Scimitar SL-2 (2004)

by Patrick Robinson

  He drafted the letter of request himself, E-mailed it to Jim, and told him to download, print, and distribute it, together with the pictures, as soon as they were ready tomorrow morning. Then he turned his attention to something he thought might really matter.

  Fresh from the National Surveillance Office there was a satellite shot of a Russian-built Barracuda nuclear submarine making its way north through the Yellow Sea, presumably to the Chinese naval base at Huludao, because there’s not much else at the dead end of the Yellow Sea to interest anyone.

  He also had a three-day-old picture of the Barracuda clearing the breakwater outside the base at Zhanjiang, headquarters of China’s Southern Fleet.

  The satellite had taken two shots of the submarine, the second one about 25 miles out of the base, just before she dived. The next snapshots of that stretch of ocean showed absolutely nothing, and Jimmy had wondered where the hell the ship was going.

  There was only one operational Barracuda in all the world, and the new photograph of the submarine cruising north on the surface meant this one in the Yellow Sea was the same that had cleared Zhanjiang four days ago.

  He still did not know who owned it. The Russians had been evasive, claiming they had sold it to the Chinese, and the Chinese flatly refused to reveal anything about their submarine fleet to a Western power, even to the U.S.A. whose money they so coveted.

  Thus, there were unlikely to be any definitive answers. Jimmy Ramshawe would write a brief report and keep a sharp eye on the photographs from northeast Asia, ready for the moment the Barracuda sailed south again heading for God knows where.

  Again he pondered the mystery of the Barracuda. Why the hell’s the damn thing going to Huludao anyway…That’s their nuclear missile base, where they built their two oversized, primarily useless Xia-Class ICBM boats. Beats the shit out of me. The ole ’Cuda’s too small for an ICBM. Maybe the Russians are really selling her this time.

  But then, they could just as easily have sold her in Zhanjiang. Why take her north for 2,500 miles? What’s in Huludao that the Barracuda might need…Maybe specialist engineering for her nuclear reactor…Maybe, and more likely, missiles. The Chinese make cruises up there…I don’t know…but I’d better watch out for her if she leaves port…

  He scanned the photographs again, pulling up a close-up of Huludao and its docks and jetties. It was a busy place, full of merchant ships in a seaport geared to handle well over a million tons of cargo per year. The place was groaning with tankers and merchant freighters.

  He tracked the activity at the Huludao base for the next two days, and was pleased with the NSO’s very clear photograph of the Barracuda arriving, and heading straight into a covered dock.

  The next set of prints showed the unusual sight of a civilian freighter, with a longish flat cargo deck parked bang on the submarine jetties. Must be bringing in spare parts, he thought, not knowing that the Yongdo’s lethal illegal cargo had been unloaded in another covered dock, two hours before the satellite passed.

  He fired in a request, purely routine, for the CIA to identify that ship, but did not have much luck. Langley said it was a pretty old vessel, probably Japanese Navy in origin, but converted like so many old warships in the Far East for civilian freight. They were uncertain of the owners, but guessed it was either still Japanese, if not, North Korean.

  Probably bringing in a couple of fucking atom bombs for onward shipment to the Arabs, he thought, sardonically. Nothing serious. Only the end of the bloody world.

  Another week went by without event. The Barracuda had not been seen since, and no one had been able to identify the Japanese-built freighter in the submarine yards at Huludao. And then something fascinating happened. The United States ambassador in Dubai, who had previously served in the embassy in Tehran, sent a note to say that he recognized two of the four men in Admiral Morgan’s photograph.

  His Excellency Mark Vollmer, a career diplomat from Marble-head, Massachusetts, was absolutely certain. According to his note: During my tenure in Iran I was personally asked to process the visa applications from two extremely eminent professors from the Department of Earth Physics at the University of Tehran. One of them was Fatahi Mohammed Reza, the other was Hatami Jamshid, both natives of Tehran.

  Ambassador Vollmer recalled that they had each accepted a one-year degree course at the University of California in Santa Cruz. Both men were specialists in volcanology and in the ensuing landslides that could devastate areas in the immediate vicinity after an eruption. He had thoughtfully marked on the photographs which prof was which. Jimmy Ramshawe guessed from the men’s body language that Professor Hatami was the senior man, and the serious, frowning look of Professor Fatahi suggested he too was an expert in his field.

  Ambassador Vollmer’s phone call to the University of Tehran confirmed that they were both back in Iran, members of the faculty, and lecturing at the Department of Earth Physics. Both were resident in Tehran, and traveled widely, observing and researching the behavior of the subterranean forces that occasionally change the shape of the planet.

  “Wow,” said Jimmy. “That Vollmer ought to be working here, not scratching around in the bloody desert with a bunch of nomads.”

  He was both relieved and amazed that the matter had been so easily cleared up, and with some slight feeling of pride, he drafted a note to the Big Man.

  His E-mail ended with a flourish…A couple of volcano professors doing their thing…here endeth the mystery of the Arabs on the mountain.

