Shakedown

by Newt Gingrich

  The device is believed to be inside a former Romeo-class Soviet submarine lying some 270 feet below the surface in an underwater pit created centuries ago dug into the continental shelf.

  A high-level intelligence source, who asked not to be identified, said a crew member from the rogue submarine is cooperating with authorities and will take government experts this morning to where it was intentionally grounded.

  According to confidential sources, the submarine was able to avoid detection in US-controlled waters by traveling through an underwater canyon and using high-tech antidetection equipment recently perfected by the Russians.

  “If it weren’t for the former crew member,” a source said, “we would have had no idea where the submarine and bomb are sitting.”

  The crew member assisting authorities was the only sailor to survive. The remainder of the boat’s crew—still aboard the sunken submarine—are believed dead because the vessel was sabotaged shortly after it was grounded, a source disclosed. At best, the doomed crew had been left aboard with no means of escape with less than twelve hours of oxygen.

  Fathi Aziz, a Palestinian terrorist, had threatened to explode a nuclear bomb on the submarine at midnight Thursday unless the United States convinced Israel to withdraw from all former Palestinian lands. Aziz took responsibility for a Palestinian suicide bomber who murdered 40 persons outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art in Manhattan, including 26 Jewish students.

  An Israeli commando team surprised Aziz at a rural farmhouse in Pakistan only hours before his threatened deadline, according to sources. The radical Islamic terrorist was killed during a firefight. After learning of Aziz’s death, President Randle Fitzgerald promptly declared Aziz’s submarine nuclear bomb threat averted.

  Esther had read enough. She tossed the paper between them on the SUV’s back seat.

  “Garrett said dozens of curiosity seekers have followed the naval ships out to where the submarine is located,” Mayberry said. “They’re trying to get photos. The Coast Guard has been unable to turn them back.”

  “An Israeli newspaper never would have published such a story without government permission.”

  “This reporter is especially reckless. He’ll print anything to get more internet hits and sell more papers. It’s disgusting—‘If it bleeds, it leads’ journalism.”

  “He had so many details—someone must have given him this information,” Esther said. “Find and punish that source, if you want to stop such stories.”

  “In Washington that’s tough—especially when Garrett and I both believe the source is Director Whittington.”

  “Your own CIA director?”

  “This reporter has printed details that could only have come from him. He has a personal grudge against both of us, but especially Garrett.”

  The driver slammed on the SUV’s brakes and smacked his palm against the horn. They came to an abrupt stop midway in an intersection, barely avoiding a collision with a driver who’d run a red light. The offending motorist didn’t bother to slow. Instead he made an obscene gesture as he sped away.

  “Sorry, ladies,” their driver apologized. “No one stops when a light turns yellow anymore around here.”

  Neither Esther nor Mayberry had been wearing seat belts, and both had been jostled. Using her left hand, Mayberry now awkwardly snapped her belt into place. Glancing at Mayberry’s frozen right fingers, Esther asked, “Has acupuncture helped your hand?”

  “It has helped with the pain, but I still can’t close my fingers. I never would have tried it if you hadn’t called that acupuncturist in London. I need to thank you, and also I’d like to apologize.”

  “For what?”

  “I didn’t like you when we first met.”

  Esther shrugged and smiled. “I didn’t like you either. Now tell me, what’s happening between you and Garrett? It’s obvious there’s chemistry between you.”

  “He surprised me in London,” Mayberry confided. “He kissed me, or more accurately, he tried and I turned away and then kissed him. It’s awkward.”

  “You Americans play so many games when it comes to romance. If you like him, be with him.”

  “It’s not that simple.” Mayberry looked down at her hand. “I think he blames himself for what happened, and I’m not the same person I was.”

  The SUV passed through the Norfolk Naval Station security gate, and within moments it had reached the tarmac where a helicopter was waiting.

  “Who’s that?” Esther asked as they got out.

