“That’s it, Dick. We have to keep this very, very tight. What I need to know is this, how can our two organizations keep a handle on it? The black boxes must be kept out of careless hands. I’m assuming your investigators won’t just unpick the box and issue a press release?”
“Good God no. We’re probably as tight with this information as you are. The box will be dealt with in secret at the laboratories of our Air Accident Investigation people. Nothing will be released to anyone until they are sure of their ground. But in this case I think there should be a formal military representative on the team.”
“Right. I was going to suggest our CNO talk to your First Sea Lord…just to ensure that if either you, or we, get ahold of any one of the four boxes, we share whatever information we have. The idea is to catch this bastard, not sell fucking newspapers.”
“Absolutely. I’ll tell you what. I’ll speak to someone in the ministry right away, and brief them as to our thoughts. Basically I think the way forward is for our Air Accident Investigation people to lock in with your Federal Aviation Administration. I’ll call you back.”
“Okay, I’ll be waiting.”
All through the small hours of the night, the Navy chiefs conferred. The First Sea Lord arranged for both the Navy and the Air Force to listen to the black-box recordings at the headquarters of the Air Accident Investigation people. Admiral Joe Mulligan, through Admiral Dunsmore, received similar clearance from the Oval Office, and by 0400 London time, the deal was done. The Royal Navy and the United States Navy would work in tandem, expense no object, in order to bring up the black boxes.
It was as well they had all worked so quickly. At 1340 (GMT) the following day, the Royal Navy’s deep-submerged submarine, found one. It was still transmitting its locator signal, and Exeter had detected it on passive sonar. The box itself was 3 miles down, and they grabbed it with the aid of a television monitor, two floodlights, and a special small bathyscaphe lowered from the minisubmarine.
Back on board Exeter, they identified the black box, which was in fact orange, as the CVR, the cockpit voice recorder, that had belonged to the Concorde. In accordance with the latest orders a satellite signal was sent to both Northwood and the Pentagon. Then the box was sealed, and Exeter made all speed due east to the English Channel, where she would come within the range of a Royal Navy Sea King helicopter.
The box was ultimately flown straight to the Royal Navy Air Base at Culdrose, Cornwall, and on from there by fixed-wing military aircraft. It was a long costly mission for one single word. The only sound to be heard from the cockpit beyond the reams of regular flight recordings was just one short shout from Captain Lambert. It sounded like “MISS,” but there was a lot of interference. It could just as easily have been “KISS,” or “BLISS.”
That part of the recording was relayed to the White House immediately, where Admiral Morgan and Admiral Mulligan were waiting. Arnold Morgan suggested, “the guy either wanted to take a leak, or he was requiring, or getting, a blow job from the stewardess!”
He caught Admiral Mulligan in mid-swig, and the CNO did his unavailing best not to laugh or blow coffee down his nose, but he failed on both counts. And while the towering ex–Trident commander mopped his mouth with a big white handkerchief, the national security advisor moved into serious mode without missing a beat.
“Joe,” he said, “Captain Brian Lambert saw it, didn’t he? Not once in the whole recording, all the way from Heathrow, did we hear him even raise his voice for emphasis. That loud shout of ‘MISS,’ was entirely out of character. The captain meant to say ‘MISSILE!’ in my opinion. Poor guy never got the chance. The bastard was coming straight at him, closing at MACH-4, nearly 2,700 mph If he’d spotted it in clear skies even as much as 4 miles away, it would have hit him in five seconds. And that’d be my rough assessment of a totally lousy equation.”
“Sounds right to me, Arnold. There is no other word that fits the pattern, especially the ones in your sexually explicit theory. He was trying to shout ‘MISSILE’ all right. This recording has been very useful…it’s just about confirmed our original thoughts. And it emphasizes that if the Brits can find a small box in the middle of the Atlantic with modern equipment, they sure as hell could have found a fucking great submarine in the shallow English Channel.”
