"If that was the second Barracuda, and it was owned by China," said Arnold. "Almost every last piece of this jigsaw fits together. Including the possibility that Beijing is using the first one to cripple our West Coast economy. By the way, the mystery submarine off the coast of Ireland, was on February seventh at 1935. The numbers are engraved on my mind. I think about it every day. Sneaky little bastard."
"What bothers me, Arnie," said George Morris, "is why China should want to be involved in such a lunatic adventure. They must know stuff like this will provoke a colossal response from us."
"Of course, we don't know that China is responsible for anything," replied Arnold. "We only know for sure that Beijing bought one Barracuda Type 945, because the Russians told us. We also have Jimmy's razormouth message suggesting they bought two Barracudas. And we have seen one of them headed into Zhanjiang, and although we don't know which one, it does suggest a decoy. Because that little bastard headed into port in a way that suggested they wanted us to see it."
"OK, men, what do we do now, bomb the little pricks into oblivion?" Lt. Commander Ramshawe was only half joking.
Vice Admiral Morgan laughed nervously. "I'm afraid there's more to this than meets the eye, Jimmy. And remember one thing. Russia is NEVER going to admit the second Barracuda was sold. China is NEVER going to admit anything. They may say a Barracuda submarine visited Zhanjiang under the flag of another country. They will also say that has absolutely nothing to do with the United States.
"As for our suspicions that someone is hitting our oil industry with cruise missiles, they will say that any suggestion that China is responsible is utterly preposterous, and would honorable President of United States like to have State visit to Beijing, and very great welcome by Chinese people."
Admiral Morris added, "Remember, also, that satellite picture Jimmy's just brought in. That's the only time we've seen either of those boats anywhere near a Chinese port of entry."
"You're right," said Arnold. "And I am being driven to just one view—the only time this mystery gets solved is if we catch and nail whoever and whatever is out there off the coast of California. And I don't know how to do that. Yet."
Ramshawe's reply sounded more Australian than Saltbox Bill, King of the Overland. "Well, we'd better be right bloody sharp about it, before the shifty little mongrel bastard strikes again."
"And one more thing, Jimmy," said Admiral Morgan. "I was informed you had two items of interest when you arrived. What's the second one?"
"Sir, I've been scrolling through the SOSUS and radar surveillance reports on our Internet for the past couple of weeks. Naturally, there's not a whole lot happening up in the Bering Sea to interest us. But I found one thing happened on 19 February. The Navy listening station at North Head, Akutan Island, picked up transient contact on radar, about thirty miles offshore, South Bering Sea 54.45' N, 166.28' W. No POSIDENT. But they got three sweeps on the radar. They thought it could be an intruder, but they never heard it again."
"I guess it could have been anything," replied Admiral Morgan.
"Well, yes, it could, sir. But those guys are used to tracking ships through the Unimak Pass, and whatever this was, it got their attention. Then it vanished."
"It's a bit late to worry about it now," said Arnold. "But there's only one type of ship that can just vanish, right, George?"
"Only one, Arnie. Only one."
6 p.m., Sunday, March 16, 2008
The Pacific Ocean
The Barracuda was making a racetrack pattern 500 feet below the surface, 270 miles southwest of Lompoc, Valley of Flowers, 340 miles due west of Tijuana, on the Mexican border. Shakira had accepted, in principle, the concept of a straight hit-and-run. The final destination of the missiles was 34.39' N, 120.27' W. It was 120 minutes to launch.
Inside the Kodak Theatre, the entertainment industry's biggest night was well under way. Members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences were seated with dozens of hopefuls, the short-listed nominees for the little golden statues.
They had already made the award for the Best Special Effects to Bob Ferrer, Ray Ricken, and Sydney Limberg for Terminator XII, and all three of them had thanked everyone they had ever met, with the possible exception of the studio cat. Oscars 2008 was already running ten minutes late.
They showed film clips for the Best Cinematography— for which Hiram Rothman was a hot favorite for his spectacular filming of the battle for the Gettysburg Heights in Hope, Not Glory. The Civil War epic was also up for Best Director (Milt Brabazon) and Best Actor (Flint Carbury). And the entire row of Civil Warriors stood up and applauded the victory of Hiram, whose magic lenses had made them all look utterly wonderful.
Make your speed five knots and come to three hundred. . . Missile Director to the Control Room . . .
Hiram Rothman, who had won twice before in a long and perfectly brilliant career, was seasoned and dignified, and merely thanked everyone for being so helpful. A quick thank-you to twenty-seven relatives put the ceremony more or less back on track. It was already heading toward a nine o'clock finish, just as Mrs. Rashood had forecast.
Two more minor awards followed, and then, shortly before seven o'clock, one of the highlights of the evening occurred. Edna Casey, the Irish poet, won the award for Best Original Screenplay for Timeshare. The Oscar was not quite so interesting as the decision of the film's star, Troy Ram-ford, to unload his wife of eleven years, plus their three children, last fall in favor of the more exotic charms of the svelte Galway-born redhead, Miss Casey. It had been a world tabloid preoccupation whether Troy and Edna would show up for the Oscars together.
