Scimitar SL-2 (2004)

by Patrick Robinson

  The NYSE listed more than 2,800 companies (both foreign and multinationals) that had a global market capitalization of around $15 trillion between them. Its daily functioning was absolutely fundamental to the continued stability of the world markets. Almost all stock exchanges, major and regional, had been agonizing in recent years over disaster recovery facilities. Three thousand business personnel supported trading on the NYSE floor every day, using 8,000 telephone lines and 5,500 handheld electronic devices. A backup trading floor, with full equipment, cost $50 million.

  And it’s not as if everything neatly kept together. The NYSE has historically spread itself all over the place. They had started enlarging and remodeling as long ago as 1870, beginning with their original five-story building at 10 Broad Street

  . Over the years, more buildings opened, finishing with a fifth trading room located at 30 Broad Street

  in 2000, which featured the most up-to-date display technology on earth.

  All of this was no easy operation to pack up, and it was almost impossible to imagine duplicating everything somewhere else, under one roof. The exodus of the Stock Exchange was a permanent preoccupation for many high-ranking government officials, the irony being that the tsunami would most likely rub out the backup before it even hit the main Exchange. It looked like they would have to head for Chicago. Philadelphia was out of the question, since the City of Brotherly Love was sited on a peninsula, where the broad Schuylkill River ran into the even broader Delaware. The Philadelphia Navy Base had already evacuated both ships and personnel, since scientists from the University of Pennsylvania thought the rivers might rise up to 25 feet.

  The third and biggest issue, after the evacuation of the big businesses, was the removal of the city’s art treasures. As one of the world centers of art and culture, New York City contained seventy-five notable museums, plus scores and scores of art galleries. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Museum of Modern Art, the Guggenheim, the Whitney, and the Museum of Natural History, known locally as “the Big Five,” were world-class institutions. The dozens of others, if they were located in a smaller city, would be star attractions in their own right.

  The Metropolitan, for example—or the “Met,” as they say in the Big Apple—is tantamount to a universal culture zone, all on its own, with wing after wing, labyrinths of corridors and galleries, containing three million objects in all…paintings and sculpture, ceramics, glass, furniture, the armor of medieval knights, bronzes, and the rarest of musical instruments. Each item, historic, genuine, and coveted by curators the world over.

  For days now, a great convoy of military trucks had been evacuating the building designated by the U.S. a National Historical Landmark. Already, they had removed 36,000 treasures of Ancient Egypt, from dynastic and pre-dynastic times. Everything was on its way to a U.S. Air Force Base in Upstate New York, where it would be guarded, 24/7, by upwards of 300 military personnel.

  Statues, carvings, and sculptures from the land of the pharaohs were packed and shipped, each truck occupied by museum staff, plus a minimum of a dozen armed soldiers. An absolutely priceless life-sized, limestone sculpture of Queen Hatshepsut enthroned, who ruled during the fabled Eighteenth Dynasty (1570–1342 B.C.), was transported in an Air Force truck all on its own, save for the stern attendance of twelve unsmiling bodyguards from the National Guard. It must have been like old times for the Queen, as she roared over the Triboro Bridge, not even considering the possibility of the tolls. The entire Temple of Dendur, a gift from the people of Egypt, had been dismantled and trucked out. The massive stones dating from the Roman period, and depicting Caesar Augustus making offerings to the Egyptian and Nubian gods, had been presented to the U.S. for helping to save ancient monuments during the 1960s, after the construction of the dam at Aswan, which flooded the Nile and formed Lake Nasser.

  Roman and Greek statues and sculptures—some up to 5,000 years old, even a bronze chariot worth millions—had been packed and sent north to the enormous Fort Drum Military Base, far upstate in the Watertown area, where the St. Lawrence River runs into Lake Ontario.