  Kathy picked up the E-mail, as she always did. Her new husband was always threatening to hurl the expensive laptop computer into the Potomac—It was so goddamned slow.

  Arnold read the note with great interest and thanked Jimmy, asking him to keep a careful watch for any information on the other two anonymous figures in Harry’s cliff-top snaps.

  “Typical Admiral Arnie,” Jimmy reported to George Morris later in the day. “He gets a ten-million-to-one triumph, and still wants to know more. You’da thought the two professors would be plenty. Cleared it all up. Just four volcano academics having a careful look at their subject.”

  “You know him nearly as well as I do,” said George. “It’s not his fault. It’s his brain. The damn thing is unable to relax while there are questions to be answered. And he wants to know who those other two guys are…Can’t help himself.”

  “He’ll be lucky,” replied Jimmy.

  Prophetic words indeed.

  Four days later an encrypted signal from the CIA landed on Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe’s desk. It was the cyber note heard round the world…MI5 London passed on your request of June 5 to British Army Special Forces. Colonel Russell Makin, Commanding Officer 22 SAS, says the figure on the far right, not facing the camera, is the missing SAS Maj. Ray Kerman. Four other SAS personnel confirm. Mr. and Mrs. Richard Kerman driving to Stirling Lines tomorrow. Please forward date, time, and place of photographs soonest.

  Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe nearly jumped out of his skin.

  He strode along the corridor, knocked and barged into the office of Rear Adm. George Morris. The room was empty, so he stormed out again and found the Admiral’s secretary.

  “He’s around somewhere, sir. You want me to have him call you?”

  “Tell him to come to my office. I have something which will shrink his balls to the size of a jackrabbit’s…” James Ramshawe could hardly contain his excitement, never mind his language.

  Ten minutes later, George Morris picked his way through the piles of paper on the floor, sat down, and read the note.

  He nodded sagely. “Well, Jimmy,” he said, “we just proved what we already knew. One—Major Kerman was definitely alive five months ago, and two—we all ignore the instincts of Arnold Morgan at our peril. I am sure you have considered the fact that it was he who first felt uneasy about those guys, he who had them photographed, and he who suggested we find out who they were.”

  “I have, sir. That’s really all I’ve been doing for the past fif
teen minutes.”

  “You haven’t told him yet?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, don’t. I’m gonna give him a call, and suggest you and I take a run over there this evening. With a bit of luck, Kathy’ll ask us to dinner.”

  “I agree with all that, sir. I think a chat with the Admiral right now would be a very good exercise. He might come up with something else.”

  “Meanwhile, find out anything more you can about those two professors. If they’re working with Major Kerman, there’s got to be a plot. And if he’s in it, that plot’s likely to be big. And you know Arnie’s likely to fire a lot of questions.”

  “Okay, sir. I’ll get right on it.”

  And for the next four hours, he scanned the Internet ceaselessly, starting with the University of California. He discovered a substantial department of geophysics and, to his surprise, a special area devoted entirely to the phenomenon he’d been discussing with his future father-in-law a few weeks back. Tsunamis. There were several world-renowned computer models of great volcano-induced tsunamis of the past, and a number of highly detailed research studies of those that could happen in the future.

  Several of them pinpointed the hot spots in the South Pacific, especially around the Hawaiian Islands. Interestingly enough, an entire section dealt with what could potentially be one of the biggest landslides in the entire history of the world: the southwest corner of the island of La Palma in the Canaries.

  One of the most renowned professors in the United States had published a thesis in which he stated flatly that because of the initial size and shape of the unstable flank of the Cumbre Vieja, the waves would most likely retain a significant proportion of their energy as they propagated outwards from the Canaries, heading for the U.S.A., Europe, and northern Brazil. The initial wave heights would be approximately one kilometer and as the tsunami traveled westwards at high speed—as fast as a passenger jet aircraft—it would slow down and pile up, increasing its height as it entered shallower water. Those waves could be 50 meters high—approximately 160 feet, considering the evidence of massive undersea boulders and other deposits off the coast of the Bahamas, from the last tsunami that developed in the Canary Islands several thousand years ago.

  The irrevocable conclusion of this computer model, perfected over years of study, was the same that Arnold Morgan had outlined for Kathy: some six to nine hours after the initial landslide from La Palma, the collapse of the Cumbre Vieja would cause devastation on the Eastern Seaboard of the United States.

  The Web site provided brilliant modern graphics, particularly in reference to wave heights, red bands, blue bands, and yellow dots. Jimmy Ramshawe’s eyes were on stalks.

  “One hundred and sixty feet,” he breathed. “Christ, there wouldn’t be a coastal city left standing, from Boston to Miami. No wonder the bloody Arabs were checking it out. But I dunno what Major Kerman was doing there…unless he’s planning to wipe out half the U.S.A. in one fell swoop—”

  But then he gathered himself up. No, he couldn’t be doing that…he might be all right having a whack at a power station or a refinery that basically blew themselves up…but this stuff is different. This is the giant power from the core of the bloody earth. This is God, and Christ knows what. This is a greater power than the human race has ever seen. Right here we’re talking the fist of the Almighty, not a bunch of half-assed terrorists…I think.

