America.
My son, we want them out of the Middle East, and with them, their degenerate, debauched way of life. And if we cannot bend them to our wishes, we will surely make them grow weary of the conflict. I pray for your Holy Mission, and I pray that you and your brave warriors will succeed in this great venture. All Islam will one day understand what you have done. And we wish Godspeed to the Scimitars, and may Allah go with you.
The Ayatollah did not sign the letter, but it was written in his own hand, and Ben Badr folded it and tucked it into the breast pocket of his shirt.
Ben Badr was a consummate Naval professional, at ease with his crew, with his own abilities as a Commanding Officer, and with the rewards of his long training. He did not see himself as a candidate for a suicide mission, but in the deepest recesses of his own soul, unspoken and rarely considered, he knew he was prepared to die, if necessary, a hero, so long as he was fighting for what he and his people believed in. He was honored that he should be in the vanguard of those who were chosen. He would bring the submarine within range of the great volcano, and he would blast it with his tailor-made nuclear missiles. Either that, or he would die in the attempt. He neither sought nor expected death. But if death pressed its hot, fiery fist upon the hull of the
Admiral Badr checked with CPO Ali Zahedi to make sure that their course was correct and the speed still under 6 knots. He then moved down to the bank of computer screens outside the reactor room and talked for a while with CPO Ardeshir Tikku. Everything was still running sweetly after their long, and often slow, journey from the far eastern coast of China. This really was the most impressive ship, Russian engineering at its very best.
The VM-5 PWA, reputed to be Russia’s most efficient nuclear reactor ever, was built up on the shores of the White Sea by the renowned engineers in Archangel. So far, deep within the
The jet-black titanium hull slipped through the water. Every last piece of machinery on board was rubber- mounted, cutting out even the remotest vibration. If you listened carefully you might have heard the soft, distant hum of a computer. But that was no computer. That was the 47,500 hp turbine, driving this 8,000-tonner through the deep waters of the Atlantic.
As each day passed Ben discerned a tightening of nerves among all the key men in the ship. Capt. Ali Akbar Mohtaj was very much within himself, spending much of his spare time with Comdr. Abbas Shafii, the nuclear specialist on board, who would prime the detonators on the Scimitar missiles. They had already decided to launch both the SL-2s at the mountain, especially if there was a problem with the satellites.
Two SL-2s rather than one, the equivalent of
Meanwhile, Washington, D.C., prepared to meet its doom. If Ben Badr’s missiles hit the Cumbre, the Presidency of Paul Bedford would be flown en masse, at the last possible hour, direct from the White House to the new secret base of the Administration, at the northern end of the Shenandoah Mountains, out near Mountain Falls.
The base, with all of its high-tech communication systems and direct lines to the Pentagon and various foreign governments, was constructed inside a heavily patrolled military base. It was a vast complex built almost entirely underground, fortuitously in the rolling hills to the west of the Shenandoah Valley, several hundred feet above sea level.
Known in Washington circles as Camp Goliath — as opposed to Camp David — it was always envisaged as a refuge for the Government
The President, along with his principal staff members and their assistants, would fly to Camp Goliath in one of the huge U.S. Marine Super Stallions, a three-engined Sikorsky CH-53E helicopter capable of airlifting fifty-five Marines into trouble zones.
Just in case Hamas proved even more ambitious than it seemed so far, the helo was equipped with three 12.7mm machine guns. It would rendezvous in the skies above Washington with four cruising F-15 Tomcat fighter bombers to escort it to the American heartland beyond the Shenandoah River.
Camp Goliath was located 15 miles southwest of Winchester, in the wooded hills above the valley where “Stonewall” Jackson’s iron-souled Southern regulars had held sway over the Union Army for so many months in the 1860s, and when Maj. Gen. Nathaniel Banks and his 8,000 troops were driven right back across the river — Harpers Ferry at the confluence of the Shenandoah and the Potomac. Here, General Jackson’s men captured 13,000 Northern troops; it was the site of Fort Royal, Cedar Ridge, and a little farther north, the bitter killing fields of Antietam.
Camp Goliath stood above those historic Civil War farmlands on the Virginia-Maryland border, where the two great rivers met. And if the missiles hit the mountain in La Palma, and that great complex was activated, Hamas would surely feel the wrath of another generation of ruthless American fighting men.
Meanwhile, the Washington evacuation continued. And by Sunday morning, the thousands of National Guardsmen who had joined the troops in the city were concentrating on a task equally as important as moving the Federal Government and its possessions out of harm’s way. They were now trying to safeguard the thousands of artifacts, documents, books, and pictures that recorded and illustrated the founding of the Nation and its subsequent development.
Much of this priceless hoard is contained within the Smithsonian Institution — another great sprawling complex, which embraces fourteen museums — the collective custodians of literally millions of priceless exhibits, ranging from centuries-old masterpieces to modern spacecraft. In the gigantic National Air and Space Museum alone, there are twenty-three galleries displaying 240 aircraft and 50 missiles, a planetarium, and a theater with a five-story screen.
Already, some of the museums understood they were not going to get this done, with thousands of items packed and in storage, not even on display. All of the staff had called the White House for guidance. Admiral Morgan was impatient:
National museum curators are unaccustomed to such brusque and decisive tones. In some of the art galleries, there were so many pictures, it was impossible to crate and ship them all. Decisions had to be made to leave some in the upper floors of the buildings intact in the hope they might survive the initial force of the tsunami, and the subsequent flooding would not reach the top story.
Chain gangs of troops and employees were moving up and down the massive staircases of the National Gallery of Art, trying to lift masterpieces, some of them from the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries, either down to awaiting trucks or up to the higher galleries, please God, above the incoming waters.
There were some tasks too onerous to even contemplate. The warships, submarines, and aircraft displayed in the 10,000-foot-long Memorial Museum in the Washington Navy Yard would have to take their chances. So would the massive collection of historic machinery, the heavy-duty engines that drove America’s industrial past, all located on the first floor of the National Museum of American History.
An even more difficult task was the National Zoological Park. The Madison Bank took a special interest in the animals’ safety and set up an ops room in their Dupont Circle branch. Twenty people spent the day in a frenzy of activity, contacting other zoos inside a 100-mile radius, checking their spare capacity, trying to find temporary homes and suitable habitat for the creatures, in the limited time available.
They hired cages from Ringling Brothers and trucks from U-Haul. They even commandeered a couple of
