Scimitar SL-2 (2004)

by Patrick Robinson

  The Pacific was a little less than a mile deep here, the seabed a flat, scarcely undulating plain. On the surface, the swells were long, rising 10 feet, but here in the quiet depths of the cold, gloomy ocean, there was nothing, save for the stark network of the U.S. Navy’s SOSUS wires, resting like angry black cobras in military formation on the ocean floor, ready to spit venomous, fatal betrayal on any unsuspecting intruder.

  Admiral Badr recommended running south for another 100 miles, a position that would put them in easy range of the great scarred mountain in southwestern Washington. Shakira’s missile course was plotted and agreed upon. General Ravi had decreed there was no reason to move too far away. His overall strategy had been something of a surprise: He was ordering a daytime firing, rather than using the hours of darkness, which they all felt to be much safer, although when cocooned in their boat at 600 feet, there was not the slightest difference between night or day, summer or winter, or the days of the week.

  When Shakira wanted to know why, Ravi’s explanation was succinct. “Because a big cruise missile trails a large fiery tail when it leaves the water. It can be seen literally for miles, especially in the dark. If we do it in the day it will be much, much less visible.”

  “But before we fired at night.”

  “That was because we did not want the missiles to be seen by security guards at the target end. This is different. We are firing into a void. Into the open wild, where there are no guards, no surveillance, no people.”

  “Hmmmm,” mumbled Shakira, irritated that she had not thought of that herself.

  “Our only danger on this mission,” said her husband, “is being detected by a passing warship, out there in the night, with the ocean lit up like a bloody amusement park by our rocket motors.”

  “The missile could still be seen during the day,” said Shakira, “if there were passing ships.”

  “There won’t be,” replied Ravi.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I intend to fire when there is fog on the ocean surface. And I intend to use passive sonar and my own eyes to ensure there is nothing around.”

  “But even you cannot just order fog.”

  “No, but this part of northwestern America is well known for the rain that sweeps up the Pacific. And where there’s rain and cool temperatures interrupted by warm air currents, there’s fog.”

  “But there may not be any, not exactly when we want it,” said Shakira.

  “We’ll wait.”

  Shakira Rashood asked him if he would like some tea, and her husband replied that he considered that an excellent idea, briefly toying with the temptation to remark how thrilled he was that she had decided to return to what she was good at. But he quickly rejected it, not wishing to have the entire contents of the teapot poured over his head.

  Instead he looked up and smiled. “I’m very grateful, my darling,” he said, “the way you force people to explain themselves.”

  “You’re too clever,” she said, affecting a mock pout. “Always too clever. I like being on your side.”

  “You’re a good officer, Shakira. Ready to challenge when you do not quite understand. But in the end, respectful of your Commanding Officer. As we all must be.”

  “I am a good officer,” she said seriously, but smiling. “But I hope you think I’m a better wife. Because I expect to be that for much longer.”

  “If you go on doing as I tell you—at least while we’re in this ship on Allah’s mission—you will be my wife for a long time. I usually know what to do, and how to keep us safe.”

  “You see,” she laughed, “you don’t even have a Commanding Officer. You make your own rules.”

  “I have a Commanding Officer,” he replied. “And I hope He’s watching over both of us.”

  Shakira looked at him with undisguised adoration—this powerfully built ex–British Army Major, the toughest man she had ever met, with the polish of a Sandhurst-trained officer and the strategic brilliance of an SAS commander. And yet he was an Arab still, with his dark tanned skin, the softest brown eyes, and the inborn fortitude of his Bedouin forebears.

  And she thanked Allah for the day she had fled with him, terrified, through the rubble of shattered Hebron, while all around them there was only the blast of shells and the whine of bullets and the cries of the wounded. She thanked Allah for the strength she had found to take him into hiding with the Hamas freedom fighters.

  Looking back, when she dared, to the devastation of that blasted cement house in the Palestinian district, she could still see her slain children, and the blood from the wounds of the dead SAS sergeants, blood pouring down Ravi’s combat uniform, blood on her children, on her own hands and dress. And she remembered how her own little Ravi had lain so still in the dust, next to his tiny dead sister, and how Ray had saved her life by committing two savage murders.

  There was nothing, she thought, that could have been worth all that. But the former Maj. Ray Kerman had made it almost so. She could not imagine anyone loving another person more. She would have followed him into the mouth of hell.

  As it happened, Ray followed her into the mouth of the galley, where the cooks were not working, and he kissed her longingly behind the shelves of canned fruit.

  “You said this is why girls are not allowed in submarines,” she giggled, twisting away, in case anyone discovered them.

  “People are only required to do as I say,” he said, cheerfully. “Not as I do.”

  “You see—I’m always telling you—you do just as you like, because you have no Commanding Officer.”

  Ravi looked admiringly at his wife, her beauty undiminished even in her standard dark navy-blue sweater, and he said simply, “I don’t think Allah would desert any of us on this mission. He has given us the power of the false gods of the ancient world, and He will guide us to victory. We are doing His work.”

  “And to think,” said Shakira, shaking her head in sham disbelief, “you used to be an infidel…one sugar or two?”

