their own navigation charts meticulously kept by Lt. Ashtari Mohammed, Shakira’s old colleague.

“DOWN PERISCOPE…MAKE YOUR DEPTH 500…SPEED FIVE…”
Admiral Badr wore a soft smile as he felt the ship go, bow down, 10 degrees. He felt safe—so far as he could see—no U.S. Navy dragnet was trying to hunt him down.

The time was 11:30 and 15 seconds. What he didn’t know, as the
Barracuda
glided back towards the ocean floor, was that in precisely 24 hours, 29 minutes, and 45 seconds, the world’s GPS systems, U.S. and European, were shutting down. Ben Badr was proceeding to a long-range launching, which could not work. First blood to the United States.

He and Captain Mohtaj sipped hot tea with sugar and lemon and stared meditatively at the charts. They would be inside the
grid of the seven islands shortly after dawn, and he would now head east, according to their original plan, to launch 30 miles south of Fuerteventura, 30 miles off the coast of Western Sahara.

“If we can launch long-range,” said Ben, “we’re bound to hit. The missile takes longer to get there. We have longer to get into shelter, and our chances of being detected are close to zero. So far, I like it very much.”

By the time they finished their tea, and Captain Mohtaj had retired to his bunk, the GPS was still transmitting. But in twenty-four hours, there would be a mind-blowing change to their plan.

Worse yet, the U.S. guided missile frigate the
Nicholas
was still in the area, and Captain Nielsen’s ops room had very nearly picked them up when they put up a mast for that last GPS check. The U.S. frigate was less than 20 miles away, and it caught a slight paint on two sweeps of the radar. It had disappeared on the third, but the ops room of the
Nicholas
was very sharp, and the young seaman watching the screen had called it immediately. His supervisor had logged and given it a numbered track. It was now on the nets, circulating to the rest of the fleet. Of course, it could have been anything—a flock of birds, a rainsquall, a breaching whale or a dolphin. But the operator was not so sure, and the
Nicholas
hung around for an hour, wondering if the “paint” would return.

But nothing unusual occurred, and Captain Nielsen proceeded on slowly through the night down the coast of Hierro, before making for Tenerife. He was steaming only a little faster than the
Barracuda
, which was traveling in the same direction, 20 miles off their starboard quarter, deep beneath the waves.

Wednesday, October 7

The Eastern Atlantic.

T
HE
BARRACUDA
, still making only 6 knots, steamed quietly past the flashing light on the stark southern headland of Hierro’s Point Restingo shortly after 0700. They remained 500 feet below the surface, 14 miles south of the lighthouse, on a bright, sunlit morning.

Twenty miles to the north, moving slowly south, four miles off the rust-red volcanic eastern coastline of the island, was the gunmetal-gray 3,600-ton U.S. frigate the
Nicholas
. She was on a near-interception course with the
Barracuda,
but Capt. Eric Nielsen would turn east for Tenerife 10 miles north of the submarine.

On the west coast of the island, Capt. Josh Deal’s
Kauffman
was combing the Atlantic depths electronically, searching, searching for the telltale whispers that may betray the presence of the lethal underwater marauder.

If Captain Deal held his course, he too would eventually reach the submarine’s track, but he was also under orders to swing east for Tenerife. Both ships were proceeding with caution, not too fast to miss anything, but with enough speed to cover the wide patch of ocean allotted them by Admiral Gillmore.

THE LINE OF VOLCANOES IN THE CUMBRE VIEJA RANGES MAKES LA PALMA‘S SOUTH A THREATENING PLACE

The tiny island Hierro, only 15 miles wide, used to be about three times the size. But a massive eruption around 50,000 years ago blew it asunder and, according to modern volcanologists, dumped about 100 square miles of solid rock onto the bottom of the Atlantic.

The shape of the island conformed precisely to the geological pattern of a great volcano rising up from the seabed. It shoaled down steeply to 850 feet right off the rock-strewn beach, then, in less than seven miles, plummeted to a narrow plateau 5,000 feet below the surface. From there, the ocean floor dove steeply for one mile and a half, straight down to a depth of more than 12,000 feet. Almost identical ocean statistics to those of La Palma, 50 miles to the north.

At 0800, Adm. Ben Badr ordered the
Barracuda
to creep up slowly from these massive depths to access the satellite, check the GPS, and to report course and position to the private satellite receiver above the house on Sharia Bab Touma in Damascus, the command headquarters of the operation where the former Maj. Ray Kerman already lurked, awaiting the signal.

