Scimitar SL-2

was 43 miles and, if necessary, it could fly to a ceiling of 80,000 feet. Arnold Morgan had estimated a very high trajectory from the Barracuda’s missiles, which, he thought, would aim to lance down very steeply at the crater of the Cumbre Vieja.

Major Gill had a copy of that shrewd assessment from the Supreme Commander folded neatly in his breast pocket, as he prepared the U.S. Army’s ring of steel around the volcano’s black heart. As he watched the mighty Chinook flying the Patriot launcher trucks right over the crater and into position, he knew that if the frigate’s batteries were not in time, out in the open ocean, his own guided missiles would be the United States’ last line of defense.

2330, Tuesday, October 6

The Atlantic Ocean, 27.25N 20.50W.

Five hundred feet below the surface, the Barracuda had cut its speed from six knots to five, after a very slight swing to the south. Its course would take it 14 miles south of the flashing light on Point Restinga, the southernmost headland of the Canary Island of Hierro. Right now they were a little under 40 miles to the west, and several days out of satellite contact with General Rashood.

Ben Badr was in the submarine’s control room with his XO, Capt. Ali Akbar Mohtaj, who was coming to the end of the First Watch.

The Admiral ordered the submarine to periscope depth for a swift GPS check and a visual look at the surface picture.

In the clear autumn night skies they could see that the ocean around them was devoid of shipping. The GPS numbers were accurate, according to their own navigation charts meticulously kept by Lt. Ashtari Mohammed, Shakira’s old colleague.

“DOWN PERISCOPE…MAKE YOUR DEPTH 500…SPEED FIVE…” Admiral Badr wore a soft smile as he felt the ship go, bow down, 10 degrees. He felt safe — so far as he could see — no U.S. Navy dragnet was trying to hunt him down.

The time was 11:30 and 15 seconds. What he didn’t know, as the Barracuda glided back towards the ocean floor, was that in precisely 24 hours, 29 minutes, and 45 seconds, the world’s GPS systems, U.S. and European, were shutting down. Ben Badr was proceeding to a long-range launching, which could not work. First blood to the United States.

He and Captain Mohtaj sipped hot tea with sugar and lemon and stared meditatively at the charts. They would be inside the grid of the seven islands shortly after dawn, and he would now head east, according to their original plan, to launch 30 miles south of Fuerteventura, 30 miles off the coast of Western Sahara.

“If we can launch long-range,” said Ben, “we’re bound to hit. The missile takes longer to get there. We have longer to get into shelter, and our chances of being detected are close to zero. So far, I like it very much.”

By the time they finished their tea, and Captain Mohtaj had retired to his bunk, the GPS was still transmitting. But in twenty-four hours, there would be a mind-blowing change to their plan.

Worse yet, the U.S. guided missile frigate the Nicholas was still in the area, and Captain Nielsen’s ops room had very nearly picked them up when they put up a mast for that last GPS check. The U.S. frigate was less than 20 miles away, and it caught a slight paint on two sweeps of the radar. It had disappeared on the third, but the ops room of the Nicholas was very sharp, and the young seaman watching the screen had called it immediately. His supervisor had logged and given it a numbered track. It was now on the nets, circulating to the rest of the fleet. Of course, it could have been anything — a flock of birds, a rainsquall, a breaching whale or a dolphin. But the operator was not so sure, and the Nicholas hung around for an hour, wondering if the “paint” would return.

But nothing unusual occurred, and Captain Nielsen proceeded on slowly through the night down the coast of Hierro, before making for Tenerife. He was steaming only a little faster than the Barracuda, which was traveling in the same direction, 20 miles off their starboard quarter, deep beneath the waves.

13

Wednesday, October 7

The Eastern Atlantic.

The Barracuda, still making only 6 knots, steamed quietly past the flashing light on the stark southern headland of Hierro’s Point Restingo shortly after 0700. They remained 500 feet below the surface, 14 miles south of the lighthouse, on a bright, sunlit morning.

Twenty miles to the north, moving slowly south, four miles off the rust-red volcanic eastern coastline of the island, was the gunmetal-gray 3,600-ton U.S. frigate the Nicholas. She was on a near- interception course with the Barracuda, but Capt. Eric Nielsen would turn east for Tenerife 10 miles north of the submarine.

On the west coast of the island, Capt. Josh Deal’s Kauffman was combing the Atlantic depths electronically, searching, searching for the telltale whispers that may betray the presence of the lethal underwater marauder.

If Captain Deal held his course, he too would eventually reach the submarine’s track, but he was also under orders to swing east for Tenerife. Both ships were proceeding with caution, not too fast to miss anything, but with enough speed to cover the wide patch of ocean allotted them by Admiral Gillmore.

^{THE LINE OF VOLCANOES IN THE CUMBRE VIEJA RANGES MAKES LA PALMA‘S SOUTH A THREATENING PLACE}

The tiny island Hierro, only 15 miles wide, used to be about three times the size. But a massive eruption around 50,000 years ago blew it asunder and, according to modern volcanologists, dumped about 100 square miles of solid rock onto the bottom of the Atlantic.

The shape of the island conformed precisely to the geological pattern of a great volcano rising up from the seabed. It shoaled down steeply to 850 feet right off the rock-strewn beach, then, in less than seven miles, plummeted to a narrow plateau 5,000 feet below the surface. From there, the ocean floor dove steeply for one mile and a half, straight down to a depth of more than 12,000 feet. Almost identical ocean statistics to those of La Palma, 50 miles to the north.

At 0800, Adm. Ben Badr ordered the Barracuda to creep up slowly from these massive depths to access the satellite, check the GPS, and to report course and position to the private satellite receiver above the house on Sharia Bab Touma in Damascus, the command headquarters of the operation where the former Maj. Ray Kerman already lurked, awaiting the signal.

Admiral Badr’s Executive Officer, Capt. Ali Akbar Mohtaj, ordered the periscope and the ESM mast up. There was no threat radar on the surface, and the comms room instantly retrieved a message off the Chinese navy satellite. It revealed the wave-band numbers of the French GPS, should the U.S. take the precaution of blacking out the main access channels. General Rashood had received intelligence of possible “limited GPS interruption,” but the Pentagon had been cagey, releasing the news only on the restricted shipping and airline channels. The Arab newspapers hardly mentioned it, and it would be several hours before the General could access the Wall Street Journal, since he was operating eight hours ahead of the U.S. East Coast.

The Barracuda’s comms staff checked French and American GPS wave bands. Both were onstream. Suddenly they heard U.S. Navy radar. Captain Mohtaj quickly ordered mast and periscope down, and the submarine back to a depth of 500 feet. Too late. Eric Nielsen’s Nicholas had picked up a suspect at extreme range with three sweeps, 12 miles north of the jutting periscope.

The frigate’s computers flashed into action, bringing up the previous “paint,” seven hours previously at 40 miles to the west. If the same ship had caused both sightings, they were looking at a transient contact, making around six knots, bearing zero-nine-zero, due east, along latitude 27.25N.

Within seconds, the computerized deductions hit the comms room in the Coronado up to the northwest of Lanzarote, and Admiral Gillmore immediately appreciated the situation. For the moment, the