Scimitar SL-2

“Hopefully not by a goddamned volcano,” said Arnold. “I just wonder what those bastards are up to.”

“Maybe nothing,” said George Morris. “Maybe this Kerman character just has an interest in the subject. Maybe he just went on a field trip with the two professors. Maybe he’s on a world volcano tour.”

“I don’t think so,” said Arnold, somewhat predictably. “Guys like that don’t have hobbies. They’re fanatics, consumed every waking hour of every day with their own agenda. I just don’t trust those bastards…especially this Kerman character…I mean, if he’s done half of what we think he’s done, he’s getting up there with Attila the Hun, and he’s a lot worse than Colonel Gadhafi.”

“I was looking at the Cumbre Vieja problem this afternoon,” said Jimmy. “There’s no explosion in this world big enough to blow a four-cubic-kilometer hunk of mountain into the ocean.”

“I know that, Jimmy,” said the Admiral. “But it’s not the eruption of the volcano that’s the catalyst. It’s the rush of molten lava to the surface, heating the underground lakes and causing a massive steam explosion.”

“I’ve seen an old picture of a locomotive boiler blowing up,” said Jimmy. “It knocked down the entire station, and it was a big railroad terminus. But it would surely have to be an unbelievable force to set off that kind of chain reaction,” mused Jimmy. “One professor said, thankfully, the entire scenario would have to be an act of God, and the Almighty hasn’t bothered with anything that big for centuries.”

“Hope he’s right,” gritted Arnold, flipping the steaks deftly. “Just don’t trust any Arabs on the goddamned mountain, that’s all. They’re up to no good. They always fucking well are.”

They sipped their drinks amiably. But there was a tension in the air that summer night. George Morris knew that Arnold was not happy about the arch-terrorist Ray Kerman consorting with the volcano men. And Arnold’s roaming mind was scanning the problem, wondering what to do and what might lie in store for the future.

The man was out of the White House, essentially a civilian. The cares and worries of high office should have been behind him. He and his new wife ought to have been planning vacations, world trips, visiting friends. And indeed they were. But Arnold Morgan had always treated the problems of the United States as if they were his own, and it was an old habit that was hard to break.

Kathy was quiet too. She hated it when her husband acted as if he were still the President’s National Security Adviser. But she knew that nothing she could say or do was going to make much of a difference. So she just hoped the mood would pass. She tried to distract him instead, asking solicitously if he felt the wine they were serving was sufficiently close to room temperature.

It was a question that almost always did the trick. The Admiral hurried inside to taste the rich 1998 Pomerol, Chateau de Valois, and a few moments later he seemed to have forgotten about Major Kerman, briefing his guests instead on the superb red Bordeaux they were about to drink.

“Right bank for the 1998s, eh, Jimmy?” said Arnold.

“What’s that?” said Jimmy.

“Nineteen ninety-eight was an excellent year for Bordeaux, but was only reliable on one side of the Gironde Estuary.”

“Where’s that?”

“Oh, where the Gironde and Dordogne Rivers flow out into the Bay of Biscay in western France — and on the left-hand side of that estuary are most of the great French chateaux. On the other side you have the other great Bordeaux vineyards, Saint-Emilion and Pomerol. And in 1998, there was a lot of rain, just before the harvest — swept down off the Pyrenees, up the left-hand shores of the estuary and soaked the Medoc. But somehow it missed Saint-Emilion and Pomerol, which had a wonderful harvest. I’ve opened a couple of bottles for tonight. After George called, I asked your future father-in-law to join us, but I believe the whole family’s out of town?”

“Yes. They’re with my folks in New York. Pity John’s not here…he’d have loved to try the wine.” Jimmy paused. He could see Morgan’s mind whirring. “Sir, I’m not sure when you last read up on the subject, but I gave it a good go this afternoon,” said Jimmy. “I know the scientists do have dire warnings about La Palma, but in fairness, most of ’em think the big bang is about 100,000 years away…”

“So they might,” said Admiral Morgan. “But I’d sure as hell prefer it if this Kerman character were dead.”

