H.M.S. Unseen Page 20

  The big screen on the right was relaying the scene from the cockpit, where Scanner Richards and his co–test pilot, the African-American Yale graduate Marvin Leonard, were running through the checks with the Senior Flight Engineer Don Grafton. As with Concorde, the procedures would take more than an hour. They had been working on it since 0700. The audience could see them in the dark cockpit, following the list on Engineer Grafton’s board, as he studied the cathode ray tubes that contained the critical data bank that would alert them if anything was even remotely amiss. The “Glass Cockpit’s” instrumentation panel, with its six big CRTs, made Concorde’s bewildering mass of conventional dials and switches seem like something out of the Dark Ages. In the deep background, caressed by symphonic Dolby sound, Frank Sinatra sang alternately, “Fly Me to the Moon” and “Come Fly with Me.”

  He sang until precisely 0800, when the Presidential motorcade arrived, the first car bearing the President and his wife, with Admiral Morgan and Robert MacPherson.

  In two cars following came the service chiefs and more Secret Servicemen. Everyone was greeted by John Mulcahy and his wife, and the party walked into the big room while the Air Force band robustly played “Hail to the Chief.”

  The Republican from Oklahoma occupied a very special place in the hearts of almost all the Americans in the room, and they stood and clapped in time to the old familiar music. And as they did so, a giant Stars and Stripes slipped down from the ceiling and fluttered perfectly in the controlled breeze of a secret fan, set in the fuselage of the model Starstriker. As the music ended, the entire gathering was on its feet to clap and cheer the right-wing President from the Southwest, a man who loved the military, who loved big business, who would not permit one dime to be cut from the Defense Budget, and who had twice reduced corporate taxation.

  Also insiders, and there were many in this room, were still talking about a story making the Washington rounds in the last few days, of how a national news magazine had planned to write a humiliating cover story involving a very minor indiscretion by a senior, highly decorated Army officer, who had twice been cited for gallantry in the Gulf War.

  The publisher of the mag had, apparently, been marched into the Oval Office, where the President had told him that he “would not tolerate one of my most trusted military personnel being held up to ridicule in front of every tin-pot fucking dictator in the world because of your goddamned desire to sell magazines.

  “Run that story, and I will use my executive power to have you charged with treason against this nation—and don’t think I wouldn’t do it. Try to remember one thing…you do happen to be an American, no matter how hard that may be for the rest of us to believe. Try to behave like one for a change…now get out.”

  The publisher was apparently shaken, visibly. Had to be given a glass of water right there in the West Wing. But the story was canceled, and the publisher now sat subdued at the long press table, and everyone in the room noticed that he alone did not applaud the great man when the music died down.

  It was 0814, and Starstriker was moving out to the taxiing area. The big screens were showing views from outside and inside the cockpit, every touch of the throttle eliciting a deep, grumbling roar from the Dolby sound system, as all four engines responded slickly. Everyone saw the ground engineer disconnect the tug. The nose and visor were lowered, and Scanner Richards headed her out to the takeoff point.

  Then, for the first time, Boeing’s supersonic aircraft could be seen, a sleek white 300-foot-long delta-winged giant, with a wider body than Concorde’s, but not noticeably so because of the extra length. Passengers would ultimately sit in 36 rows of 8, widely separated into 4 pairs of seats. The pilot was almost 60 feet in front of the nose wheel. The Dolby sound system was still picking up the words of the flight engineer as he ran further safety checks while heading out toward the nearly 2-mile-long runway 19L.

  Starstriker arrived at the takeoff point three minutes early, which gave Frank time for another couple of verses of “Fly Me to the Moon” and John Mulcahy to stand and welcome everyone for the second time and assert what a very great privilege it was for him to host such an august gathering of dignitaries, all of whom, he hoped, would shortly be paying customers on his aircraft, no matter which airline’s livery Starstriker carried.

  Everyone heard the Dulles tower clear the aircraft to enter the runway. And then the voice came through again. “Tower to Boeing 2707-500…. Starstriker 001 cleared for takeoff.”

