“You’re darn right he’d be much worse,” interjected General Daramus. “He’s got twenty-four ballistic missiles on that submarine.”
“Yes, sir, that’s correct,” said Lannis. “And each one has five independently targetable reentry vehicles—one hundred and twenty warheads in all.”
“Well that’s a hell of a lot worse!” said President Thornton. “So what else can you tell me about him?”
“I know he loves freedom and democracy, sir. He loves America, and he’s adamant about protecting her.”
“All right. Not surprising in a military man. Tell me something he doesn’t like.”
“Well, I know he doesn’t like the media.”
“Who does?” asked the president with a laugh. “I know why I don’t like them, but what’s his beef?”
“He thinks they are traitors, sir, because they published classified information during the War on Terrorism. He feels their role in weakening the Patriot Act and limiting executive powers was a key factor in allowing the terrorists to destroy DC.”
“Well, I can’t say he’s entirely wrong,” said the president. “What else is bugging him? There must be something else. Submarine captains don’t go hijack their own subs just because they don’t like something they read in the newspaper!”
“On several occasions, I heard him express the opinion ballistic missile submarines had become obsolete in the age of terrorism. He often asked the rhetorical question, ‘What good is a boomer on patrol against a bunch of terrorist thugs?’”
“Hmm…interesting,” said the president. “Did he ever say anything in particular about al-Qaeda?”
“Not specifically about al-Qaeda, sir. But he did express the opinion, ‘You can’t defeat fanaticism with moderation, and that’s what the West is trying to do.’”
“That’s very astute.” President Thornton seemed lost in thought for a minute and then continued, “It’s interesting. We have a confirmed patriot with a keen sense of honor and duty who feels his chosen military career path has become useless as a means for defending the homeland. He thinks the rest of us are on a misguided quest that is bound to result in total defeat.”
The president paused again and then asked Lannis, “Is he a Republican or a Democrat?”
“Sir?”
“You heard me—is he a Republican or a Democrat?”
“I don’t know for sure, Mister President, but judging from my personal conversations with him, I would say he’s probably a Republican.”
“And he’s from the South somewhere, if I remember correctly from the report…right?”
“Mississippi, I believe.”
“Hmm…it’s starting to make a little more sense now.”
“How’s that, sir?”
“Are you a student of history, Commander Wayne?”
“Somewhat, sir, but I wouldn’t call myself a historian.”
“Well, if you look at the history of our military, you will find that World War Two began the age of the conscripted soldier in the U.S. Before that, there was no draft. The career military man was a volunteer—one of an elite group of warriors. Whenever conflict broke out, the biggest fear any of those warriors had was not that they would be killed or injured in combat, but that they would be left out—they would not get their chance to participate in the fight! Camaraderie, duty, and honor compelled each and every one of them to get in there and fight shoulder to shoulder with their fellow men at arms. Anyone who didn’t make it to the front considered himself a failure. General Patton tried to instill that sense of duty and honor in his conscripted soldiers when he told them on the eve of battle to be proud of their service. He told them someday their grandchild would ask, ‘Grandfather, what did you do during the war?’ He said they would be able to tell their grandchild they fought in the Big One. No one, he said would want to be left out and have to answer, ‘I shoveled shit in Louisiana.’”
“Yes, sir…” said Lannis. “I remember that speech…from the movie.”
“Well, Commander, for a generation now, we have once again had an all volunteer force, and that class of elite warriors has returned. They have a sense of duty; they have a sense of honor; and they will not be denied.” The president turned to the chairman. “Would you agree, General?”
“We have a great many service members like that, Mr. President.”
“Interestingly,” President Thornton continued, “most of them are Republicans and most of them come from the Deep South—a testament to their fighting rebel ancestors, and in many cases, a testament to their fighting ancestors in Ireland and the Highlands of Scotland. What is George Adams’s family background? Where did they come from, Commander?”
“I don’t know, Mister President. He has reddish-blond hair and freckled skin, so Irish or Scottish would be a good guess.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me if he was Scottish. The thing that worries me about that fact is the Scots and their descendants, many of whom settled in the Deep South, love to attack! Many northern veterans of World War Two will testify about landing on Japanese beaches in the South Pacific and hearing their fellow soldiers from the South let out a shrill rebel yell as they dashed out of landing craft and stormed enemy positions in the face of withering machine-gun fire.”
“It’s a good thing we have men like that, sir,” said Lannis, knowing inside that he certainly was not one of them.
“To these elite warriors,” the president continued, “Democrats who cry foul and complain our troops are being unjustly put in harm’s way just don’t understand. And perhaps we don’t. Like most other Democrats, I like to think that we, as a society and as a species, have evolved past the need for wars. But in reality, it looks like we never will.”
“No, sir, unfortunately not,” said everyone at the table.
President Thornton turned once again to the chairman and said, “General Daramus, the country needs men like George Adams. However, we need them to do the right thing. We need them to serve their country with order and discipline, not jacking around like some loose cannon whenever they feel like it. Right now, we need other men like George Adams to find him and stop whatever it is he’s planning. Find him and stop him at all costs!”
