Scimitar SL-2 (2004)

by Patrick Robinson

  “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 looting.”

  “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.”

  This, more than anything, revealed to Paul Bedford the gravity of the situation—Military Command in the Oval Office. It couldn’t be done any other way. He saw that.

  “Will you require me to fulfill any duties during the transition period early this afternoon?” he asked simply. A general sigh of relief went through the room. The main hurdle had been passed.

  “Better not,” said General Scannell. “We intend to ask just once for the President’s cooperation, then remove him from office. At which point we shall have an announcement prepared, to the effect that the President has suffered a serious nervous breakdown and has retired, with his family, temporarily, to Camp David. Of course he will be under ‘house arrest,’ without contact to the outside world whatsoever.

  “Right then, we’ll have the Judge, appointed by the Supreme Court, to swear you into office in the White House.”

  “And the great offices of State? Who will you be getting rid of?”

  “Not really,” replied General Scannell. “Though that idiot Defense Secretary and the National Security Adviser will have to go immediately, before Arnold throttles them both. And you’ll probably want to appoint your own Chief of Staff. So that buffoon Hatchard will have to go.”

  Paul Bedford said, softly, words he never expected to utter: “Correct. Romney and Schlemmer must go immediately. I’ll explain to Hatchard that with his boss gone, this is the end of his West Wing tenure.”

  Scannell spoke for everyone in the room when he said, “Sir, everyone at this table is very grateful for your understanding. We cannot sit here and allow this clown in the Oval Office to stand and watch while our cities are destroyed. We cannot. And will not.”

  “I understand,” said the Virginian. “And I, in turn, am grateful for your foresight, and your confidence in me. Especially Admiral Morgan, of whom, I should confess, I have long been terrified.”

  “C’mon, Paul,” rasped Arnold. “You never even met me before today.”

  “I assure you, Admiral, your reputation precedes you. And I look forward to working with you…er…I think.”

  Everyone laughed, the kind of restrained laughter born of high tension and trepidation. But it would not be long now. And when the Vice President left the room to return to the White House, they all instinctively checked the time. Four minutes past ten, on Tuesday morning, September 29, 2009. It was at this moment that Adm. Arnold Morgan became the de facto leader of the United States of America.

  1934 (Local), Same Day, Same Time

  Bandar Abbas Navy HQ.

  General Rashood and the Commander in Chief of the Iranian Navy, Adm. Mohammed Badr, were trying to decide whether another communication to Washington was necessary. Did the Americans think that the Hamas high command would not carry out their threat because world opinion would most likely turn against them?

  In which case, someone needed to put the Pentagon right. Sometime on October 9, young Ben Badr would fire those two Scimitar SL-2s straight at the Cumbre Vieja, no ifs, ands, or buts.

  Ravi was working on a draft, and he was nearly through with it. The wording was as follows…

 
; To: The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, The Pentagon, Washington, D.C.:

  There is nothing you can do to stop us now. We regret that you have ignored our instructions. You will still be under water when our brothers in Palestine rise again.

  They agreed to transmit the letter sometime the following day, Wednesday, September 30.

  1005, Tuesday, September 29

  The Pentagon.

  A minute after Paul Bedford left the office, General Scannell excused himself from the meeting and returned next door to his office. He picked up his private line to the White House and asked to be connected to the President.

  “I’m sorry, General. The President is extremely tied up right now. Can I have him call you back?”

  “No, you may not,” replied the General. “Put him on the line now.”

  One minute later, the unmistakable voice of President McBride said quietly, “General, I am getting slightly tired of these unannounced interruptions during my working day. However, I understand the priority which your position in the Military grants you, and I am able to give you five minutes…”

  “Thank you, Mr. President. You will doubtless have noticed that Hamas have carried out their threat, and that at around midnight they did indeed blow up another volcano?”

  “Well, I have been told that there was an eruption of Montserrat, if that’s what you’re referring to, but so far as I can see, it erupts on a kind of monthly basis…”

  “Not like it did last night, sir. Trust me. That was one of the biggest volcano blasts we’ve seen for years. Almost as damaging as Mount St. Helens—”

  The president interrupted him impatiently. “Well, what do you want me to do about it? It was obviously in no relation to us. It took place 4,000 miles away from here, in a foreign country. I think I advised you when we last spoke on the subject that your theories were a complete waste of time, and there was absolutely no reason to place the Pentagon and the White House on a State of Alert—”

  Now it was Scannell who broke in. He could see where this conversation was headed and he wasn’t about to waste his breath much longer.

  “You did indeed, sir. But they did not threaten to attack us directly, only to show us what they could do, in the hope that we would change our minds and get out of the Middle East. I would say, for the second time in too short a time, they have shown us what they are capable of doing.”

  “Well, I remain unconvinced. I think that the Mount St. Helens eruption gave some crank the idea to write threatening letters to the U.S. military and by some off chance, they managed to coincide a threat with a very volatile volcano that erupts on a regular basis somewhere down in the Caribbean.

  “That is not reason to ask the President of the United States to activate an oceanwide search by the entire U.S. Navy at vast expense, to withdraw all of our forces from the Middle East at even greater expense, and then tell Israel they must evacuate their settlements in the Holy Land by next week.

