Blind Eye; Silent Waters; Janus Effect

by Jan Coffey

  “How did I come across?” he asked.

  Three of the aides blurted out compliments in rapid succession.

  “Excellent.”

  “Tough and in charge, sir.”

  “The country is lucky to have you in that seat, Mr. President.”

  Hawkins was pleased with the response, but he knew he’d only hear the truth from his campaign manager, Bob Fortier. The old pit bull never minced words. He didn’t care about hurting the President’s feelings or chewing him into little pieces and spitting him out. He was a no-nonsense, straight-from-the-hip guy who, when it suited him, could be a wheeler and dealer who knew exactly how to get a job done. Right now, Fortier was standing behind the military advisors, near the window. His stony expression revealed nothing.

  They needed to wait for the camera crew to leave the room. Someone handed the President a cup of coffee. He gulped half of it down, not minding the hot liquid burning his tongue and throat. He was in overdrive now, and he needed to stay that way until this thing was behind them.

  When the television crew finally went out ahead of most of the staff, Joe Smith jumped to get his two cents in before anyone else could talk.

  “Mr. President, your stance of not giving in to these thugs’ demands is rock solid,” the rear admiral said passionately. “I think it’s brilliant to lay out a detailed counter-attack strategy of your own before the American public. Put these barbarians on the defensive and keep them there.”

  “Thank you, Admiral. I appreciate your support.”

  “What I must disagree with,” Smith continued, “is your insistence that you remain at the White House, and announcing this to the country on live TV and radio. Everyone, Mr. President, including these hijackers, is listening, and you know damn well that we’re within the range of a Tomahawk cruise missile from Hartford. At this very minute, a missile could be headed for us, and there’s no guarantee we’ll be able to knock it down before it strikes.”

  “Do you think I should be afraid, Admiral?” Hawkins asked with a smile, glancing out the window at the sunny skies of Washington, DC.

  “Not afraid, sir, but cautious.”

  “I’m taking precautions. The Vice President has been taken to a safe location. If the worst should happen and these thugs, as you call them, are not the cowards they appear, then I am sure that this great country of ours will continue to function even if the White House comes down around my ears.”

  “Mr. President—” Smith started again.

  “I have great faith in our military superiority,” Hawkins continued.

  “Naturally, sir. But that doesn’t mean you should be exposed. Take yourself out of the line of fire,” the rear admiral wasn’t about to give up. “We don’t want to give these people a target.”

  Hawkins passed on his cup to be filled again. “Life is about choices, Joe, about roads that we decide to take or not to take. Each step paves the way for the next. Each road leads us to a new adventure,” he said. “The events of this morning stand in history as the greatest threat ever raised against the American people. The magnitude of evacuation that is going on all along the East Coast is the largest ever engineered anywhere. People are scared, Admiral Smith. There is chaos across the country. I’ve ordered every facet of our government to do what we can to assist our people.”

  “All completely admirable, Mr. President—”

  “Now, by staying at the White House, Admiral, I’m doing exactly what I’m ordering my troops to do. A captain remains at the helm of his ship until the very end. People need to see that I’m calm, in charge, and not afraid. The American people need to see that, and the hijackers need to see that. This is the road that I’m determined to take. Whatever road my actions lead me to, then I shall welcome that venture, as well. But in the end I believe the men aboard that submarine will back down. If they don’t, they’ll rue the day they were born, Admiral.”

  With a nod, Rear Admiral Smith acquiesced. Hawkins looked over at Bob Fortier. The old man was watching someone beside him. It was a reporter from the Post, and the man was writing notes ferociously on a pad.