“Yes, sir, Mister President,” the general responded. “We’ll find him and stop him, sir!”
Chapter 26
August 29, Philadelphia, PA
The U.S. Navy made every effort to keep the crew list of the Louisiana secret, especially those suspected of still being aboard. On the morning of August 29, however, the president’s press secretary entered the president’s office and dropped a copy of the Philadelphia Inquirer on his desk. The headline said it all: INQUIRER OBTAINS USS LOUISIANA CREW LIST. The Inquirer published the entire original crew list, with asterisks identifying those believed to be among the hijackers. Because the crew list was still highly classified, the Inquirer’s source would remain anonymous.
In the following days, the immediate families of the crew received death threats from people claiming to be associated with al-Qaeda and had to be moved to secure locations. Some extended family members were assassinated, and the protection program had to be expanded. There was great denunciation of the Inquirer by conservatives while liberals continued to support the Inquirer’s actions under the banner of freedom of the press.
At SUBLANT headquarters in Norfolk, Lannis stood in the admiral’s outer office waiting for permission to enter. Admiral Yates had called him with little notice for a midday update. The intercom buzzed and Petty Officer Humphrey answered.
“Yes, sir. I’ll send him right in.” He turned to Lannis. “You can go in now, Commander Wayne.”
Without a word or a nod, Lannis entered the admiral’s office. The admiral stood looking intently at a large, laminated map of the world, which covered most of one wall.
“Good afternoon, Admiral.”
“Commander Wayne, how goes the search?” The admiral continued studying the map, concentrating on the south Atlantic off the
western coast of Africa. Intensive Anti-Submarine Warfare (ASW) operations continued in that area and around the Cape of Good Hope into the Indian Ocean.
“There has been no contact with the Louisiana, sir. We have U.S., British, Russian, and Indian ASW forces conducting coordinated searches of her most likely path as well as some less likely paths.”
“Yes, but paths to where?” the admiral asked rhetorically.
“The Indian Ocean. From there, the Louisiana’s missiles can hit any Muslim country in the world.”
“But we don’t know that’s his plan for sure, do we?”
“No, sir, but it’s the worst case, so we’re doing what we can to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“Well, it may be a wasted effort. Don’t forget, George Adams is a pretty smart guy. He knows that if he tries to make it past a chokepoint like the Cape of Good Hope, he’s bound to get nabbed. Start thinking of other routes and other destinations where he might be headed.”
Stepping up to the map, Lannis grabbed a nearby pointer and began to indicate other locations around the world. “Yes, sir. We’ve also got a fleet of attack boats, here, in a defensive line south of Cape Horn at the southern tip of South America, and we have another ASW task force operating, here, in the far north Atlantic to prevent the Louisiana from transiting under the ice to the Pacific.”
“That’s good, but George still has several advantages. First, it’s a big ocean out there, and we don’t really have a clue where to look. Second, the technology built into the Louisiana is the best in the world. We designed her to be practically impossible to find. Third, is the training of her crew. George may have only a third of the crew to work with, but knowing him, he’s got the best fifty submariners in the navy!”
Lannis set the pointer down and stepped away from the map, realizing from the admiral’s comments that it was useless for him to continue to act as if he had the situation under control.
“Meanwhile,” Admiral Yates continued, “massive Muslim protests are occurring all over the world. They’re accusing the U.S. and other Western governments of plotting the disappearance of the Louisiana!”
“Yes, sir. I know.”
“There’s not a single Muslim country in the world that believes a renegade crew stole one of our ballistic missile submarines. They believe it’s a plot to distract attention and responsibility from the U.S., while the U.S. carries out this mission of retribution. Those individual Muslims who do believe the Louisiana might have been hijacked think that our ASW forces are intentionally not finding her!”
“But that’s absurd, Admiral! There’s nothing better we would like than to find the Louisiana and get this whole mess behind us!”
“We know that, but they don’t. Radical Muslims everywhere are threatening a worldwide jihad if this U.S.-led submarine attacks Muslim countries. They’re even talking about preemptive strikes against targets here in the U.S. and against U.S. interests around the world. We’ve got to find the Louisiana ASAP! President Thornton is doing his best, but diplomacy is not going to work much longer!”
Chapter 27
September 3, SUBLANT Headquarters, Norfolk, Virginia
Petty Office Leona Harris entered the office of the new SUBLANT ops officer, Commander Edward Nordeen. Her eyes were red, and she looked as though she had not slept in days.
“Commander Nordeen, can I talk to you about something personal?”
Looking up, he noticed her sad state and offered her a chair. “Sure, Petty Officer Harris. Have a seat.”
Leona sat down across from the commander in front of his desk. She dropped her head into her hands and started to cry.
“Whoa! What’s the problem? What can I do?” he stammered.
Looking up, she sobbed, “It’s my father. I just got word from Kansas that he may have had a stroke. He’s in the hospital, and they think he’s going to die!”
“Oh my gosh, that’s awful. You need to get out there. Let’s go down right now to see Petty Office Humphrey and fill out a request chit for emergency leave. We can do without you around here for a few days. At a time like this, you need to be in Kansas with your father.”
