In Admiral Morris’s view, this was going to be a somewhat unpredictable meeting. “You got it, Arnie. I’m ready…. What’s new?”
“New? New? Nothing’s new. The precise same crew of homicidal maniacs is still waiting off the shores of California trying to blow the fucking country up. Nothing’s new. It’s just the same old routine bullshit. Another death blow to Uncle Sam coming up, another chance the whole fucking place will be in the pitch dark before we’re much older.”
“You want some coffee?”
“Damn right I want some coffee. I don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to continue while you sit there not giving a shit, one way or another, whether I die of thirst.”
Enough. Both men chuckled. George Morris ordered the coffee, and Arnold moved into serious business. “George, I heard back from the CIA’s man in Murmansk. That second Barracuda, Hull K-240, the one the Russians never put to sea, has gone. So far as we can tell it has not left the yards at Araguba for years, but one of our top Naval observers in that part of the world says it’s no longer there. But he was wary of the answers his contact was giving. Said he had a sense there was a lot more to it. But nothing he was going to be told.”
“Do we have evidence they did complete the ship? Our last report said it was in no state to become operational, may even have been used to provide spares for their other Barracuda.”
“In my experience, George, the only way submarines ever go anywhere is under their own steam. If the fucker was still in pieces, it would still be in Araguba, right? Well, our man Nikolai says it’s gone. And since even the Russians don’t transport 8,000-ton nuclear submarines on trucks, my guess is the bastard’s floating.
“And if it’s floating, and not in the harbor, it’s steaming somewhere. And since we can’t locate it, and neither, it seems, can anyone else, it’s being very secretive. And I want to know where it is, mainly because I’m afraid it might be bombarding U.S. oil refineries.”
“What was the latest from Rankov?”
“He promised he’d find out for me if it was still in Araguba. But he didn’t get back.”
“You think that proves it’s out there?”
“Well, it proves what I already know, that Rankov is a lying, devious, Russian prick. But I think it’s almost decisive. Barracuda II, wherever it may be, is up to something.”
Just then, two things happened. The waiter arrived with coffee, and Admiral Morris answered his internal line to hear Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe’s voice asking to see him right away.
He replaced the receiver and said, “Ramshawe’s on his way, says he has two things—one of them hot.”
When Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe arrived, he said, “Hello, sir…oh, g’day, Admiral…didn’t know you were here, but I’m glad you are. I’ve got a very interesting satellite picture right here.”
He laid out on the desk of Admiral Morris a blowup print of a shot taken that morning outside the Chinese Naval Base in Zhanjiang. There, large as life, on the surface, was the Barracuda, thirty-five days and 3,500 miles out of Petropavlovsk. In the South China Sea, exactly where the Russians had said it was going.
“Have the Navy guys confirmed this is definitely a Barracuda Class Sierra? A genuine Type 945?” asked Admiral Morgan.
“Yes, sir. No doubts. One hundred percent. That’s the Barracuda.”
“Well, we think it fired a salvo of missiles at Grays Harbor in the early morning of Friday, March seventh,” said Arnold. “That’s eight days ago, and the Pacific Ocean is damn nearly seven thousand miles across from our northwest coast to south China. So he must have made damn nearly forty knots all the way, which he can’t. And he must have set off about seventy-three SOSUS alarms at that speed, which he didn’t.
“That ship outside Zhanjiang, gentlemen, did not do the deed. That much is obvious. Which leaves our calculations in disarray.”
“Bloody oath, it does, Admiral,” said Jimmy. “Where do we go from here?” “Well, Lieutenant, as you know, the Russians did build a second Barracuda, which spent all of its life in dry dock in Araguba. And I came here this morning to inform Admiral Morris that it had gone…”
“Gone, sir!”
“Gone. Vamoosed. Not there.”
“Christ. That puts a different light on it, wouldn’t you say? I mean, that ship outside Zhenjiang might be the second one, right? And the first one, the Barracuda that hooked the sushi net, might still be where we think it is. Off California.”
“That, Jimmy, is what is causing me deep concern. And the more I think of it, the less I like it. You know why?”
“Sir?”