Just then the telephone rang on Admiral Morgan’s desk. It was a call that had been intercepted by Kathy, so it was plainly important. The national security advisor picked it up and was put through to Admiral George Morris, calling from Fort Meade.
“Arnold, hi. One of my guys just got something that might interest you. We’ve been running routine date checks on the computers, seeing if anything interesting correlates. And he’s come up with this. January 17, the day Concorde, and our oil men, were blown out of the sky. It was the fifteenth anniversary to the day since the opening shots of the Gulf War. January 17 was the day we unleashed the first barrages of Tomahawk cruise missiles at Baghdad…it’s not that much of a coincidence, but it’s a bit of one.”
“Yes, George. Yes it is. The odds against it are 364–1, and it might be a pointer. I thank you and your team.” Click. As ever, Morgan had no time to say good-bye, as the problems that were ostensibly civilian crowded in, unproven, on his military mind.
That evening he and Kathy O’Brien were dining together in Georgetown, and despite all of his efforts to make it cheerful and pleasant, the silences were too long and the admiral’s preoccupation was almost total.
“You always take these matters so personally,” she said, holding his hand, looking into his eyes, confirming unknowingly that she was easily the most beautiful woman in the room. But he kept repeating over and over, “Darling, he’s going to do it again. I know this bastard.”
“Would you like to go home?”
“No. We better hang around for a bit, then get the driver to swing back through the city and pick up the first editions, see if the Fourth Estate has stumbled on something I’ve missed.”
“Would that be a first in your long career?” she asked sweetly, fluttering her eyelashes.
“Maybe a second,” he growled. “But I don’t remember the other occasion.”
They sat companionably, sipping amaretto on the rocks, while the admiral tried to cast from his mind the all-too-real vision of a missile, closing at MACH-4, as the one that probably hit Starstriker most certainly was. “Imagine that,” he said. “You could see it 4 miles out, perhaps a glint in the sunlight, thin contrail behind…now count to five…that’s it. One. Two. Three. Four. BAM. And it’s gotcha. Wouldn’t that be a bitch?”
“Oh yes, I think it would,” she replied. “A real bitch.”
Even Admiral Morgan smiled, just once.
An hour later the newspapers were in the back of the White House car, displaying practically nothing else on the first ten pages. The headlines were varied, from the staid New York Times’s U.S. SUPERSONIC CRASHES IN NORTH ATLANTIC to a local tabloid’s STARSTRIKER STRIKES OUT.
Inside the papers were columns and columns of news and speculation, the disaster having taken place so early in the day there was ample time to interview all manner of “experts,” especially those who were captive at the VIP breakfast banquet.
Every one of the publications on Arnold Morgan’s lap connected Concorde and Starstriker, speculating on the proximity of the crashes, both in position and time frame, three weeks. Somewhat to Morgan’s relief, no one digressed on the possibility of a missile, because the Federal Aviation Administration had stamped on that from a great height. “You would need a certain type of high-accuracy missile to achieve such an objective,” their spokesman had said. “The best of them have a range of only around 50 miles, and at that point in the Atlantic Ocean there is simply nowhere to fire from…no land, and, the satellites confirm, no ship. We regard a missile as impossible.”
Every newspaper carried that quotation. And none of them carried the theory any further. Instead they concentrated on the risks of flying that high and that
fast in anything except a spaceship.
Two of them, the Washington Post and the Philadelphia Inquirer went into the possibility of a stratospheric Bermuda Triangle—trying to compare the fickle atmospherics ten miles above the earth to the strange volcanic eruptions under the sea near Bermuda, which scientists believe release gases into the ocean water, reducing its density and causing ships simply to sink.
The Post hired an expert from the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution to explain how this reduction in water density wreaks havoc with the theory of Archimedes, that a ship displaces an amount of water to equal its own submerged volume…“therefore if the ship is 50 percent underwater, but the water here is 50 percent less dense because of the gases, then the ship will just go straight down…”
The general drift was that somewhere up there in the final layers of the earth’s atmosphere, there was just such a hole, and the two supersonic airliners traveling on almost identical flight paths, one heading east, one west, had just charged straight into it, spun, and powered into the ocean, with no time for anyone to correct anything. “It takes,” the expert wrote ominously, “only twenty-seven seconds for Concorde to travel 10 miles, probably faster going straight down…Starstriker could have hit the ocean from that height in fifteen seconds.”
