Counter Poised

by John Spikenard

  “I know, I know. And then the captain of that sub can launch the sub-fighters to perform surveillance missions and to intercept and destroy enemy attack boats well beyond normal torpedo range.”

  “That’s right. The sub-fighters would protect the mother ship and extend the range of its weapons just like fighter and attack aircraft do on an aircraft carrier.”

  “Well, at any rate, your first design left a little to be desired—especially the part that had the fighter carrying a Mark 48 torpedo!”

  “Yeah, I know. The Mark 48 was just too big and too heavy to haul around in a little two-man sub-fighter. Besides, after I thought about it some more, I decided that if the predicted speed and maneuverability of the sub-fighter were verified, the fighter would never need that much firepower to perform its intended mission anyway.”

  “Yeah, and the stealthiness of it helps, too. Your later plans were a lot better.”

  “Well, I got together with that naval architect you told me about, and he helped steer me in the right direction.”

  “I have to admit, my skepticism faded when you showed me your revised plans and explained how this thing would work. In fact, nothin’ can stop me now. I’m gonna build us a prototype come hell or high water!”

  George laughed. “Well, if our radical new propulsion system works as expected, the speed of these fighters will be unheard of in submarine warfare.”

  Dwight strutted proudly around the deck like a rooster guarding his henhouse. “Well the guys have been preparin’ the system for the test all mornin’. We’ll be ready in a few minutes. I think you’re gonna like it. From the looks of the preliminary results, this propulsion system is gonna make these fighters unbelievably fast!”

  “And don’t forget maneuverable,” George added.

  “That’s true. I think the maneuverability of this darn thing, with its dramatic new hull and wing design, would astound even the most far-thinking designers.”

  “Remember, Dwight, after I retire from active duty, we’re going into business together to complete the development and sell sub-fighters to the navy. This test today is a huge part of that plan. If this test is successful, we’re pretty much guaranteed we’ll make more money than a dozen GenCons, maybe a hundred GenCons, put together.”

  Dwight was a true American success story. He was born in the Atchafalaya Swamp, or at least that’s what he liked to tell people. When people from other parts of the country were around, Dwight would brag about rasslin’ gators when he was six years old and polin’ a pirogue through the water moccasin-infested waterways of the Atchafalaya when he was seven. In actuality, his birth certificate said Baton Rouge Charity Hospital. His father, a shift operator at the huge Exxon oil refinery in Baton Rouge, had met and married a Scottish-Irish Mississippi girl—George’s Aunt Tillie—and Dwight had been born a year later. He was raised middle class and graduated from Louisiana State University with a degree in Petroleum Engineering. Dwight was a stocky, solidly built Cajun (well, half-Cajun anyway). He was proud of being Cajun and proud of being in the oil business.

  Dwight strolled over to where George was, once again, letting his line down to the water forty feet below. He snickered at George’s persistence. “All right, all right. If you insist, and since you aren’t catchin’ anything anyway, let’s go see how they’re comin’ with the SQID. If they’re on schedule, we should be able to give her a quick test before lunch. How about it?”

  SQID was their acronym for the Super-cavitation Quantified Injection Drive. The sub-fighter would have two propulsion systems. The main propulsion system would use an electrically driven impeller inside a tube running from the bow to the stern of the fighter. This system was to be used for normal cruising, and their calculations showed it would push the fighter along at speeds up to fifty knots. That’s fast, but the SQID was the real surprise. The SQID was based on the way a real squid accelerates. The squid has an internal “bladder” that holds water, and when he needs to accelerate in a hurry, to escape a shark for example, the squid expels a water jet that accelerates him at tremendous speed in the opposite direction. Similarly, the fighter would have a water chamber, which filled when the SQID drive was activated. A hydraulically driven piston would then force the water out of a nozzle on the stern at tremendously high pressure and speed. The blast would only last about seven seconds, but they estimated the fighter would accelerate during that time to over one hundred fifty knots!

  “Let’s do it!” George quickly reeled in his line and set the fishing pole aside.

  Dwight turned around and motioned George to move back as a couple of GenCon deckhands wheeled up a contraption that, to George, was a beautiful sight. The SQID was about ten feet long, tubular, with a bell-shaped nozzle at the back end. It expanded at the front end to form the water chamber, and a large hydraulic actuator was attached there to force the piston through the chamber. The SQID was welded to a test stand, which Dwight and the deckhands locked into position at the edge of the platform with large tie-down chains hooked into tie-down points on the deck. The nozzle pointed out over the Gulf at a slightly elevated angle. One of the deckhands pulled over a two-inch fire hose and began filling up the water chamber while the other hooked up electrical power to the hydraulic actuator.

  When they were all set, Dwight looked at George. “You ready?”

  “Hell, yes!”

  With a grandiose gesture, Dwight reached over to a panel welded to the SQID test stand and flipped up a red switch guard, revealing a simple chrome switch in the down position.

  “Are you ready? Are you really ready?”

  “Get on with it, man.”