  “Thomas Jefferson Kim,” Mayberry said, gently covering her ears because of the noise created by the aircraft’s idling engine and slowly twirling blades. “A computer genius, and Garrett’s closest friend.”

  Kim joined them in the helicopter. After they’d been introduced, Esther asked him, “Why are you here?”

  “To make certain no one detonates the bomb either accidentally or intentionally through an electronic signal. My company has developed jamming software that will stop anyone trying to reach the submarine by a satellite link. I’ll also be scanning nearby boats. Garrett said there are more than a dozen out there.”

  “This Petrov,” Esther asked Mayberry, “how credible is he?”

  “So far, very,” Mayberry replied. “He told us the coordinates as soon as we cut a deal.”

  “How much did you pay him?” Esther asked.

  “Nothing. When we told him that you had killed Aziz, ending the immediate threat, and the Kremlin publicly denounced Zharkov and said it would execute anyone who’d helped him, Petrov got a grim reality check. He ended up telling us the location in return for asylum.”

  “You agreed to let him remain here after what he did?”

  “We agreed to not execute him for mass murder in return for his full cooperation.”

  The helicopter was flying over the Atlantic’s blue-green waters. Dozens of pleasure craft appeared as they approached a US Navy command ship. Smaller Coast Guard vessels could be seen skirting between the ship and the unwanted spectators, keeping them a safe distance away.

  “Glad you’re here,” Garrett said, beaming, when Esther, Mayberry, and Kim exited from the helicopter onto the deck where he was waiting. “This is turning into a freak show.” He looked upward at a second helicopter circling above them, also about to land.

  “Reporters,” Garrett said, “including Robert Calhoun, whose story is responsible for all these nuisance boats showing up. The press has been invited to observe. Let’s get inside the command center before they land and begin shouting questions.”

  He showed them the way, complaining, “Ten minutes before you arrived, some knucklehead ran his powerboat into a sailboat, and the Coast Guard had to bring the injured here for medical care.”

  “Sounds more like a shit show than freak show,” Esther said.

  Garrett smiled at her. “Good work in Pakistan. I wasn’t certain you’d find Aziz in time. I heard you got injured, and he put up quite a fight.”

  “Another scar. We Israelis know how to kill terrorists,” she bragged. “Maybe we will teach you Americans someday.”

  “I’d love your help in finding and killing the Roc. He’s still out there.”

  They entered the ship’s command post above the deck. The air inside was air-conditioned cool. The room smelled of seawater. There was a greenish cast from the multiple screens in the dimly lighted area they entered.

  “Meet Captain Gary Reynolds,” Garrett said.

  The ship’s fiftysomething African American captain extended his hand. Next to him was a younger black woman wearing a major’s bars. “And this,” Garrett said, “is Major Brooke Grant. She’s been assigned to debrief Petrov.”

  Esther pushed past him and hugged Grant.

  “The last time I saw you,” Grant happily declared, “you were being hauled away in an ambulance after being stabbed in the chest by a terrorist.”

  “The last time I saw you,” Esther replied, “you were lying helpless on the ground with a broken leg
, trying to defend yourself with a wooden plank from your exploded house.”

  “It did have a nail in it,” Grant added. She explained to the others: “Esther saved my life, and my daughter’s, that night.”

  “Major Grant has spent the last six hours questioning Petrov,” Garrett said.

  “He’s shown no remorse,” Grant said. “He described how he’d left his crew to suffocate in the same calm voice he’d used when asking us when he could eat his lunch.”

  Esther asked her, “How is your daughter?”

  “Casey is wonderful. Still riding horses.”

  “I hate to interrupt this reunion, Major,” Garrett said, “but we do have a nuclear bomb below us.” He turned to Captain Reynolds. “How soon before the SRDRS launches?”

  “What’s an SRDRS?” Esther asked.

  “Submarine Rescue Diving and Recompression System,” Reynolds replied. “A two-hundred-ton submersible rescue module. Once it was determined there were no survivors aboard the submarine, I was told to wait for the reporters. We’ll drop it down and attach it to the submarine’s escape hatch. The team will enter the submarine and find the nuclear device. They’ll disconnect the remote detonator and the bomb. We’ll be able to watch the entire process here from cameras mounted on the submergible and body cams.

