H.M.S. Unseen

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 then, 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.

But he was an important Vice President, because the Chief Executive had made him so. He had handed over for his attention every single left-wing issue that needed addressing. The veep was the main man in matters of welfare, black education, urban improvements, the environment, and peace talks in all of their forms, especially if they involved the Third World. The President was not afraid to delegate, and in Martin Beckman he had an extremely capable, loyal man who willingly represented him at all the solemn, tiresome gatherings he wished to avoid.

Martin, who had never married, was tireless. He sought no glory for himself and briefed the President often and meticulously on all matters he thought required the attention of the top man. Which was basically why this Presidency had steered clear of almost all trouble for the past five years. And why Martin Beckman was about to head off, with a full staff, to a world peace conference being held among many nations in London — including the regimes of Iraq, Iran, Libya, Syria, and China. This was a group the American President could just as easily have hung up by the thumbs, never mind talked peace with.

But it was a highly acclaimed achievement by the British to have organized such a conference. Basically it included the major Commonwealth countries, the nations of Europe, the Middle East, the old Soviet Union, the United States, Japan, Brazil, and Argentina. The Third World was not included, but all the Arab nations were, because this was essentially a discussion about money, and oil, and trade. It sought to clarify the idea of peace based on economics. More cynically stated, it represented the oldest bedrock of modern civilization: How can the rich keep the poor under control, without going bust in the process?

Martin Beckman had been nominated to chair the conference, and he rightly regarded it as a great honor. The President was delighted, and his second-in-command would travel to London with the kind of backup usually reserved for a Presidential state visit. Mr. Beckman would travel with a major staff of twenty-four people, plus two Democratic Senators, one from California and one from New York. Their London headquarters was already in place at the United States Embassy in Grosvenor Square. It was the most widely publicized gathering of international statesmen for years.

The entire American team would make the journey together in the brand-new intercontinental Presidential jet, Air Force Three, a lavishly modified Boeing 747. Colonel Al Jaxtimer, a former B-52 Air Force pilot in the Fifth Bomb Wing out of Minot Air Force Base, North Dakota, would fly the aircraft, assisted by his longtime copilot Major Mike Parker and his regular navigation officer Lt. Chuck Ryder. The three had flown many missions together, and in accordance with the new U.S. Air Force policy would fly the Presidential jet as a team for a period of two years.

For the peace mission they would fly from Andrews Air Force Base direct to London Heathrow. They would be met by the U.S. ambassador to the Court of St. James, who would travel with Martin Beckman in an open limousine, given a clear day. It was anticipated that a vast throng of twenty-first-century British peace marchers would line the route to the left of the north-running road through Hyde Park, to clap and cheer the Vice President of the United States, the man upon whom so many hopes were pinned. The farseeing man who seemed to hold the hope of the modern world in his hands.

The actual President of the United States, and his national security advisor, privately thought that the whole lot of them, including the Arab-sympathizer Martin Beckman, were out of their minds.

But, sane or not, the United States delegation to the four-day Peace Conference of Nations took off in Air Force Three on the morning of Tuesday, February 21. And the journey was everything Martin Beckman had hoped, a beautifully smooth Atlantic crossing, an impressive reception at the airport, and a rapturous welcome from the cold green lawns of London’s Hyde Park, where thousands turned up and lined the route.

The great swelling sound of their anthem, “Give Peace a Chance” could be heard a mile away. Martin Beckman waved in greeting, visibly moved by the long-lost sounds of his youth, as the haunting bittersweet words of the song drifted up through the bare trees. He found himself thinking, irrationally, My God, I just wish John Lennon could be with me right here. What a moment for all of us who believed then, when no one else did. He was right, too. It was a moment, the highest moment in a privileged life. Martin Beckman, the world’s best-known liberal, might even take a run at the presidency in 2008.

During the conference, London was a city under martial law. The negotiators used the great forum of the Guildhall for their deliberations, which more or less brought the financial district to a standstill twice a day, since the Prime Minister had authorized the Army to throw a cordon around the building in readiness for a terrorist attack by the Irish Republican Army. In London this was a likelihood as powerful as ever, after the total failure of the latest round of peace talks and, in the IRA’s view, the total failure of the British Prime Minister to control the intransigence of the Ulster Unionists.

All the world’s major embassies were under guard from the police and the military, as were London’s leading hotels. You could have mistaken the Connaught for Catterick Barracks. There seemed to be enough uniformed soldiers outside the Savoy and the Grosvenor House in Mayfair for a winter Trooping the Color. The U.S. military, in plain evidence on the great steps of the embassy, made the west side of the square look like West Point.

No one could remember security like it. But Britain’s Anti-Terrorist Squad believed an attack was not only possible, it was likely. And their general view was that if any delegate, anyone, from any nation was injured by a bomb, the reputation of the capital city of England would be forever tarnished. Worse yet, the Anti-Terrorist Squad would get the blame. Thus no chances were being taken. The world’s delegates for peace would carry out their duties protected by those who believed that real strength came from hard-assed military training, top-class battle equipment, wary eyes, and a big stick.

The conference itself was a brilliant success. The press reported it nonstop. It led every television newscast, the newspapers were filled with interviews from delegates, and the discussions which took place in the great forum were reported diligently. Even the private deliberations between nations were accompanied almost immediately by