Hunter Killer

by Patrick Robinson

  “Sorry, Arnold. I didn’t quite catch that. Which port are you looking at?”

  “Oh, yeah, Le Havre…right here on the coast of Normandy…in a sense, this is the big one for us…this is where Gonfreville l’Orcher is located, the biggest oil refinery in France.

  “See it…right here, Alan…on this peninsula between these two canals. Sonofabitch must be two miles wide…look at this…gasoline all along the north shore, this huge petrochemical complex on the south side. Starve that of crude for a few weeks, you got one dry-hole country.” Arnold Morgan had never quite thrown off his south Texas roots.

  Admiral Dickson shifted his weight from his right foot to his left. He was grateful when Kathy Morgan drifted through the door carrying the coffee tray—one silver pot, two mugs, sugar, cream, and a blue tube of buckshot.

  “Hello, Alan,” she said. “Nice to see you. Black, as usual?”

  “Thanks, Kathy.”

  She poured two mugs of incineratingly hot coffee, the way Morgan liked it, fired two bullets into Morgan’s mug—the one on the left, which sported an inscription in black letters that read SILENCE! GENIUS AT WORK—and retreated to the outer office.

  “Sir,” said Admiral Dickson, seizing the bull by the horns, or at least the genius by the tail, “it is my considered opinion that a blockade on the big French ports would be too difficult, too dangerous, and too expensive.”

  Right now Morgan was somewhere along the buoyed channel, ten miles west of Le Havre, trying to maintain periscope depth. “Uh-huh,” he responded, half listening, half blowing all kingstons. Then the shock of the CNO’s words seemed to hit home. And for a moment he was speechless. He looked up. “Did you just say what I thought you just said?” he grated.

  “Yessir.”

  “Well, what the hell are you talking about? I thought we all agreed our plan of action—for the President to come out and accuse France of treachery and then to blockade her, while we’re still safe in the protection of solid world opinion. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yessir. But I thought about it some more. A lot more. And in my view it’s a very shaky plan.”

  “Alan, you and I have known each other for a lot of years. Don’t tell me you’re losing your nerve?”

  “Nossir. I’m not at all. But when you finish looking at these charts, like I’ve been doing for most of the night, you’re going to see problems turning up every which way. You’ve already located one of them. The vast expanse of shallow water that surrounds the port of Le Havre. I presume you would like to maintain an element of secrecy, rather than charging into the attack on the surface like Captain Hornblower?”

  “Alan, I want you to stand there and methodically, logically, destroy my plan. That way, if I agree with you, we can get going and start again. I don’t want to hear it in a disjointed way. You said, I think, ‘too difficult, too dangerous, and too expensive.’ Lay it on me in that order. And for Christ’s sake stop calling me sir.”

  Admiral Dickson could take an order as sharply as he could issue one. “Arnie,” he said, “each of the seaports involves a wide, sprawling target. It’s impossible, as you well know, to blockade with just one ship, even if it is a submarine. I admit you could do it, if you went right ahead and sank something immediately, thus frightening the bejesus out of everyone. But I think we should avoid that kind of first-strike violence in French waters.

  “So we’d probably want two submarines at each place—Le Havre, Cherbourg, Bordeaux, Brest, and Marseille. That’s ten Los Angeles–class SSNs from the Atlantic Fleet, most of them stationed well offshore because of the depth. We would need backup on the surface, mainly so the French could see we meant business. That would probably mean five frigates and five destroyers from our bases on the east coast. Plus two or three fleet oilers if we want them to work for several weeks. And even then the operation would only work off Cherbourg and Le Havre. There’s a substantial French Navy presence in the port of Brest, and there are always French warships off the coast of Marseille. Bordeaux is probably worse, because the biggest French Navy firing ranges are positioned all along that stretch of Atlantic coast, and there are French warships all over the place almost all of the time. We’d certainly need at the very minimum, say, six surface ships off those three places, if we want an intimidating presence.

  “Arnie, in case you hadn’t noticed…that’s more than twenty-five U.S. warships…”

  “It’s twenty-nine. And I had, asshole.”

