Barracuda 945 (2003) Page 41

  "JESUS CHRIST!" yelled Arnold Morgan. "This is the end of any kind of secrecy. Tomorrow the entire country is going to know we've been hit. It's gonna be like September 11. I'll have to organize a massive Naval search. . . Where's Admiral Morris?"

  "Just left, sir."

  'Tell George to sit tight at his desk. You get to the Pentagon now. Meet me in Admiral Dickson's office in a half hour. Bring everything that's relevant."

  "Yes, sir."

  Jimmy gathered up his charts, maps, and E-mails and headed for the parking lot, flung his packed briefcase onto the passenger seat, and gunned the Jaguar through the empty rows of stationary cars toward the main gate. He flicked on the radio and headed for the Baltimore-Washington Parkway

  , racing down to the junction with the Beltway, but driving straight on, to the Anacostia Freeway.

  From there he picked up 1-395 and charged straight across the bridges to the Pentagon. If he'd been stopped for speeding, he'd have asked for a police escort, and he was confident his NSA pass and Lieutenant Commander's rank would have done the trick. By now the entire world knew, not that the electric-power supplier to Los Angeles and San Francisco had just been flattened by a terrorist, but that Troy Ramford's speech, about to be delivered with his arm around the lovely Edna Casey, had been blacked out.

  The radio and late-night news programs were all over the story, already sounding the alarm for possible terrorist attacks.

  He drove directly to security, and told them he was going straight to the CNO's elevator in the underground parking lot. And when he arrived, Admiral Morgan was just disembarking from his White House staff car.

  Accompanied by a guard, they took the elevator to the fourth floor, emerging in corridor seven, right off E-Ring, the Pentagon's outer-office on all levels. A young Naval Lieutenant met them and mentioned that Admiral Dickson would be here in three minutes. He led them straight into the inner office and told them he'd have some coffee sent in immediately. It was a little after midnight.

  Exactly three minutes later, Admiral Dickson arrived, and before saying a word he walked over to the wide computer screen on the wall and switched it on, punching in the numbers that would provide a broad view of the submarine roads into the San Diego Naval Base.

  "Hello, sir," he said, nodding. "Lieutenant Commander, this is a very bad business. We're under attack, no doubt about it. And our chances of finding the culprit are still pretty remote. But we have made some progress, not, of course, where he is, but where we're pretty darn sure he isn't."

  "That's a kinda breakthrough, if accurate, Alan," said Admiral Morgan. "Because there is only one unassailable fact. After this character fired his goddamned missiles, he did not head due east. Because that would have put him on the beach. All other options are open so far as I can tell."

  "I think the Navy will do a little better than that, sir," replied the CNO.

  "Okay, old buddy, shoot. . ."

  "You'll remember I mentioned I had two submarines offshore, on their way in. Well, they're both Los Angeles Class boats, the Santa Fe and the Tucson, and we've had them patrolling four hundred miles off San Diego for the past week, on high alert for any foreign submarine, especially a Russian Sierra I, Barracuda Class.

  "They're around two hundred miles apart, which I realize is a pretty good distance. But between them we have a couple of guided-missile frigates, Arleigh Burkes, the Decatur and the Porter. We have all four of them in a kind of crescent facing east. Behind them, maybe three hundred miles, we have a cruiser coming in from Pearl, and it's watching for missiles. We've already checked. Whatever was fired at Lompoc did not sail over the masts of my ships. That means our quarry is very probably inshore. . ."

  "I agree," said Admiral Morgan. "It's possible he may have given them the slip, but unlikely. Also, I see from one of Jimmy's notes, right here, the security officers said the missiles came in directly out of the southwest. Which means they must have passed over the masts of your ships. That is, if he was farther offshore than we think."

  "That's precisely what I'm getting at," said Admiral Dick-son. "If we mark my crescent right here . . . and draw a straight line to the southwest from the Lompoc power station, it looks as though the submarine we seek was probably less than three hundred miles offshore. Somewhere here, in this area..."

