Scimitar SL-2 (2004) Page 45

  “MISSILES READY TO LAUNCH!”

  Lieutenant Brickle banked his Seahawk hard to starboard and spotted the great black shadow of the Barracuda just below the surface as he overflew. It was holding its two-nine-seven course, and over his right shoulder he saw the Nicholas’s second helo, piloted by Lt. Ian Holman and hurtling in from the southeast.

  And at that precise moment, Ben Badr ordered his missiles away.

  “STAND BY!”

  “READY!”

  “FIRE!”

  The big Russian submarine shuddered gently as the first of the mighty Scimitars ripped out of its tube and broke the surface, roaring skyward in a cloud of fire and spray. Its rear wings snapped out sharply, and it cleaved its way up through the clear early morning air, growling and echoing with malevolence, just as it had been programmed to do by the secret rocket engineers beneath the North Korean mountain of Kwanmo-bong.

  Admiral Badr watched it through the periscope. He stood staring at the lenses as the Mark-2 nuclear-headed weapon made a high, steep trajectory, 600 mph on an unswerving course, straight at the crater of the Cumbre Vieja, 26 miles away. Two minutes and thirty-six seconds’ flying time. It was headed straight into the path of the USS Elrod, under the command of Capt. C. J. Smith.

  Ben Badr wished with all of his heart that Ravi and Shakira could have been with him to share the moment. He would not, however, have wished the next half hour on his worst enemy.

  And he stepped away to give what he believed correctly might be his last command.

  “STAND BY MISSILE TWO!”

  High above them, Lieutenant Brickle was hard at work vectoring Lieutenant Holman on to their target.

  “Firm contact active, classified CERTSUB bearing two-nine-seven range, 600 yards, opening slow. Vectoring Dipper Delta Three into immediate attack, using lightweight torpedo.”

  “Delta Three, this is Bravo Two, vector 225, stand by weapon launch…”

  “Delta Three, roger—out.”

  “STAND BY—STAND BY! MARK DROP! Now! Now! NOW!”

  Lieutenant Holman hit the button with his right hand, and the Mark-50 torpedo flashed away from his undercarriage, diving steeply toward the water.

  “Bravo Two—this is Delta Three. Weapon in water. I can see his periscope still headed west nor’west. Intend taking dip station three miles ahead.”

  “Roger that, Delta Three. Target speeding up—Jesus Christ! He’s launched another missile!”

  On board the Barracuda, everyone heard the explosion and they felt the massive impact of the torpedo as it slammed into their starboard quarter 30 feet astern of the fin. The blast almost spun the submarine over, rolling it onto its portside.

  Aft in the reactor control, Comdr. Abbas Shafii and Comdr. Hamidi Abdolrahim were hurled with terrific force into the bulk-head. But the roll was too great for the reactor, which automatically “scrammed,” the rods dropping in and shutting it down completely.

  The main lights went out instantly, and water cascaded onto the decks, but the compartments were sealed, and though Admiral Badr knew that the ship was damaged, probably severely, it wasn’t sinking. He ordered the crew to reduce speed down to 5 knots, on battery power only. And he made a course change to the south, bow down 10, trying to get deep.

  The battered Commanders in the reactor control room regained their feet. CPO Ardeshir Tikku came away from the screens and tried to assist. Every alarm in the ship was sounding, and Captain Mohtaj took over the conn while Ben Badr and CPO Ali Zahedi made their way for’ard.

  “SHAFII…we need to get that reactor up and running fast…Start pulling the rods, otherwise we’re beaten.”

  Chief Tikku’s fingers flew over the keyboard, unaware that high above, Lt. Ian Holman and Lt. Don Brickle were preparing to strike again.

  The two Seahawks were clattering directly above the wallowing Barracuda, communicating calmly, with a new arrival, Delta Four, the helicopter from the Elrod, piloted by Lt. Paul Lubrano.

  “This is Bravo Two. Explosion on bearing two-nine-six. Delta Four stand by second weapon drop. Delta Three interrogative hot?”

  “Delta Three Hot, bearing three-five-six, range two thousand five hundred yards. Explosion on bearing, still closing. Explosion on bearing. Delta Four standby.”

  “Delta Four.”

  “Delta Four, Delta Three, vector 065, standby.”

  “Delta Four, this is Delta Three, MARK DROP! Now, now, NOW!”

  “Delta Four, weapon away!”

  The second torpedo dropped away from the pursuing Seahawk and split the waves with its impact, powering hard towards the stricken Barracuda, which now limped along 50 feet below the surface. The torpedo smashed into the casing for’ard of the fin and blew a hole almost 30 feet wide. Water thundered into the submarine.

  No one knew exactly what had hit them. In precisely thirty-two seconds, the submarine had been slammed twice, and now she made her last dive. Through the sonars, the U.S. Navy operators heard the strange metallic tinkling sound that signifies a big warship was breaking up on its way to the ocean floor.

