Jimmy Ramshawe sifted through the reports, and the more he read, the more it became obvious that the Barracuda had struck again. Even small eruptions in relatively harmless volcanoes are signaled on their seismographs. And the equipment stationed in the Soufriere Hills was much more sophisticated than most, hooked up to a brand-new computerized system in the observatory.
There were reports of staggering amounts of ash covering Montserrat’s buildings, even in the supposedly safe north part of the island. Any building with a flat roof seemed to have a minimum of 12 to 18 inches of the stuff—thick, heavy ash, more like baking flour than the light, airy remnants of a bonfire.
There were reports of ash covering the gardens of Antigua on the southwest coast, especially at Curtain Bluff and Johnsons Point. Guadeloupe awoke to a hot, gray cast over the whole of Port Louis. The southern beaches of Nevis were distinctly off-white. And the southern end of Montserrat was on fire. Miles of green vegetation were still burning from end to end of the exclusion zone. The devastation was almost complete in the south, with even the old disused jetties on fire out over the water.
As the morning wore on, the pictures became more and more graphic. The television networks had helicopter crews up and filming at first light. This was the second mammoth volcano explosion in the Americas within four months, and every news editor in every newsroom in the entire country knew that this was a very big story. Not one of them, however, had any idea precisely how big.
Admiral Morris had his 48-inch screen tuned to CNN as soon as he arrived at Fort Meade. There were other home-news items of some interest, but nothing to rival the live pictures from what looked like the detonation of an atomic bomb in a Caribbean island paradise.
He and Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe took only ten minutes to scan the incoming reports, and a lot less to arrive at the inescapable conclusion that Hamas had done exactly what they had threatened.
Pay attention…You will see what we can do…and perhaps change your mind. The words of the letter were stark in the minds of both men. Dead on time, almost to the minute, they had blown another volcano. Now everything was in place. Tony Tilton’s missiles were real. They had exploded Mount St. Helens. Last night had proved it. And now the U.S.A. faced the greatest threat in its long history of wars and battles.
Admiral Morris picked up the telephone and called Arnold Morgan, confirming their meeting in General Scannell’s office at 0800. Arnold had been up most of the night, studying charts of the Atlantic, wondering exactly where the Barracuda might be, wondering where it was headed, wondering how to catch it. In thirty years, George Morris had never seen him so worried, so utterly anxious.
He and Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe gathered up all relevant charts and documents and climbed into a staff car at 0700, fighting the traffic and arriving at the Pentagon by 0750. Up in the General’s office, the pervasive concern of the military had been heightened by the arrival of a new communication from the Middle East. E-mail. Traceable only to either Syria, Jordan, Iraq, or Iran. Useless.
It had arrived at 0415, and it was formal in its tone…To the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, The Pentagon, Washington, D.C.: We do not, you see, make idle threats. Remove your armed forces from the Middle East now. And bring the Israelis into line. You have exactly eleven days.—Hamas.
Admiral Morgan was already in his place at the head of General Scannell’s conference table. He was flanked by General Bart Boyce and the CJC himself. General Hudson was also in attendance, with Admiral Dickson and the Atlantic Fleet’s Commander in Chief, Admiral Frank Doran, former Commanding Officer of the Lake Erie, a 10,000-ton guided-missile cruiser out of Norfolk, Virginia.
The other newcomer was General Kenneth Clark, Commandant of the United States Marine Corps, and Admiral Dickson said he had the Commander of Submarine Force (Atlantic Fleet) on standby to fly in from Norfolk, if required.
Admiral Morgan opened the discussions by saying, “Gentlemen, it is perfectly clear now that Hamas have exploded their second volcano. We were 99 percent sure they had erupted Mount St. Helens, and I think we can now make that 100 percent.
“Last night, precisely as they had promised, they blew up Montserrat. I guess that’s game set and match to Hamas. With one match still to play…I need hardly remind you of the peril we are all in…It’s a scenario that once seemed remote, then much more likely…Now it’s a goddamned certainty. Are we broadly agreed on that summation?”
Everyone at the table nodded.
“So that leaves us with three essential tasks—the first of which is to begin the evacuation of Washington, Boston, and New York. The second is to nail the Barracuda, if and when it shows. Third is to hit and destroy the missile or missiles, if and when they are launched at the Cumbre Vieja.”
“Is there no chance of evacuating the Military in time to make any difference?” asked Admiral Morris, wanting to explore all options.
“Not in the few days we have left,” answered General Scannell firmly. “Not many enough to convince Hamas. And in any case, they want the Israeli peace plan signed and settled by then, with the State of Palestine recognized. We simply cannot get that done. For a start, the Israelis have indicated that they will not cooperate, so it’s out of the question, even if we had more time.”
“Especially with a President who is not involved in the discussions,” said General Scannell.
“And not interested in the defensive measures we must take to avoid this attack taking place on our shores,” added Admiral Morgan. “I am therefore proposing that we see him today, explain our aims, and why we believe he should now face up to the problem.”
“And if he refuses?”