  "Can't argue with that," said Arnold Morgan. "Just one thing, though. The missiles did take a kinda circuitous route into Valdez and Grays Harbor, so why do you suppose he fired 'em straight this time?"

  "The two Lompoc guys both saw the damned thing incoming from the southwest, that's directly out of the Pacific," Dickson said.

  "OK," Morgan said, "that circle you just put on the screen . . . the little bastard's in there, no doubt."

  "I've just talked to CINCPAC. They're diverting search aircraft, plus a couple of destroyers right in there ASAP. As you know, there's a ton of ASW kit on the frigates."

  "Plenty of torpedoes too, I hope," rasped Arnold. "What are their rules of engagement?"

  "Shoot to kill. No questions asked."

  "That's my language, Alan. We find 'em. They die."

  "Of course, we still have a big problem, sir. We don't know which way he's headed."

  "No. And I guess our biggest worry is he heads slowly northwest, maybe eight hundred feet below the surface. That way he'd be near certain to get away. Unless he runs over a SOSUS hot spot."

  "I know it, sir. But I don't think he can move to the west. We'd catch him if he did. Even if he was going pretty slowly. His options are really southeast, south, and southwest. In that ninety-degree arc he has his back to the wall, but if he moves slowly, the odds are still in his favor."

  "Hmmmm. That's the trouble with oceans," said Arnold. "They're altogether too fucking big."

  "If you had to make an assessment, sir. If you were him, which way would you go?"

  "Not westward. Because that's where I'd be expecting trouble. Maybe due south. Because from where he is positioned, that's into very deep open ocean way off Central America. However, I think he hugged the coast coming down from the Grays Harbor area, stayed in noisy water for maybe four days, and then headed farther offshore for his attack."

  "You think he'll pull the same trick now, sir?"

  "Dunno. But I would. I'd hug the coast of Mexico for a long time. I'd probably keep going at seven knots for two or three thousand miles, maybe three weeks. Then I'd angle off, come right to 270 degrees and charge for the South Pacific. His chances of being caught in there are around zero. The area's just too big."

  "You mean if we're gonna get him, sir, we'd better get him real quick."

  "That's what I mean, Admiral."

  "If only he had to surface, or refuel, or snorkel, or any damn thing, life would be a lot easier."

  "That's been the trouble right from the start, Alan. In that ship he doesn't have to do any of those things. And that's why we might not find him."

  "What will you advise the President to say?"

  "I guess he'll have to say we suspect terrorism. And that the oil installations were attacked by persons unknown. But I think we'll leave it very open-ended for the moment. I'll have him refer to the possibility of land-launched missiles, or even planted bombs.

  "But I cannot terrify the populace by admitting there's a foreign nuclear submarine, patrolling our shores, knocking down anything he fucking well pleases. That would cause mass panic: And worse, it would alert the controllers of our terrorists to be even more careful than usual."

  The CNO shook his head. And Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe climbed to his feet and walked closer to the big computer screen. He stared at it for a moment, then he turned back to the two Admirals.

  "May I say something, sir?" he said, staring at Arnold Morgan.

  "Sure, Jimmy. Go right ahead. Alan and I have exhausted our collective brains."

  "OK. Let us assume our theories are correct. Somehow China agrees to purchase not one, but both Russian Barracudas. And sends one of them all the way aro
und the Arctic Circle to Petropavlovsk, with a view to making an excursion into U.S. waters, that's the relatively short passage across the northern Pacific past the Aleutian Islands.

  "At around the same time, they pop out the bloody decoy and send the bastard around the world. Except no one admits the decoy is floating, right? So when old razormouth starts banging out the refinery, then the power station, the decoy shows up, bold as brass, in Zhanjiang, proving beyond doubt it could not have been the Barracuda, because they know we think there is only one of 'em.

