Terminal Run
( Michael Pacino - 7 )
Michael Dimercurio
Terminal Run: The final stage in the flight of a submarine torpedo as it increases speed to reach attack velocity.
Terminal Run: The new techno-thriller featuring the dramatic, final undersea showdown between Admiral Michael Pacino and his most hated nemesis, Alexi Novskoyy.
Michael DiMercurio
Terminal Run
To the love of my life, Patricia DiMercurio Who is to me as the land is to the ship
Desired and missed.
My beginning and my destination,
My purpose and my hope.
My future and my past.
EPIGRAPH
“Gentlemen, one thing I’ve learned at sea is that the procedure manuals are written by people who have never been on the business end of a torpedo with the plant crashing around them, with the captain shouting for power, where a second’s delay can mean death. The meaning of being an officer in our Navy is knowing more than those operation manuals, knowing how to play when you’rehurt, when the ship is going down and you need to keep shooting anyway: That’s reality, isn’t it, men? The ability to play hurt. That’s the only way we’ll ever win a war. And in fact, that’s the only way you can live your lives. Do that for me, guys. Learn to play hurt. “
— Admiral Kinnaird R. McKee, Director Navy Nuclear Propulsion Program and Former Superintendent, U.S. Naval Academy, Addressing the Atlantic Fleet Submarine Officers. Norfolk, Virginia
“The U.S. Submarine Force will remain the world’s preeminent submarine force. We will aggressively incorporate new and innovative technologies to maintain dominance throughout the maritime battle space We will promote the multiple capabilities of submarines and develop tactics to support national objectives through battle space preparation, sea control, supporting the land battle, and strategic deterrence. We will fill the role of the Joint Commander’s stealthy, full-spectrum expeditionary platform. “
— U.S. Submarine Force Vision
1
It had been a month since he had flown to Washington to demand a demotion.
The boss had protested, of course. Every other candidate for his job was dead, killed last summer in the disastrous terrorist attack that had robbed them of more than a thousand of their most senior people. But failing a reassignment back to his old job, he would have no choice but to resign, and that would leave two jobs vacant. He had returned home successfully demoted, and the demotion seemed to set the world right again. The staff had shaped up, the operations personnel were improving, and the equipment was in excellent condition.
On this sunny May Saturday he had gone through eighteen holes and pounded out six kilometers before lunch. After a brisk shower at the club, he had donned chinos and a golf shirt and climbed into his convertible Porsche for the twenty-kilometer drive to the office. With the staff home and the phones quiet, he could do more real work in three hours than he could accomplish in a week. He put the top down and drove out of the lot until he reached the coast highway, then opened up the smooth engine, the car accelerating, taking the curves easily, the wind blowing in his hair and taking away his few remaining problems.
As the road rushed toward him, he considered the situation that awaited. For the last year the world situation had been relatively peaceful, but now there were rumors of sparks flying between the Peoples Republic of China and the Hindu Republic of India, bitter enemies since India’s land grabs during the first and second Chinese civil wars. But any resulting global hostilities would be someone else’s problem, since a full-out war would certainly take years to develop, or even decades.
He had barely completed the last thought when the rearview mirror startled him back to the moment. The state trooper was so close that he couldn’t see the cop’s headlights, only the Smokey Bear hat and the mirrored shades and the flashing lights. He cursed as he pulled the Porsche over, knowing he’d pulverized the speed limit. He’d been driving like a maniac on this highway for two years and had never once seen a local constable, much less a static. He became more dismayed as he came to a stop and a second state trooper cruiser pulled in ahead of him, the little sports car now trapped between the two patrol cars. He cursed again as he fished for his wallet and registration. When the jackbooted Ray Ban-wearing trooper came to the car, the glove compartment was open, papers falling onto the floorboards.
“Put both hands on the steering wheel immediately, sir,” the trooper commanded in a deep iron voice, his hand on his unbuckled holster.
With both hands back on the wheel he looked up at the cop and opened his mouth to speak, but never got a word out.
