that.
“And he plainly cannot use the Panama Canal. Which means his most likely route will be down the west coast of South America, which is not heavily patrolled, nor surveyed, by our ships and satellites.
“It’s shorter, safer, and much, much quieter, if he’s trying to get into the Atlantic…Remember, he hit Mount St. Helens on Sunday morning, August 9. Today’s the twenty-second. That’s thirteen days, and he was probably making only seven knots for ten of them, but now he could probably be making fifteen in deserted waters. Which means he’s put nearly 3,000 miles between himself and the datum.
“Way down at the southern end of Chile, he’ll be moving even quicker. That damned
“Any point putting a submarine trap down there somewhere…try and stop him entering the Atlantic?” General Scannell was wracking his brains.
“Sir, it’s such a vast, deep seascape,” said Admiral Curran. “We’d need a lot of ships, and if we missed him, which we probably would, we’d be involved in some kind of race back to the Canary Islands…and we might lose that race. And that
“I’d go with that,” said Admiral Dickson. “This seems like no place to be taking any chances whatsoever.”
“I understand,” said the CJC. “And I have one last point to make before I hand over to the Admirals…We have just one credibility gap in my view. That’s the actual existence of the cruise missiles.
“But we do have one cast-iron witness, and we’re not making the most of him. Gentlemen, I recommend we bring Mr. Tilton in from Seattle for Monday’s meeting. Just so he can demonstrate to every one of us that what he heard was the genuine sound of an incoming missile.”
“I agree with that,” said Arnold Morgan. “You know the President and his half-witted advisers are going to pour scorn on our missile theory. I would even consider filming Mr. Tilton so his evidence can be locked in, and if necessary, shown to the President.”
“No problem with that either,” replied General Scannell. “Now we’ll go and find some lunch, and decide an approximate formation of ships, and whatever security we need on the southwest side of La Palma. Who’s going to track down Mr. Tilton on a Saturday morning out in Seattle?”
“I’ll take care of that,” said Admiral Morgan. “Have someone call Fort Meade and get Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe to call me on this private line, fast. He’ll be on inside ten minutes.”
That was way too big an estimate. The Admiral had just embarked on an alarming account of how he had been in the middle of his honeymoon, “
The phone rang. General Scannell answered.
“Good morning, sir. This is Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe of the National Security Agency returning a call…”
“Just a moment…Arnie…it’s your man…”
“Hi, Jimmy. You remember that bank president you spoke with about the missiles at Mount St. Helens?”
“Yes, sir, Tony Tilton. Seattle National.”
“That’s him. Can you get him on the line? This line. I mean I’d like to have him at our Monday morning meeting here.”
“Might take a while, sir. The bank’s closed this morning, I guess. But I’ll find him.”
“You in the office?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay. Let’s bring him in Sunday night. Leave Seattle around 0900, his time. Straight to Andrews.”
“How’s he to travel, sir?”
“Military aircraft, what d’you think? The fucking space shuttle?”
“Er, no, sir.”
The Admiral chuckled. “Jimmy, get him on standby, then call us back and we’ll give you his travel details. He can stay at our house.”
“Okay, sir. I’ll get right back.”
Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe hit what he called the “obvious buttons” first. Directory assistance. He found a Tony and Martha Tilton in Magnolia, and dialed the number himself, sparing everyone the hang-up of yet another third party tuning in to a classified subject.
No one answered. It was 8:56 on this Saturday morning. And Jimmy left a message, knowing the phrase “National Security Agency, Fort Meade,” was
This was a three-minute rocket. Tony Tilton was on the line, agreeing to travel to Washington the next day for a Monday morning meeting at the Pentagon, but to discuss it with no one. Jimmy told him he’d be right back with travel details, and hit the wire to the office of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.
“He’s coming, sir. Let me have the travel plans. He’s waiting by the phone.”
This took another twenty minutes, but one day later, at 8:30 A.M. on Sunday, the Bank President drove to work at his regular high-rise off Union Street at 6th Avenue. Waiting in the lobby were two uniformed Naval officers who escorted him to the wide flat roof of the building, thirty floors above street level. And there, its rotors running, was a big Navy helicopter, a Bell AH-1Z Super Cobra, which in less peaceful time carries eight Hellfire missiles for regular strike/assault, and in air warfare is equipped with two killer AIM-9L heat-seeking guided missiles.
This morning, the air was clear, the helicopter was unarmed, and it was already hot. Tony Tilton was the only passenger, aside from the three-man crew. They lifted off almost vertically, then clattered their way north up Puget Sound, about 3,000 feet above the water, for the ten-minute journey.
They descended gently through windless skies and put down on the helicopter pad at the Whidbey Island Naval Air Station, around 30 miles north of the Seattle downtown area, the same distance from the sprawling U.S. Naval Base at Everett.
One crew member disembarked immediately and assisted their civilian passenger down the steps to the area beside the runway. Less than 30 yards away stood a Lockheed EP-3E Aries Naval jet, its engines running, steps down, ready for Mr. Tilton’s arrival.
He climbed aboard, a young officer came back to ensure that he was strapped in, and they moved forward to the takeoff area immediately. One half-minute later, they were in the air, screaming off the runway, scything into the hot, muggy air above the calm U.S. Navy waters of the Juan de Fuca Strait.
Fourteen minutes earlier, Tony had been standing on the sidewalk on 6th Avenue, right outside the National Bank Building.
“Christ, I’ve waited up longer than this in Boston just for a shuttle ticket,” remarked Tony, as the aircraft made a steep left-hand turn, and, still climbing, headed resolutely inland, east, making 450 mph over the rapidly disappearing ground.
The Navy Lieutenant sitting next to him laughed. “Guess so, sir,” he said. “It’s just that in our game, we don’t usually have a lot of time to fuck about. We’re very big on speed. Would you like some coffee?”
The Bank President gratefully accepted, as they set off over the high peaks of the Cascade Range. Their route would take them southeast across Montana and Wyoming, over the Rockies, along the Nebraska-Kansas border, then due east, south of Cincinnati, into Washington, D.C.
During the six-hour journey, the Navy Lieutenant came up with more coffee and a beef sandwich, and they touched down at Andrews Air Force Base, southeast of the capital, at 6 P.M. local.
A black Navy staff car awaited them and the driver took Tony’s bag, slung it on the front seat, and opened the rear door for the man who had escaped the wrath of Mount St. Helens.
Moments later, they were headed fast up to Route 95, and on to the beltway. They drove all around the north side of the city, got off at Exit 33, and into the tony suburb of Chevy Chase. The remainder of the journey took five minutes, and Admiral Morgan’s agents met them inside the gateway of the grand Colonial-style house where the former National Security Adviser lived with his new(ish) wife, Kathy.
It was just 6:45 on a hot summer evening, and the Admiral was dressed in white Bermudas with a dark blue polo shirt and straw panama. He greeted Tony Tilton warmly and thanked him for coming. Harry came over and
