Lieutenant Zaha broke the captain’s concerns. “Sir, coordinates for the new target have been recalibrated and the missile is now ready for immediate launch.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” the captain replied quietly, turning his thoughts to the thirty-five ton, fourteen-foot long R-29R Stingray ballistic missile sitting menacingly in its casing with a warhead carrying a cargo of deadly refrigerated viruses – which, when released over American soil, would cause such devastation to the infidel that they would no longer be a threat to the Islamic world. Praise to Allah!
“Torpedoes – inbound! Bearing zero-nine-zero! Range 3,000 yards!”
Kamani spun to the helmsman, panic welling inside; the Russian sons-of-bitches!
“Take her DOWN! DOWN! Full speed! Maximum angle!” he all but screamed. Then to weapons, “Release decoys! DECOYS NOW!” he ordered, with little attempt to stay calm.
The crew at their stations were taut for action, reacting immediately to the captain’s commands.
“Torpedoes, 2,000 yards and closing!” shouted the sonar operator, fear now clearly showing.
The captain looked desperately at his XO, who just stared back in sheer panic and disbelief.
Instinct told Captain Kamani all was about to be lost; soon the torpedoes would go active and if the decoys failed, that would be the end of the Islamic dream. He came to a decision; a decision he believed might well be his last.
There was no time for protocol – he had to rely on the computers last firing solution – as long as the missile landed somewhere on American soil it would not matter. Ya Allah.
“STAND BY MISSILE – FIRE NOW! REPEAT, FIRE NOW!”
Seconds later, the pinging sound of the incoming torpedoes’ active sonar filled the control room, creating an avalanche of unbridled fear.
K449 shuddered as the Stingray left its casing, surged up through the depths inside its protective bubble in a cloud of flame thirty miles due south of Grand Turk Island. The missile jettisoned its post-launch vehicle 200 feet above the water and soared up into the night sky on an unswerving high trajectory toward Miami, 700 miles away to the northwest.
At the precise moment the Stingray broke the dark, rolling Atlantic waters, HMS Ambush’s two torpedoes slammed into K449, blasting two giant holes in the hull, one just below the sail; the other in the engine room towards the rear. Water poured through the gaping openings and the pressure dropped instantly. A fireball sucked up all the oxygen, followed seconds later by the sea surging into the boat’s ripped sides, crushing everything in its path. The control room was destroyed immediately. Turbines in the engine room were thrown from their mountings with such force that they penetrated the hull on the opposite side, signalling the end of the Russian submarine and for all those who manned her.
K449 died in a cascade of tortured metal and surging water, large chunks of her superstructure spiralling in the strong currents as she plunged to the seabed some 6,000 feet below.
*
“Jesus fucking Christ! They’ve launched a missile!” shouted Ambush’s sonar operator.
Captain Curtis looked on helplessly at the tracking screens.
Seconds later, sonar reported hits on the two Russians. The captain’s emotions raced: jubilant at a successful action; sadness that some form of devastation was about to be unleashed upon America; and frustration that there was nothing he could do about it.
The crew was stunned into silence, contemplating the enormity of what they had just done in killing so many submariners like themselves. Most felt sick at the thought; for all of them this represented their first kills experienced in the service of Her Majesty’s Navy. Had Armageddon finally begun?
“Nuclear?” Talbot asked, almost in a whisper.
“Does it matter? Nuke or bio, the damage is done,” Curtis replied, stunned.
“Miami?”
“I guess; it’s the nearest. Anyway, there’s nothing more we can do. It’s now up to the boys up top.”
Captain Curtis and his crew listened silently to sonar emitting the terrible echoes of the two dying submarines, an ear-shattering cacophony of tortured metal and roaring water as both vessels broke up on their way down to the bottom of the ocean. For Curtis, it was the first time he had been responsible for the deaths of so many men. It pricked his conscience and heightened his sadness at the horrible fate he had dished out to fellow submariners. However, he had carried out his duty and would have no hesitation in doing the same again if he had to. He turned to his XO.
“Mr Talbot, inform COMSUBOP we have engaged and destroyed K449 shortly after she released a missile, and we have also engaged and destroyed the Russian Akula. Inform them too, we are returning to base forthwith.” Then to the helmsman, “Full ahead. Steer three-three-seven. Depth 600.” After a short pause, he looked again at his XO. “Lieutenant, you have the conn.”
47
Two hundred and fifty miles northwest of HMS Ambush’s position, USS Lassen, one of the U.S. Navy’s latest advanced Aegis-guided missile destroyers, was patrolling 100 miles northeast of the island of Mayaguana in the southern half of the Bahama chain. Her orders: to scan the skies twenty-four hours a day and to intercept and destroy hostile missiles. Along with its cruise missiles, Lassen carried RIM-67 solid propellent-fuelled, surface-to-air missiles, designed to counter high-speed, high-altitude cruise missiles in an advanced ECM environment. Inside the operations centre of the warship, radar monitors registered K449’s Stingray launch and followed its rapid climb to the northwest at Mach 0.8. The ship’s Ballistic Missile Defence system instantly acquired the target and locked on. Without hesitation, Lassen’s commanding officer gave the order to intercept and seconds later the twenty-six-foot long, fourteen-inch diameter RIM missile rose into the air in a billow of smoke and hurtled upwards towards its target at a speed of Mach 0.9.
