Scimitar SL-2 (51 page)

Major Gill, up on the heights in the Engagement Control Center, watched the automatic system instantly activate the band-tracking radar, the radar beams that could locate and track one hundred targets at a time, if necessary.

The search, target detection, track and identification, missile tracking, and guidance took four and a half seconds to lock on…
“Got it, sir!”

“This is Patriot Boss. We have it. Are you expecting more?”

“Unknown, Patriot Boss. We have problems out here, but launch vehicle is under heavy attack. Further launches possible but unlikely.”

“Patriot Boss, roger that.”

At which moment, the first of the most sophisticated guided missiles ever built howled into the sky above the crater, its radar being controlled automatically by the digital weapons control computer right next to Major Gill in the ECC.

The Patriot thundered up its course, bearing 113, seeking its target, which was now headed downwards from an altitude of 30,000 feet, about 10 miles out from the crater.

Major Gill ordered missiles two, three, and four to launch. But there was scarcely a need. Patriot One, making over 3,000 miles an hour, screamed through the air towards the Scimitar. Twelve seconds from launch, it blasted with staggering force less than 50 feet from the Hamas missile. Two hundred pounds of TNT—almost enough to make a dent in the island of Gomera—cast a bright but smoky glow in the azure skies.

The second Scimitar was blown apart, its burning fuel falling colorfully over a wide area, nine miles out from the volcano. Its nuclear warhead never ignited but simply dropped into the Atlantic. And the cheer that went up from Major Gill’s missile men would not have disgraced Yankee Stadium.

“Foxtrot Charlie. This is Patriot Boss. Missile splashed.”

“Foxtrot Charlie. Thank Christ for that.”

Admiral George Gillmore sent in the official report to the Pentagon…
090652OCT09.
Barracuda
submarine fired two submerged-launch guided missiles at the Cumbre Vieja volcano east of La Palma from 25-mile range. Submarine destroyed and sunk by two helo-launched torpedoes. Both missiles splashed. Harpoon from USS
Elrod.
Patriot from the summit. God Bless America. Gillmore.

O
PERATION HIGH TIDE
was declared at an end in the small hours of October 9. Americans awakened to learn that the danger had passed. The threat had been real. The U.S. Military had destroyed it, and it was a weary Adm. and Mrs. Arnold Morgan who left the Oval Office at four o’clock that morning.

They climbed aboard the new Hummer 2A, with its bulletproof darkened windows, and were driven out through the northern suburbs of Washington to the big Colonial house in Chevy Chase, followed by a Secret Service detail of four guards.

It was almost 5:45 when Kathy produced poached eggs, English muffins, grilled bacon, and sausage. It may have seemed like a banquet, but neither the Supreme Commander of High Tide nor his wife had eaten anything since the previous Wednesday’s breakfast of fruit salad.

Admiral Morgan, calling the shots from the Oval Office, may have looked like what the media called him—the Consummate Military Hardman. But the Hamas threat to the U.S.A. had taken a seven-week toll on him.

Personally, Kathy blamed Charles McBride. “If that damn fool
had listened,” she said, sipping her coffee. “If he’d just taken the advice of his Intelligence Officers and the Military, half the pressure would have been removed from this Operation. The people who knew how to handle things could have just got on with it.”

“You’re right there,” muttered Arnold. “We’ve got to keep our guard up. Always. Because there’s a lot of enemies out there. But the biggest danger to the United States of America is when you get some comedian in short pants in the Oval Office.”

“Do you think it will all come out—the military coup in the White House, the removal of the President, and…everything?” asked Kathy.

“I sure as hell hope not,” replied Arnold. “I hate to see the country tearing itself apart. And I’m just hoping that that jackass McBride feels suitably ashamed. At least too ashamed to write his goddamned memoirs.”

“Did Alan Dickson tell you how close that last missile was when the Patriot blew it up?”

“Oh, that wasn’t a problem. The guys had a ton of time once they got the bird away.”

“Yes, but how long would it have been before it hit the crater?”

“Forty seconds.”

“Mother of God.”

President Paul Bedford made a broadcast to the nation at 7
A.M.
He announced an end to the emergency, and an end to the effective martial law that had been in place for the past ten days.

He appealed for a calm return to normal life and assured everyone the Armed Forces would do everything in their power to help restore order in the big cities.

He congratulated the media on their restraint and cooperation, without ever referring to the fact that Admiral Morgan had threatened to blow up their buildings if they stepped out of line.

