Barracuda 945

by Patrick Robinson

  “Well, where is it now?” Again the President seemed rattled.

  “We watched it sail from the Russian Base on Saturday morning, February ninth. Saw it turn south, and the Russians say it was almost certainly bound for Southern Fleet Headquarters in Zhanjiang. However, we have reason to be believe the Barracuda dived ten miles offshore and then turned north.”

  “Why did it?”

  “Sir, do you really want to know that detail?”

  “No. I believe you. It turned north. Then what?”

  “Big cruise missiles slam into Valdez twenty days later.”

  “And all the priceless surveillance in our expensive Navy heard nothing?”

  “Correct. Not a whisper.”

  “Well, why the hell not?”

  “Because it was creeping along like a sneaky little bastard, sir. When nuclear boats go very, very slowly no one can hear them. ’Specially if they navigate away from obvious areas we might patrol.”

  “Has anyone seen anything that could have been a submarine?”

  “Not on this side of the Pacific, sir. But we know it was there. And in my opinion, it still is. I imagine my colleagues around the table agree?”

  “I don’t think there’s much doubt about it,” said the CNO. General Scannell nodded and so did Admiral Morris and Bob MacPherson.

  “Which leaves us with the option of the ‘flaming datum.’ We stay on high alert and wait for him to strike again.”

  The President looked, felt, and was totally exasperated. “Well, how many cruise missiles could he have?” he asked.

  Admiral Morgan shook his head. “We think a total of twenty-four, so far as we have ever known.”

  “And how many has he fired?”

  “Don’t know. At least accurately we don’t know, because we are still investigating Alaska. But we think he could have fired a total of fourteen—possibly eight at Valdez, almost certainly six at Grays Harbor.”

  “So we are looking at one more attack, at least?”

  “I guess so.”

  The coffee and English muffins arrived at a timely moment, drawing the sting out of yet another Presidential riposte. But the Chief Executive now waited until it was served, until the man in the white coat had inquired formally of Admiral Morgan, “Buckshot, sir?”

  Then he demanded, “But what about the Navy—there must be some kind of a protective barrier we can throw up?” He said it almost plaintively.

  “It’s a waste of time, sir,” said Admiral Dickson. “By the time we put to sea, he could be anywhere.”

  “I can see no option but to wait,” said Admiral Morgan. “But I am worried about the Navy…”

  “How do you mean?” asked the CNO.

  “Well, the sub looks rather as if it is moving south, and there are a lot of ships in the San Diego Base. It would be terrible if he fired a cruise missile, or even a torpedo at a carrier.”

  “Are you kidding me, or what?” said the President, eyebrows raised.

  “Well, he just leveled an oil refinery that is a whole lot bigger than six carriers, and he didn’t have much trouble doing that.”

  “But surely there’s some defense….”

  “An incoming cruise,” said Admiral Dickson. “Launched from out of the sea, traveling at six hundred knots, ten miles a minute, two hundred feet above the surface, unexpected, in the middle of the night. The odds are heavily with the attacker.”

  “The only defense is to keep moving the goddamned ships around,” said Admiral Morgan. “Foreign countries have daily satellite pictures of all our Bases, and this joker can very easily access and receive that data by sticking his mast a few feet out of the water for around seven seconds when he knows the ocean is deserted.

  “Then he programs the GPS into the missile, and throws it straight at us, down the bearing, following the GPS data. It can’t miss, and he’s gone….”

  “And moving the ships around would be a huge pain in theass,” said Admiral Dickson. “Sir, they are in the dockyard for several reasons, most of them to give the men some shore leave after months at sea, but also for refit and servicing. It takes about a thousand people to move a big aircraft carrier. It would cause havoc if we had to move them all every two days.”

  “Hell, I guess so,” agreed the President. “But there is one other thing I wanted to ask about the cruise missile. Can it adjust its course during flight?”

  “Sure,” said Arnold. “You just feed in a few different numbers before you launch it. But you can’t change the flight plan after launch. Ultimately, it homes in on the GPS data, the position it received from the satellite picture, accurate to three meters.”