“Then we will have to remove him from office,” replied General Scannell. “I see no alternative. Under the Constitution of the United States, there is no provision for a state of Martial Law being declared without the whole rigmarole going through Congress. And we don’t have time for that. I did ask Arnold a few days ago to check out our options. And although I sincerely hope we do not need to realize them, I’m sure he would be glad to outline the alternatives.”
Every eye in the room turned towards Admiral Morgan, who said, with neither sentiment nor emotion, “In accordance with Article II, Section I, of the Constitution of the United States of America, the President may be removed from office. It states the reasons for this as his death, resignation, or ‘inability to discharge the powers and duties of the said office.’
“It also says that his powers and duties shall devolve on the Vice President. It’s very clear on that, and if both of them need to be unloaded, the Congress has to make a choice.”
“Did James Madison actually use the word unloaded?” asked Admiral Morris.
“No. He stuck with removed,” said Arnold. “I’m just trying to keep it clear.”
“Thank you, Admiral,” said George Morris. “Just checking.”
“That’s what you’re good at, George. Stay with it.”
Even at a moment of such national gravity, Arnold Morgan could still set precisely the tone he wished.
“And, gentlemen,” he said. “We have no choice but to get this man out of that damned Oval Office. Since it would plainly suit our purposes to have Vice President Paul Bedford onside, and ready to do as we ask, I have asked him to attend this meeting and he’ll be here at any moment. You’ll understand, I have undertaken this purely because we have only one week to make our moves effectively to put the East Coast under direct Martial Law with regard to the evacuation—and we don’t have time to sit and wait while those damn Congressmen twitter around like a bunch of schoolgirls.
“It’s my view that if these Hamas guys fire a couple of nuclear-headed missiles at Cumbre Vieja, the mountain will collapse into the sea and the mega-tsunami will happen. And that’s the view of every darned scientist we have consulted. We have to either destroy our enemy or be ready to cope with whatever he throws at us.
“And remember, he’s not asking us to agree to anything. He’s sim
ply asking us to fulfill their demands, now. We’ve wasted several weeks, thanks to the incumbent in the Oval Office. And right now, time’s running out in a big hurry. These guys are almost ready.”
Everyone knew that the President had selected a Democratic Senator from the right of the party to help him in the South. It had not done much good, all in all, but Paul Bedford still remained a far less radical liberal than any of Charlie McBride’s other acolytes. And he had served as an officer in the U.S. Navy for a five-year term that included the first Gulf War.
He was a fairly worldly man, and was already being sidelined by the strong liberal mainstream of McBride’s White House. In the editorial offices of the Washington Post and the New York Times, the somewhat sardonic Virginian was regarded almost as an outlaw, thanks to his resolute and sincere support in the Senate for the Republican President who went to war with Iraq in 2003.
His presence in the Pentagon was announced by a young Marine Lieutenant on guard duty outside the CJC’s headquarters. And everyone stood up to greet the Vice President when he made his entrance. General Scannell introduced him, then moved back to the long antique sideboard that ran half the length of the main table and poured coffee for everyone. There were no lower ranks in this meeting, no one to take care of menial tasks, except, perhaps, for Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe, who was too busy to even look up from his charts and notes.
When Arnold Morgan inquired exactly how much the VP knew about the problem that faced them, Paul Bedford said flatly, “Nothing.” It was a tacit admission that this capable former navigation officer in a guided missile frigate had already slipped out of the Presidential loop.
Admiral Morgan took it upon himself to bring the VP up to speed on the phantom volcano blaster from the Middle East. The men around the table watched Mr. Bedford’s eyes grow wider with every sentence. Arnold walked him through the voyage of the missing Barracuda submarine, the obvious attack on Mount St. Helens, the threats and demands, the blasting of Montserrat, and the communication that had arrived in the Pentagon a few hours before.
“Are you with us?” asked Admiral Morgan.
“If you mean, do I understand, Admiral, the answer is plainly, yes. But you have not informed me of the reaction of the President of the United States. Does he know?”
“Of course, he knows,” said Arnold, without even cracking a smile. “He’s now rejected each of three pleas by the highest military officers in the country—pleas to listen, to take some precautions, to make some preparations, or even organize our defenses. He says the letters are from a nutcase, and the whole thing is a figment of our imagination. Needless to say, we did not, do not, and will not agree with that.”
“Of course not,” replied Vice President Bedford, who was already displaying the built-in respect of a former Navy Lieutenant in the presence of the mighty.
“Have you offered him yet the opportunity to read the latest communication from Hamas?”
“No, sir. We have not,” said Arnold. “He sincerely believes that we are all crazy—and if you would like to step up here next to me, I’ll show you just how crazy we are.”
Paul Bedford moved next to the Admiral. Arnold traced a circle of about eight inches in radius on the Navy chart in front of him. “Somewhere in there, Paul,” he said, “is a big nuclear submarine. Russian-built, with one, or probably two, cruise missiles on board containing nuclear warheads, which, as you know, pack a wallop one thousand times bigger than any conventional bomb ever dropped on anyone.