  Dwight flipped the switch to the on position. The hydraulic actuators started to whine. Suddenly, there was a tremendous roar as a jet of water blasted from the nozzle. George covered both ears with his hands as he watched the trajectory of the water jet in amazement as it flew through the air for a thousand feet or more before dissipating in the air over the Gulf of Mexico. The test stand strained against the large tie-down chains as the momentum of the water jet pushed the stand in the opposite direction. In seven seconds, it ended as abruptly as it started. The silence was deafening!

  “Holy cow, Dwight! That’s not a propulsion system—that’s a directed energy weapon! Hell, if you turned that thing skyward, I’ll bet you could shoot down an aircraft!”

  George walked around the SQID, admiring it as an outstanding bit of engineering, and kneeling down to examine the nozzle. He looked up at Dwight. “Well I’ll be! You did it, Cousin.”

  “We did it, Cuz. It was all your idea, I just built it.”

  “Let’s try it again, and see if—”

  George was interrupted by Dwight’s foreman shouting something from the control shack. He ran across the deck toward them. His urgency and the ashen look on his face unsettled both George and Dwight. They glanced at each other.

  “Uh-oh,” said Dwight. “This can’t be good.”

  “Dwight!!” the foreman shouted. “You gotta come listen to the radio. Now, man!”

  Chapter 3

  George, Dwight, and the foreman ran to the control shack and joined a crowd of men around the radio.

  “…repeat. What appears to have been a nuclear blast just occurred in Washington DC. There is no information from the scene. All communication has been cut off to the DC area. Baltimore affiliates of ABC are reporting a mushroom cloud in the direction of downtown Washington. This is ABC News, New York, and the alert level is RED. All off-duty first responders and military personnel are to report to their duty stations immediately. All military installations are on full alert…. repeat…”

  Dwight looked at George. Neither could believe it.

  George looked at his watch: 1140 central time. “Dwight, I have to get back to Norfolk as soon as possible. Would you fly me ashore in the helicopter?”

  “Sure, if we can get clearance. They’re probably shutting down civilian traffic the way they did after 9/11.”

  “Get me
on the radio with Naval Air Station New Orleans,” said George. “I should be able to get us clearance to fly to the Naval Air Station. Hopefully, I can catch a military hop out of there to Norfolk.”

  “Okay, I’m on it.”

  “Thanks.”

  One of the best days of George’s life had just turned into the worst.

  Since the Annapolis was in the yards, George was temporarily assigned to a joint-service operations unit surveying the damage in Washington DC. Because of high radiation levels, much of the surveillance was done with unmanned Predator reconnaissance drones. George and other team members worked in a small, portable control van reviewing the video sent back by the Predator and assisting search and rescue (SAR) teams in their efforts to locate survivors. The Predator video was amazingly good—too good in many instances. George saw a lot he wished he had never seen.

  Despite years of military training, none of the Predator team members were prepared for the magnitude of the disaster. The area surrounding the Washington Monument was the ideal location for a nuclear blast to wreak maximum damage to the capital of the United States of America. George and an air force major sat at the Predator control console. Through a remote-control link, the major flew the Predator slowly up what used to be the National Mall. The blast had destroyed everything along the mall’s main axis, from the Capitol to the Lincoln Memorial, and everything along a cross-axis formed by the White House and the Jefferson Memorial.

  “Wow,” George solemnly said. “Within a half-mile radius of ground zero, it looks like everything is vaporized—cars, buses, trees, buildings, and people—there’s just nothing left. It’s as if everything was instantly fried and blasted into tiny molecules of radioactive debris. There’s not much sense searching for survivors in there.”

  “Yeah, and there’s not a single building standing within a mile—everything is totally flattened,” responded the major. “If anybody survived in that zone, it’s a miracle.”

  “From what it looks like, a lot of buildings outside of that are so damaged, they’re going to have to be razed. But there could be survivors in there. Maybe that’s where we should concentrate our search.”

  “Yeah, I hate to just give up on the other areas, but I guess it’s a numbers game. We have to expend our resources where there’s the best chance to find the most people alive and reachable. The area around ground zero is so hot, we can’t safely put rescue parties in there.”

  “How many do you think died in the initial blast?” George asked.

  “I don’t know. I heard a preliminary estimate of 125,000 but I don’t know who came up with that number.”

  “Whatever the number is, it will probably double later from injuries and radiation poisoning. Let’s head up to Capitol Hill,” George suggested. “I want to see if there is anything left up there.”

  The Predator flew over the remains of the Capitol Building. Congress had been in session at the time of the blast, and 397 senators and representatives were killed or missing. Likewise, the Supreme Court had been in session and, apparently, none of the justices survived.

  It appeared as though the flash had initially seared the Supreme Court Building and the office buildings of the Senate and the House of Representatives, and then the concussion blasted the remains thousands of feet down range. George saw huge chunks of blackened granite a half mile from the remains of the Capitol building.

  George and the major carefully studied the footage for any sign of survivors. “Whoa!” said George pointing at the video screen. “I think I saw some movement over there in that rubble. What is that area? The Senate office complex?”

  The major centered the gyrostabilized camera on the location George indicated and read the GPS coordinates from a display on the console. “Yeah, it’s what left of the Russell Building. Let’s zoom in for a closer look.”