  “Smart little steel bastard,” said the President.

  “Actually, sir,” said Arnold, “I do hate to seem pedantic, but I am afraid the cruise missile is a particularly dumb little bastard. It’s entire guidance system depends one hundred percent on the GPS, which, as you know, is operated from one of our own military satellites. It allows everyone in the goddamned world to get an accurate fix to within three meters of accuracy.”

  “WELL, WHAT’S EVERYONE IN THE GODDAMNED WORLD DOING ON OUR SATELLITES?” said the President, literally shouting now.

  “Because your esteemed left-wing asshole predecessor decided to make it available to everyone, in his usual devious, dishonest, know-nothing, liberal shithead manner.”

  Even in moments of near-paralyzing tension, Admiral Morgan’s ability to bring the house down remained undiminished.

  General Scannell, Admiral Morris, and Bob MacPherson burst into laughter. The President, chuckling, hesitated and then asked, “No seriously, how come everyone, even this lunatic hurling missiles at us, can have access to the satellite?”

  “Sir, it used to be that the GPS was strictly military, for our use only. Then it was decided the system was such a navigational help, it would make all kinds of human activity much easier. You know, sailing, trekking, mountaineering, rallying, merchant marine, everything….

  “So we opened it up. BUT—and this is a big BUT—the military insisted that while we retained the cutting edge of accuracy to three meters, everyone else could have accuracy to one hundred fifty meters.”

  “You mean,” said the President, “if you were that far off course, you deserved to hit the beach in your brand-new Chesapeake cabin cruiser?”

  “Correct, sir. If one hundred fifty meters wasn’t good enough, go buy yourself a sextant and learn some navigation skills.”

  “Well, then what?”

  “I guess there was a whole lot of pressure from boat builders and navigational-aid manufacturers,” said Arnold. “And your predecessor gave in, and said he did not see anything wrong with providing accurate navigational aid to everyone.”

  “Christ, the military must have objected?”

  “They actually raised hell, sir, because of today’s obvious reasons.”

  “And?”

  “Your predecessor ignored them, as he ignored everything they ever said, except if he needed them for some diversionary tactic.”

  “You mean if we switched off the satellite that feeds the GPS, they could no longer guide those missiles long-distance.”

  “Yes. That’s what I mean.”

  “Well switch the fucker off then,” said the President.

  “OK,” said Arnold.

  “Hold on,” said Harcourt. “You can’t just do that. There’d be about twenty shipwrecks on the first day. Huge merchant freighters and tankers don’t have the first idea how to navigate without GPS.”

  “Tough,” replied the President.

  “To whom shall I tell them to address the billions of dollars’ worth of lawsuits, all aimed at the man who turned off the navigation system that lights up the world?”

  “Fuck,” said the President. “I think you got me.”

  “Sir, I know you can’t cancel GPS worldwide for the reasons Harcourt just succinctly put forward. Couldn’t even put it back to one hundred fifty meters without due warning—t
here’d be people drowning all over the globe. But it is a problem. We should look at it. Because that’s how this bastard in the submarine is finding his targets with such complete accuracy.”

  “If he’d had only one hundred fifty meters accuracy, would he have missed the refinery?”

  “Probably most of it,” replied Arnold Morgan. “I doubt he would have nailed the big fractioning towers, and that would have reduced the damage by around ninety percent.”

  “I guess that’s one more thing for which we have to thank my predecessor,” said the President thoughtfully.

  “Absolutely,” said Arnold Morgan.

  “Liberal shithead,” confirmed the President.

  11

  BY MIDNIGHT on that Friday, Admiral Vitaly Rankov had not returned yet another call from Admiral Morgan. It was now plain that no one was telling the United States of America whether the second Barracuda was operational, or where it was, or indeed whether Russia still owned it.

  Arnold Morgan was not pleased. And in the small hours of the following morning he summoned to the encrypted telephone the sleeping Chief of the CIA’s Russian desk.