  “Can’t you see, General, that these are the actions of a hysteric? They are issues so great, almost impossible, and without any reasonable grounds—no President could possibly tackle them without becoming a laughingstock.”

  “Sir, I must inform you for the final time that your military high command regards the threat from Hamas as serious. We think they can, and will, explode that volcano in the Canary Islands, which, not for the first time, will unleash a tidal wave. Only this one will flood our entire East Coast.

  “I have not spoken to one volcanologist who disagrees with the theory. All these guys need to do is to hit the crater of the Cumbre Vieja with a big missile, probably nuclear, and it will happen. The ensuing landslide is a certainty. And nothing could then stop the tsunami from developing.”

  “Please,” the President said scornfully. “Preserve me from Admirals, Generals, and scientists. Collectively you guys cause more unnecessary trouble than everyone else on this planet combined. You asked me a final question. I give you my final answer. I believe your theories are fairy tales. I have been proved right so far, and I have no doubt I will continue to be right.”

  He was finished with the discussion, his mind clearly already occupied with other, most important, matters of state.

  “As for the overwhelming actions you ask me to take, I must say again, No, General. I deny my permission to sweep the Atlantic for a nonexistent submarine at a cost of about a billion dollars an hour. I will not evacuate our armed forces from the Middle East. And neither will I call the Prime Minister of Israel and demand the creation of an instant independent Palestinian State. Do I make myself clear?”

  “I’m afraid you do, sir. I’m afraid you do.”

  General Scannell replaced his telephone and walked back into the conference room. “I have spoken to the President again. His position has not altered.”

  Admiral Morgan looked grave but unsurprised. “Then our plan for a transfer of power will have to be put into action. This day,” he said. “Gentlemen, I know we must prepare for an evacuation of these cities, but what we really need to do is to find and destroy that fucking submarine.”

  “Arnold,” said Admiral Dickson, “do you have a preliminary plan for the Atlantic deployment? I mean this is a huge step involving possibly a hundred ships.”

  “Alan, I have been giving this a great amount of thought. If this ship is carrying regular cruise missiles, top-of-the-line Russian-built, they have a range of 1,200 nautical miles. In my view, he stands well off, perhaps launching 500 miles, or maybe even 1,000 miles, from his target.

  “So let’s assume a missile range of 1,000 nautical miles. Initially I suppose we’d have to use SSNs or TAFFs on an area search/patrol.”

  Admiral Morgan, like all senior Naval officers, spoke to the entire room as if everyone habitually spoke in service jargon. It never occurred to him that not everyone knew an SSN was an attack submarine, or a TAFF was a towed-array frigate, or that the mysteries of the long, sensitive electronic listening device, trailing behind the ship, might not be clearly comprehended by every single person in Washington. Time was too short for explanations, though.

  “And remember,” he added, “the TA will pick up nothing, unless Barracuda makes a mistake or goes unaccountably noisy, which I doubt. But we have to start somewhere. Something has to be done, since this is the most serious threat to the United States. EVER.

  “Now, the Naval commanders at this table will know that the towed-arrays are highly variable. But working from just one at 10 knots, covering a circular area of 10 nautical miles radius…that’s 300 square miles per hour. We have a search area of 3 million square miles, which means that each towed-array unit needs 10,000 hours to sweep the area once. Fifty units would do it in eight days.

  He looked around the room.

  “We’ve got ten days, if we start tomorrow. And that massive sweep would not have covered the inshore areas, which are considerable, and extremely difficult. For that we need a fleet of helicopters with dipping sonars, covering all waters with depths of 15 fathoms, or deeper, to 50 fathoms.

  “I suppose one might hope that active sonars might drive the SSN into deeper water, where the TAs have a better chance. But if you are only searching one given spot every eight days…Jesus Christ…the chances of success are negligible.”

  He got up and turned to the navigational chart on the wall, indicating the vast body of water they were dealing with.

  “And any success depends on us getting there before the Barracuda. If we do, and if we are certain of this, we could perhaps form an outer ring through which the fucking ’Cuda must pass. Total ring length would be 6,000 nautical miles (3.142 X diameter). Fifty TA units would cover 2,000 nautical miles. So to be effective, you’d need to be pretty damn sure from which direction the SSN was making his approach…I mean, a sector of less than 120 degrees.

  “Gentlemen, not to put too fine a point on it, this is going to be difficult, with the chances of success in the 5 percent bracket at the most. Which, given the effort, is a depressi
ng thought, to say the least. It means a huge deployment of ASW assets—and even if we had weeks and weeks to continue the search, the likelihood of actually tripping over this little bastard is remote in the extreme. I’m afraid we need to think this out much more carefully.”

  He sat back down, the worried look on his face deepening.

  “Obviously we have to get our warships out of port regardless, unless we want them all crushed or capsized by the tidal wave. But we can’t just send them charging out into the Atlantic into the possible teeth of a tsunami.

  “I could stand the cost…you know, in fuel, food, and personnel…but not if I believe we have almost no chance of success. And the prospect of that massive Naval search actually gives me the creeps. Remember, we have not really picked up this damned Barracuda in months. Their CO is very good, and we know he’s in a very quiet boat. He could creep slowly underneath our frigates and never be detected. We’ve just got to think this out, gentlemen.”