  Alan Dickson laughed. But he pressed on. “My next point is the danger element,” he said lightly. “And, again, in case you hadn’t noticed, the French have a very formidable, very modern, well-trained Navy.”

  “I had, supreme asshole.”

  “Well, Arnie,” continued the CNO, “consulting my little black book here, I would like you to consider the following facts: The French Navy runs two carriers, one for fixed-wing aircraft, one for helicopters.”

  “Right now they’re both in Brest,” replied Admiral Morgan.

  “The Charles de Gaulle, with twenty Super Etendards boarded, and the Jeanne d’Arc, with a lot of helicopters.”

  “Excellent,” said Admiral Dickson. “Which brings me to the submarine force. The French run twelve of them, all very efficiently. There are six Rubis-class attack submarines currently operational, plus two strategic missile ships, and four Triomphant-class SSBNs.

  “They also have thirteen operational destroyers, all of them armed with heavy arsenals of guided missiles. The latest Exocets. They run twenty guided-missile frigates stuffed with Exocets, some of them carrying the new extended-range missile, the MM40 Block 3, which is probably the world’s foremost anti-ship missile.”

  “Is that the one with the new air-breathing turbojets instead of the old rocket motors?” asked Morgan.

  “That’s right,” said Admiral Dickson. “Damn thing flies a hundred nautical miles”

  “And at high speed, I read,” replied Morgan. “Just subsonic, but fast. Can we take it out?”

  “Maybe. But it’s capable of complex flight profiles. And good enough for land attack.”

  “Damn thing. I guess we don’t want to fool with it, unless we have to.”

  “No, Arnie. We don’t want to do that. And in my view it’s not necessary.”

  Admiral Morgan nodded, unsmiling. “Are we ready to talk expense?”

  “No. Not quite. I just wanted to throw in a couple of points about the French military philosophy. As you know, they have always retained total independence. They build their own ships, missiles, and fighter aircraft. They always have. For them it’s always France. Nothing else. And they’re pretty damned good at it.

  “It is my opinion that if we sank a French warship right off their own coast, they would fight back, probably with that damned missile. And it would not be the greatest shock in the world if they hit and destroyed a couple of our own frigates. And what do you want to do then? Bomb the Arc de Triomphe?”

  “No,” said Morgan. “No, I really don’t.”

  “Well, then I guess we have to think again. Because to my mind it’s just too reckless for us to blockade France and start sinking ships. They’re just a little too strong for that.”

  “And ain’t that a goddamn lesson for the left-wing assholes in our own precious Congress,” growled Morgan. “In serious international discussion, even we, a hundred times stronger than almost all the other nations put together, do not much want to mix it with the French. And why? Because we know they have the capacity to hit back a little too hard. And what’s more, they are proud enough to do it. And we do not want to get involved with such an operation. That’s the precise philosophy that’s kept this nation safe from foreign invasion for so long. No one wants to tangle with our military. We’re just too tough.”

  “I agree with you,” said Admiral Dickson. “Which still leaves us with the problem of how to deal with the French. And it’s not easy. Because once President Bedford has made his speech, and hopefully lined up the rest of the wo
rld on our side, someone needs to do something.”

  “You got any suggestions?” asked Morgan. “I know you would not have come in here on a purely destructive mission.”

  “Arnie, I think we gotta hit the French oil industry at source.”

  “You do?”

  “Sure, I do. As we know, they have replaced most of their Saudi crude oil and LPG contracts with ones from other Gulf States. And that’s their Achilles’ heel. That stretch of coastline is where the really big reserves are found—Abu Dhabi has an oil economy like Saudi Arabia; Kuwait has the second largest crude reserves on earth; and Qatar’s north gas field is the biggest LPG source in the world.

  “And that’s where the French have gone. And that means French-owned VLCCs moving very swiftly through the Strait of Hormuz. In my opinion, Arnie, we should take out one French VLCC right there in the southern part of the strait. Smack it hard with a torpedo. No one will know what the hell’s happened.”

  “Then what?” asked Morgan.