  “Tommy, hi. Morgan here. We still got that good guy in Murmansk?”

  Tom Rayburn, an old friend of the Admiral’s, was quickly into his stride. “Hi, Arnie. Just. But he’s about to retire. Probably coming to live here.”

  “Think he’d have time for one more mission? Nothing dangerous. Just inquiries.”

  “Oh sure. Old Nikolai’s always been expensive but cooperative.”

  “Okay. I’m looking for a nuclear submarine. A Sierra I, Barracuda Class. Type 945. Hull K-240. We think it was never quite completed, never went to sea, and was subsequently laid up in the yards at Araguba, north of Severomorsk. I need to find out whether it’s still there, in a covered dry dock. Apparently, they were using it for spare parts for the one Barracuda that was operational. That’s Hull K-239.”

  Tom Rayburn took his notes carefully. “Where’s that one, just so we don’t get confused?”

  “I’m not sure,” replied the Admiral. “But you may assume it’s a fucking long way from Murmansk.”

  The CIA man guffawed. Arnold Morgan’s manner had not changed in the twenty years he had known him. “OK, boss,” he said. “I’ll get on it. You want to know whether the Barracuda’s still in Araguba, and if not, where it is?”

  “And especially whether they’ve sold it.”

  “You got it. Gimme twenty-four hours.”

  At precisely the same time, 1:00 A.M. in Fort Meade, Lt. Comdr. Jimmy Ramshawe was poring over a report from the office of the Energy Department detailing progress from the undersea repair team north of Graham Island.

  The pipeline valves had been turned off, and after the tremendous crude oil leakage into the sea, they had successfully capped the breach in the line at the Overfall Shoal. It was difficult, but made easier by the shallowness of the water. The operation had entailed lifting both damaged sections of the pipe on cranes and making the repair onboard a service ship, before lowering the entire section, using two ships, back onto the seabed.

  It was then, of course, necessary to open several valves to make sure the repair, made on one of the major couplings, was tight. When the oil flowed again, the frogmen reported no leakage and everything seemed fine. However, to their horror, three hours later, another huge slick was seen developing about a half mile to the north. And this was much more difficult to repair because the water was much, much deeper.

  All valves were turned off again, but this time they needed to send down an unmanned minisubmarine to inspect the further damage, which no one had known about. And this was again terrible news because the television photographs being relayed to the surface showed a shattering rupture in the pipe, nowhere near a coupling joint. This meant they would need to lift two entire sections off the floor of the ocean, using two giant “camels.”

  This would be an immensely expensive and challenging operation. The Dixon Entrance is in a remote part of the world, and in early March sea conditions can be very rough. They were looking at possibly six weeks to two months when no oil would be carried down the pipeline from Yakutat Bay. And neither did it matter much whether the crude oil arrived in mainland United States or not, since the refinery at Grays Harbor was destroyed. And neither would there be any tankers heading south out of Prince William Sound, where there were currently no crude supplies whatsoever.

  If this fight between General Rashood’s Fundamentalists and the American West Coast’s oil industry had been fought under Marquess of Queensberry Rules, the referee would have stopped it.

  Jimmy Ramshawe stared at the report, and contemplated the colossal damage. He also pulled up and checked out the inflammatory words of Professor Jethro Flint of the University of Colorado…. They will never have tested that pipeline with those kind of real-life pressures…. When you subject something to stresses it’s never undergone before, it can rupture…. They’ve overloaded the pipeline, somewhat thoughtlessly, and it’s come unraveled.

  “Wrong, professor. Wrong,” muttered Jimmy. “If you were right, the pipeline would have ruptured at the joint, its weakest part, and that would have released the pressure instantly, with the bloody oil gushing out in a huge jet, underwater. There would have been no second breach, especially right in the middle of the pipe away from the joints.

  “I am afraid, old mate, your bloody academic theory is right up the chute. That wasn’t pressure that bust the pipe, that was a couple of terrorist bombs, delivered by frogmen from a submarine.”

  He drafted off a hard-copy note to Admiral Morris, pointing out the obvious and fatal flaw in the argument of Professor Flint.

