Pacino hung up and looked at Allende. “You think we did this?” He asked quietly as he inclined his head to the screen that was still broadcasting about the vice president’s death.
“No telling,” Allende said. “If we did, I don’t know about it. With one whisper to the Secret Service? Carlucci could have done this.”
“Yeah, but Chushi was pretty far gone with cancer, and for all we know, it could have affected her brain, as that outburst in the Situation Room showed. This could be natural causes.”
Allende shook her head. “Natural causes don’t have convenient timing.”
“I guess you’re right. Boss wants to see me in his study.”
“You can take my Jag,” Allende said, searching in her purse for her key fob.
“He’s got a car out front waiting for me,” Pacino said, smiling. “I guess he knows our habits.”
“Your cell has a tracker on it,” Allende said.
“So, the big question is, do I drink this scotch or pour it down the bar sink?”
Allende smiled. “For this meeting? My recommendation is you drink it.”
And Pacino did.
The president’s recently remodeled and windowless study next to the Oval Office was a SCIF, a special compartmented information facility, where the most sensitive secrets could be discussed. It featured dark wood paneling, dark tin-patterned ceiling, deep leather club chairs and a massive fireplace. The seating area was arranged at the end away from the door, facing the fireplace. On the door end of the room, a small desk and high-backed chair with smaller chairs in front was placed. For this meeting, the president had called in Navy Secretary Jeremy Shingles and acting Chief of Naval Operations Rob Catardi. Pacino took one of the club chairs opposite the president, a mahogany and marble coffee table between them, Shingles and Catardi sitting on his left. The president had called for one of the stewards to light a fire in the fireplace despite the September heat, the office’s air conditioning able to overcome the additional warmth. When the fire was fully stoked and the steward left, Carlucci offered Pacino a cigar. Shingles and Catardi were already puffing smoke, though neither looked comfortable.
“I have Macallan 25,” Carlucci said, pouring from a crystal decanter into a rocks glass. “Patch?”
“Yes, please, sir,” Pacino said, bringing the Cuban Cohiba to life with Carlucci’s torch lighter.
“Well, I wanted to see you all to talk more about this option of placing mines on the hull of the Omega, the kind we can light up with a sonar signal.” Carlucci turned to Catardi. “Admiral Catardi, can you describe the nuts and bolts of how this would work?”
“Certainly, Mr. President,” the chief of the Navy said, accepting a glass from the president and passing it to Pacino, then accepting one for himself. Catardi wasn’t a big drinker, but when the president drank scotch and toked on a cigar, so would the admiral. “The New Jersey is outfitted with a dry-deck shelter on her upper hull and there are four SEAL commandos embarked aboard. The SEALs will climb into the shelter with dry suits on and swim to the bow of the New Jersey and withdraw the mines. The SEALs have ultraquiet propulsion units that will take them to the Omega hull. They’ll attach the mines about forty feet aft of the bow, so that they are adjacent to the storage racks of the Omega’s torpedoes, with one mine on each side. Once the mines are in place, they’ll connect the mines with a communication wire between them.”
“Won’t it be tough to swim against the current, with the Omega moving?”
“No, sir,” Catardi said. “Under the ice, any speed over about three knots is not safe. A sub can slam into a pressure ridge and damage the bow or sail. This isn’t the kind of ice like the stuff that floats in your glass. Polar ice pressure ridges are hard as steel and can rip open a hull and sink a ship. Don’t believe me, ask our good friends on the Titanic. So this won’t be a problem. The propulsion units the SEALs will use are powerful enough to haul the commandos and the mines.”
“Will doing this make noise? Won’t the Omega hear a clunking sound when the mines are attached?”
“No, Mr. President. They attach first with the suction from a vacuum pump while a powerful electromagnet holds them fast to the hull. A small unit will come out of the body of the mine, cut away any anechoic foam coating on the hull, expose raw steel, and weld itself to the hull. Then the electromagnets and vacuum pump can turn off, conserving battery power.”
“How long will the batteries last?”
“In testing, about three months. The mines are in a power-saver mode until awakened by the sonar signal. So then the divers swim back, re-enter the New Jersey and they await further instructions.”
“Tell me more about the sonar pulse that wakes up the mines and detonates them,” Carlucci said.
“The sound won’t be anything like a regular sonar pulse. One sonar trigger sound that performed well in testing is the opening bars of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. The ending of the 1812 Overture worked well also.”
Carlucci nodded and refilled his glass, then relit his cigar, which had gone out. “What if we decide to abort the mission? It wouldn’t do to have a couple of our mines attached to the Omega’s hull when it eventually pulls into port.”
“Another sonar signal commands the mines to detach. They torch off the welded lug from the hull and sink to the bottom and self-destruct.”
“Good,” Carlucci said. “I like it. So, gentlemen, execute this plan. Place the mines on the Omega hull. Give the order immediately, Admiral.”
“Right away, Mr. President. By your leave, sir,” Catardi said, standing.
“Thanks for coming, Rob,” Carlucci said, flashing his politician’s smile at the Navy chief.
“You need me anymore, Mr. President?” Shingles asked.
“No, but thank you for coming so late, Jeremy,” Carlucci said. He liked informality when the business was over.
Pacino stood and was about to put out his cigar when Carlucci waved him back to his seat. “Stay a moment, will you, Admiral Pacino?”
Interesting, Pacino thought, that there was no informality now, so the business with him must still be ongoing. Pacino sat.
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“Admiral, your swearing in will be at two pm in the Rose Garden. Figure out who you want to hold the Bible or the Koran or the Code of Federal Regulations for you. Supreme Court Chief Justice McDaniel will swear you in.”
Pacino stared at Carlucci, momentarily confused. Carlucci just smiled and said, “Welcome to your new role, Mr. Vice President.” He stood and offered his hand.
For a moment Pacino was speechless. As he stood, he took a breath to argue with Carlucci that he didn’t want the office, but Carlucci seemed to read his mind.
“Don’t worry, Patch. You’ll retain your national security advisor role and functions, and staff. But now I’ll have a VP I can trust. And you get a bigger West Wing office.”
Pacino shook the president’s hand. What could he say, Pacino wondered. “Thank you, Mr. President. It’s an honor.”
When he opened the door to the hallway, four Secret Service agents were waiting for him. One of them spoke to his wrist, saying, “Devilfish is on the move.”
Hell of a Secret Service code name they’d christened him with, Pacino thought. The name of two submarines under his command that sank.
BOOK III
COMMAND DETONATE
16