  “You can set up over here with your equipment,” Reynolds said to Kim.

  “Excellent. As you are well aware, Captain,” Kim replied, “there are two ways to communicate with a submerged submarine.”

  “Here comes a science lecture,” Garrett warned.

  “ELF—extremely low frequency—radio waves can reach hundreds of meters under the ocean surface. However, ELF units are so cumbersome and expensive to construct that only a few nations have built them. My company’s jamming system will stop ELF satellite messages from tripping the detonation switch on the nuclear device below us. ELFs won’t be the problem.”

  “And the second way?” Esther said.

  “VLF—very low frequency—radio waves can only penetrate about twenty meters underwater, and the submarine is much deeper. But I’ve been told there’s a floating antenna attached to the submarine.”

  “As long as that antenna is out there,” Reynolds interjected, “we’re vulnerable.”

  “If I understand this,” Mayberry said, “someone close to the ship could send a VLF signal. The submarine antenna would pick it up and relay it to the bomb. Wouldn’t they still have to know its detonation code?”

  “That’s right. Just to make certain there are no mishaps, my job is to ensure no VLF signals reach the antenna.”

  “Waves and currents keep the antenna from staying in one place,” Reynolds said. “Based on the submarine’s depth and the projected length of the antenna, we’ve drawn a circle inside which the antenna must be. Once we find and disconnect it, there will be no way for anyone to detonate the bomb, even if they know the code.”

  “Does Petrov know the code?” Mayberry asked.

  “No, but he has given us other extremely useful information,” Grant said.

  Garrett jumped in. “He’s confirmed the bomb was made in Iran. Which is what Nasya Radi wrote in his letter to me, when this all started.” He glanced at Esther. “And what our friends the Israelis told us.”

  “Despite Tehran’s insistence that they have not made a nuclear weapon,” Major Grant added.

  “How many times must you catch Iran in lies before you learn what Israel knows?” Esther said. “You are fools for believing anything they say.”

  “When we bring up that nuclear bomb,” Garrett said, “we’ll have all the evidence we need, and I’m certain President Fitzgerald and our allies will punish Iran.”

  An aide approached Reynolds. “Captain, sir, the reporters are all on board, and the SRDRS is ready to be lowered into the water.”

  “How long before it reaches the submarine?” Mayberry asked.

  “Less than thirty minutes,” Reynolds said, slipping on a headset. His aide handed headsets to Esther, Garrett, Mayberry, and Grant.

  “The captain asked me to remind you that the White House Situation Room and Pentagon are monitoring this operation and will hear whatever you might say while wearing these headsets,” the aide said.

  “That include Director Whittington?” Garrett asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now’s not the time, Garrett,” Mayberry warned.

  All of them except Kim, who was typing on a nearby computer keyboard, were focused on the images being relayed by the various stationary and body cameras on the rescue module.

  “With your permission, Captain, we will untether and start our descent,” a voice in the headset coming from the SRDRS announced.

  “Permission to descend granted,” Reynolds replied.

  As the SRDRS entered the water, curious fish could be seen darting toward it on the monitors.

  “So far, so good,” Garrett said. He shot the captain a thumbs-up.

  “Captain!” Kim exclaimed. “Someone’s trying to detonate the bomb!”

  Eyes immediately darted from the monitors to Kim.

  “What?” Captain Reynolds said. “How’s this possible?”

  “What’s going on?” Director Whittington could be heard asking through the headsets. Because Kim wasn’t wearing one, the CIA director couldn’t hear what he was saying.

  “A VLF signal is coming from a surface ship,” Kim said, not taking his eyes from his computer. “I’m blocking it.”

  “Someone talk to me,” Whittington complained through the headsets.

  “Can you tell where the signal is coming from?” Mayberry asked, ignoring Whittington.