  “Right there!” said George, pointing to the screen. “Someone is crawling out…it’s a woman!”

  “It sure is! Good eyes, George! She must have been on the underground train between the Capitol building and the office building when the blast went off. There’s no other way she could have survived!”

  George yelled across the room to an army first lieutenant manning the search and rescue radio. “Call in the SAR helicopter,” he ordered. “Give them the exact position—the Russell Senate Office Building so they can minimize their exposure time in the radiation zone.”

  “Yes, sir. SAR helo is on its way,” answered the lieutenant.

  The major turned to George. “Since Reagan National and Andrews are both unusable, they’ll airlift her to a staging area outside the danger zone. Local hospitals are flooded, so depending on her condition, they’ll fly her out of Dulles or Baltimore to another area of the country for treatment.”

  After the SAR helo picked up the woman and left the area, George and the major continued to search the rubble for another half-hour with no luck.

  George grew frustrated. “There’s just no way to find anybody in this mess! If they’re buried in the rubble, we’ll never see them, and if they’re not, they’re nothing but charred bones.”

  “I have to take a break,” said the major, motioning to the army first lieutenant to take his place at the Predator controls. “I can’t look at any more of this right now,” he muttered and headed rapidly for the door. George saw him slump over as he stepped outside the control van, nauseated from the sights on the display screen.

  “We’re over Capitol Hill, Lieutenant,” George quickly briefed the replacement pilot as he sat down at the controls. “Let’s head over to the White House.”

  “Yes, sir.” The pilot flew the Predator back down the mall as he typed in the coordinates for the White House. The GPS navigation system directed them to the right, and the pilot made a right turn near ground zero, across the Ellipse, to the area where the White House had once stood.

  “Sorry about the circuitous route, sir. I would have flown straight down Pennsylvania Avenue, but I couldn’t make it out on the video. There aren’t any landmarks left.”

  “That’s all right,” George answered understandingly. “Are you telling me we’re there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  George studied the screen carefully. “There’s nothing here.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Nothing at all. From my understanding, the president, vice president, secretary of state, and cabinet members were all working in the White House at the time of the attack.”

  “Yes, sir. There’s an underground nuke-proof bunker, but apparently they didn’t have enough warning to get in there in time.”

  “How can that be?” George asked incredulously. “The report I read said the cops reported there was a nuke on the mall at least ten minutes before it detonated.”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “Well those of us in strategic forces studied depressedtrajectory ballistic missiles and figured there would be about ten minutes warning if a Soviet boomer in the Atlantic fired one at the East Coast. So the president’s emergency system was designed to get him to safety in less time than that.”

  “Uh, a Soviet what?” asked the lieutenant.

  “What?” George was puzzled. He wasn’t following the lieutenant’s question.

  “You said something like a Soviet bomber firing a ballistic missile. I didn’t think that was possible.”

  “Oh, sorry,” answered George, realizing the army lieutenant was probably not familiar with navy slang. “That’s “boomer”, not bomber. In the submarine community, we refer to ballistic missile submarines as boomers. It’s easier to say, and descriptive as well!”

  “Oh, okay. That makes a lot more sense,” said the lieutenant.

  “Anyway, with ten minutes warning, why weren’t the president and his staff in the bunker?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I don’t think we’ll ever know for sure.”

  “This doesn’t make sense.”

  “Well, I heard some people saying there was some sort of m
iscommunication between the Park Police, the DC Police, the Secret Service, and the White House staff. I guess the president just didn’t get the word in time.”

  “That’s just unbelievable!” George exclaimed. “They can round up several hundred people on the mall and cram them into a Metro station, but they forgot to warn the president?!”

  “I don’t think anyone forgot, sir. It’s just that the president’s emergency communication system is designed so that he gets immediate warnings from NORAD of a nuclear missile or bomber attack. But there wasn’t, you know, a hotline kind of connection with the police. They had to call in through regular channels, and I guess the call just didn’t get through in time.”

  George buried his face in his hands and shook his head in disbelief. Tears of sorrow and anger welled up in his eyes. The sudden realization that, by all rights, the president and his cabinet should have survived this attack was too much to bear. The brave policemen who stayed on the mall and got the word out with more than ten minutes to spare shouldn’t have died in vain. They should have the legacy of a living president. What a tremendous boost it would be for the country if the president had emerged safely from the attack. And what a message it would send to the terrorists! But because of some stupid mistake—some flaw in our communications—the president was dead.

  “All this time and effort on homeland security, and they can’t make a simple phone call!” George said in exasperation.

  “Sir, in all fairness, I worked as a liaison to the Homeland Security Department for the last two years. There are a lot of fine people in that organization, and they have been working as fast as possible to plug every hole in our security net. There were just too many holes.”

  Regaining his composure, somewhat, George turned to the young army lieutenant. “I know, Lieutenant. I’m just frustrated. I could make similar statements about our submarine force failing to make a difference, but what’s the use?”

  “The job was just too big, sir. From the time we got the wakeup call on 9/11, we just didn’t have enough time to fix every security problem.”