  The President glanced back at Fortier, who gave him an approving look.

  ~~~~

  Chapter 29

  USS Hartford

  11:30 a.m.

  When the two men paused outside the locked engineering office, McCann stood with Amy behind him, his pistol leveled at the door. He didn’t think either of them was breathing as they waited. They knew when the hijacker put his hand on the door latch, but the door didn’t open.

  A moment later, they saw them on the monitor. They’d moved to the next level up and were working their way past Maneuvering.

  That was half an hour ago.

  McCann looked at the monitor of the Multi-Function Display. The two men had finished their search of the engine room and had moved into the forward compartment of the sub. He could see them now in the torpedo room.

  Rivera and his coworker were keeping their attention on their own jobs as the other two checked outboard of the racks. There was no view of where he’d left Brody, so McCann had no way of knowing if the sonar man was still unconscious, or whether it had been discovered that the duct tape that bound him had been removed.

  McCann switched views and stopped at a blank screen. He frowned.

  “What was this supposed to be?” Amy asked.

  “The control room,” he told her. “They’ve disabled the cameras, figuring we might get access to an MFD. Whoever’s running the show up there doesn’t want us looking over his shoulder.” Whoever is in charge, McCann thought to himself, knows details even as minute as this.

  McCann guessed he had Cav to thank for that.

  “And maybe they’re afraid you’d recognize them.”

  McCann’s thoughts had been moving more along tactical lines, like how many men were in the control room, what stations were left unmanned, and if there was any way he could force his way in. Fear of recognition on the part of the leader of the hijackers had never crossed his mind.

  “I have a question for you,” Amy whispered. “Do you think they might have sealed off the engine room at the reactor tunnel?”

  He thought about that a moment. “They might have, but I doubt it.”

  “Why?”

  He’d already accepted the fact that Amy Russell was no doormat, no matter how dangerous a situation became. He was also resigned to the fact that she expected answers.

  “Because once they’ve locked down that door coming through the reactor tunnel, they’d need a combination code to reopen it. That code is locked in the safe in my cabin.” He shook his head. “They can’t risk not having access to Maneuvering or the engines at this point.”

  “So how are we going to shut down the reactor?”

  “I’ll show you when we get there. But first we need to get our bearings on where this sub is headed and what they want to do. I also need to figure how much time we have.”

  McCann jotted down a few notes on his pad.

  “Those two torpedoes were the only ones that were fired,” Amy said quietly. “They’ve got Tomahawks in the Vertical Launch tubes, don’t they?”

  He heard the quaver in her voice and turned to look at her. Her chin was high, her blue eyes clear and direct. She was doing her best to stay strong, and he admired her for that.

  “Yes, they do. And it’s possible they won’t use any of the weapons remaining on board,” he suggested. “We’ve been cruising at periscope depth. That tells me they’re in communication with the surface. Most likely they’re making their demands.”

  “How do you know we’re still at periscope depth?”

  “I just know.” He thought about it a second. “The pitch of the deck hasn’t changed since we submerged...and from this.” He grinned and pointed to the MFD.

  “What else do you know?”

  “That these guys are not in any hurry to get wherever they’re going.”

  “How do you know that?”

&nbs
p; “We haven’t gone over eighteen knots since leaving New London harbor.”

  Amy’s expression brightened a little. “What do you think their demands are?”

  He shook his head and then stopped. “There might be a way to find out.”

  McCann could have kicked himself for not thinking about this before. He looked around the small room and pointed to a seven-inch screen two panels away.

  “Use the headset and check it out. Normally, it’s not live TV. The set runs off the communication system, which was shut down before. But our friends in the control room might be as curious as we are about how this hijacking is being played on the networks. They could be bringing in the news live, or taping the broadcasts from satellite. Either way, check out the channels and see what you find.”

  Amy moved to the chair before the unit, put on the headset, and went to work. “Maybe I can pick up Regis and Kelly Live,” she said, smiling.

  McCann realized this was exactly what she needed. To get involved.

  He switched the MFD from the surveillance displays to the ship’s stats. He brought up navigation. The GPS system screens came up with no problem, and McCann cursed under his breath at the thought of Cav sabotaging the unit with that phony failure. He looked at the three dimensional navigational fix, getting the latitude and longitude. He then turned to SINS, the ship’s inertial navigation system used to keep constant track of the sub’s position by way of an advanced three-dimensional gyroscope system that followed the movements of the ship from a known starting point. As skipper, he always used both systems to keep Hartford on course. He could see the same thing was being done now.

  When he’d come into the submarine service, the plotting on the submarine was done manually, by a junior officer, on tracing paper over a standard navigational chart. Now, in spite of the electronics, he still insisted on using that method, as well.

  A thought occurred to him and he pushed to his feet and opened an upright steel box secured to the bulkhead. Aside from diagrams of the propulsion system and the associated electrical components, he knew there were a number of duplicate charts kept here. He searched until he found the specific chart of New London harbor and Long Island Sound. He spread the chart over a table and started plotting the numbers the navigation screens had given him before.

  “Where are they taking us?” Amy asked a couple of minutes later.

  McCann looked up to realize she wasn’t checking the TV screen. She was watching him intently.

  “New York City,” he told her.

  “Jeez! What do they have against New York City? Why is it that all these terrorists have to focus on that one city? Why not Chicago or Miami or Houston or L.A., for God’s sake? Haven’t those poor people suffered enough?”

  McCann worked quickly to finish graphing the charts. “I don’t know why you’re being so negative. Maybe this is not intended to be an attack,” he suggested. “Could be it’s just a sightseeing tour. A little Christmas shopping.”

  “Commander, I didn’t know you had a sense of humor.”

  He gave her a quick glance. “I don’t. I’m serious.”

  She smiled and turned her chair back to the small TV screen and ran through the channels.