“Because the Chinese obviously do not wish us to know they have bought TWO Barracudas at $300 million each, or whatever. And in those circumstances they should have crept into Zhanjiang much more carefully, surfacing at the very last moment, and then crept into the jetties during the dark hours of the night, when they know we have no satellite pass.”
Jimmy Ramshawe was silent. He just sat there staring into space. He actually sat there for almost a minute without replying.
“Jimmy?” said Admiral Morris, concerned his Aussie assistant had gone into shock, or some kind of a trance.
But Jimmy ignored him, just shook his head, and then exclaimed, “H-O-L-E-E SHIT!”
Admiral Morgan looked quizzical.
Then James Ramshawe punched the air. “You just said $300 million apiece, sir? The submarines China has plainly bought. AND THAT’S IT, SIR. THAT’S BLOODY IT! OLD RAZORMOUTH 600 CONFIRMED…that’s the bloody message we picked up off the Chinese satellite. It was telling someone Russia had accepted $600 million for TWO Barracudas. If you don’t mind my saying so, sir, you’re a bloody genius.”
Arnold Morgan, genuinely smiling for the first time in more than a week, replied, “And if you don’t mind my saying so, Lieutenant, you’re not so fucking dusty yourself.”
“And another thing, sir. What about that SOSUS detection last month, off the coast of Ireland—they thought it could have been a Russian nuke creeping down the Atlantic. Does that make sense?”
“If that was the second Barracuda, and it was owned by China,” said Arnold. “Almost every last piece of this jigsaw fits together. Including the possibility that Beijing is using the first one to cripple our West Coast economy. By the way, the mystery submarine off the coast of Ireland, was on February seventh at1935. The numbers are engraved on my mind. I think about it every day. Sneaky little bastard.”
“What bothers me, Arnie,” said George Morris, “is why China should want to be involved in such a lunatic adventure. They must know stuff like this will provoke a colossal response from us.”
“Of course, we don’t know that China is responsible for anything,” replied Arnold. “We only know for sure that Beijing bought one Barracuda Type 945, because the Russians told us. We also have Jimmy’s razormouth message suggesting they bought two Barracuda s . And we have seen one of them headed into Zhanjiang, and although we don’t know which one, it does suggest a decoy. Because that little bastard headed into port in a way that suggested they wanted us to see it.”
“OK, men, what do we do now, bomb the little pricks into oblivion?” Lt. Commander Ramshawe was only half joking.
Vice Admiral Morgan laughed nervously. “I’m afraid there’s more to this than meets the eye, Jimmy. And remember one thing. Russia is NEVER going to admit the second Barracuda was sold. China is NEVER going to admit anything. They may say a Barracuda submarine visited Zhanjiang under the flag of another country. They will also say that has absolutely nothing to do with the United States.
“As for our suspicions that someone is hitting our oil industry with cruise missiles, they will say that any suggestion that China is responsible is utterly preposterous, and would honorable President of United States like to have State visit to Beijing, and very great welcome by Chinese people.”
Admiral Morris added, “Remember, also, that satellite picture Jimmy’s just brought in. That’s the only ti
me we’ve seen either of those boats anywhere near a Chinese port of entry.”
“You’re right,” said Arnold. “And I am being driven to just one view—the only time this mystery gets solved is if we catch and nail whoever and whatever is out there off the coast of California. And I don’t know how to do that. Yet.”
Ramshawe’s reply sounded more Australian than Saltbox Bill, King of the Overland. “Well, we’d better be right bloody sharp about it, before the shifty little mongrel bastard strikes again.”
“And one more thing, Jimmy,” said Admiral Morgan. “I was informed you had two items of interest when you arrived. What’s the second one?”
“Sir, I’ve been scrolling through the SOSUS and radar surveillance reports on our Internet for the past couple of weeks. Naturally, there’s not a whole lot happening up in the Bering Sea to interest us. But I found one thing. happened on 19 February, the Navy listening station at North Head, Akutan Island, picked up transient contact on radar, about thirty miles offshore, South Bering Sea 54.45’ N, 166.28’ W. No POSIDENT, But they got three sweeps on the radar. They thought it could be an intruder, but they never heard it again.”
