Scimitar SL-2 (2004)

by Patrick Robinson

  When Jimmy picked up the phone, a voice said, “Sir, this is Officer Ray Suplee speaking. How can I help?”

  “Officer, this is Lt. Comdr. Jimmy Ramshawe, assistant to the Director of the National Security Agency at Fort Meade, Maryland. May I assume you were involved in the immediate report on the Mount St. Helens disaster?”

  “Yes, sir. I was on patrol along Route 12 heading south towards the mountain when it erupted. It happened pretty quick, and I could see it from a high point in the road. I heard it too. Huge blast, followed by wind, and the sky seemed full of ashes, blocked the sun right out.”

  “Did you get in close?”

  “No, sir. No one could. It was too hot. We realized real soon that anyone caught close to the mountain could not have survived the blast, and the heat, and, 10 minutes later, the molten lava. Our task became one of containment…leading in the fire trucks to douse the forest…getting people to evacuate their homes where we thought the forest fire was spreading. Almost no one who was anywhere near the actual eruption could possibly have lived to talk about it.”

  “I understand, Officer. I guess there was more time to get clear in 1980?”

  “Oh, definitely. They were working on an evacuation program for several days before it finally erupted. This time there wasn’t a New York minute. Damn thing just blew. Without warning…”

  “Officer, you said almost no one who was in close lived. Did you mean that? Or did you mean absolutely no one?”

  “Sir, I meant almost. Because there was a wagonload of outdoor sportsmen who somehow did get clear. Four of them, three of them local. But I never heard tell of anyone else.”

  “Did you interview them?”

  “No, sir. I heard it on the radio, ’bout four hours after the blast. One of them was a well-known broadcaster, Don McKeag, ‘Voice of the Northwest.’ Everyone listens to him, but not usually on Sundays. He’s a weekday guy, you know, the eight-in-the-morning slot to eleven, regular news and politics.”

  “Did he have much to say?”

  “Plenty. Described in big detail how they got away, racing through the burning forest, trying to stay ahead of the fires…It was like listening to a thriller.”

  “Did these guys actually hear the first eruption?”

  “Oh sure. They were camped in the foothills of the summit. They said about a mile and quarter from the peak.”

  “Did Don mention how they made such a fast break for safety?”

  “He did. One of the four was a pretty well known Washington State finance guy. Mr. Tilton, President of the Seattle National Bank. Tony Tilton. Apparently he’d been on a yacht in the Caribbean when that volcano blew up and damn nearly destroyed the entire island, maybe ten, twelve, years ago?”

  “Montserrat?”

  “That’s it, sir. Mr. Tilton was watching that from a few miles offshore. Boat got covered in ash, he was washing it down with a hose. Anyway, he knew better than anyone how darned quick you have to be to get away from an erupting volcano.”

  “Sounds like a big scoop for Don.”

  “Hell, yes. But there was one thing I heard Mr. Tilton mention on the program that I thought was a little offbeat. He said he heard the mountain erupt three times, way up there in the crater. But before the first one, he heard a strange gust of wind, above the lake, kinda through the mist.

  “I don’t know. Didn’t seem to connect to me. A high wind doesn’t set off a volcano, does it? And he wouldn’t have made anything like that up, not Mr. Tilton. He’s a very well-respected guy in Washington. Some folks say he might run for governor.”

  “Officer, could you arrange for me to speak to Mr. Tilton?”

  “Certainly, sir. I’ll get on to the bank right away and get back to you with a time.”

  “Thanks for that,” said Jimmy. “You’ve been a real help.”

  “Okay, sir. I’ll be right back on the line.”

  Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe replaced the telephone thoughtfully. Had Tony Tilton actually heard a couple of low-flying cruise missiles heading for the fractured crater of Mount St. Helens?

  It did not take long to find out. Five minutes later, State Trooper Ray Suplee was back. “Twenty minutes, sir. Mr. Tilton will be waiting on this line—”

  Jimmy jotted down the number and decided to wait until he had completed his three-part investigation before he told Admiral Morris what he suspected. He took his watch off and propped it up in front of him—a habit he’d copied from his father—then carefully wrote up his notes.

  At precisely 6:10 P.M., he punched in the number and was instantly connected to an ivory-colored telephone 2,800 miles away, in a spacious air-conditioned office tower in downtown Seattle, where it was only 3:10 in the afternoon.

  “Tilton,” said a voice, at the end of a private line.

  “G’day, Mr. Tilton. This is Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe. I’m assistant to the Director of the National Security Agency at Fort Meade, Maryland. I believe you were expecting my call…”

  “I was. Heard from the State Police about twenty minutes ago. What can I tell you?—It has to be about the volcano; there’s never been so many people wanting to chat to me, all on the same subject.”

  Then the Lieutenant Commander got down to the heart of the matter. “The state trooper told me you’d given a radio interview and you mentioned a high wind just before the blast?”

  “Almost. What I heard, in sequence, was this strange, sudden whoosh of air, right above the lake, in the mist. It was the kind of sound you get in an old house in the middle of a rainstorm…You know, when a strong wind suddenly rises and makes that kinda creepy wailing noise. Except there was hardly a breath of wind on the lake that morning. Just that sudden rush of air.”