Admiral Badr’s Executive Officer, Capt. Ali Akbar Mohtaj, ordered the periscope and the ESM mast up. There was no threat radar on the surface, and the comms room instantly retrieved a message off the Chinese navy satellite. It revealed the wave-band numbers of the French GPS, should the U.S. take the precaution of blacking out the main access channels. General Rashood had received intelligence of possible “limited GPS interruption,” but the Pentagon had been cagey, releasing the news only on the restricted shipping and airline channels. The Arab newspapers hardly mentioned it, and it would be several hours before the General could access the
Wall Street Journal
, since he was operating eight hours ahead of the U.S. East Coast.

The
Barracuda
’s comms staff checked French and American
GPS wave bands. Both were onstream. Suddenly they heard U.S. Navy radar. Captain Mohtaj quickly ordered mast and periscope down, and the submarine back to a depth of 500 feet. Too late. Eric Nielsen’s
Nicholas
had picked up a suspect at extreme range with three sweeps, 12 miles north of the jutting periscope.

The frigate’s computers flashed into action, bringing up the previous “paint,” seven hours previously at 40 miles to the west. If the same ship had caused both sightings, they were looking at a transient contact, making around six knots, bearing zero-nine-zero, due east, along latitude 27.25N.

Within seconds, the computerized deductions hit the comms room in the
Coronado
up to the northwest of Lanzarote, and Admiral Gillmore immediately appreciated the situation. For the moment, the
Elrod
and the
Nicholas
were slightly behind the eight ball, but on standby. Right off the northeast headland of Tenerife, he had Capt. Clint Sammons’s
Klakring
and Comdr. Joe Wickman’s
Simpson
. He ordered them to make good speed south for 100 miles and to begin their search as they crossed latitude 27.30N. ETA
Barracuda
: 2200 hours.

So far as Admiral Gillmore could see, he had the submarine strapped between his four frigates. But he also knew that the
Barracuda
was so quiet, it could creep 500 feet beneath them, at a silent 5 to 6 knots, and not be detected by passive sonar, though it might be “active.”

Admiral Gillmore fired off a signal to Adm. Frank Doran, who was still in the command center at Atlantic Fleet Headquarters in Norfolk…“
070800OCT09 Possible detection
Barracuda,
course zero-nine-zero, 14 miles south of Hierro Island. Course and speed correlates possible six-knot transient submarine detected 070100OCT09.
Elrod
and
Nicholas
tracking,
Klakring
and
Simpson
running south to intercept. Gillmore.

Eight minutes later, Arnold Morgan leapt to his feet from his desk in the sparsely furnished Oval Office, punched the air, and gritted…
“Come on, guys…let’s tighten the fucking screws, put that little bastard on the seabed…”

“You’re not beginning to take this personally, by any chance, are you Arnold?” asked President Bedford, disarmingly.

“Christ no, sir. I just love chasing boatloads of underwater terrorists around the oceans—I just get a little edgy after the first year…”

Meanwhile, back in the eastern Atlantic, Admiral Gillmore ordered the carrier the
Ronald Reagan
southwest towards the coast of Gran Canaria, from its holding position 15 miles north of Lanzarote.

The U.S. Navy’s dragnet was closing in, but Admiral Gillmore was taking a calculated risk that the transient contacts were indeed the
Barracuda
. If they were not, and the Hamas terrorists were coming in from farther north, he would be heavily dependent on the steel cordon of guided-missile frigates out of Norfolk, which currently circled La Palma, inshore and offshore.

Right now, a carrier was flying two continuous patrols between the west coast of La Palma and the towering coast of the island of Gomera, where the precipitous cliffs crash headlong into the ocean, just 35 miles northeast of Hierro.

All of the Navy’s assessments claimed that the submarine, if it was to fire its missiles visually,
must
come in towards the Cumbre Vieja from either Gomera’s southwest or northeast coast. The
Barracuda
might ultimately duck back behind this rocky fortress for shelter in the moments before the mega-tsunami surged outwards into its horrendous reality.

Oblivious of the bear trap closing in around them, the
Barracuda
had somewhat carelessly failed to detect the closeness of USS
Nicholas,
and now the Russian-built nuclear boat proceeded deep along her easterly course, slowly and quietly.

Down in the Navigation area, Lt. Ashtari Mohammed estimated that by midnight, they would reach a point 24 miles southwest of Playa de Ingles, the seething gay Mecca of the island of Gran Canaria, winter headquarters of Sodomites International, and a place likely to be crushed beneath a 50-foot tidal wave one hour after impact. Still, death by drowning would probably arrive
on fleeting wings, which would doubtless beat the hell out of being turned to stone.

That particular point on the chart would be critical for the submarine, because they would arrive there just as the world GPS was scheduled to crash. And the precise moment that Admiral Badr ordered his ship to the surface would determine how swiftly he would know that a long-range launch was out of the question.