  In reply, Scanner Richards’s echoing words, on the Dolby system, sounded like Shakespeare. “Zero-zero-one rolling…”

  Inside the cockpit, they heard Marvin Leonard counting…“Four—three—two—one—No…”

  And they watched Scanner Richards smoothly extending the throttles forward, as Boeing’s supersonic flagship powered out of the starting gate.

  “Airspeed building…”

  “Afterburners…100 knots.”

  “Power checked…. V1…”

  At 200 knots the nosewheel lifted off the runway, and Starstriker seemed to hang at 10 degrees as her speed built.

  Inside the VIP room the big hitters held their breath, as Marvin Leonard said, “V2, sir…221 knots…”

  And Starstriker rocketed off the runway, accelerating to 250 knots, climbing into the cold clear skies above the Washington suburbs, tracked by the television cameras, as avidly as any space program. Scanner Richards took off to the northeast, altering course to due east for the 135-mile flight to the Atlantic coastline. There she would accelerate again, climbing to her cruise altitude of 60,000 feet, where her engines would settle into the fantastic speed of MACH-2.5, two and a half times the speed of sound, or, close to 1,700 mph.

  Starstriker had to fly southeast for 50 miles, before adjusting through 90 degrees for the Atlantic crossing. Boeing’s supersonic masterpiece made short work of that, and the VIP room sat spellbound, listening to the pilot call the way points. From the moment of the major course change to the northeast Starstriker, still accelerating, devoured the 300 miles up to Nantucket Island in fifteen minutes.

  “Nantucket abeam, sir…39.50 North, 69.00 West…MACH-2.5…”

  The words of Marvin Leonard, magnified by the sound system, electrified the gathering. The President looked over at Admiral Morgan and shook his head in sheer wonder. This thing was not a spaceship, on its way to Mars. This was a regular passenger jet aircraft, pointing the way to travel in the twenty-first century, exactly as Jay Herbert’s carefully crafted sentences pointed out in the Boeing brochure.

  Jay himself had pulled up a chair to the press table and was talking some of the newsmen through the flight, explaining how the captain would shortly come under the guidance of Oceanic Control, Gander, checking in every 10 degrees, or 450 miles, or, incredibly, every thirteen and a half minutes.

  Starstriker was at full throttle. She checked in at the 50 West way point, right on 42 North, 10 miles above the great swells of the Atlantic flowing over the freezing Grand Banks. Relaxed, Scanner Richards faced the camera, while Marvin flew the aircraft, and he told everyone back at Dulles what a truly fantastic machine it was, and what a great privilege it was for him and his crew to make the first test flight transatlantic. He wished everyone good morning, and jauntily asked John Mulcahy if it would be okay for him to have a quick cup of coffee. It was a mild joke by Scanner’s normal standards, but it laid ’em in the aisles in the VIP room, such was the depth of admiration for the job he was doing.

  As the guests continued with their eggs, scrambled with smoked salmon, accompanied by Waterford crystal glasses of Krug champagne and orange juice, the minutes ticked by. And Starstriker ripped across the clear northern skies, the throaty crackle of her four engines lost out there on the frontiers of space.

  The way point at 40 West was passed right on the forty-fifth parallel, and ATC Gander, in faraway snowbound Newfoundland, checked them in. Starstriker thundered on toward the next way point, the one at 30 West right above the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, where S
canner Richards would alert ATC Shannon in southern Ireland that his supersonic aircraft would check in from 60,000 feet at 30 West, in thirteen and a half minutes. Speed was steady at MACH-2.5.

  Marvin Leonard said good-bye to Gander and made the 30 West contact with Shannon right on time, reporting height, speed, and position. The deep southern Irish brogue, the distinct tones of a Kerryman, came in immediately.

  “Good morning Boeing Starstriker 001…roger that…talk to you in minutes thirteen…over.”

  At which point came the first glitch of the morning. Both the big screens illuminating the flight at the VIP breakfast banquet went blank, fizzing noisily through the mammoth Dolby speakers. A collective groan went up, right out of the early days of cinema when the reel ran out. But before it died away, two things happened. The chief electrician headed across the room toward the control panel, and Admiral Arnold Morgan leapt to his feet, knocking his chair flying, and exclaiming, “JESUS CHRIST! OH NO…JESUS CHRIST.”