  Hartford was traveling at exactly fifteen knots now. Based on the graph, they were on a line directly between Hammonasset Point in Connecticut and Orient Point on Long Island. With the kind of firepower they were carrying, there was no point in moving any closer, as dozens of cities, including New York City, were within striking distance. Their slow but steady approach toward Manhattan probably had more to do with strengthening their negotiating position than anything else.

  If they weren’t after something, they could have let the missiles fly the moment they went to periscope depth outside of New London harbor.

  “I think I have something here,” Amy said from her chair, readjusting the earphones on her head and leaning closer to the screen.

  McCann switched to the surveillance displays first, making sure everything and everyone was where they were the last time he’d checked. The two men searching the torpedo room must have moved onto the next section, for they were no longer in view of the cameras. He thought about Brody. There was nothing he could do for him now, but he hoped he was all right.

  He considered the two men. He couldn’t imagine they’d be backtracking to the engine room. But even if they did, the locked door and the two guns he’d taken from Dunbar and his friend gave them more protection than they’d had in the ship’s office. Plus, it was a big submarine and there were a million places to hide.

  Amy let out a gasp. “That’s unbelievable. Look at this.”

  He moved behind her to see what she’d discovered. The broadcast was live. Just as he’d expected, the only way for the hijackers to know how their destructive plans were playing out was by getting the news via satellite.

  The broadcast was from Fox and the aerial shots were of different boroughs of Manhattan. An ocean of people and cars and trucks and buses had flooded the streets. The pedestrians were the only ones who were moving. Total pandemonium reigned.

  “What is he saying?” he asked, as a reporter came on. He placed his hands on her shoulders, leaning close to her face. The news bands at the bottom of the screen were too small to read.

  “He’s recapping a speech the President must have just made.” Amy took the earphones off, holding one side of it to her own ear and the other next to his.

  McCann pressed it to his ear.

  “…not meeting their demands. America will not give in to terrorists. As you know, those were President Hawkins’s exact words.”

  The screen split, showing an anchor man along with a shot of people leaving the city.

  “What does that mean to the people of New York exactly?” The anchor asked. “Should we be evacuating the city?”

  As the reporter started to answer, McCann thought he saw a flicker on the MFD displays. Moving back to them, he switched through the functioning camera views. There was still no sign of the two goons who’d been searching for them. The tunnel to the nuclear reactor was clear, too, and back in Maneuvering, his petty officer was still at his station.

  “He’s saying he has great faith in our military’s ability to defend the country,” Amy recapped for him. “The President refuses to leave the White House, in spite of Hartford’s ability to reach Washington with a missile.”

  She paused for a moment. McCann focused on the MFD screen.

  “Is that true?” she asked. “Can the hijackers hit the White House with these weapons?”

  “Yes, they can,” he replied, not taking his eyes off the screen.

  Things were happening in the torpedo room. Rivera and his helper were shuffling the fish.

  He didn’t like the look of this at all.

  “There seems to be a demand for lots of money and freeing of some Middle Eastern prisoners,” Amy said, repeating what she was hearing. “An unnamed Islamic terrorist group appears to be behind it.”

  McCann doubted the truth of that statement. They were easy scapegoats. If the media used the work ‘Islamic’ in a sentence, nine times out of ten they’d finish the phrase with ‘terrorist.’

  “You’re of Iranian descent?”

  “Yes, I am.” He looked at her and then turned back to the screen. “Are they saying that?”

  “Yeah.” She paused. “McCann doesn’t sound like an Iranian name. I hate it when the media does that.”

  “What?”

  “They focus on what they want to see and not the whole person. And what does parentage have to do with this, anyway? They’re so full of shit.”

  He glanced at her. She continued to curse under her breath as she watched the screen.

  McCann figured he was the most Middle Eastern of anyone he’d seen on the ship so far. Money had to be the motivator, especially for someone like Cav, or Rivera, or whoever else on his crew was involved. None of them were Muslims. None had any ties to the Middle East, at all. He was fam
iliar with the backgrounds of his entire crew. He knew their personnel files inside and out. They wouldn’t follow the orders of an Islamic terrorist even if they had guns held to their heads. He looked at the petty officer in Maneuvering. No one was holding a gun to his head. What they were saying on the news made no sense at all. It had to be something else.

  “They think the nuclear power plants are more likely targets than the cities,” Amy relayed. “But they’re not ruling anything out.”

  McCann looked down at his chart. They were already past the Millstone Nuclear Power Plant in Waterford, Connecticut. But the structure was still an easy target for the Tomahawks.

  He’d waited long enough. He had what he needed. His plan was clear. Shutting down the reactor wasn’t enough. He had to go on a search and destroy mission before attempting to shut down the reactor. That wouldn’t force the sub to surface. With enough of the hijackers still armed, they could use the auxiliary power, remain at periscope depth, and fire some of the weapons. But once on the surface, they wouldn’t be able to use the Vertical Launch System.

  Amy was white-knuckled and pale when McCann turned her chair around to face him. He pulled away her headset and crouched down until they were eye to eye.

  He pulled out one of the two guns and held it in front of her.

  “This is very easy to use,” he told her, showing her the gun and the little there was to know about it. “Keep the safety on until you want to use it. I don’t want you shooting yourself or me by accident. If the situation warrants it, though, I want you to shoot. Don’t hesitate because, I’m telling you, the bad guy won’t hesitate. Someone tries to come through that door, you aim at the middle of his chest and shoot them dead.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Her eyes were huge, and he could see the mist of tears forming. “I’m going forward to the torpedo room.”

  “What about shutting down the reactor?”

  “I’ll come back for that.”

  “Can I come with you?”

  He shook his head. “This is the safest place on the sub for you right now.”

  “What are you going to do there?”