Within a very short time, a ball of flame lit up the night sky as the heat-seeking RIM found its target and reduced the Russian Stingray to a stream of scattered, burning debris that plunged to earth in a rain of fire.
*
Remnants of the destroyed Stingray smashed into the soil of Rum Cay, a small, sparsely-populated, Bahamian island, just twenty miles southwest of San Salvador Island and 185 miles southeast of Nassau. Falling out of the darkened sky, the smoking remnants, including the fractured warhead with vials carrying the deadly IL-4 smallpox strain, landed just north of Port Nelson in St George’s Bay on the southern side of the ten-mile long by five-mile wide island. The warhead and its vials shattered on impact, spilling its contents over the immediate surrounding ground.
Of the sixty inhabitants in the small township, together with dozens or so in yachts moored in the bay, all heard and saw the explosion high above. They watched in disbelief as bits of debris cascaded down onto their tiny island and into the sea around. The town’s general store owner and his wife were the first to arrive at the scene north of the township and looked on in awe at the smouldering pieces of debris. Within a short while, the rest of the inhabitants arrived and began to closely inspect and prod the wreckage with sticks before the store owner decided they should contact the authorities in Nassau and tell them what had happened.
In less than three hours, the Bahamian military authorities arrived on the island by helicopter, inspected the wreckage and promptly placed a quarantine order on all the inhabitants and those on board yachts in the bay. No one, but no one, would be allowed to leave or enter. The island was placed in total lockdown and sealed off from the rest of the world until further notice.
48
It was early fall in Washington. Mid-morning traffic gathered momentum on the roadways surrounding the White House, which looked clean and fresh amidst the greenery of lawns and trees tinted with gold as sunlight bounced off the elegant facades. In the Situation Room, U.S. President William Marsh sat with his National Security Council at an emergency meeting to discuss the latest events in connection with the events off the Bahamas during the night. In the room with the pre
sident were: Vice President, Mark Toby; Secretary of Defence, Michael Knight; Secretary of State, Sam Cox; the president’s National Security Adviser, David Bloomfield; and Commodore Robert Sumner, Head of the British Naval Attaché stationed in Washington. The commodore had been invited by the president to provide details concerning the British naval action.
“… Sir, that concludes the initial reports sent by HMS Ambush’s commander; a more detailed description of the action will be given once the submarine returns to base,” Sumner finished.
“Thank you, Robert,” said the president, a tall, handsome man in his late fifties, now in his second term as president and the second black American to hold the office. “I have read the report from the Bahamians; not good reading, but at least we know now what we are up against. Thank God they reacted as quickly as they did. Can we be assured the island is totally isolated?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Knight, removing spectacles from a weather-beaten face. “Nassau informed us immediately that they had a bio-weapon problem. Everyone on the island, including the military investigators, is in total lockdown. Our warships now completely surround Rum Cay to ensure that remains so.”
“Do we know if it’s the super strain?” the vice president asked, running a hand through a fine head of greying hair.
“We don’t; not yet, Mark,” Knight answered.
“How soon will we know?” asked Bloomfield, middle-aged, tall and athletic. He was greatly respected by the president, trusted to give sound advice.
“We’ve already sent down a team from Atlanta. They should be on the island as we speak. I gave strict orders to inform us the moment they find out,” replied Knight.
“And if it is?” questioned Cox, a lawyer and ex-CIA officer.
Silence descended around the table; all looked at the president.
After a few moments, President Marsh leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “I guess we’d have no choice but to obliterate Rum Cay and all those on it,” he replied.
“Nuclear?” shot Bloomfield.
“Yes, if there was no other way.”
The president looked directly at Knight. “The report says the virus hit the ground in liquid form. What significance is that?”
“As I understand it, the four-inch diameter plastic balls – five altogether in the refrigerated warhead – were filled with the virus and pressurized with carbon-dioxide gas. They were designed to be released less than 500 feet above the ground and burst throwing out the virus in aerosol form. The mist was supposed to drift down onto the population. In this case, the balls broke up on impact and discharged solidified contents directly over the ground. Each of those balls held 300, or more, grams of liquid viruses.”
“So for the moment we can be assured it’s confined to the island?”
“Correct, sir.”
“Am I also correct in recalling the incubation period for this super strain is short?”
“Yes, Mr President,” Knight quickly replied. “Once exposed and infected, I’m told hours rather than days. Death is also measured in hours too.”
“What is the survivability of the virus?” the president questioned again.
“Several hours in temperatures around 80 degrees Fahrenheit; in colder temperatures, say less than 50 degrees, with humidity no more than eighteen to twenty percent. The virus has a lifespan of about twenty-four hours. To remain alive and replicate, it has to jump from host to host.”
“The temperature on Rum Cay would be in the eighties at this time of year,” said Toby.
“Then let us hope, Mark, that no one has been infected,” Marsh replied. “Almost twelve hours have passed since impact. What we are discussing could well be purely academic.”