That evening, after sending her daily fax of ships’ positions to Dwight, Leona packed up her most precious belongings and headed to the airport. At the ticket counter, she handed her driver’s license and credit card to the agent.
“I’d like a one-way ticket please—on the next available flight.”
The agent looked at her strangely and tentatively asked, “Okay, any place in particular you’d like to go?”
Leona laughed. “Sorry. I guess I didn’t say, did I?”
“No, and I’m not so good at the mind reading this evening.”
“New Orleans, please.”
USS Louisiana
After transmitting the NO FEAR message off the coast of Angola, rather than continuing south toward the Cape of Good Hope, the Louisiana turned westward for two days and then turned northwest and proceeded to the Gulf of Mexico.
During the previous hurricane season, GenCon Construction Company had evacuated two offshore oil rigs in advance of a powerful Category 5 hurricane. After the storm, GenCon publicized that the two rigs had been severely damaged and would not be reoccupied for at least a year. In reality, one of the rigs was not damaged, and GenCon had been converting the rig to be used as a secret testing and operating base, which had come to be known as Platform Alpha.
Selected individuals at GenCon had designed and built two sub-fighters. The prototype had been ready for testing the day George met the civilian engineer outside the mess hall in Norfolk and picked up the blueprints. The blueprints showed the final changes on the sub-fighter George and the engineer had designed, and Dwight had built. The prototype had been tested at Platform Alpha. After the successful testing, the other fighter was rushed to completion. The two fighters had been secretly stored at Platform Alpha where they awaited the Louisiana’s arrival in the Gulf. The fighters were designed to land on the deck of the Louisiana where an airlock on the underside of each fighter would cover and seal one of the escape hatches on the deck. Locking brackets welded to the Louisiana’s hull would be used to secure the fighters in place.
“Sonar, report.”
“All clear, sir.”
“Very well. Make your depth periscope depth.”
“Periscope depth, aye, sir.”
“Up scope.” As the scope rose from the water, Captain Adams made a rapid 360-degree sweep in all directions—a timetested practice of all submariners to ensure they were not about to be rammed and crushed to the bottom of the Gulf by a monstrous supertanker, which had gone unheard by sonar. Having satisfied himself that they were in no immediate danger, he made a slow sweep of the horizon, ensuring there were no ships anywhere in sight. He then turned his attention to Platform Alpha.
Ordinary offshore oil rigs have legs spaced fairly narrowly under the rig, with a large number of structural members crossconnecting the legs. Not so with a jack-up rig. Platform Alpha’s legs were widely spaced—beyond the edge of the platform, and with no cross-connections between them so that the large platform could be ratcheted up and down on the legs. The widely spaced legs, with the two-story platform mounted between them, gave the rig the look of a large spider floating on top of the water, even though the legs extended to the bottom of the Gulf, some three hundred feet below. Two large cranes extended in opposite directions from the platform at a forty-five-degree angle into the air like two insect antennae, completing the illusion.
Captain Adams surveyed the rig through the scope looking for anything unusual that would indicate their plan had been compromised. After thirty or forty seconds, the XO’s curiosity got the better of him, and he asked, “Everything all right, Captain?”
“Yes, it looks fine. Raise the UHF antenna.”
“Raising the UHF antenna, aye, sir.”
“Comm, signal Platform Alpha on the encrypted channel and let me know when they respond.”
&nb
sp; “Aye-aye, sir.” Within thirty seconds, the communications petty officer reported, “Authenticated response received, sir.”
“Very well.” Captain Adams made a last check of the bearing and found they were due west of the platform. “Make your heading zero-niner-zero degrees, all ahead slow.”
“Heading zero-niner-zero degrees, all ahead slow, aye, sir.”
Captain Adams maneuvered the Louisiana to approach the center of the platform from the west.
“The rig has been modified to accommodate the width of the Louisiana between the underwater legs, but only in an east-west direction,” the captain explained.
As the Louisiana approached the rig, a slight current running from north to south caused the submarine to drift almost imperceptibly off course.
“We’re drifting to the south,” observed the captain as he continued to look through the scope. “If we continue on this course, we’ll crash into the southwest leg of the rig.”
The navigator, hunched over his lighted navigation table behind the captain, noted, “The GPS readings don’t show any drift, Captain.”
“The global positioning system is highly accurate, but not as accurate as we need for this evolution…Helm, five degrees left rudder.”
“Five degrees left rudder, aye, sir.”
Once the rudder took effect and the Louisiana’s heading began to swing ever so slightly to the north, the captain called, “Rudder amidships.”
“Rudder amidships, aye, sir.”
The new course the captain had laid in was actually an overcorrection for the north-to-south current. The new course was designed to bring the track of the Louisiana back to an imaginary line running due west from the rig. It was imperative that the Louisiana arrive at the rig not only centered between the north and south legs, but also on a heading of exactly 090 degrees. Once she was back on the proper track, a few subsequent small corrections were all that were needed to maintain the proper approach point and aspect.
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