  General Rashood chuckled, quietly thankful at the talent Shakira had for diminishing the tensions of his great mission, if only for a few moments.

  They made their way to the navigation room, Shakira carrying the teapot and three little silver holders containing glass mugs already with sugar, in case Lt. Ashtari Mohammed was working. It was almost midnight now.

  They found Ashtari hunched over the chart of the eastern Pacific, plotting their southern course. He stood up and stretched, grateful for the tea. “Admiral Badr thinks we should run for another day, maybe less, and then turn east towards our target.”

  Ravi nodded in agreement, and glanced down at Shakira’s chart. It contained so many notes, it was almost incomprehensible. But the line she had drawn from the 127th western line of longitude had four definite course changes at various points of contact, from the 47th parallel to 46.20N at 122.18W.

  Ravi had managed only two sips of his bitter hot tea when a quiet voice came down the ship’s intercom…“General Rashood to the control room…General Rashood to the control room….”

  He took his tea with him and headed for the area directly below the bridge, where Ben Badr was waiting.

  “At which point do you want to begin searching the area for surface ships? We’re about 100 miles north of the datum right now…I was thinking maybe 50 would be right…I presume we don’t want to surface?”

  “No, we don’t want to do that. But we should get up as high as we can, maybe to periscope depth every couple of hours, just for an all-around look. Meanwhile we can use passive sonar as our main lookout. We cannot risk detection. There are no suspects for a mission such as this—it would seem ridiculous to alert anyone to our presence—”

  “I agree, Ravi. So 50 miles from our firing position is okay?”

  “Yes, good. If there’s anything around, we may want to track it for a couple of days…make sure it’s well clear. Meanwhile we’ll just hope for fog.”

  The Barracuda pushed on, running quietly al
l through the night until midafternoon on Thursday, August 6. At 1630, Admiral Badr ordered the planesmen to angle the bow up 10, sending them smoothly to periscope depth. The Admiral himself took a look all around, and Lieutenant Ashtari called out the numbers—43 north, 127 west.

  Lieutenant Commander Shakira wrote them down on her chart, marked the spot where the line of latitude bisected the longitude, checked her distances with dividers, and wrote in blue marker pen, 290 miles to Target.

  In seconds, Ben Badr ordered them deep, bow down 10 to 600. There was no communication on the satellite, no ships anywhere nearby. Their part of the Pacific was a sunlit wilderness, devoid of engines, lacking in fog. Their only danger was the ever-present “black cobras” on the seabed who must not be disturbed. Admiral Badr ordered a racetrack pattern, speed 5, banking on the fact that the “cobras” were deaf to such low revolutions in a boat as quiet as the Barracuda.

  And so they waited for two days and two nights until at 0300 on Sunday morning, a gusting summer rain squall swept eastwards across the ocean, right out of the northwest. They picked it up on sonar and moved silently upward, through the black depths to PD for a firsthand look. They stayed there for only seven seconds, sufficient time for the Chief of Boat, CPO Ali Zahedi, to report a slashing rainstorm on the surface, very low visibility, at no more than 100 yards.

  General Rashood considered the possibility of firing there and then. But he knew it could still be clear on the shore, and he did not relish sending missiles with fiery tails over inhabited land, even at three o’clock in the morning. No, he would wait for a large-scale spell of fog, which he was sure would happen as soon as the regular warm summer air currents ran into the cold, squally Pacific gusts surrounding the storm.

  At dawn, they checked again, moving slowly to periscope depth. Ravi had been correct. A great bank of fog hung over the ocean, visibility at no more than 50 yards. Ravi guessed it would probably extend all the way inshore, with the clammy white blanket hanging heavily against the mountains of Oregon’s coastal range.

  “This is it, old boy,” he said to Ben Badr.

  “Aye, sir,” replied the young Iranian Admiral.

  “Prepare Tubes 1-4…missile director and Lieutenant Commander Shakira to the missile room…Planesman, bow up 10 to 200 feet…Put me on course zero-three-zero…speed 5…Sonar room, check no contacts…Missile Director, final check prefiring routines and settings.”

  They all felt the submarine angle up slightly, and they heard Ravi summon the crew to prayer. Those not hurrying to the missile room knelt on the steel decks in the Muslim fashion. Men clambered out of bunks, engineers laid down their tools, and everyone heard the Mission Commander’s warning of the coming turmoil, urging them to be prepared to hear the Angels sound the trumpet three times. At the sound of the trumpets, he said, only the righteous would cross the bridge into the arms of Allah. They were engaged in the work of Allah, they were His children, and they dwelt today in this great weapon of war on behalf of Allah. It was built for Him and they were born to serve Him.

  He read from the Koran—

  “ ‘From Thee alone do we ask for help…

  Guide us to the straight path,

  The path of those whom you blessed.’ ”

  General Rashood ended as he often did with undying praise of Allah. “ ‘I have turned my face only towards the Supreme Being who originated the skies and the earth…To You be the glory…Yours is the most auspicious name. You are exalted and none other than You is worthy of worship’ ”

  They prayed silently for a few seconds and then returned to their tasks. Shakira reported to the Missile Director and checked once more the Scimitar’s preset guidance programs—“Zero-three-zero from blastoff to latitude 46.05N degrees. Then course change to zero-nine-zero to longitude 127W…Then course change to three-six-zero for 30 nautical miles…Then final course change to two-one-zero 15 miles to the precise position of the target.”