“Identification, sir.”
He handed over his driver’s license and his military ID. The cop scanned them for a moment, comparing the photographs to the driver.
“Mr. Egon Ericcson?”
“It’s Vie,” he said. “Call me Vie.”
The cop opened the car door. “Step out of the vehicle, Mr. Ericcson. Slowly. Don’t speak, don’t say a word.”
What the hell was going on? he wondered as he climbed to his feet. Once a varsity football warrior, Vie “The Viking” Ericcson towered over others, with broad shoulders, a flattop blond crew cut, ocean-blue eyes presiding over the broken nose and square jaw of an amateur boxer, his weathered face showing the hard wear of years in the outdoors.
A second trooper approached from the rear cruiser and climbed into the Porsche’s seat, shutting the door after him.
“Hey, goddammit, that’s my car!”
“Please remain silent, sir,” the first trooper said. “Your vehicle is impounded. Please turn around slowly and walk to the patrol car, sir.”
“Officer, look, I know—”
“Quiet, sir.”
The trooper forced him into the back of his cruiser and shut the door, then took the driver’s seat. The cop backed up, then peeled out into the highway and rocketed down the asphalt toward the city. Behind them the second cruiser was escorting the Porsche, but the two cars soon vanished in the distance as the trooper accelerated.
“Where are we going? The courthouse? State Police HQ?”
The trooper said nothing. Finally the airport exit came up, and the cruiser pulled off, eventually coming to a stop at a large fence gate, which rolled open. Ericcson had the momentary thought that they must have a police facility inside the airport grounds, but the cruiser flew over the tarmac of the airport for a few minutes until it screeched to a stop at a gigantic commercial Boeing-Airbus 808, the plane’s jets idling far from the terminal.
He started to ask the obvious question, but before he could, the rear door opened and two new state troopers pulled him unceremoniously from the car and led him up an old-fashioned wheeled stairway to the jet’s door far above. He was escorted quickly inside the cool airplane, and as his eyes adjusted from the harsh noon sunlight he saw that the interior was empty except for two men in nondescript suits, who waved him to a seat in the middle of the firstclass section.
He looked at the suits and decided to see if they would prove more understanding than the uniforms who’d brought him and who were currently handing over a clipboard for signatures. As the cops withdrew, he looked up and started his complaint. “Look, guys, I was speeding. I admit it, but—”
One of the troopers suddenly turned and handed something down to him. He stared dumbly at his driver’s license and his U.S. Navy identification. Obviously, whatever was happening to him had nothing to do with a traffic violation.
“Who are you guys? What’s going on? Is this coming from Washington?”
“Sir,” the first suit said formally, “please strap yourself in. We’re leaving immediately.”
“Goddam
nit, what the hell?” he grumbled, but decided to shut his mouth. He looked down at himself, at his casual clothes, the odd thought coming that he hoped he was dressed for wherever they were taking him.
The jet reached the end of the runway and throttled up, climbing out east over the Pacific. With his escorts insisting upon remaining silent, there was nothing to do but sleep in the large comfortable firstclass seat. It was hours later when he woke up, the windows dark long after local sunset.
“May I get you something, sir?” The first suit stood over him.
“Coffee would be great,” he said in his gravelly voice. “And then some information. And a phone.”
“Coffee is the best we’ll be able to do for you, sir.” The steaming coffee landed on the tray in front of him, and the smell of it made him want to dive into it, the aroma reminding him of his younger days at sea.
“Then tell me one thing — may I take it that we’re headed for Washington?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny, sir.”
“It’s John Patton, isn’t it? He ordered this?”
“Again, sir, I can neither—”
He waved the man to silence and waited for them to arrive wherever it was they were taking him. As the plane descended, he asked permission to move to a window seat, surprised when they let him shift over. The jet made a night approach toward nothingness, the absence of lights odd, as if they were landing in a deserted cornfield. This might not be the East Coast at all, he thought. Eventually the jet turned and flared out, the heavy airframe touching down gently and braking at the end of the darkened runway the aircraft turning at the end and taxiing back to where they’d touched down. The agents pulled him out of his seat as the forward hatch opened. He stepped out into warm, humid night air, insisting on taking a look around at the top of the steps at an unlit compound of aging huts and derelict outbuildings. By this time he wasn’t surprised by the lack of a greeting party.