  “Anyone else hear it?”

  “No. I was the only one who heard it. I actually looked up, out over the water, it was such an unusual noise.”

  “Then what?”

  “Seconds later, I’m talking maybe ten seconds, there was this dull, muffled thumping sound from way up the mountain. That really got my attention, and Donnie’s. As you know, I’m jumpy about volcanoes, after Montserrat, and we got the other two out of the tents. Then I heard it again, ’bout a minute later…that wind. Followed by another more obvious explosion. Way high up.”

  “Did you hear a fourth explosion?”

  “No. But we sure felt it. The whole area kinda shuddered. And then the sky became overcast…and all this burning stuff was falling into the trees. The first fire we saw, out on the right, was way up ahead, maybe a half mile. That’s how far the debris was being blasted. We were on the road by then…I’d say a good six miles away from the mountain…”

  “Mr. Tilton,” Jimmy said, “I can’t thank you enough. You’ve been a real help.”

  “No problem, Lieutenant Commander,” replied the bank President. “But tell me, why is the National Security Agency interested in a plain act of God?”

  “Oh, just a routine checkup. We always take a look at these things. You know, earthquakes, major fires, tidal waves…Thanks for your help, Mr. Tilton.”

  1130, Tuesday, August 18

  The White House.

  President McBride, a slim, lanky man, with receding curly gray-brown hair, was irritated. A few moments earlier, he had been looking forward to his salad, and now this. A detailed three-page memorandum direct from Jurassic Park—copy to Cyrus Romney—outlining the possibility that a person or persons unknown had blown up Mount St. Helens from a submarine apparently parked several hundred miles away, on the bottom of the goddamned Pacific Ocean.

  Absurd, and precisely the kind of harebrained, quasimilitary scare-mongering the President had vowed to eradicate. Years and years wasted on lunatic military adventures, billions of dollars of taxpayers’ money, chasing shadows, witch-hunting spies, Reagan and Bush, threatening people, bombing people…and for what?

  President McBride’s views were well known. He considered the prospect of war, any war, unthinkable. He’d been known to say, �
�If we’ve got to fight in order to retain our place in the modern world, we ought to opt out and become isolationist.”

  The President held up the memorandum he had just skimmed through, shook his head, and resisted the temptation to toss it in the bin. Cyrus had even told Fort Meade to waste no time on it. Of course they’d done the exact opposite, and now this. He hit the button requesting his National Security Adviser to come in and the discuss the matter. He always felt better when he was chatting with Cyrus. Old friends, they had marched shoulder to shoulder in Washington protesting Middle Eastern wars. They were both “enlightened,” not stuck in the gloomy, antagonistic past.

  Cyrus tapped lightly on the door, and entered. “Hi, Mr. President,” he said, cheerfully. “And what awful turmoil has this uncaring world visited upon you today?” Cyrus wrote poetry in his spare time.

  “This, old buddy,” replied the man in the Big Chair. “This deranged bullshit from Jurassic Park. They think there’s some kind of monster from Waterworld groping about on the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, pushing buttons and letting off our American volcanoes. Can you believe this crap?”

  “To be honest, I’ve only just got to my mail. I assume they copied me?”

  “Yes. They have. It’s based on that hoax letter about Mount St. Helens. Admiral Morris seems to think that there might be someone out there firing cruise missiles at Washington State.”

  “Jesus Christ,” said Cyrus. “Those guys! They should’ve been novelists.”

  “All I know is there are two gigantic U.S. Navy bases in Washington State, and now these clowns at Fort Meade are telling me that despite several trillion dollars of surveillance equipment sweeping Puget Sound and all points west—on the water, above the water, and under the water—there’s a damn great nuclear submarine prowling around underneath our ships, firing stuff at volcanoes. Now, am I missing something, or is this a load of horseshit on an almost unprecedented scale?”

  “Well, I haven’t read it yet, Charlie. But it does sound kind of far-fetched.”

  “The gist of the thing is that some terrorist organization snatched a volcanologist in the street in London last May, and then murdered him. They think he told Hamas how to erupt dormant volcanoes, and they may have done it a couple of weeks ago, right here in the U.S.A.”

  “Did they catch the murderers? Any charges? Evidence?”

  “Hell, no. The Brits never caught anyone. But Fort Meade seems to think that there was some Middle East connection.”

  “Well, what do they want us to do about it?”

  “They want the entire U.S. Navy on high alert, and they want their theories to be taken seriously. They want us to believe these guys are for real, and that they do know how to blow up volcanoes.”

  “Those guys at Ford Meade are nuts. You do know that, don’t you? You want me to draft a reply to them?”

  “That’s more or less what I had in mind. And, Cy…for Christ’s sake, tell them to avoid these rabble-rousing scare stories. They don’t do a lick of good to anyone.”

  “Okay, Chief. I’ll read this and get it done.”

  Cyrus left, and later that afternoon, Admiral George Morris received his sardonic reply to the threatening scenario he’d presented to them that morning.