  It was 0630 when General Rashood gave the order…“STAND BY TUBES ONE TO FOUR!”

  Then, seconds later, “TUBE ONE LAUNCH!!”

  And at long last, the 26-foot steel guided missile, driven in an army truck from the bowels of Kwanmo-bong last May, was on its way. Barracuda II shuddered gently as it blew out of the launcher, lanced up to the surface, and split the Pacific swells asunder, its engines igniting, the searing light of the fiery tail obscured by the fog.

  It blasted upwards, crackling into the morning sky, adjusting course and leveling out at 200 meters above the surface. At 600 knots, the gas turbines kicked in, removing the giveaway trail in the sky, steady on its northeasterly course, its flawless precision a tribute to the craftsmen of Kwanmo-bong.

  As they prepared to launch Tube Two, the senior command felt safe in the knowledge that the Koreans had sworn to make a true and faithful replica of the old Russian RADUGA, and that the Scimitar would match its performance in every way. The refined new rocket motor would be no problem, and the automatic rear wings would spread immediately when the missile was airborne.

  At this very moment, the North Koreans were batting 1,000, and the cruise missile they had created was hurtling diagonally towards the distant northern shores of the American state of Oregon. It was 220 miles to its landfall, and it would cross the coastline in twenty-one minutes, by which time three other identical missiles, already under the control of the Barracuda’s launch sequencer, would be streaking line astern right behind it. Same course. Through the fog. Destination: the fractured, haunted north face of Mount St. Helens.

  Missile One screamed in over the high, rugged coast, just north of Tillamook Head, at 1654. It thundered on across the 3,000-foot peak of Saddle Mountain, rising and falling with the contours of the earth. It passed Clatsop State Park and into Columbia County, making 600 knots as it crossed the wide river, then the state frontier, 20 miles downstream of the city of Portland.

  This was high country, deep in the towering southern uplands of the Cascade Range. The Scimitar’s preset computer brain, reading the sonar altimeter, was working overtime dealing with the dramatically changing ground levels. But the Chinese technicians had served General Rashood well.

  The big Mark-1 missile ripped across Interstate 5, and shrieked through the peaks of Cowlitz County, heading along the Kalama River Valley to the Swift Creek Dam, where it swerved north, right on schedule. By now, the mighty tower of Mount St. Helens was just a dozen miles to port, and the missile swept right past, still heading north. It flew swiftly over the great forests of the Cascades, and just after the little town of Gifford, it made its turn, wheeling left in a great semicircle.

  The wilderness below was silent, but from the high peaks you might have heard the W-H-O-O-O-O-SHHHHHH! of disturbed air, as the Scimitar turned to the southwest. It held course two-one-zero, drawing a bead on the giant, unstable carbuncle, which grew on the floor of the volcano crater, near the pinnacle of the mountain.

  It came in fast, gathering speed as it lost height, almost 700 knots as it cleaved through the morning air above the foothills of Mount Hughes, where the Green River rises, east of Coldwater Creek. Moments later, it hurtled into the skies high above the fog-shrouded blue waters of Spirit Lake.

  It rocketed through the thick, damp mist and crossed the north shore, still making over 600 knots, and then angled up sharply to follow the steep slopes of Mount St. Helens. It scythed through the air, taking just under nine seconds to make the one-and-a-half-mile ascent to the summit, where it banked wickedly downwards, and hammered its way straight into the middle of the crater.

  Programmed to detonate two seconds after impact, the missile’s sharp reinforced steel nose lasered into the crater’s unstable base of loose rock and ash, burying 15 feet below the surface before exploding with a booming impact. Rock and shale flew 100 feet into the air.

  The Scimitar’s warhead sent cracks like lightning bolts deep into the crust of the earth, splitting open the already shifting strata, way down where the magma seethed and churned, ever s
eeking an outlet. By itself, the Scimitar could not have caused Mount St. Helens to erupt. But there were three more where that came from, and the great volcano, had it known, would have braced itself for the incoming man-made thunder.

  As it was, a great belch of steam did shoot skywards, but local residents did not see the warning; not even those driving trucks through the morning mist along local routes 503, or 90, or south on 25 from Gifford. Even in clear conditions, it was not always easy to see the mountain peak from the tree-lined roads, and almost everyone had seen gouts of steam up there before, even the occasional fiery burst of ash.

  Fifty-five seconds later, Missile Two hit, in exactly the same spot, 46.20N 122.18W. It drove deep into the brand-new hole, not 10 feet from Missile One. It slammed into the lava rubble, detonating with staggering force into a part of the mountain that was rotten to the core—a shifting, sliding heap of black fragmented rock debris.

  The fury of the explosion, though muffled to traffic five miles away, was enough to send long fissures deep into the upper conduit of the lava chimney. White-hot magma now came seething up through the black shale, as yet only eking its way out of the relatively slender gaps, but moving steadily higher.