Pirate: A Thriller

by Ted Bell

  Hawke’s eyes flashed with anger. “Where the hell is von Draxis?”

  “Locked him up in his stateroom. We cut off his phone, took away his cell. Don’t worry, he ain’t calling anybody about this. And if he gets a call from his Chinese friends, we’ll make sure he makes all the right noises.”

  “Any luck down below?” Alex asked. “The divers?”

  “Hell, no. The damn thing is encased in solid lead. No way to get to it. Or even X-ray it! We did insert probes. It’s hot all right. And it’s got live wires. It’s the real deal, Alex. A live nuclear fission bomb.”

  “What about my idea of cutting out that whole section of keel and just making an offshore run with that? Hell, we could airlift it out of here with a big Sikorsky. Drop it in the trench and be done with it.”

  “The divers and arc welders tried, Alex. Couldn’t cut through. Too thick. Not anywhere near enough time. This is our shot right here, Alex. Tow her out beyond the Continental Shelf where the land drops off and scuttle her. What’s the White House say?”

  “Hurry.”

  “Yeah. What are we doing, six knots? That French captain is all right. He was never in on this goddamn thing, Alex. He’d like to get his hands on von Draxis right now—and Bonaparte. He’s on the bridge now with the harbor pilots, trying to help. When I left him, Dechevereux was on the radio, coordinating a rendezvous with the sub.”

  “Sub?”

  “A nuclear attack sub the president ordered up to meet us out at the Shelf. The USS Seawolf.”

  “Where’s Seawolf now?”

  “She was conducting an ‘emergency blow’ training exercise just off Block Island. She’s steaming toward the ‘Wall’ at flank speed. Hey! Where are you—”

  “Alaska.”

  “What? What about Alaska?”

  “Let’s go see the captain,” Hawke said. “I’ve got an idea.”

  2:37 A.M., EST

  Captain Dechevereux and the two harbor pilots were at the helm when Hawke and Mariucci entered the bridge. Hawke went first to the two pilots. “I want to thank both you guys for all your help. And your bravery. I know you volunteered. As soon as we get to the Ambrose Channel, call one of the tugs alongside and hop off. All right? Go home to your families. And put in for hazard duty. You deserve it.”

  “Yes, sir,” they said, practically in unison. “Thanks a lot.”

  “Captain Dechevereux,” Hawke said. “Just curious. Did your great hero Bonaparte include nuclear terrorism in your job description?”

  “He is no longer my hero, monsieur. If that monster knew about this, he should be shot.”

  “He bloody well knew about it, I assure you. The question is, did you?”

  “I am a professional seaman. I have a seafaring tradition in my family that goes back centuries. I am insulted by your question.”

  “My apologies. Captain Mariucci is convinced of your innocence. I had to find out for myself. Tell me again how much damage the Chinese technicians did in your engine room?”

  “As I told you, monsieur. They didn’t harm the reactors. No need. They simply short-circuited the computer monitoring systems. The short-circuit presented itself as a ‘malfunction’ warning, which in turn triggered a shutdown of the reactors. A crew of nuclear engineers would need hours to get them up and running again. Hopeless.”

  “You can’t just give new computer instructions?”

  “The technicians destroyed the computers. Backup as well.”

  “Captain, listen to me carefully. I believe you told me you plan to sail in environmentally controlled areas. Alaska, for instance.”

  “We do.”

  “You must use auxiliary engines—”

  “Yes. Gas turbine engines, Mr. Hawke. Basically jet engines converted to marine use.”

  “Her speed with those engines?”

  “Thirty knots is not inconceivable. But I’ve just come from the engine room. The turbines, too, are disabled. Bastards removed the igniters and smashed the fuel pumps.”

  Hawke smiled at Mariucci for the first time in recent memory.

  “That big Coast Guard kid you had watching the gangway. Is he still aboard?”

  “Yeah. Tynan. He did a sweep of the ship. Found a bunch of Chinese stowaways. Nuclear techs who worked in the reactor rooms. I got him posted amidships, keeping an eye on them for me.”

  “I saw a rating on that boy’s shirt. Some kind of machinist, right?”

  “Yeah. He only pulled guard duty because of his size.”