  The reactor control room staff managed to seal off their section of the boat with seconds to spare. And they may have lived one minute longer than the rest of the ship’s company. But at 2,000 feet, the pressure could not but crush the remnants of the hull. And now it sliced down in several large pieces, still clanking, like the bells of hell.

  Meanwhile, on board the Elrod, the lookouts saw the missile launch and watched it climb to the west. Inside the ops room, the McDonnell Douglas Harpoon radar system acquired the target immediately and locked on.

  The Officer of the Deck reported to the CO, “Captain, sir, subsurface missile-launch green 65, four miles opening arcs for SAM.”

  “Very well, Missile Control…you have permission to shoot—WEAPONS FREE!”

  The first ASROC lanced into the air in a huge cloud of smoke, making Mach 0.9, straight at the Scimitar hurtling, high overhead. Seconds later, there was a huge puff of smoke, way up in the stratosphere, as the heat-seeking U.S. missile smacked into North Korea’s finest, reducing it to high-altitude rubble.

  In the same split second, the next Harpoon was launched at the same target, but in the absence of a Scimitar it locked onto the nearest Seahawk, Bravo Two, swerved towards it, and was just cut down in time by the Elrod’s fire control center.

  Bravo Two’s pilot, Lt. Don Brickle, nearly had a heart attack when he saw the Harpoon scything through the sky, coming straight at him. And even when it blew apart a mile and a half out, he was still aggrieved.

  “Jesus, you guys. Are you out of control? I’m on your side…You think I was wearing a fucking turban!”

  There was a semblance of mass confusion, and a slight amount of shaky laughter interspersed with one report stating that the second Harpoon had been cut down and splashed into the water, another confirming the hit on the first Scimitar. A third confirmed two major explosions from the submarine. Yet another announced the second of the Barracuda’s missiles was on its way.

  The high-octane chatter on the helicopter frequencies was now baffling the life out of everyone. Capt. C. J. Smith ordered, “WEAPONS TIGHT!” before someone else tried to shoot down a Seahawk.

  And then it became crystal clear. The second Scimitar was well on its way, making a steep trajectory, straight down the bearing towards the Cumbre Vieja. It had been running a full forty seconds, and was still climbing after six miles. C. J. Smith himself snapped out the critical order:

  “Patriot Boss—frigate Foxtrot Charlie. Missile inbound one-one-three. All yours, over.”

  Major Gill, up on the heights in the Engagement Control Center, watched the automatic system instantly activate the band-tracking radar, the radar beams that could locate and track one hundred targets at a time, if necessary.

  The search, target detection, track and identification, missile tracking, and guidance took four and a half seconds to lock on…“Got it, sir!”

  “This is Patriot Boss. We ha
ve it. Are you expecting more?”

  “Unknown, Patriot Boss. We have problems out here, but launch vehicle is under heavy attack. Further launches possible but unlikely.”

  “Patriot Boss, roger that.”

  At which moment, the first of the most sophisticated guided missiles ever built howled into the sky above the crater, its radar being controlled automatically by the digital weapons control computer right next to Major Gill in the ECC.

  The Patriot thundered up its course, bearing 113, seeking its target, which was now headed downwards from an altitude of 30,000 feet, about 10 miles out from the crater.

  Major Gill ordered missiles two, three, and four to launch. But there was scarcely a need. Patriot One, making over 3,000 miles an hour, screamed through the air towards the Scimitar. Twelve seconds from launch, it blasted with staggering force less than 50 feet from the Hamas missile. Two hundred pounds of TNT—almost enough to make a dent in the island of Gomera—cast a bright but smoky glow in the azure skies.

  The second Scimitar was blown apart, its burning fuel falling colorfully over a wide area, nine miles out from the volcano. Its nuclear warhead never ignited but simply dropped into the Atlantic. And the cheer that went up from Major Gill’s missile men would not have disgraced Yankee Stadium.

  “Foxtrot Charlie. This is Patriot Boss. Missile splashed.”

  “Foxtrot Charlie. Thank Christ for that.”

  Admiral George Gillmore sent in the official report to the Pentagon…090652OCT09. Barracuda submarine fired two submerged-launch guided missiles at the Cumbre Vieja volcano east of La Palma from 25-mile range. Submarine destroyed and sunk by two helo-launched torpedoes. Both missiles splashed. Harpoon from USS Elrod. Patriot from the summit. God Bless America. Gillmore.

  Epilogue

  OPERATION HIGH TIDE was declared at an end in the small hours of October 9. Americans awakened to learn that the danger had passed. The threat had been real. The U.S. Military had destroyed it, and it was a weary Adm. and Mrs. Arnold Morgan who left the Oval Office at four o’clock that morning.

  They climbed aboard the new Hummer 2A, with its bulletproof darkened windows, and were driven out through the northern suburbs of Washington to the big Colonial house in Chevy Chase, followed by a Secret Service detail of four guards.

  It was almost 5:45 when Kathy produced poached eggs, English muffins, grilled bacon, and sausage. It may have seemed like a banquet, but neither the Supreme Commander of High Tide nor his wife had eaten anything since the previous Wednesday’s breakfast of fruit salad.