  "However, they had two mishaps. One, the decoy 'cuda gets heard off the coast of Ireland. Two, the other 'cuda hits the sushi boat, proving it's not where it ought to be, right?

  "So now we are alerted to the possibilities of two Barracudas, not one. Although we can't prove it either way."

  "So far, well summed up," said Arnold.

  "Well, sir, I think we would all agree that whoever came up with that scheme was one clever little bastard. And when you think about it, there was a kind of advantage in it for everyone. The Ruskies needed, and got, the $600 mill, right? The Chinese, in my view, are not the principals in this, but they may have acquired the submarines for someone else. It's dollars to doughnuts if they get caught, there won't be a fucking Chinaman on board that submarine.

  "But, a United States with a totally chronic shortage of oil is fantastic for the Chinese. They've picked up a whole bunch of contracts in the Gulf, they own the main southern pipeline out of Kazakstan, right across Iran to their terminus in the Strait of Hormuz. And crude's just hit seventy-five dollars a barrel. Not too bad, right?"

  "So, for whom did they buy the submarine? Who could afford it? Had to be a State Government," Admiral Morgan was pondering.

  "In a sense, yes," said Jimmy Ramshawe. "But in another sense, no. Because when you're dealing with international terrorism, you've got all kinds of fucking maniacs involved. Not one country. The Islamic Jihad, which works against us and the Israelis, crosses borders. Look at that fucking nutcase Bin Laden, he had all kinds of nations involved—Saudi Arabia, Afghanistan, possibly Pakistan, Iran, Iraq, maybe Syria, and even Jordan.

  "I think that's what we're up against. Oh, sure, we can ask the Chinese what they did with their two Barracudas, but they will never provide a straight answer. And in the end, they'll say that if there is one, off California right now, it has never been within two thousand miles of China. Why not ask the Russians? And Admiral Rankov will say we don't even own the submarine, why not ask the Chinese?

  "And where does that leave us? Nowhere. With options only to nuke Moscow or Beijing, which we are not about to do because we just don't have enough to go on."

  "Well, James," said Admiral Dixon. "What's your conclusion?"

  "There is only one conclusion, sir. Whoever planned and carried out this program was nothing short of a fucking genius. More clever than any terrorist who's ever lived. That's my conclusion."

  Arnold Morgan was thoughtful.

  "I believe you know what I'm thinking, sir."

  "Jimmy, I don't know what you're thinking. But I do know what you and I both are wondering."

  "Yes, sir. Where's that bloody Major Ray Kerman, right?"

  "Yes, Jimmy. That's it. Where indeed?"

  12

  11:15 p.m., Wednesday, March 19, 2008

  The Pacific Ocean

  The most powerful electricity generator within a few miles of the darkened city of Los Angeles was continuing steadily away to the southeast, its big turbines idling along at only five knots, 300 feet below the surface. The lights in the submarine were bright, the refrigeration system perfect, the air clean and fresh, the water pure, and the temperature steady.

  However, the irony of the situation was somewhat lost on General Ravi and Captain Ben Badr's Barracuda crew. They had made the journey across the Pacific and successfully shattered the electric power system of the two biggest cities on the American West Coast.

  They were not, of course, completely aware, but they had left both San Francisco and Los Angeles in chaotic, dangerous darkness, with schools and shops closed, hospitals desperate, and thousands of tons of food rotting without refrigeration. All while Ravi and Ben casually accepted the benefits of their own private nuclear power cell, which, on its own, could have cheerfully restored full electricity to the entire district of Hollywood, and indeed most of Northwest Los Angeles, without missing a beat.

  The navigation officer had them at 28.151 N, 117.00' W, eighty miles southeast of Guadalupe Island, 130 miles off the coast of Mexico. Thus far, they had found no need to avoid or in any way change course for searching U.S. warships or patrol aircraft. Their speed had been five knots all the way, and it was still five knots, leaving no telltale pattern on the surface.