  “I want Tynan in the engine room. It’s our only shot. Let’s go.”

  “Alex?” Mariucci said, grabbing Hawke’s arm. “We were supposed to call the president three minutes ago. You have to—”

  “You call him,” Hawke said, handing him the radio. “Tell him to cross his bloody fingers.”

  2:44 A.M., EST

  The president turned and looked at his colleagues assembled at the long table in the Sit Room. You could calculate the degree of tension by the permanent smiles frozen on the faces of the Filipino staff clearing the table of dishes and pizza boxes. The wood-paneled wall slid back to display a projection map of New York Harbor. The blue icon inching southward toward Sandy Hook with six red satellites was Leviathan and her tugs.

  “Six knots? This isn’t even going down to the wire,” McAtee said, picking up the laser pointer. “I just heard from Leviathan. They’re still nine miles from Sandy Hook. Seven more to the Ambrose Light. And another twelve to the ‘Wall.’ Twenty-eight miles at six knots is not going to make my day.”

  Charlie Moore said, “At six knots, it will take them roughly five hours to reach the ‘Wall.’”

  “Right,” McAtee said, “And we’ve got less than two.”

  “Mr. President,” a senior staffer said, “I’ve got the governors of New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut standing by. All state, local, and federal emergency medical services have ramped up. I think it’s time to cut and run—”

  “No, John. Let’s give him ten more minutes. Talk to me about Carter and Taiwan.”

  “Yes, sir. In the spirit of pushing every possible Chinese button, former president Carter is arriving for a courtesy visit in Taipei. He was on vacation in Bali and we’re flying him in. We’ve invited all the worldwide media. A symbol of American commitment to Taiwan independence. Ratchet up the pressure on the Mandarins.”

  “That will rattle them. Good idea. What else?”

  Kevin O’Dea from NSA spoke first. “Mr. President, NSA has redirected our satellite over the emerging battle zone in the Taiwan Strait. We have real-time battle management, sir.”

  “But no battle yet, I trust?”

  “We’re muzzle to muzzle with the Chinese fleet. Three French destroyers and two of their cruisers are steaming alongside the Chinese. We are just waiting for the tipping point, Mr. President.”

  “Gentlemen, and ladies,” McAtee said, “until when and if a Chinese laser decides to interrupt satellite communication, you’ve all got a front seat at the next world war. Charlie? You’re up.”

  General Moore stood. “Sit report from the admiral of the bridge, USS Kennedy, sir. He reports PLA missile batteries on the Chinese mainland coast are lighting up, sir.”

  “Response?”

  “We’ve got waves of recon flights going in over the top. Low-level haircuts, Mr. President. Right down on the deck.”

  “Shave ’em close. That’ll keep their heads down. Good.”

  The door was opened and the Marine guards admitted a very anxious-looking young navy officer from the Pentagon, Captain Tony Guernsey.

  “Mr. President,” Guernsey said, “I am receiving word now that Chinese surface-to-surface missiles are locking on to the fleet. We could lose—Christ—we could lose—”

  “We’re not going to lose a goddamn thing, Tony,” the president said. “Charlie, step up the fighters going in over the mainland coast. One hundred feet. Let those bastards know we mean business.”

  “Yes, sir!”

>   “What the hell are they thinking right now, John? The boys in Beijing.”

  “Five or six in the room, sir. Total panic over Wild Card. But they think they’ve got us by the short ones with that ocean liner.”

  “They haven’t got us yet. What about the goddamn tankers? Who’s on that?”

  “I am, Mr. President,” an attractive blonde NSC staffer, Pam Howar, said. “The Happy Dragon was boarded by a Coast Guard cutter off Fort Jefferson in the Florida Keys en route to Miami. The captain and crew put up fierce resistance. The survivors were off-loaded immediately and she was towed to deep water and scuttled. Jade Dragon met a similar fate off Port Arthur, Texas, sir. It took three cutters and two choppers to subdue her. She’s already gone to a watery grave in the Gulf of Mexico.”

  “Well, that’s some good news isn’t it, Pamela?” the president said. “What about the other one? The Super Dragon?”