Spokesmen from the Green Party had a field day, citing the hole in the ozone layer, caused by carbon-gas emissions, as the likely culprit for the crashes. “With the atmosphere noticeably thinner in certain areas, it seems probable that the air density may be reduced sufficiently to make the flight of a high, delta-winged aircraft impossible. It is therefore our view that all such flights should be suspended pending a scientific investigation of the atmospheric phenomena 10 miles above the earth.”
“Do you believe any of this stuff, darling?” asked Kathy. “I mean the hole in the stratosphere, like the hole in the ocean near Bermuda.”
“No,” said the admiral brusquely.
“Why not? It makes sense to me.”
“Because it’s aerodynamic bullshit,” he replied unexpansively.
“How do you know?”
“Because Concordes have been flying through it eight times a day for thirty years and none of them ever fell out of the sky. Now we have two in three weeks.”
“Maybe the situation is worsening. Maybe it’s been worsening for several years, and suddenly reached a critical point.”
“Maybe. But Concorde flights have not been suspended. In the twenty-three days since Captain Lambert’s aircraft hit the ocean, there’ve been 184 supersonic flights, from Paris and London to New York and Washington, right through, or damn close to, that flight path, a lot of ’em half-empty.
You know why they didn’t flip and plunge into the sea? Because Ben fucking Adnam did not fire a guided missile at ’em, that’s why.”
“Oh,” said Kathy, with an air of finality. “You mean he’s kinda on his break?”
“No. He’s just pretty selective. And I have no idea where he will strike next. But he will. Mark my words. He will, if he can. I know him.”
“Oh, do you? I didn’t realize. Perhaps we should have him over for dinner. How about next Wednesday with the Dunsmores?”
Admiral Morgan, despite himself, caved in and laughed, really laughed, for the first time that evening. “It is my unhappy lot to be contemplating marriage to a complete dingbat,” he said; then he softened even more, while he added, “Without whom the sun will never rise for me again.”
Kathy O’Brien had, however, learned from her man the joy of pressing on with a winning line. And now she had a small gold pen in her hand, and she was writing in a small leather-bound notebook, “That’ll be seven now, won’t it…? I do hope he likes swordfish…some people are funny about it…oh my God, he’s not a vegetarian, is he?”
“Thank you, Katherine,” said the admiral, still chuckling. “I think I’d prefer we gave him a nice little serving of grilled cyanide since we’re on menus.”
By now it was almost midnight, and the car was turning into Kathy’s wide tree-lined drive; the car with the Secret Servicemen and the communications system came in right behind them. Another Secret Serviceman drove the admiral’s car in the rear. Both Arnold and Kathy were used to traveling in convoy by now, and Charlie the chauffeur never worked nights.
The three men on duty spent the night watching television in Kathy’s basement study, taking turns to walk around the grounds in pairs, sidearms drawn, connected to their colleague by radiophone.
Arnold Morgan’s was the best-known relationship in the White House, but no one had ever tipped off the press. Not a word about it had ever appeared in any tabloid publication, possibly because both Kathy and Arnold were unmarried, but perhaps because of the reason offered by Charlie himself, “Ain’t no one never gonna gossip about that admiral, because of one good reason. Terror, man, sheer fucking terror. Trust me.”
HMS Unseen, running deep at 8 knots in the early hours of February 10, was making a northeasterly course right above the submerged cliffs of the Rekjanes Ridge in 2000 feet of water. She was on longitude 29 West heading for 51 North, 500 feet below the surface. She left no trace, and nor would she do so unless she ran right into the path of an American nuclear boat. In three days she would slow down and remain totally silent, except when she was snorkeling. On this particular night she would not even come to periscope depth.
