Atlantis - Return of the Nation

by Steven Cook

  The lack of sleep and building international pressure over the past few weeks was showing accelerated signs of aging the forty-eight year old politician. His hair, which had had a distinguished dusting of grey at the temples when he had been sworn into office, was slowly succumbing to the creeping advance. Luckily he still had a full covering, much to his and the Press Officers relief.

  ‘I’m sorry Mr President; we have an incident in the North Atlantic involving one of our Los Angeles Class Attack Boats.’ Jack Henry held a mug of steaming coffee out to his boss.

  Henry also looked fatigued, but he had been able to catch a couple of hours sleep on the long flight, and being nine years younger gave him more resilience. The President realised the coffee meant it must be serious. He raised an eyebrow at his Chief of Staff.

  ‘OK, bring me up to speed. Why couldn’t this wait ‘til the morning? I’m sure the Navy would rather carry out an investigation without our involvement.’ the President took the offered mug and took a mouthful, grimacing in pleasure as the hot liquid almost scalded his mouth.

  The two men left the room and headed towards the situation room. The pair of silent Secret Service agents took station several yards behind them. Jack Henry flicked through some of the sheets of paper in his hands.

  ‘One of the National Weather Stations has been monitoring a storm over the North Atlantic for the past couple of days. Tracking, focusing on trends and running forecasts, you know the stuff. Anyway, it turns out that last night an island raised itself out of the ocean.’ Henry noted the raised eyebrow.

  ‘The funny thing is,’ he continued ‘our seismic equipment never picked up any volcanic activity.’

  ‘And what does this have to do with one of my submarines?’ the President asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

  Henry took a deep breath and tightened his mouth. He knew his next words would upset the President.

  ‘According to what we can see, the aft section of the Los Angeles Class USS Boise is in shallow waters 200 yards off the island.’

  The President swore.

  The two men swept into the situation room, barely noticing the secret service and armed marine guards.

  ‘Keep your seats gentlemen.’

  The personnel around the table settled back down as the President strode past to take his place at the top of the table. Setting down his mug he looked around the table.

  The people around the table had access to the most advanced and well-equipped military resources in the world. They were the United States Joint Chiefs of Staff.

  To the President’s left sat General Arthur Fry of the Airforce. He was rail thin with a poker player’s face that never betrayed his feelings. He was an officer who exuded calm at all times. His strategic bombers had the capability of obliterating a whole city or single building, depending on the needs of the moment.

  Beyond sat Admiral Curtis Harkin, Commander of the Atlantic Submarine Fleet. He had been included in the briefing as ultimate commander of the lost submarine. He looked less than his usual pristine self, courtesy of a rapid transfer from Virginia. He was looking around at his new surroundings.

  Beside him sat Admiral Thomas Kay, Chief of Naval Operations. He sat ramrod straight in his immaculate uniform, displaying a long career of excellence in the rows of medals across his broad chest. He nodded as the Presidents gaze paused on him, and then turned to exchange a word with General Peter Ciuffetelli, Commandant of the Marine Corps.

  Ciuffetelli looked more like a mafia hit man than a marine, yet the quiet Italian American was a strategic genius. He had seen operational service and had the scars to prove it.

  The final member of the select group was General Colin Norton, Chief of Staff for the United States Army. His direct approach to issues was often tempered by Ciuffetelli’s calm strategies.

  The door was pushed opened loudly and the final member of the select group entered in a hurry. Anthony Morris, the National Security Advisor nodded in apology to each of the men as he made his way to the seat next to the President.

  Jack Henry sat down to the right of Morris in his official capacity of Chief of Staff.

  ‘Curtis, do you want to start?’ Henry opened the proceedings.

  ‘Yes Sir.’ Harkin stood up and distributed a thin file to each of the men at the table. As they opened the files and flicked through the papers he started to narrate.

  ‘USS Boise, one of our Los Angeles Class Attack Subs spent last month in the North Atlantic engaged in Operation Surety, a joint training exercise with The Royal Navy. She spent a week in Gibraltar on a good will visit then was heading back to Norfolk for an extensive refit.

  ‘The next thing we know is that the aft section has washed up on an island that shouldn’t be there. There were no warnings or alarms. Whatever tore the submarine in half gave no warning. From what we can see the damage was not caused by a torpedo hit, although we can’t be one hundred percent certain as we don’t know where the other half of the boat is.’ Anger and frustration were starting to creep into his voice.

  The joint chiefs looked stunned at photographs of the submarine.

  ‘Do we know if there are any other subs in the area? Could it have been an accident?’ Jack Henry asked the room in general, voicing their concerns.

  ‘Nothing we know of. The storm was keeping surface vessels well out of the way and the Boise would have detected any other subs. The water is pretty deep in that area.’ Harkin answered.

  ‘How many were aboard?’ Ciuffetelli asked quietly, holding one of the photographs up off the table.

  ‘One hundred and twenty-seven,’ said Harkin. ‘We believe there may be survivors. If you look to the beach on either side of the river you can see people. Whether they are alive or are bodies we can’t tell. I’ve asked for a satellite to be re-tasked to swing over the area to carry out an infrared sweep.’

