Scimitar SL-2

from just one at 10 knots, covering a circular area of 10 nautical miles radius…that’s 300 square miles per hour. We have a search area of 3 million square miles, which means that each towed-array unit needs 10,000 hours to sweep the area once. Fifty units would do it in eight days.

He looked around the room.

“We’ve got ten days, if we start tomorrow. And that massive sweep would not have covered the inshore areas, which are considerable, and extremely difficult. For that we need a fleet of helicopters with dipping sonars, covering all waters with depths of 15 fathoms, or deeper, to 50 fathoms.

“I suppose one might hope that active sonars might drive the SSN into deeper water, where the TAs have a better chance. But if you are only searching one given spot every eight days…Jesus Christ…the chances of success are negligible.”

He got up and turned to the navigational chart on the wall, indicating the vast body of water they were dealing with.

“And any success depends on us getting there before the Barracuda. If we do, and if we are certain of this, we could perhaps form an outer ring through which the fucking ’Cuda must pass. Total ring length would be 6,000 nautical miles (3.142 X diameter). Fifty TA units would cover 2,000 nautical miles. So to be effective, you’d need to be pretty damn sure from which direction the SSN was making his approach…I mean, a sector of less than 120 degrees.

“Gentlemen, not to put too fine a point on it, this is going to be difficult, with the chances of success in the 5 percent bracket at the most. Which, given the effort, is a depressing thought, to say the least. It means a huge deployment of ASW assets — and even if we had weeks and weeks to continue the search, the likelihood of actually tripping over this little bastard is remote in the extreme. I’m afraid we need to think this out much more carefully.”

He sat back down, the worried look on his face deepening.

“Obviously we have to get our warships out of port regardless, unless we want them all crushed or capsized by the tidal wave. But we can’t just send them charging out into the Atlantic into the possible teeth of a tsunami.

“I could stand the cost…you know, in fuel, food, and personnel…but not if I believe we have almost no chance of success. And the prospect of that massive Naval search actually gives me the creeps. Remember, we have not really picked up this damned Barracuda in months. Their CO is very good, and we know he’s in a very quiet boat. He could creep slowly underneath our frigates and never be detected. We’ve just got to think this out, gentlemen.”

“A rather pessimistic speech, Arnold,” said Admiral Morris, wryly. “Illuminating, but pessimistic. For Christ’s sake, don’t repeat it in front of the President this afternoon. He’ll think you’ve become some kind of a fellow liberal traveler.”

“George,” chuckled Arnold. “That day ever comes, I’ll step out of this room with my service revolver, and do the honorable thing, like an officer and a gentleman.”

9

1330 (Local), Tuesday, September 29

The Atlantic Ocean, 18.00N 53.00W.

THE BARRACUDA was making 15 knots through deep waters, east of the Puerto Rican Trench, 600 feet below the surface, with 2,500 fathoms under her keel. Shortly before first light that morning, they had come to periscope depth for a seven-second satellite check, and the signal awaiting them, more than 20,000 miles above the planet, confirmed their course and mission…A cruel sea for the songbirds…

Gen. Ravi Rashood, plotting and planning in faraway Bandar Abbas, did not consider the sin of self- congratulation to be among his faults but he did harbor one small vanity — he believed he composed one hell of a military signal…and a cruel sea for the songbirds was one of his finest, prearranged with Ben Badr. It was stuffed with hidden information. The Cruel Sea, the famous book by Nicholas Monsarrat, meant that the attack on Montserrat had been a total success, the mention of the songbirds referred to…“Onward! My brave boys to the Canary Islands.” Three words to explain that the sensational Scimitar missile attack on the Soufriere Hills had been accurate, devastating, and world-news- worthy. Three more to confirm the Barracuda’s next mission, and to seal the fate of the arrogant Satan who dominated the Middle East. Not to mention most of the world.

Admiral Ben Badr was ecstatic as he and his cohorts crept along towards the destiny Allah had awarded them. Everything was going according to plan.

The Barracuda was now 560 miles from Montserrat, steering zero-eight-three, in open water, approximately halfway between the burning Caribbean island and the relative safety of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge.

Admiral Badr and his Chief of Boat, CPO Ali Zahedi, were down in the missile room sipping coffee and inspecting the arsenal they had left — ten Scimitar cruises, eight of them with conventional warheads, plus two Mark-2s, with their 200-kT nuclear warheads. Two hundred kilotons — the explosive equivalent of 200,000 tons of TNT. Ten conventional warheads (500 pounds each) pack a combined wallop of a couple of tons of TNT.

Ben ran his thumb over the sharp reinforced-steel nose cone of the nearest Mark-2, and he trailed his hand lightly, hesitantly, over the casing, as if stroking a dangerous lion. And he bowed to the golden lettering SCIMITAR SL-2—“It is the will of Allah,” he said softly, contemplating the coming thrust to the heart of the Cumbre Vieja.

1500, Tuesday, September 29

The White House.

President Charles McBride had agreed with undisguised irritation to a short meeting with Gen. Tim Scannell and the Chief of Naval Operations, Adm. Alan Dickson. He agreed because he had no choice. Even his Chief of Staff Bill Hatchard had managed to shake his massive head when the President tried to evade seeing the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs…“Forget it, sir,” he had hissed from across the Oval Office. “You have to see him.”

In the following minutes, Big Bill pointed out that no President can avoid his CJC. “It’s simple, sir,” he said, unnecessarily, because if it had not been simple he would have had trouble with the concept himself. “If he has some really important information for you, and you refuse to see him, and the worst happens, he has it in his power to see you impeached. You have to see him, and that’s that.”

Charles McBride gave General Scannell and the Chief Executive of the United States Navy ten minutes at 3:05 P.M. They arrived five minutes early, in two staff cars because there were rather more of them than the President was expecting.

In the backseat of the first car sat the CJC in company with Adm. Arnold Morgan. In the front passenger seat was Gen. Kenneth Clark, Commandant of the United States Marines.

In the second car was Admiral Dickson, with Adm. Frank Doran, Commander in Chief of the Atlantic Fleet, and Gen. Bart Boyce, NATO’s Supreme Allied Commander. With the exception of Admiral Morgan, the rest were in uniform.

They came in through West Executive Avenue, parked in front of the steps leading up to the Diplomatic driveway and the “front” door to the West Wing. Then they strode in tight formation, accompanied by a detail of four Marine guards who had been awaiting their arrival.

They marched to the Marine Guard Station right on the West Wing door, where a tall, polished guardsman in full-dress uniform of red and blue with gold braid, snapped to attention and said crisply, “Good afternoon, sir.” The remark was addressed to General Clark, who smiled and nodded as the Marine pulled the brass handle to open the door.

Inside, the White House “greeter,” a six-foot-six-inch former Naval Petty Officer, plus one of the resident Secret Agents, were plainly ready for this onslaught of military power. The agent ventured to ask the CJC if he could help.

“Two things,” said General Scannell. “A U.S. Navy helicopter from Andrews will be landing on the lawn in less