  “We park a submarine at the south end of the Red Sea and wait for one of those big gas carriers to come steaming in from Qatar, en route back to Marseille, and we whack that one as well. Then the French will know they’re in trouble. But they will not be certain who their enemy is.”

  “Then what?” asked Morgan.

  “Well, I’d guess the French will get very haughty about the entire thing, but will say nothing. Not with the whole world ranged against them. But the next French VLCC to come trundling out through the Strait of Hormuz will be escorted by one of those brand-new Horizon-class destroyers that, as we speak, is with a French flotilla exercising out in the northern Arabian Sea…”

  “Interesting,” said Arnie. “Outstanding research. I like it already. Then what?”

  “We slam the escort with a torpedo. You know, a new heat-seeking ADCAP. It’ll go straight for the props. Probably blow off the stern. Put her on the bottom.”

  “Beautiful,” replied Morgan. “Then what?”

  “In deference to world opinion on ocean pollution, we sink the tanker with a battery of Harpoon missiles. That way we’ll set her on fire, and the oil will burn instead of making a huge slick all over the goddamn strait.”

  “Yeah. I like it,” said Morgan. “The assassin with a heart, right?”

  “Yes. That’s us. And that’ll do it. The French will have been hit by an unseen enemy. The world will laugh. And there’ll be a dozen suspects as to who committed the crime. But the French will not try again to bring oil out of the Gulf, because they will know what’s likely to happen. And they will not want to lose another of their magnificent Horizons. So they’ll just have to forget imported oil from the Gulf for a bit. Much like the rest of us.

  “And, in the meantime, Arnie, we have to get a hold of Colonel Gamoudi and his family, and get ’em out of harm’s way. Then we can hang the French out to dry in front of the United Nations.”

  Admiral Morgan stood up. “You win, old buddy,” he said. “You’re correct on all fronts. My damn plan was exactly what you say—too difficult, too dangerous, and too expensive.”

  “Don’t beat up on yourself, Arnie.” Alan Dickson grinned.

  “Every plan has to start somewhere. And you made everyone think…get world opinion straight, then slam the Frogs. It’s just that much better to do it fast, do it hard, and do it in secret. That way we answer to no one.”

  Admiral Morgan grinned what he described on others as a “shit-eating grin,” and said silkily, “We have no idea who hit the French tankers, or their destroyer, but there sure are a lot of suspects…heh, heh, heh.”

  “If it’s okay with you,” said the CNO, “I’d like to get back to the Pentagon. We got two CVBGs in the area, one off Kuwait, another in the northern Arabia Sea. I’ll have the two SSNs come down the Gulf and take up station way down the Strait of Hormuz. The second group can make its way south to Diego Garcia, and the SSNs can peel off into the Gulf of Aden.”

  “You okay leaving the carrier without SSN escort?”

  “Just for a few days. We’ll send two more back in there from DG. That group’s on station for another three months.”

  “Okay. Sounds pretty damn good to me, Alan. So you may as well get outta here, and on the way out tell Kathy to have Lt. Commander Ramshawe come over right away.”

  The CNO nodded and turned toward the door. As he opened it, Admiral Morgan looked up and said suddenly, “Hey, Alan.” Admiral Dickson turned around. And Arnold Morgan just said, “Thanks for that. I’m grateful.”

  And all the way along the corridor to the West Wing entrance, the Admiral pondered the man in the new office. In some ways he’s the easiest man in the world to get along with—never misjudges real logic—never minds backing down. I suppose he’s just not threatened. Doesn’t mind being wrong. He’s too damn big to care.

  Twenty minutes later, Arnold Morgan roared through the solid-wood door, “KATHY! WHERE THE HELL’S RAMSHAWE?”

  Kathy Morgan entered the office. “I should think he’s just leaving the Beltway,” she said. “But since I am not currently employed as a State Trooper, I have no way of knowing the precise location of his Jaguar. But he is on his way. I spoke to him within two minutes of your last instruction.”

  “Too slow,” said Morgan. “Empires have fallen on delays like that.”