  ‘So we need a search and rescue operation kicking off straight away,’ decided the President.

  He looked again at the photo.

  ‘I take it that the remains in the lagoon contain the missiles,’ said the President.

  ‘Yes Mr President. We need to determine the status of those Tomahawk missiles she was carrying and either recover them or destroy them.’ said Morris.

  ‘Do we have anything nearby that can get to them?’ queried the President.

  ‘No, the storm has caused all the shipping to avoid that area. The rest of the fleet involved in the exercise are still in the Eastern Mediterranean.’ said Admiral Kay. ‘We could ask the British for help. They have one of their destroyers heading to the South Atlantic. It’s no more than six hours out of their way. It’s not the ideal situation having a foreign power getting their hands on our technology, but they are our closest allies.’

  ‘Agreed, get the Prime Minister on the line and inform him of our request.’

  Jack Henry picked up a telephone and started speaking quietly into it.

  ‘In the meantime, I want to know why one of our most advanced submarines was destroyed without warning.’

  The President took a few deep breaths, waiting for Henry to finish talking on the phone.

  ‘Mr President, the Prime Minister can speak to you in half an hour. He’s in parliament at the moment. He has been made aware of the situation.’

  The President stood.

  ‘Gentlemen, I’m going to get cleaned up. Keep me informed with what’s going on.’ He turned to Jack Henry.

  ‘Jack, you’d better arrange a press conference. Get one of the staff writers onto it. Keep it simple. You know we’re investigating, cooperating with others, sympathies to the families’ etcetera. Put the call through to the Oval Office, I might as well catch the sunrise.’

  ‘Yes Mr President. Might I add it would be an advisory for shipping to stay
out of the area?’

  The President nodded his agreement.

  ‘I trust you on this. Get it rolling.’

  The men all stood and made their way from the room, gathering aides as they walked down the corridor.

  Jack Henry remained in the situation room making phones calls. After alerting the press secretary he took a few moments to look at the aerial photographs again.

  He wasn’t sure what was more upsetting, the fact that the submarine had been destroyed or that the island had arrived undetected. Whatever it was, the public would have plenty to watch and read in the next few days.

  *

  H.M.S. Daring North Atlantic 21st May

  H.M.S. Daring cut through the gale easily. Her powerful gas turbines powering the electric propulsion system were driving her through the twenty-foot waves with ease. The force of the weather almost instantly absorbed the wake thrown up by the sleek warship.

  Commander Anthony Gorton stood on the bridge, swaying with the motion of the ship. In his hand he held his new set of orders. He read through them again, for what seemed like the hundredth time, barely believing the words.

  Proceed directly to 37 degrees 49 minutes North by 22 Degrees 13 minutes West. Investigate new island appeared 2110 2005.

  US Navy request S&R for crew of USS Boise and ascertain possibility of recovering munitions from wreck.

  The island was three miles off the starboard bow as the ship steamed around to the bay indicated in the satellite images that had been transmitted with the orders.

  The ship was already gathering information through the use of its RADAR And Sonar. All hands were at Action Stations as the Captain was aware that something unknown had destroyed the American submarine.

  ‘Chief.’ the Captain drew the attention of Chief Petty Officer Carl Spencer.

  ‘Yes Sir?’ He turned from the starboard window, where he was attempting to examine the distant island through some high-powered binoculars.

  ‘Prepare a search and rescue party. Take a couple of WEMs to have a look at the wreck and alert the Doctor to expect casualties. And best have the Master at Arms issue arms – just in case.’

  ‘Yes Sir.’ Spencer left the bridge. He soon contacted the Ships Doctor Lieutenant Simon Ducker and the Master at Arms Petty Officer Phil Cargill. Finally he stuck his head into the electronic warfare centre located aft of the bridge and under the foremast.

  ‘Danny, the captain wants you involved in the landing party to check out the missiles. He reckons your skills will be useful. Grab Craig and meet me on the flight deck.’

  The seaman removed his earphones, looked quizzically at the other operators from beneath his flash hood before rising and making his way to the door. Once through he headed aft.

  Several minutes later a small group had congregated in protective equipment, comprising of full immersion suits and flight helmets. They stood in the lea of the superstructure as the ships air crew engineers prepared the ships Merlin helicopter. Through the wind and spray they could barely make out the island several miles away.

  Cargill issued each of the men with a Browning 9mm semi automatic pistol loaded with 13 rounds of ammunition and a spare magazine. The weapons had their safety catches enabled and did not have a round in the chamber. The landing party carefully put their handguns into the pockets of their immersion suits.

  They waited for a few more minutes as the pilot started the three Rolls-Royce Turbomeca engines with Spencer aiding from the co-pilot’s seat. Finally the aircrew stood ready to remove the links securing the helicopter to the deck. The observer crouching in the open hatch on the right-hand side of the helicopter motioned for the landing party to board.

  In single file they approached the helicopter, their heads ducked down, not to avoid the spinning blades rotating several feet above their heads, but to keep the downdraft out of their eyes. One by one they clambered into the spacious rear of the Merlin, moving to the seats assigned to them by the observer. They belted themselves in before unclipping headphones and placing them over their ears.