At that moment, the telephone rang next to the president. He lifted the receiver, listened for a few seconds, then replaced it. “It’s confirmed, the super bug is on the island and several of the locals have been infected. Two have already died.”
Everyone looked at each other in shocked silence.
After a short while, the president spoke again. “Well, that settles it. We have no alternative now but to use the vaccine the British brought out of North Korea.” He looked at the British Naval Attaché. “Robert, get London to deliver immediately what vaccine they have available, by the fastest possible method, directly to the island.” Then to Knight, “Should we be unable to contain the virus and it spreads to the other islands, it will only be a matter of time before reaching our shores. If the vaccine fails, then we will resort to obliteration of the island and all those left on it.”
“As I understand,” said Sumner, “we are still testing but have managed to manufacture small amounts since we obtained the vaccine less than a week ago. Although the preliminary results look promising as tested on monkeys, we have yet to try it on humans.”
“Well what have we to damn well lose?” shot the president. “Certainly those poor bastards on Rum Cay have everything to lose if we don’t.”
“We should’ve listened to the Brits when they first warned us; we could’ve blasted the hell outta this Pyorha-ri place,” said Cox.
“Quite so, Sam. Let lessons be learned. Make sure something like this doesn’t happen again on my watch,” admonished the president, glaring at those around the table before continuing. “None of the networks are to know what we have on the cay until things are under control. Is that clear?” They all nodded. “So make sure your people, and the Bahamians,” he glanced at Sumner, “and the British press keep a lid on the whole thing. If this gets out, all hell will break loose.”
The president continued briefly discussing matters of protocol before he finally adjourned the meeting and returned to his office to face yet another day in the harsh world of geopolitics and power.
49
A week after the missile was shot down over Rum Cay, Frank Ryder parked his Harley Davidson in the side yard of Omega Unit’s Lots Road headquarters and entered the building. He climbed the stairs to the first floor office where the director’s PA waited.
“Hi, Frank; nice to see you back. You’re looking good, considering,” she smiled, eyes twinkling behind frameless glasses. With plenty of rest, he felt he was coming right. His wound had been superficial and was now healing well. “He’s expecting your debrief.”
He held up a folder and followed her to the boss’s office.
“Frank, glad to see you on the mend,” said George Conway, coming around his desk to shake Ryder’s hand. “Take a seat.”
Ryder asked how Grace was doing.
“At the Queen Elizabeth in Birmingham, recovering slowly. Another month or two and she’ll be up and about. They say she was lucky the bullet just missed her spine; an inch further left and she would probably never have walked again. Muscle contraction most likely helped to deflect the bullet.”
“Muscle contraction?”
“The doctors thought that a bit unusual, too. Anyway, they considered the snake bite might have had something to do with it. Mild venom they said can sometimes cause localized muscle spasms. Maybe the snake did her a favour.”
Ryder had to admit he’d been altogether wrong about the captain; she had shown a level of courage and determination beyond the call of duty and he greatly admired her for that. He could not deny she had something special about her, something that had stirred his feelings. But as much as he felt drawn towards Grace, he did not want to get emotionally involved. Their lives were so different and he knew the life he led was not good for a settled relationship. His revolved around different places, different time zones, with mainly short, tranquil interludes to afford any kind of security. He lived too much on the edge and there was always the danger of his life coming to an abrupt end. He would not put her through that regardless of his feelings towards her.
“You did a good job, Frank. All of you played your part,” Conway said.
Ryder placed the detailed written report on the desk, confirming the brief verbal one he gave immediately on his return. He thou
ght about Campbell Chol. “Cam was a good man. Hope next of kin will be looked after.”
“Arrangements are being made with Cam’s family; they will be looked after,” said Conway quietly. “You well know, Frank, anyone who dies serving Queen and country in this Unit or Special Forces operating under its jurisdiction are suitably compensated. It’s a pity they cannot receive the full recognition they justly deserve.”
“And Greg: how’s he doing?”
“Okay. As soon as he’s able, he will return to his squadron,” Conway replied, leaning back in his chair. “We’re thinking of bringing Dan into the Unit. What do you think?”
Ryder nodded. “He’s up for it. He’s a good man.” And Song was. He would trust him any day with his life, despite the little episode of insubordination.
Conway changed the subject. “That missile shot down over the Bahamas was apparently heading for America. The bio-warhead shattered on one of the cays.”
“How’d we know it was a bio? No mention of that in the media.”
Conway hesitated; what he knew was classified, but what the hell – in his book, his operative had the right to know. “All the media know is that a missile was taken out. Our info is direct from Langley. They report it was the suspected IL-4 super-strain smallpox virus, but that it has been contained. The vaccine you brought back, even though not fully tested, was hurriedly sent out by fighter jet to a U.S. carrier anchored off the cay. The Americans administered it to everyone on the island in desperation within hours of receiving, hoping it would work, and, as yet, no one else has contracted the disease. Those infected also appear to be recovering. Fortunately, the vaccine seems to be working. The missile was fired from a Russian rogue sub.”
Paths of Courage Page 21