“I believe the Russians will stand down,” Pacino said. “Anything else would be a crazy overreaction. Vostov won’t send nuclear missiles over the pole because we put his submarine on the bottom. A submarine that was on a nefarious mission to sneak nuclear munitions to the American coast.”
“How do you know?”
“Because the Russians didn’t do anything in retaliation when we sank the first Omega under the icecap. Nor did they take action when we sank three of their Yasen-M attack submarines this summer.”
Carlucci paused. “Unless losing a fourth submarine is the last straw for Vostov. Secretary Hogshead, what say you?”
The Secretary of War cleared his throat. “Mr. President, I understand the clear driving motivation for taking this offensive submarine torpedo system out, but we’ve had a dozen debates about things like this in the past. We were threatened by, for example, an anti-ballistic missile radar installation outside Moscow, the station bristling with anti-aircraft and anti-missile defenses, which would make Moscow impervious to a nuclear attack, and the station itself was immune to a strike to take it out. It was sort of a miniature version of our own Strategic Defense Initiative. Discussion went to sending in a highly modified B-52 bomber cloaked with anti-radar material, jets with heat signature masking and a new bomb-homing system and a precision laser-guided bunker-busting bomb. I believe the plane had a codename, the ‘Old Dog.’ ‘Allow us to take out the ABM site,’ the Air Force pleaded. ‘The Old Dog can fly in and out without being detected and the bomb will eliminate the radar installation.’ We decided against the plan. It was just too overt and provocative. Plus, if the Russians were to shoot down the Old Dog and capture the crew, it would be a foreign relations nightmare. Instead, we just had CIA and Mossad agents go underground and sabotage it from the inside. Turns out, Madam Director Allende’s methods work better than ours in situations like this.”
“So, what do you think, Madam Director?” Carlucci asked Allende.
Margo Allende swallowed. Pacino realized her loyalty to him and her loyalty to CIA were in conflict. He’d once told her, if that situation arose, to be the CIA director first and his girlfriend last, and she’d looked at him like he was an idiot and said, of course she would. But in reality, he knew she wouldn’t want to pollute their relationship by calling his proposal stupid or ill-advised in front of the president.
“Mr. President, I like the idea of placing mines on the Omega’s hull that we can detonate remotely if we have to. A mine would make the sinking — if we determine the Omega must be put on the bottom — look like a torpedo room accident, like Kursk.”
“Kursk,” Carlucci said. “Refresh my memory, please. Kursk was that Russian sub that sank, what, twenty-five years ago from its own torpedo exploding in its torpedo room. Right?”
“Actually, no, sir,” Allende said. “The news all trumpeted that version. In actuality, when Kursk was in port, our Navy SEALs placed two shaped-charge mines on either side of its torpedo room, programmed with an algorithm. It would wait for depth excursions, time from leaving port, periscope depth trips, the sound of exercise weapons being fired. Then when the algorithm on the master mine was satisfied, it sent a signal to the slave mine and both blew up at the same time. The weapons in the Kursk’s torpedo room blew up in sympathy, with sufficient force to vaporize the entire compartment. The Russians had no wreckage or forensic evidence of the torpedo compartment they could use to put the puzzle pieces together.”
“I had no idea,” Carlucci said, fascinated. “Why did we do that?”
“Retaliation for our submarine USS Stingray, which the Russians sank under the polar icecap. With the loss of all hands.” Allende gave Pacino a significant look. Pacino wondered if Carlucci knew that Stingray’s captain was Commander Anthony Pacino, his father.
“Wait, why would the Russians sink our sub, Stingray, under the ice?” Carlucci frowned in confusion.
“Their reason, Mr. President,” Allende explained, “was that they thought one of our submarines sank their boat, K-129, off Hawaii.”
“Dear God, this just goes on and on, doesn’t it?” Carlucci said in frustration. “What happens when the Russians decide we sank this Omega? We lose another one of our boats? Or they target the New Jersey when it leaves the Arctic Ocean?” Carlucci shook his head. “I’m not ready to shoot down this submarine, people. It’s too aggressive. Let’s just keep watching it and waiting.”
“Sir, are you also rejecting the mine placement plan?” Pacino asked.
“I actually like the mine placement option,” Carlucci said. “But let’s wait on that too. A bomb that goes off from a sonar sound? Sounds risky.” He turned to look at Allende. “And by the way, what about Vostov? How safe is he? With all these assassination attempts?”
Allende shook her head. “We think a third attempt is coming. We’re trying to find out more. So far, we haven’t traced who is responsible for these attacks. And we haven’t yet gotten information on what the third attempt will be. Just some communications chatter.”
Carlucci nodded. “If you find out in time, I could warn Vostov.”
“Why?” Pacino asked. “He’s not exactly acting very friendly right now. Not with this Omega and these Poseidons.”
Carlucci smiled. “A good faith gesture like that? It might change the calculus of his placing these Poseidons. Besides. Devil you know, Patch. Devil you know.”
Margo Allende unlocked her Jaguar and Pacino climbed into the plush leather passenger seat of the slung-back and sleek black sports car.
“Where to, Patch?” she asked, her hand reaching for his.
“I’m thinking the Irish pub,” he said.
“Kelly’s Irish Times it is.” She guided the car out to the street, the way to the pub memorized, as it was practically their watering hole when they were both at the White House.
“How are you?” Pacino asked. “You okay?”
She glanced at him. “Patch, after a day like this, I just want to inhale a big bowl of Irish stew, chug an entire bottle of wine all by myself, then go home, where, if you’ll oblige, you’ll fuck me hard enough to make me lose consciousness.”
“You know, Margo, I’ve always loved your poetic style of speaking.”
“Hey,” she smiled for the first time since the meeting, “I’m a delicate fuckin’ flower.”
They were sitting at the bar while waiting for a table to open up. Pacino had ordered a Macallan 18, double, neat. Allende had opted for a Cabernet from Sonoma. They were just about to start talking about things that weren’t classified, when a commotion broke out at the end of the bar, where one of the flat screen displays that wasn’t selected to a sports channel was playing the 24-hour SNN news feed. Someone had bellowed, “turn that up!”
The bar quieted down as the announcer came on and went to a reporter pictured outside, where an upside-down Lincoln SUV was lying, its top crushed, its front end smashed flat from a bridge abutment. The scroll at the bottom of the screen read, …VICE PRESIDENT KAREN CHUSHI DEAD IN A SINGLE CAR ACCIDENT OFF MARYLAND RT. 50….
Pacino’s cell phone began to ring insistently with the White House’s ring tone. He picked it up, stated the memorized eight alphanumeric code for the day and the White House operator came on.
“Admiral Pacino, the president wants to see you in his study. There’s a car waiting for you.”