“I guess it could have been anything,” replied Admiral Morgan.
“Well, yes, it could, sir. But those guys are used to tracking ships through the Unimak Pass, and whatever this was, it got their attention. Then it vanished.”
“It’s a bit late to worry about it now,” said Arnold. “But there’s only one type of ship that can just vanish, right, George?”
“Only one, Arnie. Only one.”
6 P. M., Sunday, March 16, 2008
The Pacific Ocean
The Barracuda was making a racetrack pattern 500 feet below the surface, 270 miles southwest of Lompoc, Valley of Flowers, 340 miles due west of Tijuana, on the Mexican border. Shakira had accepted, in principle, the concept of a straight hit-and-run. The final destination of the missiles was 34.39’ N, 120.27’ W. It was 120 minutes to launch.
THE AMERICAN WEST COAST—OPS AREA BARRACUDA 945
Inside the Kodak Theatre, the entertainment industry’s biggest night was well under way. Members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences were seated with dozens of hopefuls, the short-listed nominees for the little golden statues.
They had already made the award for the Best Special Effects to Bob Ferrer, Ray Ricken, and Sydney Limberg for Terminator XII, and all three of them had thanked everyone they had ever met, with the possible exception of the studio cat. Oscars 2008 was already running ten minutes late.
They showed film clips for the Best Cinematography—for which Hiram Rothman was a hot favorite for his spectacular filming of the battle for the Gettysburg Heights in Hope, Not Glory. The Civil War epic was also up for Best Director (Milt Brabazon) and Best Actor (Flint Carbury). And the entire row of Civil Warriors stood up and applauded the victory of Hiram, whose magic lenses had made them all look utterly wonderful.
Make your speed five knots and come to three hundred…. Missile Director to the Control Room…
Hiram Rothman, who had won twice before in a long and perfectly brilliant career, was seasoned and dignified, and merely thanked everyone for being so helpful. A quick thank-you to twenty-seven relatives put the ceremony more or less back on track. It was already heading toward a nine o’clock finish, just as Mrs. Rashood had forecast.
Two more minor awards followed, and then, shortly before seven o’clock, one of the highlights of the evening occurred. Edna Casey, the Irish poet, won the award for Best Original Screenplay for Timeshare. The Oscar was not quite so interesting as the decision of the film’s star, Troy Ramford, to unload his wife of eleven years, plus their three children, last fall in favor of the more exotic charms of the svelte Galway-born redhead, Miss Casey. It had been a world tabloid preoccupation whether Troy and Edna would show up for the Oscars together.
Aided by about 500 megawatts of television power, the world now knew. Troy had the overjoyed Edna Casey in his arms, and Hollywood, ever anxious to accept and welcome a new regime, was on its feet applauding. The gifted Irish writer moved shyly to the podium and told the audience, “This means more to me than I can ever say. I’m sure Troy and I will both treasure it always.”
That was the confirmation of love the media had been awaiting for five months. The audience erupted as Edna waved her Oscar.
Conn-Captain…Come to PD…. Check surface picture visual…. Fifty-five minutes to launch….
The ceremony continued in glittering harmony. Best Musical Score was won by the ex-London busker Bobby Beethoven (née Schwartz) for Ramraid, a tacky but clever British lowlife gangster drama, which was also up for Best Screenplay, written by the new Liverpool-based duo of Fred and Anna Zimmer.
Billy Cohn, picking up his fourth Oscar for a Best Adaptation, valiantly strove to be brief while praising the entire cast and crew of the 2007 sleeper Free Agent, a sports spoof that was too close to the truth to spoof anyone. He ignored his immediate family in his thank-yous, but became overcome with grief when dedicating his Oscar to his partner, an airline steward who had recently died. Billy, in tears, had to be helped from the podium by heartbroken executives from Provincetown International Airways.
Check all systems…. Nineteen minutes to launch…. Lt. Comdr. Abbas Shafii to the Control Room….
The battle for Best Supporting Actress was now in full cry, and the clips were running. Hands were being held, clenched and placed over wide-open mouths. Inside the Kodak, the earth stood still. AND THE WINNER IS—Maggee Donald, for Free Agent.
