Scimitar SL-2 (2004)

by Patrick Robinson

  He soldiered on, outlining briefly the scientific predictions.

  “Well, President McBride remained skeptical. He was quite worried, but the military was seriously worried. And then came the final communiqué, which said (a) ‘we will now show you what we can do, at midnight on Tuesday, September 29,’ and (b) ‘we will hit the volcano around October 9.’ ”

  “DO YOU HAVE AMERICAN SCIENTIFIC OPINION ON THIS?”

  “Of course not,” replied the President, trampling all over his “no questions” ultimatum. “We never thought of that.”

  This time he reduced the Associated Press reporter to a figure of fun. And once more, he never missed a beat.

  “And so, ladies and gentlemen, we are left with two tasks—to track down and kill the submarine, which we believe launched cruise missiles at Montserrat and Mount St. Helens, and to begin to evacuate the East Coast. Just in case we are unable to achieve our Naval objectives.”

  “SONAR,” yelled a reporter, displaying a certain in-depth nautical knowledge. “CAN’T WE CATCH ’EM ON SONAR?”

  “Well, we’d prefer trained dolphins, but we may not have enough,” shot back President Bedford. “I have asked you not to interrupt me, particularly if you can only shed a glaring light on the obvious.” This was the sharp, sardonic turn of mind that would make the press more wary of this new President than they had initially expected to be.

  “In any event,” Paul Bedford continued, “this defensive operation is 100 percent military. And I have appointed the former National Security Adviser Admiral Arnold Morgan to head up both the search-and-kill submarine operation and the evacuation program. He has the total support of the most Senior Commanders in the U.S. Armed Forces, who are standing behind me.

  “That’s all I have to say right now, but I hope you will urge your readers and viewers to cooperate fully at this most difficult time. There is enough time for everyone to leave, but we have to remain calm and organized. Naturally, you will be informed of the day-to-day operations in the cities, and everyone is advised to move west to higher ground, to camp out with relatives and friends. If this tidal wave, or tsunami, hits, there will be no survivors. Everyone must leave the East Coast, under the guidance of the military…Thank you.”

  President Bedford turned and walked out of the room, accompanied by Generals Clark and Boyce. Admiral Dickson remained with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, who now stepped up to the dais.

  “For anyone who does not know, I’m Gen. Tim Scannell, and I’m here to support the President. Right now I will be happy to answer five or six questions regarding the military, so make them pertinent, since we are very busy, as you may well imagine.”

  “Sir, will there be wholesale changes in key White House positions, Secretary of State, et cetera…?”

  “That’s not military, but I do understand President Bedford will appoint a new Secretary of Defense tomorrow.”

  “Can you describe the scale of the search in the Atlantic for the submarine?”

  “Not really. But we have decided that a wide search area of maybe a thousand miles out from the Canaries would be unlikely to succeed. Admiral Dickson, right here, believes a well-handled nuclear submarine might evade even a hundred U.S. pursuers on an indefinite basis.”

  “How do you know it’s nuclear?”

  “That’s our appreciation of the situation.”

  “If so, how did the terrorists get it?”

  “I cannot answer that. But I will say, if it’s not nuclear we would have caught it by now, and will almost certainly catch it in the next ten days.”

  “Can’t the sonars pick it up? We’re always hearing how technically advanced the U.S. Navy thinks it is.”

  “A modern nuclear submarine is just about silent under 8 knots. And if he’s running deep, over 500 feet below the surface, he’s dead silent…Anyone wants to ask more about the submarine, Admiral Dickson will answer.”

  “Sir, how will this tsunami develop if the volcano erupts?”

  “We’re looking at a rock face maybe six cubic miles in volume, crashing hundreds of feet down into the ocean. It will hit the floor, maybe 2,000 feet below the surface, and roll westerwards, building to speeds of over 400 mph, like the ripples on a pond if you drop a big rock into it.”

  “How long to hit New York?”

  “According to the scientists—all of the scientists, that is—around nine hours from impact.”

  “Can the terrorists be stopped?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Can you outline your plan to find and destroy the submarine?”

  “No.”

  “Does that mean you do not have a plan yet?”

  “No. It does not. But to tell you is to tell the submarine and its masters.”

  “Will you be providing us with details of the evacuation plans?”

  “Absolutely. We will be on air again shortly to inform the public of evacuation measures and procedures. Thank you for your time. No more questions.”

  General Scannell and Admiral Dickson left the dais and headed back to the Oval Office, leaving the Fourth Estate to tackle one of the biggest political and military stories of modern times.

  They were accompanied by four Marine guards, and on the way, fell into step with Henry Wolfson, press officer to Charles McBride, and one of many senior staffers who would retain their positions in the new Administration.

  He offered a handshake to the two officers and introduced himself. “Guess our paths have never crossed before,” he said. “But I have a feeling that that’s liable to change as from this moment.”