  “It must be one of the boats that followed us here,” Garrett said.

  Kim’s fingers moved lightning-fast. He split his screen in half, working on one side to disrupt the VLF signal and on the other to trace its source. “This can’t be right. The signal is emanating from somewhere on this ship.”

  “No one on my crew would try to detonate a nuclear bomb!” Reynolds declared.

  “Damn it!” Whittington could be heard uttering. “Someone tell me what is happening.”

  “Oh my God!” Kim stammered. “Whoever is sending the signal has locked onto the antenna. I just interrupted his signal. Disconnected him. But he’s trying to worm his way through my firewall.”

  “Zharkov, Aziz, and Kardar are dead,” Mayberry said. “Who else would know the detonation code?”

  Garrett’s eyes locked with Esther’s. “The Roc,” they said simultaneously.

  Esther was the first to explain. “Our soldier and a major general were tortured by the Roc before he killed them. He cut them because he was interrogating them. He wanted information. Zharkov had the same identical cuts. The Roc interrogated him in London before he murdered him.”

  Garrett nodded. “That’s how he got the code.”

  “Our theory!” Mayberry exclaimed. “I think we made a mistake. That day when Big Jules was drawing his triangle. Linking everyone. What if the Roc didn’t come to London to kill Zharkov? What if he followed General Kardar to London to kill him because of what happened in Paris? He must’ve blamed Kardar. He’s out for revenge. When he got to London, he missed his opportunity, but saw Kardar meeting with Zharkov and decided to investigate why.”

  Garrett said, “The reports about that car bomb attack on General Kardar said a doctor had crawled inside his limo to help him. That doctor disappeared. It must have been the Roc.”

  “But how would the Roc get on this ship?” Esther asked.

  “The helicopter carrying reporters,” Garrett said. “That’s got to be how he got on board. He’s posing as a reporter.” Garrett called to Reynolds. “Where are the reporters?”

  “In the wardroom where you and I had coffee this morning.”

  “I remember the way,” Garrett declared, starting for an exit. “How long can you jam his signal, Kim?”

  “Not long. He’s good. Hurry!”

  All of t
hem except for Kim and Reynolds followed Garrett, but he stopped at the exit. “I’m sorry,” he told Mayberry, gesturing to her hand. “There’s going to be ladder steps.”

  Mayberry’s face turned red. She was about to respond when Kim yelled at them: “No time to argue!”

  Over the headset, Whittington said, “Captain Reynolds, I order you to tell me what is happening!”

  “We have a terrorist on our ship trying to detonate the bomb.”

  Left behind, Mayberry started to make her way to Kim and his computer, but suddenly stopped midstep. “Where’s sick bay?” she asked one of Captain Reynolds’s aides.

  “Are you feeling ill?”

  “Garrett said there was a crash—a sailboat and powerboat. The injured were brought here.”

  Captain Reynolds overheard. “Marcus, get her to sick bay.”

  Forty-Eight

  A naval public information officer assigned to escort the pool reporters on the ship was showing the three men and two women a diagram of the SRDRS module and explaining how it would be attached to the submarine when Garrett, Esther, and Major Grant burst into the wardroom.

  “Brett Garrett,” one of the reporters said, rising from his seat. “Robert Calhoun with the Washington Interceptor. We finally meet.”

  Ignoring him, Garrett glanced at the other two male reporters’ faces. Neither bore the Roc’s telltale neck scar.

  “He’s not here,” Garrett said.

  “Who’s not here?” Calhoun asked. “What’s this about?”

  Garrett started to back out.

  “Wait a minute!” Calhoun hollered. “Who are you looking for, Garrett? What’s going on?”

  One deck below them, Mayberry was entering the sick bay.

  “Where are the civilians injured in the boating accident?” she asked the corpsman on duty.

  “Upstairs, being put on a helicopter to go back to shore.”

  “How many were there?”

  “Three men and three women. One man died, the others were patched up.”

  “Did you see a scar on the faces of any of the men?”