The spotlights searched and landed upon the slim, beautiful former Texas waitress and her unshaven country-and-western singer/husband, Slack Brandiron. The music struck up and the world watched the girl who had played the Free Agent’s lover make her way to the floodlit podium all alone. It had been only her second film role. Maggee just plain dissolved into laughter and tears, and kept saying over and over, “I jest wish mah mommy could see me raht now.”
The audience was entranced, as she began her speech, at two minutes to eight. “This is just, like, the proudest moment….”
Prepare tubes one to four…. Final systems check…. Lt. Comdr. Rashood to the Missile Control Room….
“And I want to thank my late mommy who died only six months ago, and I know mah daddy’s watchin’ back home in Amarillo, and he’s gonna be, like, so proud of me….”
TUBE ONE—FIRE!…TUBE TWO—FIRE!…TUBE THREE—FIRE!…TUBE FOUR—FIRE!
Maggee raised her Oscar high, and said, “I’m liftin’ this so high because no one back home at mah high school’s even gonna, like, believe this unless they see it, like, personally. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you from the bottom of mah heart….”
Make your course one-three-five…. Speed eight…. bowdown ten…. go to eight hundred feet…. We’re going home, gentlemen.
The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, wary of putting their golden eggs at the very end of the program, had now moved up the award for Best Actor to an estimated one hour from the conclusion of the ceremony. And the Kodak held its breath, as they announced the nominations and ran the clips, two minutes for each film, showing the shining moments of the best male acting performances of the year.
“And the winner is” (roll on the drums) “…TROY RAMFORD for Timeshare.” And again the spotlights raked the audience in search of the tall, Nebraska-born Oscar winner, who was currently kissing Edna, waving to well-wishers, and trying to stand up.
In a maelstrom of backslapping, whooping, and cheering, he walked up to receive his award, stepping out into the aisle and insisting that Ms. Carey accompany him. By the time the glorious pair were under way, Jake Milburn and Skip Farr, watching the security radar screen out on the western edge of the Lompoc power station, had spotted a line of four incoming flying objects screaming over the California coast. And they took longer to assemble their defenses than Troy and Edna.
Both men saw the first missile come arrowing in,
directly overhead, low and fast, 600-plus knots. Incredulously, they watched it dive and hit the massive generator building, which contained twenty-four 200-foot-long, 10-foot-high turbines, stacked in sets of three beneath the 80-foot-high roof.
The entire structure was blown sky-high, the eight topmost turbines, weighing around 100 tons apiece, being hurled over 300 feet into the air, two of them intact. They had not yet crashed to the ground when the next missile hit the furnace room, blew the huge heating units assunder, and exploded in a 200-yard-wide fireball a half million gallons of fuel oil, recently unloaded from Union Pacific freight car tankers.
The next missile vaporized the control room, and the last one blew up the entire fuel storage area, including its direct pipeline to the railroad terminus, where every last barrel of fuel oil was pumped out and into the power station. Both terminus and the power station were history, and the fires rose hundreds of feet into the twilit skies, black oil smoke billowing on a west wind across the Valley of Flowers and engulfing the entire town of Lompoc.
It was impossible to see four yards on the freeway up to Vandenberg Air Force Base, where the Commanding Officer ordered all aircraft to red alert. That was two minutes after the first missile hit. And that was when the lights went out in the Kodak Theatre. Right out, that is. Not a glimmer. Troy and Edna stood in inky black darkness, film stars screamed, bimbos squealed, actors yelled, their minders cursed, and the management appealed for calm through microphones that no longer worked.
All over the world, movie fans by the hundreds of millions were tuned to the Hollywood blackout. It quickly became obvious that this was no ordinary blackout. There was nothing coming out of the Kodak whatsoever. Nothing out of Los Angeles. None of the television networks could fathom the complete shutdown of their West Coast news operations.
Within moments, there was complete chaos in the Kodak. The emergency generators kicked in five minutes after the power failure, but these were on a very small scale compared to the dimension of the lost wattage. There was sufficient light to provide a safe way out for a normal crowd in the electronic auditorium.
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