0500 (Local), Monday, July 5

Submarine Jetties, Huludao.

One month in the huge dry dock at the Chinese Naval Base had the Barracuda’s full complement of North Korean guided missiles in perfect order. The Chinese electronic engineers had tested every system in every missile, and fitted the nuclear warheads into two of them.

The guidance and navigation “brain” in the nose cone of the most deadly of the Danmo-gang cruises was checked and rechecked. It would blast clear of the water, and then set off on the course plotted and preset by Lt. Comdr. Shakira Kerman.

All eighteen of the missiles were correctly loaded into the magazine of Barracuda II. The Chinese would now present an outrageous bill for the work to the Iranian Navy, as agents, but not owners—$8 million U.S. No one ever said the Chinese were confused about making a buck. Of course, their expertise was very nearly priceless in this part of the world. And their scruples were few.

Scimitar SL-2 was ready to roll.

They had begun pulling the rods the previous evening, and the turbines had been declared ready at 0300 by the chief engineering officer, Commander Abdolrahim, the top nuclear specialist on board. The veteran Iranian submariner had been on duty all night, monitoring the slim Hafnium shafts being withdrawn in groups from the potentially lethal uranium heart of the reactor. Every few minutes, the neutrons were thus given greater freedom to split and cause further fission, heating the system, creating that self-sustaining critical mass, the basis of nuclear energy.

Commander Abdolrahim was in total control, regulating the heat through the pressurized circuit to its phenomenal operational norm of 2,500 lbs. per square inch — in contrast to the 15 lbs. per square inch that humans are accustomed to living in.

With the water temperature high enough, the 47,000 hp (horse-power) turbines were ready to run — powered from the colossal energy contained inside the impenetrable stainless-steel cylinder covering the seething uranium-235 core that, when suitably enriched, forms the business end of a nuclear bomb. The dome was essentially sealed inside the reactor room’s 8-inch-thick walls of solid lead. Here, Lt. Comdr. Hamidi Abdolrahim, the chief nuclear engineer, headed a team of fellow Iranian personnel, five strong.

Two hours before dawn, the Hamas underwater boat had been towed out of the covered dock behind two Chinese tugs. The ships’ entire company was either ex — Iranian Navy or Hamas professional, trained in Bandar Abbas, China, and/or Russia.

They had cleared the outer breakwater now and were operating under their own steam. The Executive Officer, Capt. Ali Akbar Mohtaj, had the ship, and CPO Ardeshir Tikku was standing behind his principal operators in the separate reactor control room.

They watched as the Barracuda accelerated to eight knots — staring at the three critical computer panels: propulsion, reactor, and auxiliary.

The Chief of Boat (COB), CPO Ali Zahedi, was with Captain Mohtaj, and the Navigation area was occupied by Lieutenant Ashtari Mohammed, a British-born Iraqi whose family had fled the brutal dictator Saddam Hussein in the 1990s. Ashtari was a revolutionary at heart, and he in turn had fled the UK to join Hamas and ended up at staff college in Bandar Abbas.

His skills in the navigation room in a nuclear submarine had been honed at the Chinese Naval training college at Qingdao, 230 miles to the south along the western shore of the Yellow Sea. He had worked on the Barracuda I mission and had been commissioned for this operation because of his outstanding work in the past.

Up on the Barracuda’s bridge, as they ran fair down the channel in dredged but close to alarmingly shallow water, Admiral Ben Badr stood with General Rashood and Lieutenant Commander Shakira. Dead ahead, the eastern sky was colored a deep rosy pink, as the rising sun tried to fight its way over the horizon. The sea was flat, oily, with a distant ruby-red cast in the early minutes of the dawn.

The Chinese tugs, escorting the 8,000-ton nuclear boat out into the Yellow Sea, slowed and turned away to starboard, their officers giving a friendly wave of farewell. The Barracuda was entirely alone now. But the men on board had faced danger together before, and each was confident in the task that lay ahead. Only Shakira, clutching Ravi’s arm in the warm morning air, shuddered involuntarily, as they steered an