  “So have marriages,” she replied, stalking out of the room and leaving her husband guffawing into his chart of the Strait of Hormuz.

  Ten minutes later, a slightly disheveled Lt. Commander Ramshawe hurried into the office. “Morning, sir,” he said, dumping a pile of papers onto the large table at the end of the room.

  “Where the hell have you been?” replied Morgan.

  “Mostly making around eighty miles per hour around the Beltway,” said the Lt. Commander.

  “Not fast enough.”

  “The speed limit is sixty, sir,” said Ramshawe.

  “Not for us, kiddo. We have no limits—either speed, finance, bravery, or daring.”

  “What if a traffic cop stopped me?”

  “Firing squad,” said Morgan. “Soon as we locate his next of kin.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Right. Now come over here and gimme the items in order of importance that we want the President to stress tonight—the stuff that makes France look bad.”

  “Okay, sir. Mind if I start in sequential order first? Then you can decide importance.”

  “Eighty miles an hour is a high speed to attend a debate. Facts, James. Facts. Lay ’em right on me.”

  “Right, sir. August twenty-seventh. The Mossad tries to take out Major Kerman in Marseille. Question: what’s the world’s most-wanted Arab terrorist doing in France under government protection?

  “Mid-November. We notice France apparently getting out of her Saudi oil contracts, driving up the price of oil futures, as if they knew what was going to happen.

  “March. The submarines, coming through Suez and disappearing. The only submarines that could have hit the Saudi oil installations.

  “March twenty-second. The Brits pick up the signal from northern Riyadh transmitted in French, requesting permission ‘to go to the party early.’

  “Late March. We receive photographs of the ex–French Special Forces Commander Colonel Gamoudi leading the attack on the royal palace in Riyadh, in which the King is murdered. We trace Gamoudi to his home in the Pyrenees. He’s a French national, living permanently in France, with a French wife and French children.

  “Same time. The French attempt to assassinate him in Riyadh, when he’s with the same Major Kerman, who we now believe led the attack on the Saudi military base in Khamis Mushayt.

  “Last week. The new King awards all rebuilding contracts to France.

  “Same time. The submarines arrive back in the French base at La Réunion. All mileages, times, and distances tally with the fact that they opened fire on the Saudi coastline. No other suspects.”

  Arnold Morgan looked up from his notes. “Perfect,
Jimmy. I actually think it’s better for the President to go in sequential order. Makes it easier to follow, and adds a certain amount of tension to the unfolding mystery.”

  “I’m with you on that,” said Ramshawe.

  “Okay. Now you sit there, and I’ll write the speech in longhand. I’ll want you there at all times as I come upon difficult bits, all right?”

  “Okay, sir. I’ll get the documents in order so I’m ready to front up, on demand. No bullshit, right?”

  “No bullshit,” Morgan responded. “But go out and tell Kathy to inform the President he will broadcast live at seven P.M.”

  “Right away, sir. How about the speechwriters, sir? Do we need anything from them?”

  “Frustrated poets,” said Morgan, gruffly. “Tell ’em to send in a computer typist in two hours.”

  MONDAY, APRIL 5, 7:00 P.M.

  BRIEFING ROOM, THE WHITE HOUSE

  They were prowling now, the pack of newshounds Marlin Fitzwater always referred to as “The Lions.” The White House press corps was gathered at a time that was irritating for the missed-the-edition afternoon newspaper crowd, but frenzy-making for the network television teams, and pressurized for the daily newspapermen with deadlines to meet, questions to ask, and stories to write.

  The Briefing Room was seething. It was three minutes after seven o’clock. And the sixty-odd Lions believed it was long past their feeding time. You could hear their growling out in the West Wing corridors.

  To a man, the newspaper Lions believed in their own importance as purveyors of the news that their organizations sold for a few cents a shot. The television reporters settled for the unquestioning general belief in Televisionland that they were indeed the gods of the airwaves.

  And right now they all wanted to know why the hell the President was late. Didn’t he understand that their time was precious? When he kept them waiting, he kept the whole goddamned nation waiting, right?