Aided by about 500 megawatts of television power, the world now knew. Troy had the overjoyed Edna Casey in his arms, and Hollywood, ever anxious to accept and welcome a new regime, was on its feet applauding. The gifted Irish writer moved shyly to the podium and told the audience, 'This means more to me than I can ever say. I'm sure Troy and I will both treasure it always."
That was the confirmation of love the media had been awaiting for five months. The audience erupted as Edna waved her Oscar.
Conn-Captain . . . Come toPD. . . Check surface picture visual. . . Fifty-five minutes to launch. . .
The ceremony continued in glittering harmony. Best Musical Score was won by the ex-London busker Bobby Beethoven (née Schwartz) for Ramraid, a tacky but clever British lowlife gangster drama, which was also up for Best Screenplay, written by the new Liverpool-based duo of Fred and Anna Zimmer.
Billy Conn, picking up his fourth Oscar for a Best Adaptation, valiantly strove to be brief while praising the entire cast and crew of the 2007 sleeper Free Agent, a sports spoof that was too close to the truth to spoof anyone. He ignored his immediate family in his thank yous, but became overcome with grief when dedicating his Oscar to his partner, an airline steward who had recently died. Billy, in tears, had to be helped from the podium by heartbroken executives from Provincetown International Airways.
Check all systems. . . Nineteen minutes to launch. . . Lt. Comdr. Abbas Shafii to the Control Room. . .
The battle for Best Supporting Actress was now in full cry, and the clips were running. Hands were being held, clenched and placed over wide-open mouths. Inside the Kodak, the earth stood still. AND THE WINNER IS—Maggee Donald, for Free Agent.
The spotlights searched and landed upon the slim, beautiful former Texas waitress and her unshaven country-and-western singer/husband, Slack Brandiron. The music struck up and the world watched the girl who had played the Free Agent's lover make her way to the floodlit podium all alone. It had been only her second film role. Maggee just plain dissolved into laughter and tears, and kept saying over and over, "I jest wish mah mommy could see me raht now."
The audience was entranced, as she began her speech, at two minutes to eight. "This is just, like, the proudest moment. . ."
Prepare tubes one to four. . . Final systems check. . . Lt. Comdr. Rashood to the Missile Control Room. . .
"And I want t
o thank my late mommy who died only six months ago, and I know mah daddy's watchin' back home in Amarillo, and he's gonna be, like, so proud of me. . ."
TUBE ONE—FIRE! . . . TUBE TWO—FIRE! . . . TUBE THREE—FIRE! . . . TUBE FOUR—FIRE!
Maggee raised her Oscar high, and said, "I'm liftin' this so high because no one back home at mah high school's even gonna, like, believe this unless they see it, like, personally. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you from the bottom of mah heart. . ."
Make your course one-three-five. . . Speed eight. . .bow down ten. . .go to eight hundred feet . . .We're going home, gentlemen.
The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, wary of putting their golden eggs at the very end of the program, had now moved up the award for Best Actor to an estimated one hour from the conclusion of the ceremony. And the Kodak held its breath, as they announced the nominations and ran the clips, two minutes for each film, showing the shining moments of the best male acting performances of the year.
"And the winner is" (roll on the drums) ". . . TROY RAMFORD for Timeshare." And again the spotlights raked the audience in search of the tall, Nebraska-born Oscar winner, who was currently kissing Edna, waving to well-wishers, and trying to stand up.
In a maelstrom of backslapping, whooping, and cheering, he walked up to receive his award, stepping out into the aisle and insisting that Ms. Carey accompany him. By the time the glorious pair were under way, Jake Milburn and Skip Farr, watching the security radar screen out on the western edge of the Lompoc power station, had spotted a line of four incoming flying objects screaming over the California coast. And they took longer to assemble their defenses than Troy and Edna.
Both men saw the first missile come arrowing in, directly overhead, low and fast, 600-plus knots. Incredulously, they watched it dive and hit the massive generator building, which contained twenty-four 200-foot-long, 10-foot-high turbines, stacked in sets of three beneath the 80-foot-high roof.
The entire structure was blown sky-high, the eight topmost turbines, weighing around 100 tons apiece, being hurled over 300 feet into the air, two of them intact. They had not yet crashed to the ground when the next missile hit the furnace room, blew the huge heating units assunder, and exploded in a 200-yard-wide fireball a half million gallons of fuel oil, recently unloaded from Union Pacific freight car tankers.
The next missile vaporized the control room, and the last one blew up the entire fuel storage area, including its direct pipeline to the railroad terminus, where every last barrel of fuel oil was pumped out and into the power station. Both terminus and the power station were history, and the fires rose hundreds of feet into the twilit skies, black oil smoke billowing on a west wind across the Valley of Flowers and engulfing the entire town of Lompoc.
It was impossible to see four yards on the freeway up to Vandenberg Air Force Base, where the Commanding Officer ordered all aircraft to red alert. That was two minutes after the first missile hit. And that was when the lights went out in the Kodak Theatre. Right out, that is. Not a glimmer. Troy and Edna stood in inky black darkness, film stars screamed, bimbos squealed, actors yelled, their minders cursed, and the management appealed for calm through microphones that no longer worked.