  “Correct, Henry,” replied General Scannell. “We’re counting on you to try and keep this situation under control. The object is to prevent an outbreak of public panic without concealing the seriousness of the situation. We’ll do a more detailed briefing on this later, but one thing’s for certain. Hamas did slam a broadside of big cruise missiles into both Mount St. Helens last May and Montserrat last night.

  “It would take something larger to blow the volcano in the Canaries apart. But a nuclear warhead on a medium-range cruise would probably do it. The bastards are firing from a submarine, submerged-launch, and that’s real hard to locate. You coming to see the President?”

  “Yes, sir. And Admiral Morgan. And that scares the hell out of me.”

  “Don’t worry. His bite’s worse than his bark. And he scares the hell out of all of us at times. But I’m glad he’s on board for this one.”

  “That seems to be the general opinion around here, sir,” said Henry Wolfson. “Makes everyone feel a little more confident.”

  “We’re supposed to be apolitical in the military,” said the CJC. “But things are usually easier for us when the GOP are at the helm.”

  They reached the Oval Office. Generals Boyce and Clark were just leaving, and General Scannell joined them for the return journey to the Pentagon. Meanwhile, Arnold Morgan had turned the most hallowed room in Western government into a Naval strategy room. He had charts of the Atlantic Ocean all over a central table that he had ordered to be brought up especially from the office of the National Security Adviser. It had a dark polished teak surface and had been in the same place since Admiral Morgan’s own years in that office

  Cyrus Romney, the Liberal Arts Professor from Berkeley, had been somewhat irritated by the sudden appearance of White House removal staff and had demanded to know where his table was going.

  “Oval Office, orders of Admiral Morgan,” was the reply.

  Cyrus Romney, who had heard the rumors around the offices, had decided wisely not to pursue the matter on the basis of being certain that he too, in the next couple of hours, would be making a similar, but equally sudden, exit from his office.

  In the next thirty minutes, the table became a far busier place than it had been for many months. It now displayed charts of the western Atlantic and the approaches into the Leeward Islands and of the central Atlantic above the Mid-Atlantic Ridge.

  There were maps of the wes
tern approaches to the Canary Islands, and three different charts of the Canaries themselves—one showing all five islands from Grand Canaria to Hierro, including Tenerife, Gomera, and La Palma; another showing the other two big islands of Lanzarote and Fuerteventura much farther to the east, the latter only 60 nautical miles off Morocco’s northwest headland.

  The entire seven-island archipelago stretched east to west for 250 miles, and Arnold Morgan had made but one mark on the entire nautical layout—a small circle located at 28.37N 17.50W, the main crater of the great Cumbre Vieja fault line.

  Right now he was standing with President Bedford, staring at the depths of water that surrounded the island of La Palma, almost 10,000 feet high, 50 miles to the east, 5,000 feet all around the 1,000-meter line, 200 feet close inshore, and almost 100 feet sloping steeply west right below the cliffs, almost on the goddamned beach.

  He glanced up as Admiral Dickson came in, the President having retreated to the far end of the room to speak with Henry Wolfson. It was clear already that the Oval Office was about to become Admiral Morgan’s ops room, and that an army of possibly five cleaners and tidiers would be required twice a day to keep even a semblance of order.

  The former President’s secretary, Miss Betty-Ann Jones, the very lady who had been ordered to fire Arnold as soon as the result of the Presidential Election was known, was in the process of clearing her desk and preparing to leave for her home in Alabama. She had given herself no more than two hours to remain at her power desk outside the Oval Office, since it was rumored that Mrs. Arnold Morgan was on her way into the White House, essentially to take charge of her husband’s life while he tried to fight off the Hamas threat.

  Betty-Ann need not have worried. Arnold Morgan treated everyone the same—Presidents, Admirals, Generals, Ambassadors, Emperors, and waiters. Usually with impatience, occasionally with irritation, but rarely with malice. He would not have remembered the manner of his removal from office—only that he was leaving his beloved nation in the hands of people whom he judged to be incompetent to handle the task. That almost broke his heart. Phone calls from secretaries did not figure in the equation. But he did want his capable wife close at hand in the hours of duress.

  “Where the hell’s Kathy?” he growled to Admiral Doran.

  “Who’s Kathy?” replied the Commander in Chief of the Navy’s Atlantic Fleet.

  Arnold looked up from his charts, surprised. “Oh, Kathy? Sorry Frank, I was talking to myself…pretty familiar phrase in my life—they’ll probably inscribe it on my grave…‘Where the hell’s Kathy?’ ”

  “Is that Mrs. Morgan?”

  “That’s her. The best secretary I ever had, the best-looking lady who ever even spoke to me, and the best of my three wives, by several miles.”

  Frank Doran chuckled. “You expecting her, sir?”

  “Damn right. I just gave her back her old job, and told her to get right down here to the West Wing, on the double.”

  “Is she coming?”

  “Well, she told me she’d give some thought to working again for the rudest man she ever met. But not to hold my breath.”

  Admiral Doran laughed out loud at that, and ventured that everyone had to refrain from the impulse to speak to wives and children as if they belonged on the lower deck.