  Admiral Morgan, calling the shots from the Oval Office, may have looked like what the media called him—the Consummate Military Hardman. But the Hamas threat to the U.S.A. had taken a seven-week toll on him.

  Personally, Kathy blamed Charles McBride. “If that damn fool had listened,” she said, sipping her coffee. “If he’d just taken the advice of his Intelligence Officers and the Military, half the pressure would have been removed from this Operation. The people who knew how to handle things could have just got on with it.”

  “You’re right there,” muttered Arnold. “We’ve got to keep our guard up. Always. Because there’s a lot of enemies out there. But the biggest danger to the United States of America is when you get some comedian in short pants in the Oval Office.”

  “Do you think it will all come out—the military coup in the White House, the removal of the President, and…everything?” asked Kathy.

  “I sure as hell hope not,” replied Arnold. “I hate to see the country tearing itself apart. And I’m just hoping that that jackass McBride feels suitably ashamed. At least too ashamed to write his goddamned memoirs.”

  “Did Alan Dickson tell you how close that last missile was when the Patriot blew it up?”

  “Oh, that wasn’t a problem. The guys had a ton of time once they got the bird away.”

  “Yes, but how long would it have been before it hit the crater?”

  “Forty seconds.”

  “Mother of God.”

  President Paul Bedford made a broadcast to the nation at 7 A.M. He announced an end to the emergency, and an end to the effective martial law that had been in place for the past ten days.

  He appealed for a calm return to normal life and assured everyone the Armed Forces would do everything in their power to help restore order in the big cities.

  He congratulated the media on their restraint and cooperation, without ever referring to the fact that Admiral Morgan had threatened to blow up their buildings if they stepped out of line.

  He regretted all of the inconvenience and huge amount of federal money that had been spent on the civilian and government operations.

  “However,” said President Bedford, “I was sworn into this great office, not just to protect the Constitution, but to protect the citizens of the United States of America. Each and every one of you. It was an unwritten promise, but one that I took most seriously.”

  He outlined with brevity, and a certain coolness, the scale of the threat from a group of Middle Eastern terrorists.

  “I could take no chances,” he said. “Five hours ago, the United States Armed Forces destroyed the terrorists and their missiles, and their submarine. The danger is passed.

  “However, we have opened up consultations with the Government of Spain to place a U.S. missile shield on permanent guard on the summit of the Cumbre Vieja. We have also begun negotiations to form a coalition of interested parties to build an engineering system that will drain the underground lakes beneath the volcano.

  “And with these initiatives, we issued a warning to Hamas, and to other organizations like them—WE ARE NOT YET FINISHED WITH THIS—WE WILL COME AFTER YOU WHEREVER YOU MAY BE HIDING.”

  Same Day

  Damascus, Syria.

  Ravi and Shakira Rashood, watching the CNN satellite news broadcast in the big house on Sharia Bab Touma, were stunned at the announcement, slowly grasping the fact that Ben Badr and Ahmed Sabah, together with the rest of the crew, were dead.

  They had believed their mission to be impregnable, that even the mighty U.S.A. was powerless to locate a marauding nuclear boat.

  Still in shock, they walked to the great Umayyad Mosque before the citadel and prayed for their fallen comrades. Each of them had known of the massive danger. And each of them had realized that Allah might call their colleagues to Paradise at any moment.

  However, when close friends, comrades, and relatives are involved, death always comes on ravens’ wings. And the General and his wife were unable to speak for a long time.

  Same Time

  The White House.

  Meanwhile, President Bedford concluded his address to the nation…“Once again,” he said, “the men of the United States Army and Navy have come through for all of us with their customary bravery and efficiency. And I thank them all, in particular their outstanding Commanders.

  “I thank also the Supreme Commander of this operation, both civilian and military—Admiral Arnold Morgan—who most of you will remember from the last Administration. The Admiral, as always, stepped up to the plate when the nation was threatened.

  “He scarcely left the White House for the past eight days, and yet, when our combat troops fought that short and vicious engagement out there in the eastern Atlantic this morning…well…I guess we had an extra man on every missile battery, at sea and on land…in every helicopter…in every ops room…A man who was, in a sense, with them, every yard of the way.

  “Admiral Morgan is just that kind of guy, and every man in the Armed Services knows it. And I do not quite know how we would have gotten along without him.

  “And I am sure you will join with me in now wishing him a long and happy retirement.”

  Same Time

  Chevy Chase.

  Arnold took another king-size bite of sausage, and Kathy blew him a kiss from across the room.

  “Hear that, my darling?” she said. “Retirement.”

  “That’s right,” said Arnold, munchin
g away cheerfully. “That’s what I’m doing.”

  “Right,” replied Kathy Morgan, a little uneasily. “It’s just that I darn well know, when something diabolical happens, they’ll summon you again. And when the bugle sounds, you’ll still come out fighting.”