  There were, of course, several U.S. Navy frigates and three Los Angeles Class submarines working off San Diego, listening for the engine beat of a rogue foreign submarine. And a couple of them had ventured south into international waters, but the ocean was too vast, and the Barracuda too slow for a positive detection, and both hunters and quarry knew it.

  Captain Badr had no intention of altering his plans, his direction, or his speed for three weeks. And he and Ravi sat in the Control Room, moving slowly southeast, gleefully going over the plan of escape masterminded for them by the Chinese.

  General Rashood had collected the instructions from the timed safe on board, way back in the Gulf of Alaska. And with Ben Badr, he had made a cursory study of the meticulous orders drafted by the Intelligence Command Center in Shanghai.

  For the moment, it was simple to follow. Maintain submerged course one-three-five . . . speed five . . . then periscope depth into the Gulf of Panama. Surface the submarine 08.20' North, 78.30' West. . . proceed on surface maximum speed to Panama's Pacific Anchorage Expansion . . . course three-six-zero to latitude 08.51'North, 78.30' West-depth ten fathoms—for rendezvous with PLAN patrol boat 1330,11 April 2008. . .

  Well, it would be one hell of a long way at this slow speed to the Gulf of Panama, 3,000 miles and about twenty-six days, but at least they knew where they were going. Like everyone involved, the Chinese had a plain desire for the utmost secrecy. In fact, the Chinese had a greater desire than anyone: If anyone even suspected they had been behind the monstrous attacks on the American mainland, that was very probably World War III.

  Silence, thy name is Zhang Yushu.

  It was with obvious satisfaction that General Rashood and Captain Badr now contemplated the escape route that lay before them. Both men knew the entire operation was predicated on the fact that China now controlled the Panama Canal, to the horror of the U.S. military, and to the embarrassment of the more astute Democrats who somehow had allowed their party to be represented in the White House by the former Governor of Arkansas.

  Nonetheless, when the United States finally handed over the Canal Zone to the Panamanian Government in 1999, they gave away a great deal more than anyone had bargained for. Because the wily leftist rulers of that sweltering, tropical isthmus at the southern end of Central America, immediately began negotiations with the equally wily rulers of Communist China.

  As a moneymaking scheme, this was a golden goose for the cash-strapped Panamanians. At either end of the Canal was a huge U.S. Naval dockyard/city: Cristobal on the port side of the Atlantic entrance, bordering the primitive and unsafe city of Col6n; and Balboa on the port side of the Pacific exit, bordering Panama City. These two massive U.S. strongholds dominated and controlled the canal for almost a century.

  In addition, the sprawling Rodman Naval Base, exactly opposite Balboa Harbor, formed an impregnable U.S. choke point. Since 1914, ships had transited the Panama Canal only when the United States authorities issued clearance, which was right and proper, since the United States built the gigantic structure in the first place, supplied the manpower, and bound the great concrete walls together with New York cement.

  Without that Yankeee know-how, there would never have been a Panama Canal. It is, to th
is day, regarded as probably the greatest feat of engineering ever achieved—a canal, eighty-five feet above sea level, into which every ship has to climb a gigantic set of locks to enter, and then negotiate another set of three towering locks that lower it to the exit. The entire process of flooding and emptying the locks is achieved by gravity alone, millions of tons of water gushing through fifteen-foot-wide tunnels. Ships almost 1,000 feet long have made the journey along this 44-mile-long path between the seas, saving 7,872 miles against a voyage around Cape Horn.

  The United States completed the building project in 1914, after taking over from the French, who lost 22,000 men during a catastrophic attempt to build a canal without the help of America. If all the sand, shale, rock, and mud excavated to build the canal were loaded into boxcars, the resulting train would circle the earth four times at the nearby equator.

  In December 1999, the entire operation—the engineering marvel of the Canal, with its locks, dockyards, controls, and great swathes of two cities—was handed over by the U.S. Government to Panama, under President Carter's 1977 Panama Canal Treaty, which guaranteed at all times, expeditious passage for the U.S. Navy.