“Eleven days from now, they are going to launch those babies at this range of mountains, right here on this next chart…here…La Palma in the Canary Islands…probably from close range. And that will cause, from a huge height, the biggest landslide this world has seen for around ten thousand years. Straight into the Atlantic.
“The resulting tidal wave, or tsunami, as it is called, will develop into a succession of waves, 150 feet high, which will hit the East Coast of the United States nine hours later.”
“How big will the waves be at the point of coastal impact?”
“About 120 to 150 feet.”
“You mean, straight over New York?”
“Correct.”
“Will the waves break onto the city?”
“No sir. Tsunamis keep right on going. Probably break about ten to fifteen miles inland.”
Paul Bedford drew in his breath sharply. “Have you asked top scientists their opinion on this likelihood?”
“Of course.”
“How many did you ask?”
“About twenty.”
“And how many of them agreed, conclusively, that this will happen?”
“All of ’em.”
“Jesus Christ,” said the Vice President. “This is going to happen. Unless we can stop it?”
“Precisely. And we cannot stop it by negotiation, or by compliance, because we have two noncooperative parties—Israel and the President of the United States. Anyway, we don’t have much more time. Which leaves us with two essential tasks—to evacuate the big East Coast cities and attempt to destroy either the incoming missiles or the submarine, or both.”
“And you anticipate having to sideline the President?”
“No. We anticipate the removal of the President.”
Bedford looked up abruptly.
“When?”
“This afternoon. Right after lunch.”
“You realize I am in office as the Vice President, and I am sworn to support Charles McBride so long as he shall continue to faithfully execute the office of the President, and to the best of his ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution.”
Paul Bedford was quoting from the President’s sworn oath on the day of his inauguration.
“I guess allowing the Constitution of the United States to go under 50 feet of tidal wave might contravene that preserve-and-protect clause,” replied Admiral Morgan.
“Admiral, the whole scenario adds up to a total dereliction of duty. But you have to give President McBride one last opportunity to take this matter seriously. And you have to remember that I am in no position to play any role in the removal of the President from office.”
“We understand that, sir,” said the CJC. “However, we may have to put you on notice to stand by to become the President of the United States, sometime this afternoon.” General Scannell at times filled the office of Chairman of the Joint Chiefs with immense dignity, and this was surely one of those moments.
And he added, “No one in this room wants this to happen. We don’t want to be involved in some kind of a Third World junta, removing the President. But this is deadly serious, and only the United States armed forces can avert it, or, in the event of a successful Hamas attack, prepare the populace to deal with it. Remember, the President has already refused, flatly, to grant permission to lay out a Navy submarine trap in the Eastern Atlantic.”
“And are you working on that? Moving ships into the area?” Bedford looked from one to the other.
“Of course we are, sir. But we cannot go on like this, operating in defiance of our own Commander in Chief.”
“No, you cannot. I understand that.” The Vice President was beginning to look more worried than Arnold Morgan, who was frowning right now like General Custer at Little Bighorn.
The former National Security Adviser concluded the outline of the massive task that the military faced. “Paul,” he said, “we have to evacuate not only millions of citizens, but also the treasures of this nation, our entire systems of government and business. Right here in Washington, we need to move great works of art, much of the contents of the Smithsonian, not to mention historical papers from the Library of Congress, the White House, and God knows where else.
“In New York, we have to move the art from the great museums. We have to get the entire Stock Exchange—hardware and software—out of range of the ocean. We have to evacuate hospitals, schools, universities, and, most important, people. And we need a strong military presence to prevent loo
ting.”
“I understand that,” replied the Vice President.
“This operation will involve the military commandeering railroad trains, the New York subway, buses, maybe trucks, and even private cars. This is a national emergency, and we have to be prepared. If this bastard gets those missiles under way, we have to accept the possibility of New York, Boston, and Washington being wrecked as comprehensively as Berlin in World War II.”
Paul Bedford was thoughtful, and the room fell silent for a few seconds. “Only the United States military could possibly take care of such a situation,” he said at last. “Have you thought of a chain of command?”
General Scannell looked up. “Sir, I am proposing to appoint Admiral Morgan to head up the entire operation. He first alerted us to the problem and, in the course of things, identified the threat as serious. In company with Admiral Morris and Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe, Arnold Morgan has made all the running.
“He is an experienced Naval officer, vastly experienced in politics, and capable of masterminding a plan that may allow us to nail the aggressor. I have no hesitation in appointing him Commander in Chief of Special Op High Tide. And Special Adviser to the President. Above all, every branch of the military, the Intelligence community, and politicians will listen to him.
“Any other course of action would be unacceptable.”
“And where do you suggest he works from?” already knowing the answer.
“Oh, the White House, most definitely, since he will have to call the shots.
“Bear in mind—this situation will probably last for only a couple of weeks, If we get our act together and catch the Barracuda. During that time, speed is of the essence. There can be no arguments, no debates, no reluctance. Everyone must move fast and without hesitation. Admiral Morgan will need instant obedience, and, to tell you the truth, I think he has a better chance of getting it if he’s sitting in the Oval Office, as a kind of acting President, before you were to move in, once the operation is complete.”
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