  To his fellow guests it seemed like an outpouring of fury and disappointment at the failure of the system. A few people laughed, but the President’s wife grabbed his hand, and said, “Come on, Arnie…it’s not that bad…they’ll have it going in a few minutes.”

  But her husband’s national security advisor was completely distraught. “NO…NO THEY WON’T. GODDAMMIT…GODDAMMIT…THAT BASTARD…GODDAMMIT…” Those closest to him could see tears of anger and frustration streaming down his craggy face. And the only clue that this was no ordinary outburst was perhaps the fact that Naval Chief Joe Mulligan looked positively ashen. He excused himself and came round to Admiral Morgan, placing his arm around his shoulders, and muttering, “Come on, old buddy…I guess we got work to do.”

  Everyone saw the two military men leave the room, walking quickly, out toward the office where the Presidential communications were located, guarded by six Secret Servicemen. There were three telephones in there, and while John Mulcahy stood up and apologized for the technical interruption, the President’s chief security advisor was already on the secure line to the White House, instructing them to patch him through to Air Traffic Control, Shannon, southern Ireland.

  That took less than thirty seconds because Kathy O’Brien had the numbers right in front of her. When the admiral made contact, announcing himself as the senior security representative of the President of the United States, the operator put him through at once to the ATC supervisor.

  And he had no idea what the fuss was about. “Sir, Starstriker 001 made contact at 30 West, nine minutes ago…she’s not due in for another four minutes…how can I help?”

  “GO TO SELCAL…BOMBARD THE COCKPIT WITH SIGNALS…GET ’EM ON THE LINE!”

  “No problem, sir. I’m sitting right here with the operator now…we’re going through on her private call sign HF band…we just lit two warning lights in the cockpit and right now we have four warning bells ringing.”

  “Are they coming in?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “HIT ’EM AGAIN FOR CHRIST’S SAKE.”

  “No need sir, these systems operate nonstop…it’s happening over and over.”

  “Are they coming in?”

  “Nossir.”

  “How long before they’re due?”

  “Two minutes, sir”

  “KEEP HITTING ’EM.”

  “I’m doing it, sir. But they’re just not answering. It’s very unusual…very, very unusual.”

  “GIMME THE TIME AGAIN.”

  “Starstriker’s due in sixty seconds, sir.”

  Arnold Morgan waited. He waited next to his trusted friend Joe Mulligan for a full minute, then another. Then the Irish ATC supervisor said, “We’re on the line. You can probably hear our operator right next to me.”

  And in the distance the admiral could hear a disconnected voice, and the tones were somehow hollow. “Starstriker…Starstriker. This is Shanwick…this is Shanwick…go ahead with your position report. Starstriker 001, please go ahead with your position report…”

  The two admirals, both of them in mild shock, stood in silence, still listening for the words of the Irish supervisor to confirm that it was all a mistake, that the Boeing supersonic was still racing through the skies.

  But at 1001 (EST), the operator came back on the line and delivered his message with a softly spoken jackhammer. “I’m sorry to inform you, sir, that we are now certain Starstriker is down in the North Atlantic, somewhere east of 30 West, her last-known was 50.30 North at 60,000 feet. We are alerting all ships in the area plus the appropriate United States agencies.”

  Admiral Morgan replaced the receiver, looked at the highest-ranking officer in the United States Navy, and said, “He got her.”

  Admiral Mulligan found it hard to speak. Their conversation of just three days earlier would haunt both men for years to come. But still the question remained: Was Ben Adnam really out there in a stolen diesel-electric submarine silently slamming passenger jets out of the Western skies on behalf of Islam?

  “Well,” rasped Admiral Morgan, “with two supersonic aircraft down, for no reason, in roughly the same patch of water, in three weeks, an accident looks pretty goddamned coincidental.”