  Paintings were in the process of being removed by a special detachment of United States Marines, an entire battalion of six hundred men, working around the clock. By special order of the Pentagon, one of the greatest collections the world has ever seen was being removed to West Point Military Academy, 50 miles up the Hudson. Thus, from the moment they were taken down from the walls, the paintings were under guard in the hands of some of the most trusted men in the United States.

  During the weekend, they had packed and trucked away almost the entire collection of Florentine and Venetian masters—works by Raphael, Tintoretto, Titian, Veronese, and Tiepolo, plus some of El Greco’s greatest work. The $100 million Juan de Pareja, painted by Diego Velázquez in the mid-seventeenth century, was already being guarded at the U.S. Army’s stronghold on the Hudson.

  And one of the most famous paintings in the world, Aristotle Contemplating a Bust of Homer, by Rembrandt, was due to leave at the end of the afternoon, in company with the artist’s several other works owned by the Met. The shimmering waters of Claude Monet, Van Gogh’s cypresses, the dancers of Degas, the works of Paul Gauguin, Auguste Renoir, Manet, Rodin, and every other renowned artist who has ever lived, were also on their way north.

  The Met’s collection of drawings alone, by Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, Rembrandt, Dürer, Rubens, and Goya, were worth sufficient money on the world market to operate the annual budgets of every African country south of the Blue Nile.

  Master Sergeants prowled the corridors of the museums, while Privates and Corporals sweated and heaved the huge wooden packing cases. Officers supervised the convoys. Inside the Met there were two U.S. Marine Brigadier Generals.

  Two hundred miles to the north, the city of Boston, though less than a quarter the size of Brooklyn, was in as great a danger as New York, its downtown district being surrounded by open water. The tsunami would roll in from the southeast, heading northwest, and although the island of Nantucket, the shoals of Nantucket Sound, and the narrow sandy land of Cape Cod just might offer some kind of shield, expert opinion nonetheless forecast that the wave that would come seething up Massachusetts Bay and smash into the downtown area would still be over 100 feet high.

  There were only 550,000 people resident in the city, 250,000 of them students at sixty different colleges and universities, all of which had been closed, similar to the 3,000 software and Internet corporations, which sprouted around the city during the high-tech revolution of the ’80s and ’90s.

  Of greatest concern were the famous education centers: the Harvard School of Business, situated three miles upstream, right on the west bank of the Charles River. The Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) sprawled across 150 acres downstream near Harvard Bridge, one mile on the Cambridge side of the wide Charles River Basin, right on the water.

  Boston University, the third largest university in the United States, had a vast waterfront campus west of downtown Boston, on the opposite bank of the river from MIT. Dr. Martin Luther King’s old alma mater had 30,000 students from fifty states and 135 other countries, most of whom had returned home or to friends for the week.

  The evacuation of the universities and the museums was identical in procedure to the other great East Coast cities, but little Boston was somehow more vulnerable than the others. It lacked the granite muscle of New York and Washington’s shelter from the ocean. There was a feeling of genuine terror all around the historic New England seaport.

  0600, Tuesday, October 6

  La Palma Airport, Canary Islands.

  The runway of La Palma Airport, newly extended, was now a mile long, almost as if the arrival of the four giant U.S. Air Force C-17 Globemaster III freighters that were now making their approach from the west—six miles apart, line astern—had been anticipated. The cargo leviathans, with their 170-foot wingspans, stood 55 feet high on the ground, with a cargo compartment three times longer than a Greyhoun
d bus and over 12 feet high.

  Right now, all four were full, as they came in over the Atlantic, circled around to the north, and headed directly into the southwest wind gusting over the runway. One by one, they touched down at the little airport seven miles south of the main town of Santa Cruz, 20 miles northeast of the yawning crater of the Cumbre Vieja volcano.

  Each of the aircraft taxied to a special holding area where its massive rear doors were opened and lowered. There, over the next two hours, they were unloaded by U.S. Army personnel who had traveled all the way from Air Mobility Command, Charleston Air Force Base, South Carolina, 437th Airlift Wing.

