“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.”
“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.”
“That’ll do for me as well,” replied George. “However, it will not do for our President and his main adviser.” At which point he handed Arnold a copy of the letter he had received from Cyrus Romney.
Again Arnold read, in obvious alarm. “Everything I ever feared about a soft, left-wing President,” he said. “All on one page, written by one of the greatest assholes on this planet. Jesus Christ. Romney’s a goddamned flower child dressed up in a suit. The New York Times published one of his godawful poems last month. Goddamnit, we’ve got the Wordsworth of the White House guiding the defenses of the United States against one of the most dangerous terrorists we’ve ever encountered …A host of golden daffodils…Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness…”
“Darling, those happen to be the lines of two different poets,” interjected Kathy.
“Excellent,” said the Admiral. “I happen to be dealing with two different assholes.”
Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe came remarkably close to shooting 1998 Pernand-Vergelesses down his nose, but the waiter arrived at that precipitous moment and deflected everyone’s attention to the menu.
“I think we need another five minutes,” said Arnold, and immediately returned to the subject at hand. “George,” he said. “First I want to congratulate Jimmy on an outstanding example of detective work. And secondly, I want to tell you that I have never been more nervous of the men who occupy the key Administration seats in the White House.
“The letter to you from this Romney character is, in my view, nothing short of a disgrace. The head of our National S
ecurity Agency, an Admiral and former Commander of a United States Navy Carrier Battle Group? I’m absolutely shocked. But all that pales before the real problem. And that’s the reluctance of this Administration to act in the true interests of this nation.
“Even if the President does not believe it personally, he has to face up to the truth that these terrorists may already have killed maybe a hundred of our citizens up in Washington State. And that dismissal of the facts may mean that Charles McBride is in serious breach of his oaths of office.”
“So what do we do?”
“For the moment, we keep very quiet. But I do want to alert General Scannell and Admiral Dickson. If something as serious as this is really happening, I want to ensure that the proper authorities are up to speed. We probably should tell ’em to keep a weather eye out for a slow Russian nuclear, anywhere along our West Coast waters.”
“Arnie, what would you recommend we do if we locate that Barracuda somewhere in the Pacific offshore, but maybe not strictly in our national waters?”
“Sink it, George,” replied the Admiral. “Sink that son of a bitch, hopefully in damn deep water. No questions asked. Deny all knowledge.”
“Right on, sir,” said Jimmy, grinning. “That’s the spirit.” And all three of them, at that moment, wished to high heaven that Admiral Morgan was still in his old office in the West Wing.
Midday, Tuesday, August 18 (Local)
The Pacific Ocean, 24.30N 113.00W.
The Barracuda cruised slowly south-southwest, following the coastline of the U.S.A. and then Mexico, about 500 miles offshore, 600 feet below the surface. She had stayed farther west while they ran the gauntlet of the huge U.S. Naval Base in San Diego, then angled left, moving inshore.
There was apparently no one searching for her. They heard no transmissions and made none themselves. They had not surfaced for more than a week, and were now running parallel with the great 800-mile-long Mexican peninsula of Baja California. Indeed, they were heading in the direction of the Tropic of Cancer, just about opposite the most southerly headland of the peninsula.
Ahead of them was an 8,000-mile-long haul, all down the west coast of South America, around Cape Horn and up the Atlantic. At their current speed of only five knots, this would take more than two months. But the ocean ahead of them was lonely, largely unpatrolled by the U.S. Navy, and not heavily photographed by the U.S. satellites.
Down there, along the wild and woolly coastline of Peru and then Chile, they could make much better speed. They could wind those big turbines up to perhaps 15 knots in very, very deep water, where the southern Pacific shelves down steeply west of the colossal mountain range of the high, craggy Andes.
General Rashood spent the day, along with everyone else, in a watchful but relaxed mood. He and Shakira dined together quite late in the evening, while Ben Badr had the ship. And Shakira went to bed at around midnight.
It was almost two o’clock in the morning when Ravi ordered the Barracuda to periscope depth. They came sliding up out of the black depths and immediately raised their ESM mast.
They made no report to the satellite. They just sent a fast signal of a couple of words in the six seconds their mast remained visible.
Saladin Two.
6
0130, Wednesday, August 19
Bandar Abbas Naval Base
Hormuz Strait, Iran.
The satellite signal from General Rashood arrived exactly on time. And Admiral Mohammed Badr received it with some relief. They were still operational. And his beloved son, Ben, was safe.
The sealed documents in the package next to the telephone were almost burning a hole through his desk. The Admiral rose swiftly and stepped out into the night. A staff car drove him out of the base on the north road, and then swung sharply west down to the airport, less than two miles from his office.
Already on the runway, its engines howling, was a small private jet from Syrian Arab Airlines. Admiral Badr’s car took him right up to the aircraft and he handed the package personally to the pilot.
Then he stood and watched the little jet scream into the dark, hot skies, banking northwest for the 1,200-mile journey across the Gulf, along the Saudi — Iraqi border to Jordan, and then north up to Damascus.