  They walked back to the main room, uncertain what to do or say. But pandemonium had already broken out. When Shannon put the announcement out to the international air-sea rescue services, it took just a few minutes for the news to reach the British Broadcasting Corporation, and subsequently to be released in a news flash on the television and radio networks. This meant, broadly, that the entire world news media knew that Starstriker was down within twenty minutes of the crash.

  The television people could not believe their luck. One of the great stories of all time was breaking, and there they were, in a room with the Boeing president, his PR chief, and other executives. Even the President of the United States was there. Even the head of the United States Air Force. Even the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. They even had the chairman of British Airways, which had lost the Concorde a mere twenty days earlier. These journalists were involved in the News Nirvana of the last hundred years.

  In the opinion of Arnold Morgan nothing useful could possibly be achieved by any of the Presidential party, and he recommended that everyone leave immediately, an evacuation facilitated by the Secret Service. Admiral Mulligan made the same suggestion to Scott Dunsmore, and the military top brass were also out of there in record time, leaving Jay Herbert to protect John Mulcahy as best he could. The electronic satellite links to the great aircraft had been switched off, since it was plain there was nothing to which they could connect. Starstriker was history.

  The Pentagon staff car dropped Admiral Mulligan at the White House. And there in the West Wing, behind the locked doors of the office of the NSA, sat the only two men in America who had even a partial, if outlandish, theory to explain what had happened. Each tried to assemble his thoughts, trying to decide what to do about the menace that might be lurking five hundred feet below the surface, somewhere in a million square miles of the North Atlantic.

  “The trouble is,” said the Navy chief, “we still don’t have a shred of evidence, and I can’t just order a fleet to take off on some wild-goose chase. It would cost a fortune, which is not in our budget, and we’d hardly know where to start looking. Plus the operation would have to be ‘black,’ since we cannot alarm the populace. We’d need a dozen warships, which would alert the entire Armed Forces that something dead suspicious was going on right out there where the two jetliners went down.”

  “I know, Joe. Don’t I just know. I think the best way forward is for us to analyze carefully the whole scenario…just to get it clear in our minds. That means we should assess the similarities between the two disasters, which is very simple.

  “Both aircraft were maintained to the highest possible standards. Both of them just vanished off the airwaves around 30 West. Neither pilot, so far as we know, had time even to utter the word, SHIT. Which means they both blew up internally, or fell apart fo
r unknown reasons. Or they were hit by a big guided missile, capable of perhaps a 50-mile range, at a speed somewhere between MACH-2 and MACH-3. Because of the obvious security surrounding Starstriker, there can be no question of a planted bomb. Neither does anyone think that was possible with Concorde. Which leaves us with the possibility of metal fatigue or structural weakness.

  “But not on two aircraft built thirty years apart, one of which had been flying perfectly all its life, and the other judged to be the very last word in supersonic travel by every single one of the many, many world-class engineers at the Boeing plant.”

  “I agree, Arnold, with all that. Which leaves only the missile.”

  “Right. And the difficulty with that is simple; there is nowhere to fire it from. No land. No nearby ship, certainly not a warship. Unless the missile was delivered from space, which is not within present-day technology for us, it must have been fired from a submarine. A specially fitted submarine, one with a sizable surface-to-air system out there on its casing, probably in front of the fin like your man Harry’s Blowpipe, only a lot bigger.”

  “Right, Arnold. And we have a missing submarine, nearly brand-new, whereabouts unknown, somehow taken beyond the very capable reach of the Royal Navy.”

  “Correct. And we have the possibility of one of the most dangerous submariners who ever lived being at the helm. I’ve spoken to David Gavron in Tel Aviv, and he admits, very frankly, that when you get right down to it, they cannot be certain whether Commander Adnam is dead or alive. They never saw the body, which has now been cremated by the Egyptians. They only had his papers. Could have been anyone. They could even have been forged, probably by fucking Adnam himself.”

  “Plus, Arnold, we have the irritating possibility that the plans for Harry Brazier’s Blowpipe system are very possibly in the archives of the Israeli Navy. If they were, it’s dollars to a pinch of shit Adnam has a copy of them. Christ, he served as commanding officer of an Israeli submarine. I bet he knew every inch of those drawings.”