  The first Globemaster contained the front ends of four army trucks, which were driven out and then backed up the ramps of the other three. When they drove back down and onto the blacktop, they looked more complete, with the long bed of the truck now attached.

  And fitted to those flatbeds were the mobile truck-loaded Patriot Missile Launchers, eight of them, the super-high-tech platform for the state-of-the-art MIM-104E guidance-enhanced missiles, the only SAM that has ever intercepted ballistic missiles in combat.

  Each launcher came complete with four of these MIM-104E Patriots, the sensational long-range, all-altitude, all-weather defense system designed to counter tactical ballistic missiles, cruise missiles, and advanced aircraft. The thirty-two, already fitted inside the launchers on La Palma, were built by Raytheon in Massachusetts and by Lockheed Martin Missiles and Fire Control in Florida.

  Their theoretical objective was relatively simple—to seek out and destroy incoming missiles. The reality, though, was rather more complicated. These things traveled at Mach 5, close to 4,000 mph, which pretty much guaranteed that whatever enemy missile might be on its way would have zero time to get out of the path.

  The U.S. military spent all of the 1990s trying to perfect the Patriot after it missed too many of Saddam’s SCUDs over Israel in the first Gulf War. Months and months were spent in the Pacific, ironing out problems. The new, updated, improved Patriot had an uplink from its ground-radar control unit with which to feed it final course-correction target-acquisition orders, and possessed a downlink to feed back information on the target’s position. These had to be transmitted pretty sharply, since the Patriot was traveling as close to the speed of light as possible.

  The system is known as TVM-track-via-missile guidance system and is fitted to the new low-noise front end, which had dramatically increased seeker sensitivity to low radar cross-section targets. The Patriot MIM-104E was a completely new missile, a variant of the Lockheed Martin ERINT (Extended Range Interceptor). It’s the last word in advanced hit-to-kill technology, carrying a warhead consisting of 200 pounds of TNT—enough to knock down Yankee Stadium.

  Admiral Badr’s Scimitar missiles were fast, reliable, and accurate. But in the devastating new Patriot they had a ferocious opponent. The main asset of the Hamas attack was the element of surprise, enjoyed by all submerged-launched missiles. No one would know where it was coming from. You had to see it, and you had to move very fast.

  Your Patriot would nail it, but you’d have to get it away in split seconds. Not minutes. The soldiers working on the La Palma airfield knew that. The first four launch trucks moved off now, down towards Atlantic Highway 1. They were heading south to begin with, but would soon swing up the west coast of the island towards the volcanoes and the rugged rim of the Cumbre Vieja, where they would set up their missile battery in readiness, perhaps, for their last stand, against a lethal enemy.

  There were sixteen young soldiers in this first group, four of them officers. Each of them knew that if the system acquired their 600-mph incoming target and they missed, it would be their last act on this earth. It would spear in at them from a high trajectory, and the Scimitar would blast the great mountain peak to smithereens, sounding a violent death knell not only for them but for the whole of the East Coast of the U.S.

  Maj. Blake Gill was in overall command. Age thirty-five, he was a career officer trained at West Point. Back home, in Clarksville, Tennessee, his wife and two sons, ages five and eight, were waiting. As one of the U.S. Army’s top missile experts, he was stationed, along with the 101st Air Assault Division, at one of the biggest military bases in the country—Fort Campbell, Kentucky, hard on the Tennessee border.

  Blake Gill had been in an army missile team seconded to the U.S. Navy’s cruisers during the Patriot testing programs off Hawaii. He was an acknowledged aficionado of the Patriot system, and a glittering career awaited him with either Raytheon or Lockheed Martin, if and when he ever finished with the Army.

  But Blake Gill was like his missile, a Patriot. He was a man cut in the mold of Adm. Arnold Morgan himself, a sworn enemy of his country’s foes, a man to whom personal gain was a total stranger. The heavyset Southerner, with his scorched-earth haircut, was plainly headed for the highest possible rank his branch of the Service had to offer. If anyone was going to slam the Scimitar, it was Blake Gill, husband of Louisa, father of Charlie and Harry. Missile man.