He regretted all of the inconvenience and huge amount of federal money that had been spent on the civilian and government operations.

“However,” said President Bedford, “I was sworn into this great office, not just to protect the Constitution, but to protect the citizens of the United States of America. Each and every one of you. It was an unwritten promise, but one that I took most seriously.”

He outlined with brevity, and a certain coolness, the scale of the threat from a group of Middle Eastern terrorists.

“I could take no chances,” he said. “Five hours ago, the United States Armed Forces destroyed the terrorists and their missiles, and their submarine. The danger is passed.

“However, we have opened up consultations with the Government of Spain to place a U.S. missile shield on permanent guard on the summit of the Cumbre Vieja. We have also begun negotiations to form a coalition of interested parties to build an engineering system that will drain the underground lakes beneath the volcano.

“And with these initiatives, we issued a warning to Hamas, and to other organizations like them—
WE ARE NOT YET FINISHED WITH THIS—WE WILL COME AFTER YOU WHEREVER YOU MAY BE HIDING.”

Same Day

Damascus, Syria.

Ravi and Shakira Rashood, watching the CNN satellite news broadcast in the big house on Sharia Bab Touma, were stunned at the announcement, slowly grasping the fact that Ben Badr and Ahmed Sabah, together with the rest of the crew, were dead.

They had believed their mission to be impregnable, that even the mighty U.S.A. was powerless to locate a marauding nuclear boat.

Still in shock, they walked to the great Umayyad Mosque before the citadel and prayed for their fallen comrades. Each of them had known of the massive danger. And each of them had realized that Allah might call their colleagues to Paradise at any moment.

However, when close friends, comrades, and relatives are involved, death always comes on ravens’ wings. And the General and his wife were unable to speak for a long time.

Same Time

The White House.

Meanwhile, President Bedford concluded his address to the nation…“Once again,” he said, “the men of the United States Army and Navy have come through for all of us with their customary bravery and efficiency. And I thank them all, in particular their outstanding Commanders.

“I thank also the Supreme Commander of this operation, both civilian and military—Admiral Arnold Morgan—who most of you will remember from the last Administration. The Admiral, as always, stepped up to the plate when the nation was threatened.

“He scarcely left the White House for the past eight days, and yet, when our combat troops fought that short and vicious engagement out there in the eastern Atlantic this morning…well…I guess we had an extra man on every missile battery, at sea and on land…in every helicopter…in every ops room…A man who was, in a sense, with them, every yard of the way.

“Admiral Morgan is just that kind of guy, and every man in the Armed Services knows it. And I do not quite know how we would have gotten along without him.

“And I am sure you will join with me in now wishing him a long and happy retirement.”

Same Time

Chevy Chase.

Arnold took another king-size bite of sausage, and Kathy blew him a kiss from across the room.

“Hear that, my darling?” she said. “Retirement.”

“That’s right,” said Arnold, munching away cheerfully. “That’s what I’m doing.”

“Right,” replied Kathy Morgan, a little uneasily. “It’s just that I darn well know, when something diabolical happens, they’ll summon you again. And when the bugle sounds, you’ll still come out fighting.”

M
Y LONG TRANSGLOBAL JOURNEY
in a Russian-built nuclear submarine was masterminded by Adm. Sir John “Sandy” Woodward, former nuclear boat commander, former Flag Officer Submarines, Royal Navy. The Admiral is the last man to fight a full-scale modern Naval action at sea—as Task Force Commander, Royal Navy, in the battle for the Falkland Islands,1982.

He also advised me, with endless patience, on the complexities of nuclear propulsion, without demonstrating even a glimmer of frustration…Well, not that many. In the decisive Naval action of the book, it was his decision to strike from the air rather than underwater. He also helped me plan the U.S. Navy’s search-and-kill strategy in the eastern Atlantic. And, as ever, he has my gratitude.

The former Special Forces officers, who tend to be in constant attendance while I write these “techno-thrillers,” never wish to be identified, for obvious reasons. But I thank them, all the same. And they each know how grateful I am.

I consulted, on both sides of the Atlantic, with three eminent scientists on the causes and effects of tsunamis. On two or three
critical issues there was a slight variance of opinion. I thus name none of them, since to do so might cause a certain amount of friction in the geophysical community. Worse yet, I should almost certainly get the blame for tampering, albeit lightly, with sincerely held opinions!

—Patrick Robinson