And they ran quietly and silently all day, without the U.S. frigates locating them. At 0030 on that moonlit Thursday morning, Admiral Badr ordered the
Barracuda
to PD, and her periscope came thrusting out of the water, alongside her mighty ESM mast, which was almost as thick as a telegraph pole. The two steel poles jutted right into the path of the radar sweeping across the water from all four of the trailing U.S. frigates.

The
Barracuda
sucked down a signal from General Rashood in the couple of seconds before the submarine’s ops room picked up the frigates on their ESM. Continuous sweeps. Captain Mohtaj simply said, “We’re surrounded, sir.”

“I understand that,” replied Ben Badr. “But they’re six miles away and we’re not finished by any means…
10 BOW DOWN 600…MAKE YOUR SPEED TEN…COME RIGHT TWENTY DEGREES…”

At that moment, young Ahmed Sabah came bursting out of the comms room with the communication from Damascus…
U.S. GPS satellite communications crashed at midnight…Zhanjiang naval base making no contact with French version…world GPS black. Abort long-range launch. Repeat abort long-range launch…Change course northwest and proceed to coast of Gomera…Then head into La Palma launch zone 25 miles off the east coast, for visual setup. Allah goes with you. Rashood.

All four U.S. frigates picked up the radar contact, and all four had solid contact. Both previous detections had been along the 27.25 line of latitude, and so was this third one. Each of the four
Commanding Officers—Eric Nielsen, C. J. Smith, Clint Sammons, and Joe Wickman—was now certain that they had their quarry under surveillance. And they all knew, of course, that the GPS was down, and that the
Barracuda
was almost certain to change course right here at 27.25N 16.06W.

Admiral Badr’s navigation room had not immediately understood the extent of the GPS blackout. Lt. Ashtari Mohammed had observed that they were receiving nothing from the satellites on their screens, but he was looking for a technical fault at first. It was not until Ahmed Sabah read out the signal from General Ravi that Ashtari fully realized the implications of his blank screen. There was no GPS, and there was not going to be any. The U.S. Air Force’s 50th Space Wing, out in Colorado, had placed a four-minute transmission delay on their formal announcement:

No GPS signal before 0100 Saturday October 10.

That had been Admiral Morgan’s order, on the grounds that four minutes would be too long for the
Barracuda
to leave a mast up, and it might just run on for several more miles before they realized the GPS was down permanently.

General Ravi had dealt with that, however, and now Ben Badr ordered an immediate course change…
“COME RIGHT ONE HUNDRED NINETY DEGREES…STEER COURSE THREE-ZERO-ZERO…MAKE YOUR SPEED FIVE…DEPTH 600.”

Captain Mohtaj, at the helm of the
Barracuda,
now making course west-nor’west, handed the ship over to the CPO, Chief Ali Zahedi, at 0100. There was a 90-mile deepwater run to the shelter of the eastern shore of Gomera, and there was no problem staying “below the layer,” 600 feet under the surface, since the Atlantic all around the Canary Islands was nearly two miles deep.

But the sudden course change had unnerved the crew. Even though just a few of the senior command were aware that they were surrounded by U.S. warships, and their long-range launch plan had been scuppered, everyone quickly knew there was something amiss.

They were headed into the jaws of the United States Navy,
which was not a great place to be. But General Rashood had made no mention of aborting the mission. Rather he had urged them forwards, as the soldiers of Allah, to strike the fateful blow against the Great Satan.

Admiral Badr called a briefing meeting in his small private office. In attendance were Captain Mohtaj, Comdr. Abbas Shafii, the nuclear specialist, Comdr. Hamidi Abdolrahim, the chief nuclear engineer, Lieutenant Ashtari, the navigator, and Ahmed Sabah.

“Gentlemen,” said Ben Badr. “I am no longer able to say with any certainty that any of us will survive this mission. However, my orders are that it must be completed, and it will be completed.”

He poured tea for them all from a silver pot into the little glass cups with their silver holders. And he paused carefully, to allow his words to sink in. It was the first time in two underwater missions that anyone had ever suggested martyrdom.

But the anticipation of death is not so very far from the minds of any Islamic freedom fighter, and the fear of imminent death was less among these men than it might have been among those of another religious persuasion. Nonetheless, Ben Badr was surrounded by grave faces, and he was aware of the need to hold their attention.

“In many ways,” he said, “nothing very much has altered. Of course it would have been preferable to fire our missiles from two or three hundred miles out, but as we now know, that will no longer be possible. However, our target has not moved, and we are perfectly capable of creeping in, to a 25-mile range, taking our visual bearings, and launching our Scimitar missiles straight at the volcano.