  Arnold was about to reply when Kathy Morgan came marching into the office, looking, as ever, radiantly beautiful.

  Without looking up, he snapped, “ ’Bout time. COFFEE! And call the Iranian Ambassador and tell him he’s a devious lying son of a bitch.”

  Admiral Doran was stunned. Admiral Dickson, who had attended this charade before, just shook his head. And Arnold leapt up from his desk and hugged his wife right in front of everyone.

  Throughout all her years as Arnold’s secretary, she had always been astounded at the commands he gave her…Call the head of this, the head of that, ambassadors and diplomats, and say the most frightful things to them. To Arnold Morgan a request for speed of reply from a senior Russian Admiral translated to Tell Nikolai what’s-his-name to get his ass in gear…

  The sudden order to lay into the Iranian ambassador was a mere “Welcome Home” to Kathy, who had promised to return to work only if it was for a two-week tenure.

  Arnold introduced Frank Doran, and then instructed Kathy to tell that lady outside, Betty Something, that she was welcome to work as Kathy’s assistant in the smaller office for a couple of weeks. Failing that, to tell her to go now, and get a replacement.

  The former Kathy O’Brien knew the White House routines as well as anyone, but she balked at this. “Darling, I cannot just arrive here and start firing people,” she said.

  “Okay,” said Arnold, returning to his charts of the waters on the eastern Atlantic Ocean. “Get Frank to do it.”

  “I’m not firing President McBride’s secretary!” said Admiral Doran.

  “All right, all right,” said Arnold. “I’ll do it.” And with that, he walked out of the door and explained to Betty-Ann that his secretary of many years was now in residence, and that she would be taking over. Betty-Ann should now clear her desk, but she was more than welcome to stay as an assistant in the smaller office, so long as she was sharp and stayed on her toes.

  Admiral Morgan did not wait around for a chat. Having established his opening chain of command, he returned to the Oval Office and trusted that matters secretarial would somehow sort themselves out.

  He sat at the head of his new table and suggested Admirals Dickson and Doran be seated on either side so they could each look at the Atlantic charts. “We’d better have some coffee, and some cookies,” he told Kathy. “None of us had any lunch. And can you make sure I have a pair of dividers, a compass, rulers, calculators, notepads, and pencils?”

  “How about a sextant and a telescope, since you appear to be going back to sea?” Mrs. Arnold Morgan had lost none of her edge.

  Just then the President himself arrived and Arnold introduced him to his wife. “You were very good on television, sir,” she said. “Very neat the way you kept those reporters in line.”

  “From the wife of Admiral Morgan, I’m taking that as a major compliment,” he replied, smiling. “And you’re nothing like so stern as he is—and much better looking.”

  Arnold invited Paul Bedford to sit down and join them. “I’m starting right now with our opening plan to trap that submarine,” he said. “We’ll finalize our evacuation plans tomorrow. But I want to get some heavy warships into the area we believe he’s heading towards. We just might get lucky and trip over him, and I don’t want to deny us that chance.”

  “How many ships, Admiral?”

  “I think for the moment we want to send in a dozen frigates. We can use the Oliver Hazard Perry guided missile ships. Then I guess we want to move an aircraft carrier into the area and pack its flight deck with helicopters.

  “I think Admiral Dickson and I are agreed we’re more likely to catch this bastard from the air, rather than in deep water with submarines. As you know, submarine hunts are very difficult. They usually end up with subs under the same flag shooting at each other by mistake”

  “Do we have a CVBG anywhere near?”

  “We do. The Ronald Reagan, eastern end of the Mediterranean, maybe three days away. The frigates can all be in the area within six days—five of them are halfway there already, and the rest are ready to clear Norfolk tonight, five hours from now.”

  “Did our departed President know that?”

  “The hell he did. If we’d been listening to him, we would not have been ready.”

  “One thing, Arnold. The communiqués from the terrorists. None of them actually mentioned the Cumbre Vieja, did they? Are we certain we got the right volcano?”

  “Sir, you have to get into deep volcanology to find that out,” chuckled Arnold. “Hamas mentioned the eastern Atlantic, and when you’re talking tidal waves, that means the Canary Islands. Because of the height of the mountains and the depth of the ocean.

  “There is
nowhere else in the Atlantic where such a tsunami could develop. And when you express that scenario to any volcanologist, they say, before you finish your sentence…‘Cumbre Vieja. Canary Islands. It’s happened there before, and it will one day happen there again.’

  “It’s not even the height of the mountains and the deep ocean that make it unique. It’s the enormous volume of underground water, the lakes beneath the volcanic range. That’s what will explode the cliffs into the sea…if those bastards hit the Cumbre with a nuclear-tipped missile.

  “And, Mr. President, we have clear photographs of the Hamas C in C standing on top of the Cumbre Vieja this year with known Iranian volcanologists, studying the terrain. They also kidnapped, interrogated, and then murdered the world’s top volcano expert in London last May.”