A Lieutenant Commander from the Iranian Navy would be awaiting it, and he would drive the package personally to the Saudi Embassy on Al-Jala’a Avenue. From there it would be placed in the Kingdom’s Diplomatic Bag to the Syrian Embassy at 2215 Wyoming Avenue NW, Washington, D.C.
One way or the other, that’s a package just about impossible to trace. It would arrive in the White House mail room delivered by the Special Diplomatic Courier Service, addressed to the President of the United States. Official. Very Official. But origins unknown.
Admiral Badr was rather proud — and rightly so — of the circuitous route he had planned for its arrival in the Oval Office.
1100, Friday, August 21
The White House.
President McBride’s Chief of Staff, “Big” Bill Hatchard, former underachieving defensive lineman for Yale University, tapped lightly on the door of the Oval Office. The President was on the phone, but Bill was used to waiting for the former Rhode Island Congressman, having served him on the Hill, driven him, written for him, protected him, and finally headed up his campaign for the Presidency. Charlie McBride treated him like a brother.
Finally, he heard the old familiar call, “C’mon in, Bill, what’s going on?”
Bill entered, clutching the package from the Navy Base at Bandar Abbas, which he had opened and skipped through. Only packages that the President’s aides deemed of unusual importance went directly to the White House Chief of Staff. And this one looked highly important, having arrived by diplomatic courier, marked for the specific attention of the President: PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL.
Nothing, however, got past Big Bill Hatchard en route to the Chief Executive. As opposed to his fairly disastrous football career, he could stop anything or anyone from his West Wing office. “Safe Hands” Hatchard, that was Bill.
But this morning, a worried frown clouded his big, broad, usually cheery face. It was an expression mightily familiar to all his colleagues on the Yale bench, but it was seen much less in the White House. Part of Bill’s Presidential brief was to keep morale high throughout the building, to jolly people along, to play down the stress, to make light of any problems.
“Whatever you’ve got in your hand, young William, is giving you cause for grave concern,” said the Chief. “If it’s anything less than a direct death threat, I’m going to find it necessary to lighten your mood.”
Bill laughed, thinly. “Sir, it might be a whole lot worse than a death threat. And I would like you at least to read through it — it’s only two pages. Mind if I have a splash of this coffee?”
“Help yourself, buddy, and get one for me too, will you? Meanwhile, I’ll take a glance at the ill tidings you bring me.”
Mr. President:
You will by now have realized that the eruption of Mount St. Helens was not an accident. It was indeed perpetrated by the freedom fighters of Hamas, as I intimated in my communiqué to Admiral Morgan. I am now ready to lay out my demands, which you must obey, in order to prevent us from destroying the entire Eastern Seaboard of the United States of America, including Boston, New York, and Washington.
We intend to do this by causing the greatest tidal wave this world has seen in living memory.
We estimate the wave will be approximately 150 feet high when it rolls through New York Harbor and straight through Wall Street, until it engulfs Manhattan. It will almost certainly keep going for 20 miles inland across New Jersey, before finally breaking and sucking back over the land towards the coast. However it will be followed by another wave similar in height and then another. Possibly a total of fifteen in all, each of them more than 80 feet in height.
No city could possibly withstand such an impact from the ocean, and I fear there will be little left of your eastern se
aboard when this mega-tsunami is finally over.
You may be doubting our capability to cause such havoc. But it is quite simple, it has happened several times in the history of our planet.
There are various places where such an effect on the ocean could be caused, but we have chosen one which could not fail. I am sure you will agree that if we can explode the biggest volcano in the United States, we can probably arrange a large rockfall into the deserted ocean. Have no doubt, Mr. President.
Which brings me to the objective of this letter. In order to prevent us from carrying out this threat, you will undertake the following actions:
1) You will evacuate all U.S. military personnel, and remove all stockpiled artillery, bombs, missiles, ammunitions, and other materials of war from your illegal bases in Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, Qatar, Oman, United Arab Emirates, and Djibouti. All warships and aircraft will leave Bahrain and the British-owned base at Diego Garcia. All three of your Carrier Battle Groups, and all other Naval forces afloat in the Gulf of Iran and neighboring seas, will depart the area immediately. You will remove aircraft and support equipment from the Turkish Air Base at Incirlik.
Our time frame is not flexible. We expect to see immediate movement of troops, ships, and aircraft within seven days. We expect final withdrawal to be complete within six weeks, even if this means abandoning matériel.
2) There will be immediate recognition by the Israeli Government of an Independent, Democratic, and Sovereign State of Palestine, based in the territories of the West Bank and the Gaza Strip, occupied by Israeli forces on and since June 4, 1967. There will also be agreement to take immediate steps to withdraw all Israeli troops from the occupied territories. We also require an immediate undertaking from the Government of the United States to make Israel comply with the Hamas demands without delay.
Failure to comply with the above conditions will mean the certain destruction of your great cities of Boston, New York, and Washington, D.C., as well as the remainder of the East Coast of the United States.
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