  He ended with a flourish. “Would you like me to circulate these findings on the E-mail to the FBI, CNO, Bob MacPherson, and Admiral Morgan? Because they sure as hell just blew Fred Flintstone out of the water, right?”

  Admiral Morris answered in the affirmative.

  It was the weekend, and the markets were closed. Which left the media to run riot all over the world, piecing together the undeniable truth that there had been three massive accidents in the Alaska oil industry. Were they really accidents? Are they connected? Is this industrial sabotage on the grandest scale? If so, who? Is there someone out there trying to bring the United States to its knees?

  These were scare stories way up there on the Richter scale. And there were seismic shocks in every area of public life. Gas was already at $6 a gallon at many West Coast stations, and every newspaper and television screen from San Diego to the Alaskan coast was trumpeting about the fuel oil shortages that must begin to bite immediately.

  The further north the city, the bigger the headlines, as the newspapers cited all of their usual sources of doom for maximum disquiet among the populace. They forecast power stations grinding to a halt…hospital emergency equipment without electricity (people may die)…no gasoline…senior citizens dying of cold and starvation…schools closed…government offices blacked out…no power…no computers…no Social Security pensions…no baseball games…floodlights…traffic lights…strobe lights…neon lights.

  The list was hysterical and endless. Hysterical, and accurate, bang on the money. This was a pending crisis the likes of which no one had ever imagined. Because not only was Grays Harbor, the largest refinery in the country, starved of product and out of action, but there was no fuel oil running south to feed the biggest power station in California, Lompoc, custom built to cope easily and exclusively with the power demands of the gigantic urban sprawls of both San Francisco and Los Angeles.

  For once in their lives, the media had it absolutely right, putting two and two together to make a precise and pristine four, rather than five, or eighty-seven.

  What they did not know was a truth more chilling than anything in the imagination of even their most erratic editors. Out there, somewhere in the eastern Pacific, was a seasoned, dazzling Special Forces battle Commander leading a group of highly trained Islamic fanatics in
a brilliantly efficient nuclear submarine, which appeared capable of striking the United States at will. And may not be finished yet.

  At 9 o’clock on Saturday morning, Vice Admiral Morgan read with equanimity Jimmy Ramshawe’s note about the repairs on the pipeline. Every word confirmed what he already believed, knew. That there was someone out there, packing a serious wallop, with another ‘X-minus’ possible weapons in his magazine. And neither he, Arnold, nor any of the top military brains in the U.S. Armed Forces had the slightest idea how to proceed.

  The Admiral was bewildered, along with the rest of them. He had never felt so vulnerable. In his mind, he knew that their enemy was virtually undetectable. The world was indeed the bastard’s oyster; he could do anything.

  All previous run-ins with terrorists paled before this. Even when the massed maniacs of Al-Qaeda had pranced about announcing they would fight to the death, they had at least presented a target somewhere in the remote hills of Afghanistan. It was difficult, but nonetheless tangible, and well within the massive capability of the U.S. military, which proceeded to pulverize their foe.

  “But this,” growled the Admiral. “This is fucking preposterous. I don’t know if our enemy is Russia, China, or one of the towelhead states. But I do know this is terrorism, the most modern terrorism, and there is NO defense against it, because we don’t know where it’s coming from…or who is committing it.”

  He had, of course, entirely ignored the point that this was also his own favorite type of warfare, to slam an opponent to the ground, kick him to death if necessary, and then act as if it was nothing whatsoever to do with America. Who me? Nah. Sorry, pal, don’t know anything about it. Can’t help this time. Stay in touch.

  Right now he had never been in such a dilemma. Alan Dickson had the Pacific Fleet on full alert. Two submarines coming in off patrol were watching and listening for any submarine from any nation that might be on the loose. But Arnold held out little hope. If he’s out there, and he’s as goddamned brilliant as I think he is, the West Coast needs a hard hat and a goddamned lotta luck. I just hope to Christ he doesn’t go for the Navy Base in San Diego.