  “That dragon has been slain, Mr. President. Local fishing fleets report a huge explosion in the North Atlantic. One hour ago, one hundred miles due east of Cape Farewell, Greenland. She simply disappeared off the screen.”

  “Accidental?”

  “I doubt we’ll ever know, sir.”

  “This tanker explosion had a nuclear signature?”

  “I’m afraid so, sir.”

  “Okay, so nobody’s blowing smoke. General Sun-yat Moon and the Mandarins are sending us a very clear signal. Anything else? Anybody?”

  “Captain Mariucci just calling from Leviathan, sir. He says they’ve got her two gas turbines up and running. She’s making for the Ambrose Light. Their current speed is almost thirty-one knots.”

  The president looked up and smiled.

  “Well, God bless America,” he said.

  The room burst into loud, sustained applause.

  “Uh, Mr. President?” John Gooch said when the room fell silent.

  “Yes, John?”

  “It’s Seawolf, sir. Her skipper reports he is flat-out en route to the Continental Shelf rendezvous.”

  “And?”

  “At this point, sir, there’s no way he can make the 4:00 A.M. deadline unless he pushes that monster way, way beyond her approved performance parameters.”

  “You tell Pokey Fraser I said forget the goddamn parameters. The taxpayers gave him a two-billion-dollar undersea Ferrari. Tell him it’s time to damn well use it.”

  “Yes, sir. I suggest it’s also time to tell him about the nuclear device aboard Leviathan.”

  “Does he have a Wild Card ticket?”

  “No, sir.”

  “He does now. You tell him to move his ass.”

  Chapter Sixty-three

  The North Atlantic

  3:34 A.M., EST

  A THIN RED SLAB OF LIGHT LIT THE RIM OF THE BLACK world. USN Commanding Officer Persifor Fraser, standing in the bridge position atop the fairwater of SSN-21, the nuclear attack submarine Seawolf, was not happy. His command wasn’t the usual boat on the New London waterfront. She was the quietest, fastest submarine on the planet. No submarine, and few surface boats, could cover more ground more rapidly than Seawolf. En route to Block Island Sound, she’d gone halfway across the Atlantic in roughly forty-eight hours!

  Suffice it to say that CDR Pokey Fraser was a man unaccustomed to being late for an appointment. Now the president himself was on his ass and justifiably so. The Red Chinese had embedded a goddamn nuclear device in an ocean liner’s keel and were threatening to blow up New York City.

  And his beloved Seawolf might be just three minutes too late to stop them.

  The huge bow wave rode halfway up the sub’s fairwater. The sharp salt spray stung his eyes, whenever he lowered the heavy binoculars to look at his watch. Goddamn it! He had the pedal to the frigging metal and he still might not make it!

  Fraser had to make it. Aside from the enormity of this mission, he owed it to his men.

  His crew of fourteen officers and 124 sailors had been at sea at the time of September 11. Because of the nature of submarine operations, his boys had extremely limited access to real-time events. Crew emotions had been all over the map. Many had friends and family in New York and at the Pentagon. Their country had been attacked, and they were in a good position to do something about it. The ship had sortied from Scotland, moved halfway back to the East Coast, when she received urgent orders to move directly to the Med to increase the number of Tomahawks and launch platforms in that theater of operations.

  She’d acquitted herself admirably.

  Now, Fraser’s destination was the “Wall,” an area of the Atlantic due east of the Ambrose Light, seventy-one degrees longitude, forty degrees latitude, right at the undersea edge of the continent. The seabed dropped off dramatically there and a deep underwater canyon known as the “Wall” gashed the slope, plunging to a depth of two and a quarter miles.

  If you had to get rid of a large nuclear bomb in a big hurry, it was as good a place as you were going to find.

  Fraser cast a sidelong glance at the two young sailors standing alongside him beneath the small forest of search-and-attack periscopes, the ESM, radar, and communications masts. The fresh-scrubbed and eager faces of his topside watch captured his entire crew’s present mood perfectly. Just like their comrades half a world away in the Taiwan Straits, they planned to stick it, in very short order, to those who would terrorize America. The goddamn Red Chinese.