He walked down the stairs to the runway. Immediately his escorts pulled away the rolling stairway and the big jet rolled down the still-darkened strip, its navigational beacons only coming on after it had flown away into the distance. The night was eerily quiet after the plane left.
“Where in God’s name am I?” he asked, knowing he would have no answer.
He was led to a decrepit cinderblock building’s rusted steel door. The interior was lit by a single hooded, dim lightbulb, the building some kind of garage or storage area in a state of severe disrepair, one of the vehicle bay doors broken and hanging from a hinge. He was led to a staircase, down to a dusty cobwebbed subbasement, which led to a cinderblock walled hallway. One narrow door was opened, the broom closet cluttered with cleaning gear, a stained sink, and another rusted door. The suit shut the closet door behind them and opened the second door, revealing the gleaming stainless-steel interior of an elevator. The agent shut the steel door, put his ID card on a scanner, then pressed his thumb to a second scanner. The inner door glided shut, and the elevator descended silently for some time. When the door opened, Ericcson was led down another cinderblock hallway past several steel doors, the double door on the end opening to a Spartan conference room furnished with only a generations-old oak table and ten wooden chairs, the kind that looked like they’d come from a courtroom. He was directed to take a seat. He poured himself a black cup of coffee from the service in the middle of the table.
When it was half gone the door creaked open, and he stood to greet the newcomers. He didn’t recognize one, but the other was very familiar. It was John Patton, the boss.
* * *
When Kelly McKee opened the door of his house in the sprawling Virginia Beach suburbs, he found his chief of staff standing there in jeans and a T-shirt, carrying a bottle of Merlot. It was nearly midnight on Saturday, and she was two hours late. She said nothing, handing him a note that said:
Don’t say anything. Invite me in and turn on music in the den.
He looked at the note uncertainly, not sure whether to be annoyed or amused. He waved her in, took the wine to the den, and turned on a mellow disk. She frowned and produced her own music and inserted it. It was vintage head-banging rock’n’roll. She cranked the volume until he was about to complain, when she handed him the next note:
Don’t argue. Lie on the floor and fake a heart attack. This is all coming from the highest levels and will be explained to you.
He gave her a look of disbelief. Her expression was deadly serious, and he had known her for too many years and through too many battles to doubt her. He was no actor, but he handed back the note without a word, turned to look at the wine bottle, and suddenly grabbed his chest. With an expression of agony he sank to his knees, the wine bottle falling to the carpeting, McKee joining it. Above him she stood and calmly dialed her cell phone. When she spoke her voice sounded panicked, but her expression never changed.
“This is Karen Petri at 227 Hightower Road. The homeowner, Kelly McKee, is having a heart attack. He’s collapsed and in terrible pain. Yes! Please hurry. Yes.”
“Was that 911?” he asked.
“Quiet, sir,” she said, kneeling above him.
He waited, feeling absurd.
McKee was a slight figure, slightly shorter than Petri. He had a handsomely rugged face, beloved by the press, and which looked much too young to be worn by a man so senior, and it would look even younger without the trademark bushy eyebrows.
After what seemed forever but was perhaps only ten minutes a truck could be heard out front. Petri opened the door and admitted three paramedics. None seemed to care that his heart sounded perfectly normal. He was placed on a gurney, an oxygen mask strapped on, his shirt ripped open to expose his chest, a blood-pressure cuff strapped to his arm. The men rushed him out the front door to the waiting ambulance. Petri asked if she could go. The lead paramedic nodded, and she climbed in. The door was shut as the van accelerated out of the court and roared north.
“Somebody want to tell me what the hell is going on?” McKee said through his oxygen mask.