All over the world, movie fans by the hundreds of millions were tuned to the Hollywood blackout. It quickly became obvious that this was no ordinary blackout. There was nothing coming out of the Kodak whatsoever. Nothing out of Los Angeles. None of the television networks could fathom the complete shutdown of their West Coast news operations.
Within moments, there was complete chaos in the Kodak. The emergency generators kicked in five minutes after the power failure, but these were on a very small scale compared to the dimension of the lost wattage. There was sufficient light to provide a safe way out for a normal crowd in the electronic auditorium.
But this was no ordinary crowd. This was a gathering of people who were unused to inconvenience. Many had not been argued with for several years. Some of them could not recall the last time they were interrupted. And this. This total indignity practically sent them over the edge. The Kodak had become a world convention of mass selfishness.
Screams rent the air. Self-important voices demanded an explanation. It was all the stewards could manage to prevent a riot, as more than three thousand people stampeded for the exit, all of them demanding priority over everyone else.
If any of them had time to stop and think, they might have realized they were in by far the best place, a large auditorium with some lighting, in a complex with sufficient power to allow them access to the adjoining hotel, which also had its own weak but useful generator system.
Outside was dangerous. The lights were out throughout the city, all the way to downtown Los Angeles and beyond, south to Santa Ana and east to San Bernardino. That included streetlights, traffic lights, shop lights, security cameras, millions of telephones, and televisions. Miraculously, there were still lights in Malibu Canyon, which was operating off the San Gabriel South Mountain system. But Los Angeles was pitch black, grinding to a halt, the freeways already clogging as every street intersection began to experience crashes and permanent holdups.
More than four hundred miles to the north, the City of San Francisco suffered a similar fate within eight minutes of Los Angeles. The lights suddenly dimmed and then failed completely on the Golden Gate Bridge, which spans the narrow channel connecting the Pacific Ocean to San Francisco Bay. Within two more minutes, every light on the entire peninsula was down. Nob Hill was nixed, Fisherman's Wharf wasted, and the cable cars kaput.
San Francisco just withered and died. The sensational night views over the city from its fabled forty-three hills, so vaunted in the tourist and hotel brochures, now permitted visitors only to stare down into a black abyss, lit only by distant car headlights and the occasional freighter on the bay. The mighty suspension bridge was a sinister black shadow in the night. In the same way, the heights of San Gabriel peered down into the ebony crater of the City of the Angels. Beyond the coast of California no one had the slightest idea what had happened. Jake Milburn and Skip Fan, still safe upwind of the fire in the security outpost west of the power station, were the only two people on earth who knew precisely what had happened. They had spotted General Rashood's missiles on their radar screens, then watched them swoop overhead and smash into the buildings.
They ran, terrified that more attacks were coming in. They made Jake's car and hurled themselves inside, then headed for the coast, grappling for cell phones, trying to call the Lompoc Police and Fire departments. There was no use trying to get the power station's own emergency services. There was nothing left. Mercifully, there had been very few people on duty this Sunday night, maybe four, or at the most five, including the night patrol man whose jeep had been blown several hundred feet into the air.
Jake correctly assumed everyone else was dead, and called his wife to tell her he was safe and to let Mrs. Farr know that Skip was fine too. All that Annie Milburn knew, at home in a valley east of the town, was that she never even got to see Troy Ramford get his Oscar because there'd been some kind of power cut in Hollywood.
The Lompoc Police Department was already fielding calls from the media, who were quickly on the case, the radio stations having been alerted by several listeners who were able to see the inferno raging in the power station. Exactly like Grays Harbor and Valdez, the Lompoc Fire Department was chiefly concerned with preventing the spread of the blaze outside the town.
Immediately when Jake Milburn's call came in, the Police Chief notified the FBI in San Diego, which was standard procedure at the merest suspicion the United States had come under attack. Jake had recounted that both he and his partner Skip Farr, both trained security men and ex-cops from Sacramento, had seen missiles, seen the attack, seen the cruises come in from the ocean, from the southwest, losing height as they honed in on the power station.
That rendered it a matter of national security. And within moments, the NSA at Fort Meade was info
rmed. Even though it was 11:30 p.m. in Maryland, the duty officer nevertheless hit the wire for the Director. But Admiral Morris had just left. His assistant Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe was, however, still in his office and picked up the telephone, hearing to his horror what had happened at Lompoc.
Without missing a beat, he opened the Agency's hot line to the White House and told the operator to get Admiral Arnold Morgan on the line, fast, wherever he was, and whatever the time. Then he left a message on Admiral Morris's answering service to call him as soon as possible. Jimmy knew the Admiral would get the message within the next fifteen minutes.
The phone rang angrily. Admiral Morgan, who had been half reading, half watching the Oscars with Kathy, was on the line.
"Sir, our man just destroyed the Lompoc power station. San Francisco and Los Angeles are blacked right out. Two security men saw the missiles come in from the sea—fast and low, smashing straight into the main buildings. The flames right now are several hundred feet high. Place works on oil, as we know."
Barracuda 945 (2003) Page 40