  The pilot waited for the observer to inform him that all was ready before he indicated to the aircrew that he was ready. They moved away from the helicopter, their bright high visibility protective clothing contrasting with the grey deck and the grey sea.

  He applied power smoothly and lifted the helicopter several feet from the deck. He hovered for a couple of seconds, ensuring that the Merlin was performing safely, before giving a thumb up to the aircrew huddled on the deck.

  More power was applied and the pilot manipulated the controls, lifting the helicopter higher, out of the lea of the superstructure and into the grip of the forty mile-an-hour winds. He looked around at the instruments to ensure everything was in the green. He then let the helicopter drift over the starboard side of the ship and over the sea. The nose dropped and the helicopter turned and headed for dry land.

  As the helicopter approached the beach it passed over a reef that spread across the whole of the bay. The difference was easily discernable by Craig as he sat in the left most seat in the rear area of the helicopter. He tuned out the chatter of the pilot and Spencer.

  ‘Bloody hell, would you look at that!’ he nudged Danny in his heavily padded ribs to get his attention and pointed down through the window at the lagoon.

  Danny leant as far over as his harness would allow and looked out of the small window. Below them, in the lagoon, was the rear of the American submarine they had been sent to investigate.

  From their vantage point the two men could see that the submarine was a wreck. It wasn’t so much as resting on the bottom of the lagoon, but buried in it. The open end was a mass of torn metal, ripped electrical conduits and pipes simply pulled apart. The hull itself was no longer round, but a heavily flattened ellipse.

  Craig continued to look out of the window as the helicopter approached the beach at a height of one hundred metres, idly listening as the pilot discussed possible landing sites on the eastern part of the beach.

  He snapped his head around to look forward as the sound in the speakers over his ears cut out. Beside him Danny had tensed up. He had seen the emergency lights flash briefly before they too cut out.

  One moment the helicopter was a highly expensive precision flying instrument, the next it was an accident waiting to happen as every system shut down.

  In the front of the helicopter the pilot acted instantly. He attempted to send out a mayday, cutting the drive to the rotors at the same instant. As a result of his actions, the helicopter retained lift and, using the forward momentum it had already achieved, continued to auto-rotate towards the beach.

  ‘Crash positions!’ the observer shouted from his position by the door as he pushed it along its track to provide a free escape route. He struggled to get back into his seat as the helicopter descended towards the ground.

  In the control seat the pilot was concerned to see that the location he had selected to attempt his landing was not as flat as he had first thought. Several large rocks stuck up out of the sand, their pale, mottled colour camouflaging them from his previous eyeball scans.

  He pulled back on the controls to try to keep the helicopter airborne long enough to by-pass the rocks. There was no effect to his frantic pulls. With dead controls the helicopter plunged towards the rocks.

  The helicopter impaled itself on the rocks. The nose crumpled instantly, throwing the pilot forward in his restraints. He barely had time to register the sight before him, as a spar of rock smashed through the Plexiglas and crushed his head back against the bulkhead.

  The observer had a grip on the seat harness but had not had chance to secure it. He was thrown out of the open door to the extent of his secondary harness that was attached to the frame of the helicopter. He landed heavily on his knees then slumped forwards as the helicopter tilted to one side and the rotors span round and removed the upper part of his skull, helmet and all.

  The rotor
s continued to rotate and shattered one by one as they hit the ground, throwing high velocity shrapnel in all directions.

  The helicopters passengers hung like cheap rag dolls in their restraints, knocked unconscious by the ferocity of the crash.

  Back on the H.M.S. Daring the Captain and crew watched in silent horror as the helicopter ploughed into the beach. They saw the observer thrown clear and then decapitated. He was surprised not to see any flames or explosions.

  ‘Captain?’ the question brought Commander Anthony Gorton back to himself. This was the first casualty the ship had suffered since it had come into full operational service.

  ‘Contact the Admiralty and update them. Tell them I’m holding station until we can determine what caused the Helo to crash.’

  He raised his binoculars and continued to watch the beach, barely aware of the frantic activity behind him as the bridge crew took action. He looked to see if there was any motion on the helicopter, hoping to see movement to give him hope that five of his crew had not just died.

  ‘God I hope somebody survived.’ he said to himself.

  ‘Yes sir, me too.’ said the man beside him.

  Gorton looked up and smiled sadly, not realising he had spoken aloud.

  *

  White House 21st May

  The crew of the Royal Naval vessel weren’t the only ones watching with concern. Twenty-two thousand miles above the earth a US Airforce Satellite was looking down, its focus had been on the beach for several hours. Unbeknownst to the ship holding station the satellite had already detected the heat signatures of the survivors from the Boise.

  Two survivors were no more than fifty metres from the wreck of the helicopter, concealed in a group of rocks. Another nine were gathered in a small copse of trees twenty metres from the edge of the forest, on the other side of the river that bisected the beach.

  The live streaming of images was being transmitted via another satellite in geostationary orbit and then down to a command centre in the Pentagon. From there the data was transmitted through a secure link to the White House and the situation room.