  He rode in the lead truck in front of the launcher, the four hunter-killer Patriots towering behind him. He carried with him three different ground elevations of the Cumbre Vieja site—one, a satellite photograph of the entire area, taking in the coastlines; another, a map drawn from much closer in; and the last one, a detailed map of the undulating terrain directly around the crater.

  Since no one had an exact estimate as to which direction the incoming missiles were to be fired, Blake Gill was relying on the facts presented to him at the Pentagon on his way to the Charleston Air Force Base. He knew he must cover the westerly approach and the more unlikely north, but he had been carefully briefed by both Adm. Frank Doran and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs himself, Gen. Tim Scannell, that the biggest threat was from the east and southeast.

  The Barracuda ultimately had to get out of the way of the tsunami or it too would be destroyed. And that meant it had to seek cover on the eastern side of La Palma or Gomera if it launched at close range.

  Major Gill had penciled in one of his mobile launchers to face outwards from the eight principal points of the compass. Any preprogrammed cruise missile could be directed on the most circuitous route into any target, but not without GPS. Therefore a major detour around the volcano, and then a route in from the north or west, seemed utterly unlikely.

  Yes, the Pentagon was nearly certain that the missiles would come straight in, out of the east or southeast, simply to give the submarine a chance to save itself. Major Gill knew he must place launcher number five to the southeast. The problem of the northeast occupied him, however. There would be no course correction to the incoming weapons, and no cover out there in open water, nor any place the submarine could reach to find shelter before the tidal wave slung it straight onto the sandy beaches of Western Sahara.

  And yet…he knew these suicide bastards from the Middle East…Maybe sacrificing himself was the master plan…Maybe they just did not care…They would fire and forget from any spot they pleased and let Allah do his worst. Paradise, perhaps, beckoned. It was not, after all, particularly unusual for the young braves of Hamas to terminate their lives willingly in the Jihad against the West.

  Major Gill was thoughtful. Clearly, the Barracuda was on its final mission. They were never going to take it home. To where? It could never again come to the surface, never again fire a missile. The forthcoming launch would betray its position, and the odds of it evading a strike force like the U.S. Navy currently had at sea were close to zero.

  No, the Hamas terrorists almost certainly knew the game was up the moment they opened fire within a very few miles of ASW warships and helicopters. So they just might launch from anywhere. And he, Blake Gill, had to be ready for a threat from any direction with plenty of overlap.

  He would position his mobile launchers, evenly spaced around the compass, facing out from the crater, in all directions. His maps showed the ground to be extremely rough and uneven, once the end of the road had been reached
, and he was grateful for the huge U.S. Marine Chinook helicopter awaiting him up at the summit, which he knew would place the launchers with effortless efficiency precisely where he wanted them.

  They drove on down to the village of Los Canarios de Fuencaliente, where hot springs had once bubbled but, long buried by the eruptions of various volcanoes, now formed part of the deadly, roughly 10-mile-long cauldron beneath the mountain.

  Major Gill studied his maps. To the south, he knew, was the Volcan San Antonio. A signpost directed visitors to a pathway and a visitors’ center around its gaping black crater. Even farther south was the Volcan Teneguia, which is off the beaten track and where only a few adventurers could struggle up its slopes and peer in over the shattered rim.

  The convoy of launchers was headed the other way, north, up towards the Cumbre Vieja, glowering under the crystal-blue arc of the sky above the islands. As they drove on in a cloud of black dust, the Major could see the Chinook parked up ahead, about 200 yards off the main road.

  It took about twenty minutes to secure the cables that would take the weight of the launcher. Major Gill and the missile crew climbed aboard for the short ride to the summit, and under his direction, the Navy pilot put the launch truck exactly into position, facing due east, overlooking the Atlantic and the distant shores of Gomera and Tenerife.