  Dear Admiral Morris—I am sorry you chose to ignore my advice about that hoax Hamas letter sent to Arnold Morgan. As you know, my judgment was then, and remains now, that it was simply a ludicrous declaration involving the power of God. I expect you have noticed, those who are truly deranged typically invoke the power of the Almighty, especially when laying claim to global disasters.

  I have conferred with the President on this matter, and his view reflects mine, mainly that there is not one shred of hard evidence connecting any Middle Eastern Terrorist with those London murders. And it is difficult to see how you manage then to conclude that before he died, Professor Landon wrote out some kind of a world volcano-eruption guide and handed it over to a bunch of Arab freedom fighters.

  Certainly there is not enough serious evidence here to accept the implications of what is nothing but a crank letter.

  Sorry, Admiral. The President is adamant. We are unconvinced.

  Remember, always, we are spending the taxpayers’ money, and they voted President McBride in, precisely to avoid the obvious financial excesses of the Armed Services. Today, in the Third Millennium, people want a say in how their money is spent. Sincerely—Cyrus Romney.

  Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe looked up at his boss in disbelief.

  “We’re up against it here, old son,” Admiral Morris said.

  “Right up against it. They’re against us before they start, before they even read our opinions and advice.”

  “Do we let the Big Man know the state of the battle?”

  “Absolutely. We tell him the full details of our investigation. And we also tell General Scannell. I don’t mind being ridiculed by the President and his know-nothing National Security Adviser. But if I happen to believe that President is willfully putting our country in danger, then it is my duty to blow a few whistles. He might be the President, but he’s only a goddamned politician. And he’s not here for long.

  “We belong to a permanent organization that is here specifically to keep the United States of America safe. Mostly, we do what the President wishes. But there is a line, and he steps across that line only at grave peril to himself.”

  “You think he just did?” asked Jimmy.

  “I read your report, Lieutenant Commander. I know he just did.”

  Admiral Morris and his assistant got lucky again. Jimmy Ramshawe called Arnold Morgan at home and requested a private meeting as soon as possible on a matter that Admiral Morris regarded as a “supreme priority.”

  “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” asked the ex–National Security Adviser.

  “Yes. It could. But Admiral Morris believes we should meet NOW, and you know he doesn’t get overexcited on a regular basis.”

  Admiral Morgan did know that. And he paused for a moment before saying, “Look, Jimmy. I’m taking Kathy out this evening to her favorite little restaurant in Georgetown. I can’t cancel at this late hour, so I suppose you and your boss better join us.”

  “Are you sure, sir?” said an utterly delighted Jimmy Ramshawe.

  “No, I’m not. But you’ve cornered me. Le Bec Fin. I expect you know where it is. I’ve seen John Peacock there a few times.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Jimmy. “Went there for Jane’s birthday. What time would you like to see us?”

  “Eight bells. End of the Last Dog Watch, and don’t be late.”

  “No, sir,” said Jimmy, laughing to himself at the old submariner’s unending sense of humor, so often disguised as a growling commanding officer’s impatience.

  At 8 P.M. precisely, the staff car from Fort Meade pulled up outside the restaurant. They found Arnold and Kathy sitting opposite each other in a wide, comfortable private booth towards the rear of the main dining room. George was placed next to the Admiral, Jimmy next to Kathy.

  “I’m really sorry, about this,” said the young Lieutenant Commander, “but I have to give a short document to Admiral Morgan to read before we can talk. It’s about three pages long, and it’s not my fault—the culprit for this awkwardness is sitting right opposite me, and he’s too big a cheese to argue with.”

  That rather skillfully broke any ice that might have been hanging around after the enforced invitation. Arnold and Kathy both laughed, and the Admiral poured four glasses of white Burgundy for them. He never was much for asking people what they wanted to drink. As with most things, he felt he knew best. And, as with most things, he was usually right. The pale-gold Burgundy was excellent, from the Domaine Chandon de Briailles, a 1998 Pernand-Vergelesses blanc. Jimmy Ramshawe knew what he inelegantly described as a real “snorto deluxe” when he tasted it.

  “My oath, this is a great glass of wine, sir,” he ventured.

  “Silence, Ramshawe. I’m reading.”

&nb
sp; “Yes, sir.”

  It took the Admiral about five minutes to finish the report on the eruption of Mount St. Helens. And when he did so, he took a Navy-sized gulp of his wine. “Mother of God,” he breathed. “Our old friend Major Kerman again. And by the sound of this, he’s only just started. The volcano was just a sideshow, or he wouldn’t have sent that self-congratulatory letter to me, would he?”

  “No, he would not,” said George Morris. “In my opinion, we’ll be hearing from him again.”

  “And mine,” said Arnold. “But meantime, where the hell is he? Because I agree with Jimmy, I think we heard that damn creeping Barracuda, twice, north of the Aleutians. And a few days later, what sounds like a very reliable man hears a couple of guided missiles bearing down on Mount St. Helens, seconds before the entire thing explodes. That’ll do for me, it’s Kerman, and he’s out there, under the water, planning God knows what.”