“Specific orders from Patton, sir,” Petri said. “And one of the orders is to keep silent until you’re where the boss wants you.”
“You’ve always wanted to be able to tell me to shut up.” He grinned at her, but her expression remained severe as she put a finger to her lips.
Once steady on the interstate, the first paramedic stripped off his uniform until he was down to his underwear. McKee lifted an eyebrow.
“Please remove your clothes, sir,” the nearly naked medic instructed. McKee shrugged, the order no more odd than the rest of the evening. The paramedic was McKee’s height and age, within five kilos of his weight, with the same skin and hair coloring. McKee traded clothes, the paramedic climbing onto the gurney.
“Put on a surgical scrub cap from the cabinet.”
McKee felt like a fool decked out as a paramedic, but did as he was told. The ambulance arrived at the emergency entrance to a hospital. When the door opened he and the other paramedics hustled the patient through the door, one of the other men shouting medical jargon to the receiving physicians. McKee glanced up, thinking for a moment that they had gone to Portsmouth Naval Hospital. A new face arrived, a middle-aged man in a suit holding a banker’s box under one arm.
“Follow me, sir,” he ordered. McKee followed the suit, Petri staying behind with the man on the gurney, who was being prepared to be rushed to the operating theater. McKee stood in an elevator that zoomed to the upper floors of the hospital building. The doors opened to the roof. The suit wearing agent waved him across a walkway to a waiting medevac helicopter, which was idling. “Put this on, sir,” he said, opening his box and producing an aviator’s helmet with an intercom headset inside. McKee strapped it on over the surgical cap and climbed into the rear seat, and as soon as the hatch shut the aircraft throttled up and lifted off, turning to the northwest.
McKee debated asking the pilots what they knew, but decided to wait. He glanced at his watch. It was half past midnight and
he was flying over the eastern shore of Virginia in a speeding medical transport chopper with no idea what was going on. He settled in for the ride, knowing that this had to be urgent. After a half hour the helicopter settled slowly toward a landing site without lights. The chopper came to earth and the rotors spun down to idle. The copilot told him to remain seated. Ten minutes later another helicopter landed in the darkness. A man wearing a helmet climbed out and trotted to McKee’s helicopter and opened the door to join him in the rear.
By the dim wash of the cockpit lights McKee could see the man’s face under the visor of his helmet.
“Good evening, sir,” McKee said to John Patton. “Is there anything you want to share with me about this trip?”
“Nope,” Patton said without a smile. “Pilot, let’s go.” The chopper took off and flew for another half hour before touching down for a second landing in the dark.
* * *
John Patton’s evening had been as odd as Ericcson’s and McKee’s.
The afternoon’s two briefings had given him a sick feeling in his stomach. Things were much worse than he’d ever suspected. The first meeting had been with the Director of the National Security Agency, a man named Mason Daniels, who had nothing but bad news. The second meeting had been with the President, the Secretary of War, the National Security Advisor, the Director of Central Intelligence, and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff in the situation room of the White House, where the news was even worse. He had immediate work to do with two of his chief subordinates, but both were being watched by the other side, their movements chronicled, the state of the military’s readiness judged by whether his men played golf or took Saturday emergency meetings at the Pentagon.
Mason Daniels helped Patton plan a rendezvous at a second-tier presidential evacuation bunker on the eastern shore of Maryland, a structure buried deep underground and surrounded by empty farmland, all of it owned by the U.S. Department of Agriculture. The bunker had a concealed four thousand-meter runway, with two feet of topsoil and vegetation growing over the strip in movable pans controlled by a hydraulic system that would uncover the runway on command from the approaching aircraft. The problem was how to get his men to the bunker without the people tailing them becoming wise to an urgent meeting with their boss in Washington. Daniels had proposed how to bring in Patton’s men, and reluctantly he’d agreed. But then the matter was his own departure to the bunker, since he was watched even more closely by the adversary’s intelligence forces than McKee or Ericcson.
Terminal Run mp-7 Page 1