  Fraser gripped the rail, his knuckles white. Six miles. That was the outside range of his Mark 48 torpedoes. He just needed to close within six miles. That wasn’t too much to ask for, was it? Six lousy miles? He leaned into the stinging spray, willing his submarine onward.

  3:39 A.M., EST

  The president stood erect, helplessly watching the seconds disappear from the digital mission clock on the wall. Until he took Leviathan off the table, his hands were tied. The long knives were out. The Pacific Fleet and the Chinese fleet were at each other’s throats, waiting for him to make the next move. How fascinating it was to be held to account by history. To realize that a wrong word, even a wrong gesture, had enormous consequences. It took every ounce of concerted effort he could muster to keep his true feelings out of his voice when he spoke.

  “John?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Twenty minutes. Somebody has to blink. Talk to me.”

  “Everything’s up for grabs, sir.”

  “Granted. What do they want?”

  “They want us out of Iraq.”

  “Tell them to get out of Oman. What else?”

  “Commander Fraser reports he has closed to within twenty-one miles of the target area.”

  “And the target?”

  “We’ve got an SH-60 Seahawk helo en route now, sir. That chopper should have visual contact with the liner shortly. If she maintains her current speed, Leviathan will arrive at the ‘Wall’ eight minutes from now at 3:47 A.M.”

  “Range of Seawolf’s torpedoes?”

  “Mark 48ADCAPs, sir. Heavyweight torpedoes. Range six miles.”

  “Tell Commander Fraser to launch two torpedoes the second he closes to within ten miles of the target. Knock her wheels off right over the canyon.”

  “Sir? Ten miles is pushing the—”

  “You heard me.”

  “With all due respect, sir, we’ve got three good men on that boat, Mr. President, and I think—”

  “You think I don’t know that! Damn it, man. Do all you can to warn Hawke. Keep trying to get him. But I can’t risk the lives of hundreds of thousands for—just do as I say.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Gooch watched the man scurry away and then caught the president’s eye.

  “We’re looking at rapidly evolving time and distance calculations here, Mr. President. Leviathan will have barely reached the ‘Wall’ at that point. If we miscalculate even slightly and she goes down on the lip, or in shallow water, the nuclear explosion will trigger a wall of dirty water fifty feet high. People will be swimming down Fifth Avenue. And glowing in the d
ark.”

  “We’ll just have to take that chance, John. I need that vessel on the bottom.”

  3:47 A.M., EST

  “What’s his bloody problem?” Hawke asked Mariucci. Hawke had sounded the recorded “Abandon Ship” alarm repeatedly throughout the ship beginning at 3:30 A.M. Word of the impending nuclear disaster had spread throughout the ship rapidly. Chinese nuclear reactor technicians, reluctant kamikazes all, had been ordered to remain hidden aboard by their superiors in Beijing. Now they came crawling out of the woodwork—and made a mad dash for the promenade deck. Bright orange-topped, motorized lifeboats, thirty on each side of the ship, hung fifty feet above the water.

  Two full lifeboats had already been dispatched and disappeared over the horizon. The third and last one was ready to be lowered away. Captain Dechevereux, who had originally stated he was staying with his ship, had understandably changed his mind. He was now seated in the bow of the lifeboat smoking furiously and cursing the name Bonaparte. Von Draxis had gone missing. Hawke thought perhaps the man had done the only sensible thing and jumped overboard.

  Hawke had the controller in his hand, ready to push the button that would lower away the lifeboat. The last to board, an over-wrought Chinese technician, was bouncing up and down on the deck, screaming.

  Mariucci, climbing into the boat, said, “He says he’s not getting in the lifeboat without the rest of his colleagues.”

  Hawke looked at the man. “You’ve got one second. In or out.”

  The man turned on his heel and ran off toward the stern. Hawke looked at his watch and said, “Twelve minutes.”

  “Okay. That’s it,” Mariucci said. “Climb in and let’s get the fuck out of Dodge.” Hawke didn’t move. He was looking at him funny. Something was wrong.

  “Where’s Tynan?” Hawke said.

  “Hell, I don’t know,” Mariucci said. “I figured he was coming.”

  “Where did you last see him?”

  “In that bar, directing the Chinese to the lifeboats.”

  “Which bar? There are about thirty.”

  “Where we first met von Draxis.”