H.M.S. Unseen

PLUS/MINUS 200 MILES. INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR CLASSIFICATION OTHER THAN POSSIBLE FLOW NOISE. ZERO CORRELATION ON FRIENDLY NETS.

The signal was on Admiral George Morris’s desk by 0800(EST). The director had been there since 0700, and he read the message carefully, simultaneously hitting the secure line to the White House, directly into the office of the President’s national security advisor.

At 1258 the radar operator in Unseen, then at periscope depth, was scanning the skies to the east. Within thirty seconds he had reestablished the track and the CPA. “Target approaches 49 miles. Distance off track 20.”

“SURFACE! BLOW ALL MAIN BALLAST.”

Unseen climbed malevolently out of the Atlantic, smashing her way through the waves, green water surging over the casing, the missile launcher stark against the empty skyline, as the radar tracked the incoming Air Force Three, bearing home the peace champion from the Peace Conference of Nations.

“Speed 420 knots, sir.”

“Range now 42 miles, sir.”

“Check surface picture. Anything out there, inside 12 miles?. Nothing? Perfect.”

“We have adequate firing solution within the parameters, sir.”

“Target holds course and speed. CPA unchanged…entering the missile envelope, sir.”

Commander Adnam nodded, checked his watch. “COUNTDOWN?”

“Sixty seconds, sir.”

At 1302:20. “MISSILE LAUNCH!”

Unseen’s third SAN-6 Grumble Rif blasted off from the deck of the ex — Royal Navy diesel-electric. With fire roaring from behind, it streaked into the skies, climbing to 2,000 feet in three seconds, where it should have accelerated, but instead, summarily blew itself to smithereens, showering the ocean with flame, sparks, and shrapnel.

“MALFUNCTION, SIR! MISSILE HAS SELF-DESTRUCTED.”

But the CO had seen the sudden unaccountable destruction, and the heavy cloud of smoke that hung high above his ship. With the launch aborted, he ordered the fire-control team to program and launch missile four.

At 1303:20 it fired, screaming into the sky with a perfect vertical takeoff, reaching 33,000 feet in under twenty seconds, and angling across to the Closest Point of Approach, toward which Air Force Three was making 420 knots, 15 miles out.

Colonel Jaxtimer saw it through the clear skies, or at least he saw the vertical smoke trail way out in front. The ex — Air Force bomber pilot reacted instantly. He was trained for this, and he was ready, and he knew what he was seeing. His broadcast waveband was open to Shannon, ready for the 20 West way point, and he hit it instantly. “MISSILE! This is a guided missile!”

As he spoke the SAN-6 changed course and came straight at the Presidential Boeing. Al Jaxtimer saw it, and he was still on the line to Shannon ATC. He hit the decoy button, knowing it to be near-useless in a head-on attack, then hauled on the stick, trying to evade. But the big Boeing was not built to be a fighter plane. And the Shannon operator heard the colonel cry out, “JESUS! MIKE!” as the big Russian-made weapon came screaming in, smashed into the area right below the nose, exploded, and blew Air Force Three apart, along with everyone who flew in her.

In the control center of Unseen, the words were simple, and they signified a task accomplished. “No contact on radar bearing, Captain.”

“Thank you, gentlemen. Nice recovery. Open main vents. Take her deep, 300 feet. Make your speed nine when you’re down there. Course zero-four-five.” It was precisely 1305 (GMT).

0805. Office of the National Security Advisor.

The White House.

Arnold Morgan gazed at the communication from the Icelandic listening station, which George Morris had faxed over from Fort Meade. The admiral looked at the time the American surveillance team had picked up the transient contact: 1245. Jesus! Twenty minutes ago. Not bad. He walked over to his big, sloping, chart desk, upon which the light was permanently on, and checked the position.

He took his calipers and made some measurements, muttering to himself constantly. “Something out there on 20 West, way south opposite the west of Ireland…could he be out there? And if he is, what the hell’s he doing? It’s seventeen days now since Starstriker went down…but this signal is telling me the guys at Keflavik think they may just have detected a diesel-electric, and that bastard’s in one.

“Let’s see…uh-huh, he could be in that position very easily. But why’s he in such a goddamned hurry? What’s he doing running his boat at a speed like that for eleven whole minutes? He must know we might get onto him. Beats the hell outta me, but he must think it’s worth it.

“He’s too far north to be after another supersonic airliner. And there’s not many warships out there. It really beats the hell out of me. But what do I know? Not much, except he got two supersonics, and he might be after a third. That’s not much, but it’s a whole lot more than some of these other assholes around here know.”

He buzzed Kathy, and asked her if there was anything he could reasonably offer her to acquire a cup of coffee. “I’m up for anything, dinner tonight, marriage, undying love…whatever pleases you. BLACK WITH BUCKSHOT, DINGBATS!”

Kathy shook her head, fixed him some coffee, and walked into his office. And there she found her boss and future husband, hunched over a map of the North Atlantic, pressing the buttons of a small calculator. “He coulda gotten there…no doubt…and since George couldn’t find a trace of another diesel-electric boat within hundreds of miles…and since even the Brits haven’t the first idea who it might be…I guess that’s gotta be him, right?”

“Right,” said Kathy. “Here, drink this. Shall I presume you are still searching for your phantom Arab submariner?”

“I’m not sure I haven’t found the sonofabitch,” he growled. “At least a very sharp young man in Iceland may have found him.”

“Iceland!” said Kathy. “I thought he was an Arab, not an Eskimo.”

Admiral Morgan smiled. “No. They just caught a noise they thought might be a submarine up there. Pretty vague but plausible for the man I seek. He gives away nothing, if he can help it. And he ain’t given us much this time either.”

By 0820, he had finished his coffee and was preparing to attend a meeting in Bob MacPherson’s office, when the phone rang. It was Admiral Morris again from Fort Meade.

“Arnold? George. Air Force Three’s down in the Atlantic. No survivors. It was hit by a missile. The pilot saw it, and he had time to broadcast it. I got a recording. Last known position 53 North, 20 West. I’m sticking right here.”

Admiral Morgan felt the blood draining from his face. His mouth went dry, and there was a tremble deep within him. He could find no words. He just stood in the middle of the room, in total shock. Kathy O’Brien came back through the door, and she thought he was having a heart attack. “My God! Arnold, what’s the matter? Here, come and sit down.”

The admiral walked to his desk and sat down with his head in his hands. “Just please tell me if you’re ill,” she said. “Shall I get a doctor?”

“No. No. I’m okay. But I just heard Air Force Three has been hit by a guided missile, right where I’m guessing Adnam is, on the chart. The Boeing’s down in the North Atlantic. No survivors.”

“Holy Mary, Mother of God,” said the Irish redhead. “Please tell me this is a joke. Was Martin on board?”

“The whole team was on board. Al Jaxtimer had time to broadcast. He saw the missile that killed everyone.”

Just then the admiral’s private line to the Oval Office lit up red, the signal for the national security advisor to report to the President immediately. Arnold Morgan pulled on his jacket, grabbed the chart he had been working on, and walked swiftly to the private office of the Chief Executive.

The great man was alone, pacing the room, his face, like the admiral’s, displayed only numb shock and