LCDR Forest handed the civilian two hard copy printouts of a color photo. The first showed the original image. Taken through a periscope, it showed a large tube or cylinder suspended from a crane on some sort of ship. The second sheet had the part with the cylinder blown up to almost illegibility, and was enhanced with lines and dimensions.
“The Russians are building an underwater launch facility at that island for the very large Dragon transoceanic torpedo that has a SS-NX-35 Shashka missile inside. That beast there is a launch tube.”
Cavanaugh had followed the news coverage on the Shashka with interest, both professionally and personally, since he lived within four hundred miles of the Atlantic. “It’s a scary system,” he replied. “But all the reports said it’s a strategic weapon, with a nuclear warhead. If you give me the dimensional data, I can calculate what size a conventional…”
CDR Gabriel shook his head. “That’s not it, Dr. Dan. We want to blow up the launch cylinders.”
“Where are they located?”
“Underwater, just off Bolshevik Island.” He offered Cavanaugh a marked-up satellite photo of the island. “This shows our best guess at the exact location.”
Confused, the civilian didn’t take it immediately. “But this map says Bolshevik Island is Russian territory.”
“Chart,” Gabriel corrected, then added, “And it is.” The civilian saw Forest nodding agreement.
Astonished, Cavanaugh didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t sure what his expression was, but Gabriel must have thought the newcomer was reluctant to participate if it meant attacking Russian territory. Truthfully, Cavanaugh’s thought processes hadn’t taken him that far.
The commander pulled a chair up next to where Cavanaugh was, facing him. “Here’s the drill,” Gabriel explained. “The Russians are building a launch facility in secret. Its purpose is to launch weapons capable of a covert nuclear first strike on the U.S. east coast. The president has ordered that it has to be destroyed before it becomes operational.
“Only a few hundred people in the U.S. know what the Russians are doing up there. You’re the thirteenth or fourteenth person to know about this operation, and that includes the Big Skipper, who gave the order. This is all flash priority. The operation doesn’t even have a code name yet. We’ve spent two days working on how to get Jimmy Carter up there, and we’ve got some ideas about how she could do the job, but we need a reality check.
“You’re not only an explosives expert, which we are not, but you specialize in blast effects on complex structures — including underwater targets. We’re only going to get one shot at doing this, and the destruction has to be complete.”
Cavanaugh absorbed the commander’s explanation easily enough, but did he agree with the conclusion? In reality, it really didn’t matter what he thought; Gabriel was merely repeating the president’s conclusion. President Hardy thought the danger was so great that he was willing to risk starting a war with Russia.
It wasn’t his place to agree or disagree, but Cavanaugh found he did agree with the president’s call. He read the papers and watched the daily news, and the Russians were up to several kinds of no good.
Time to do his job, and the questions were simple enough. “All right. How many of these cylinders are there? What’s the water depth? What can you tell me about how they’re constructed?”
“The water depth where that cylinder was photographed was ninety-eight fathoms,” Forest reported.
Trust the Navy… Cavanaugh thought. He did the mental math and came up with 588 feet deep. Call it a 180 meters.
“We’re not sure how many cylinders there are. Our best guess is more than four, but less than twelve. We don’t think there’s anything fancy about their construction. Standard structural steel, most likely.”
“And is there a diagram of the installation?” Cavanaugh asked hopefully.
“I’m afraid not.” Forest shrugged. Gabriel looked apologetic. “All we really have is the photo. Everything else is deduced from that.”
“Then how can I tell you where to place the charges?”
“We can’t use demolition charges. Jimmy Carter’s unmanned underwater vehicles can’t carry anything heavier than thirty pounds. But the submarine carries as many as fifty Mark 48 torpedoes. Their warhead is six hundred fifty pounds of PBXN-103.”
That was something he could hang his hat on. “All right,” Cavanaugh announced. “Given that warhead, I can tell you what it can do to that cylinder at different distances. But how will the torpedoes find the cylinders? Aren’t they acoustic homing? And what type of fuzing are you looking at?”
“We’re working on those,” Gabriel said hopefully.
They clustered at one end of the long table near the podium. They certainly didn’t need all the space. There were only a dozen people involved in planning or approving the mission, and for the time being, it was going to stay that way. Besides CDR Gabriel, LCDR Forest, and the somewhat surprised Dr. Cavanaugh, it included Admiral Hughes, the chief of naval operations; General Schiller, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff; and the secretaries of the navy and defense.
Gabriel sat at a laptop, working the mouse and keyboard as the others stood behind him, studying the notes on the laptop’s screen.
It had been a long day and a half for Cavanaugh, with meals inside the small planning cell as they worked out ways to get the torpedoes to home on target, the warheads to detonate, and what their effects would be — thank Heaven at least the depth was known. Then they spent almost as much time trying to imagine what could possibly go wrong, and how they could adjust to still get the job done. He’d been outside exactly once, with LCDR Forest as an escort, so that he could call a neighbor to ask them to feed his cats. He’d spent the ride from the Pentagon to Pennsylvania Avenue rubbing his chin and wondering how scruffy he looked.
President Hardy entered unannounced, with a navy commander close behind, and everyone quickly stood. Hardy introduced the commander as Lou Weiss, skipper of Jimmy Carter, a submarine. He’d arrived only a short time ago from Groton. While everyone exchanged introductions and greetings, Cavanaugh noted the contrast between the officers’ crisp summer uniforms, de rigueur for the White House, and his own bedraggled sport coat and tie. Even Hardy managed to make slacks and a polo shirt look military. The shirt was navy blue with a submarine and the name “Memphis” embroidered in gold.
Hardy sat as Gabriel moved to the podium and called up the first slide. “Mr. President, Captain Weiss, this is Jimmy Carter’s route north. It’s nine days, five hours, transiting at an average speed of about twenty-two knots. We optimized speed while maintaining a high level of covertness — especially for the last twelve hundred miles where interactions with Russian navy assets have a greater chance of occurring. We’ve prepared a draft of a complete voyage plan for your review.”
Hardy nodded and looked to Weiss, who observed, “Having just been up there, the final approach leg has to be at a much slower speed, of course.”
Gabriel shrugged. “We weren’t sure how you’d want to use your UUVs during the final leg, nor do we have any insight into changes in the area’s defenses, so that last part’s pretty much a placeholder.” He gestured to the rest of the planning cell. “We’re a little thin on experience with unmanned underwater vehicles, and again, you were just there.”