  Other than his find on the University of California Web site, there was little hard copy on the two Iranian professors, and nothing about Major Kerman, who hadn’t been seen in the West since his defection five years previously. There were a few reluctant statements from the Ministry of Defence in London, but nothing casting any light on his whereabouts and certainly not his future plans.

  Mrs. Kathy Morgan came through in precisely the way Admiral Morris had hoped, and invited them both for dinner at their house in Chevy Chase. And both men looked forward to it, since neither of them had seen the Big Man for several months.

  They arrived at eight o’clock sharp in the Morgans’ somewhat grand Maryland residence, which had been a part of Kathy’s divorce settlement. The Admiral came to the front door and greeted them with great warmth, hustling them inside and announcing he was personally cooking dinner outside on the barbecue.

  He’d fix drinks and then they could lay the bombshell on him that Admiral Morris had promised earlier in the afternoon. All three of them went for a long Scotch and soda on the rocks, and stepped out into the warm early summer night for the first highlight of the evening.

  “Okay, Arnie,” said Admiral Morris. “Prepare for a shock. The guy on the right-hand side of your photograph, the one Harry never snapped face-on, is Maj. Ray Kerman, late of the British Army’s SAS. How about that?”

  “Are you kidding me?” said Arnold. “That little bastard, standing not 30 feet from me on top of the goddamned cliff. Hell, if I’d known that, I’d have killed him with my bare hands!”

  “If he’d known who you were, he’d probably have killed you first,” said Jimmy, laughing, with no idea how close to home his words were. Then he explained to Morgan how they’d confirmed the identification of the most wanted terrorist in the world.

  “Now that, George, is really something,” said Admiral Morgan. “But, more important, what the hell’s he doing on the top of the volcano with the Arabs?”

  “Well, I guess that’s the question,” said George. “And it’s very tricky, because there’s no evidence anywhere that these men are actually Islamic Fundamentalists…they’re academics whose life study is volcanoes.”

  “If you ask me,” said Jimmy, “the question is, why La Palma? Of all the volcanoes in the world, why is the most vicious terrorist leader in the world having a fucking powwow with a couple of scientists on the slopes of the most potentially dangerous volcano on earth.”

  Arnold Morgan grinned wryly. “How do you know it is?” he said.

  “Oh, I just became a world volcano expert around five o’clock this afternoon…checked out the old Cumbre Vieja on the Net…on the University of California Web site. That’s the school out in Santa Cruz, where those Iranian professors went for post-grad courses.”

  “Goddamned Internet,” said Arnie. “I had to travel halfway around the world at vast expense to get my knowledge of the La Palma range. You get the same thing in about five minutes at a cost of about five bucks—”

  “Five cents,” replied Jimmy. “Not including the print-out paper.”

  Just then Kathy came out of the house with a large serving plate containing four New York sirloin steaks—one-pounders, aged and primed.

  “Hello, George,” she said, handing the platter to her husband. “Jimmy—will these do?”

  “Oh, g’day, Mrs. Morgan,” replied the Lt. Commander. “I’d say they’ll do just great.”

  Kathy, as always, looked nothing short of striking. Her red hair was loose, cut shoulder length, her makeup consisted of lipstick and little else. She wore a ruby-red silk blouse with white matador pants. Around her neck hung a pendant—two golden dolphins, stylized as though from Greek mythology, but nonetheless an adapted emblem of the United States Navy’s submarine service.

  Arnold pronged the steaks with a long fork and placed them on the grill, eliciting four loud, encouraging sizzles—the national anthem of his home state of Texas.

  “Git along, little doggies,” muttered the old submarine trail boss, maneuvering the steaks into position—bow, stern, port, and starboard. He declined to close the lid, keeping the gas heat on the grill high. “Way to cook ’em, boy,” he said to Jimmy. “Just like my daddy taught me. Big heat, keen eye, and fast reactions. That’s what you need with barbecued steak.”

  “And life,” replied Jimmy, grinning. “Turn your back and you’ll probably get burned.”

  “Hopefully not by a goddamned volcano,” said Arnold. “I just wonder what those bastards are up to.”

  “Maybe nothing,” said George Morris. “Maybe this Kerman character j
ust has an interest in the subject. Maybe he just went on a field trip with the two professors. Maybe he’s on a world volcano tour.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Arnold, somewhat predictably. “Guys like that don’t have hobbies. They’re fanatics, consumed every waking hour of every day with their own agenda. I just don’t trust those bastards…especially this Kerman character…I mean, if he’s done half of what we think he’s done, he’s getting up there with Attila the Hun, and he’s a lot worse than Colonel Gadhafi.”

  “I was looking at the Cumbre Vieja problem this afternoon,” said Jimmy. “There’s no explosion in this world big enough to blow a four-cubic-kilometer hunk of mountain into the ocean.”

  “I know that, Jimmy,” said the Admiral. “But it’s not the eruption of the volcano that’s the catalyst. It’s the rush of molten lava to the surface, heating the underground lakes and causing a massive steam explosion.”