“We’d have to use a box system,” said Admiral Curran. “You know, give each U.S. submarine an area in which he must stick…otherwise we’ll have ’em shooting at each other…”
“And there’s always a problem with that,” replied Arnold. “You pick the enemy up and track him to the edge of your box, then you’ve either got to break the rules and pursue him into somebody else’s box or let him go and hope your nearest colleague will pick him up as well.”
“Actually, sir, I was thinking of a search box only. I suggest our submarine COs will have orders to open fire and sink the enemy instantly.”
“Freddie, I think that’s exactly correct,” said Arnold. “Which means we can’t have our guys rampaging all over each other’s designated areas. In the final reckoning, the box system is usually best. Though I did once hear the Royal Navy’s High Command was somewhat less than thrilled when one of their submarines picked up the Argentinian submarine somewhere north of the Falklands and then let him go because they’d reached the end of the patrol box.”
“I guess that’s always the downside,” said Admiral Curran, thoughtfully. “But generally speaking, the worst-case scenario would be one of our nuclear boats hitting another.”
“Well,” said General Scannell. “I’d be more than happy for you guys to work on some kind of a fleet plan for Monday’s meeting…but I would like to know if we have enough ships!”
“No problem,” replied Admiral Dickson. “Right now we have Carrier Groups patrolling the northern Gulf, the east end of the Strait of Hormuz, the northern Arabian Gulf, and one in readiness at Diego Garcia. There’s a fifth preparing to leave Pearl Harbor. All of them could be in the mid-Atlantic in well under three weeks. That’s fifty-five ships.”
“Okay. The rest, I presume, are already in the Atlantic, or in Norfolk, or New London, or somewhere else on the East Coast?”
“Correct, sir. We do not have a problem getting a full complement of ships into the operational area.”
“As for the Barracuda, of course we have no idea where that might be?” asked the CJC.
“Hell, yes, we got a hundred ideas,” said Arnold Morgan. “None of ’em reliable. But it seems to me, if this bastard unleashed a battery of submarine-launched cruise missiles at Mount St. Helens, somewhere off Washington State, or even Oregon, earlier this month, he’s got to be on his way to the eastern Atlantic by now.
“He will not want to go the longest way around. Not the way he came, all the way back north of the Aleutians, way down the coast of Asia, and then all the way across the Indian Ocean. That’s too far. Twenty thousand miles plus, most of it at slow speed. It’d take him nearly three months.”
Arnold Morgan let that rest for a few moments, and then he continued, speaking quietly to three very senior men who found it impossible to accept that he was no longer their spiritual leader.
“And this clever little son of a bitch certainly will not want to take the shorter route across the Pacific Basin,” said the Admiral. “As you know, it’s literally trembling with our SOSUS wires. No, sir. He’ll know that. And he’ll avoid that.
“And he plainly cannot use the Panama Canal. Which means his most likely route will be down the west coast of South America, which is not heavily patrolled, nor surveyed, by our ships and satellites.
“It’s shorter, safer, and much, much quieter, if he’s trying to get into the Atlantic…Remember, he hit Mount St. Helens on Sunday morning, August 9. Today’s the twenty-second. That’s thirteen days, and he was probably making only seven knots for ten of them, but now he could probably be making fifteen in deserted waters. Which means he’s put nearly 3,000 miles between himself and the datum.
“Way down at the southern end of Chile, he’ll be moving even quicker. That damned Barracuda will be around Cape Horn in a couple of weeks, minimum.”
“Any point putting a submarine trap down there somewhere…try and stop him entering the Atlantic?” General Scannell was wracking his brains.
“Sir, it’s such a vast, deep seascape,” said Admiral Curran. “We’d need a lot of ships, and if we missed him, which we probably would, we’d be involved in some kind of race back to the Canary Islands…and we might lose that race. And that Barracuda could fire its missiles at the cliff face real quick. Sir, I think we’d be much better to get ourselves in line of battle, right where it counts — west of La Palma. We know he’s going there.”
“I’d go with that,” said Admiral Dickson. “This seems like no place to be taking any chances whatsoever.”
“I understand,” said the CJC. “And I have one last point to make before I hand over to the Admirals…We have just one credibility gap in my view. That’s the actual existence of the cruise missiles.
“But we do have one cast-iron witness, and we’re not making the most of him. Gentlemen, I recommend we bring Mr. Tilton in from Seattle for Monday’s meeting. Just so he can demonstrate to every one of us that what he heard was the genuine sound of an incoming missile.”
“I agree with that,” said Arnold Morgan. “You know the President and his half-witted advisers are going to pour scorn on our missile theory. I would even consider filming Mr. Tilton so his evidence can be locked in, and if necessary, shown to the President.”
“No problem with that either,” replied General Scannell. “Now we’ll go and find some lunch, and decide an approximate formation of ships, and whatever security we need on the southwest side of La Palma. Who’s going to track down Mr. Tilton on a Saturday morning out in Seattle?”
“I’ll take care of that,” said Admiral Morgan. “Have someone call Fort Meade and get Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe to call me on this private line, fast. He’ll be on inside ten minutes.”
That was way too big an estimate. The Admiral had just embarked on an alarming account of how he had been in the middle of his honeymoon, “standing on the same volcano as the world’s most wanted man and…”
The phone rang. General Scannell answered.
“Good morning, sir. This is Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe of the National Security Agency returning a call…”
“Just a moment…Arnie…it’s your man…”
“Hi, Jimmy. You remember that bank president you spoke with about the missiles at Mount St. Helens?”
“Yes, sir, Tony Tilton. Seattle National.”
“That’s him. Can you get him on the line? This line. I mean I’d like to have him at our Monday morning meeting here.”
“Might take a while, sir. The bank’s closed this morning, I guess. But I’ll find him.”
“You in the office?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay. Let’s bring him in Sunday night. Leave Seattle around 0900, his time. Straight to Andrews.”
“How’s he to travel, sir?”
“Military aircraft, what d’you think? The fucking space shuttle?”
“Er, no, sir.”
The Admiral chuckled. “Jimmy, get him on standby, then call us back and we’ll give you his travel details. He can stay at our house.”
“Okay, sir. I’ll get right back.”
Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe hit what he called the “obvious buttons” first. Directory assistance. He found a Tony and Martha Tilton in Magnolia, and dialed the number himself, sparing everyone the hang-up of yet another third party tuning in to a classified subject.
No one answered. It was 8:56 on this Saturday morning. And Jimmy left a message, knowing the phrase “National Security Agency, Fort Meade,” was likely to put a rocket under anyone’s ass.
This was a three-minute rocket. Tony Tilton was on the line, agreeing to travel to Washington the next day for a Monday morning meeting at the Pentagon, but to discuss it with no one. Jimmy told him he’d be right back with travel details, and hit the wire to the office of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.