Twenty thousand miles above her the satellites scanned the Atlantic Ocean, still searching for the surface ship that could have fired the missile that had downed Starstriker. Below them the search aircraft laid and relaid their buoy patterns. But there was nothing. And Commander Adnam was heading for shallow water, where he would be even more difficult to locate. Shallow water where his snorkel mast could more easily be lost in false echoes on searching radars.
He stood quietly in the control center with Lt. Commander Arash Rajavi, who was looking at a screen showing a North Atlantic chart.
“Right there, Arash. I want to stay right above the Ridge in the shallowest possible water. We’re much easier hidden that way. So let’s make our course three-one-five for another 500 miles, then switch to zero-four-five, all the way up to the Icelandic coast, for the refuel. How far does the Rekjanes stretch? ’Bout 1,200 miles?”
“Bit more, sir. More like 1,350. We ought to be off the southern coast of Iceland by February 15, that’s five days from now.”
“What’s our position for the course change, Arash?”
“We’ll be at 54 North, 37 West…that’s when we swing northeast at last. As you can see, the ridge is like a big V facing west. It would save a lot of trouble to go straight.”
“Not if someone picked us up in deep water. Stay right over the ridge all the way.”
“Aye, sir.”
“You have our destination plotted…see it right here…this big fjord way east of Reykjavik. We’ll still be 175 miles south of the Arctic Circle, and the Atlantic does not freeze up there. Also, the bay I have chosen is very quiet and shallow. It’s deep enough to hide in, but almost landlocked, hell for a searching radar or sonar…I once went up there with the Royal Navy. It’s where one of the big Icelandic rivers flows in…see it on the map…right here. The Thjorsa, flows right down from the central mountains to this place Selfoss.”
“Will they be looking for us yet, sir?”
“If they are, they’ll be in the wrong place. That’s why I struck twice from exactly the same spot. That’s where they’ll concentrate their search, and we’ll be hundreds of miles away by the time they arrive. My only worry would have been if they had gone looking for our refueling tanker. But we don’t have a tanker, do we, Arash? We have the beautiful Santa Cecilia, registered in Panama, just an old coaster running along the shores of Iceland. They will not give it a second glance.”
“You think of everything, sir.”
The CO grinned. “Still breathing, Arash. That’s the test. Officer of the Watch…hold our speed at 8 knots for another twenty hours…we come to PD th
en, access the satellite, and snorkel for 3 hours. That’s all.”
February 11. The White House.
Office of the Vice President.
Martin Beckman was not the kind of veep normally associated with a right-wing Republican administration. At the age of sixty-two, he was a totally unreformed environmentalist, a throwback to the anti-Vietnam marches of the sixties, a man whose secret patron saint was John Lennon. They had both wanted, with great passion, to Give Peace a Chance. Martin still did.
He had been selected as a running mate because he was probably the most left-wing member of the Republican party, and it was widely believed that he might scoop up a few million votes on the college campuses, campaigning on the hot environmental issues of the day. Martin was also one of those liberal thinkers, who, if he could, would have presented every last American dollar to the weak, the sick, the hopeless, the impotent, the pathetic, and the poverty-stricken. Tough-minded, hardworking successful Americans were not Martin’s game. He believed they could get on with it by themselves.
He was a wealthy man, the recipient of a huge trust fund from his father, an old-time investment banker from New Jersey, who had made millions and millions of dollars but had successfully sired only one child. From birth, Martin had lived a life of quiet affluence.
And he had a following. There were people all over the country who believed in, and liked, the tall genial Easterner who looked very like Franklin Roosevelt and displayed similar perfect manners, a kind smile, and a large fortune. Like FDR, Martin had never done anything in his life except run for office, and to try, instinctively, to make things better for the less fortunate. However, the mere sight of the great liberal Martin Beckman, working in the clever, cynical, realistic setting of this American Presidency, was a total enigma. Like seeing Stormin’ Norman Schwarzkopf in a gay bar.
H.M.S. Unseen Page 22