Barracuda 945 (54 page)

“We never found ’em, couldn’t stop ’em. And they knew precisely what they were doing. Gentlemen, we have been the victims of terrorism of the worst type since 9/11. Less death, but savage damage to our country.

“Yesterday we located the submarine. An old Sierra I,
Barracuda Class, Type 945.
And right now it’s trapped in the Panama Canal. I believe they’ve dumped it. Switched off the nuclear reactor and let it bury itself somewhere in the Gatún Lake, through which the Canal runs, eighty-four feet above sea level, till it steps down again at the Pacific end.

“As you all know, the Panama Canal is currently under the stewardship of the Chinese. And they just closed it, presumably while they get rid of the evidence and help our enemies to escape.

“Naturally, we find that unacceptable, because they are aiding and abetting terrorists. And if you are not for us, you are against us. However, the bigger picture is much, much more important. And the really unacceptable part is that China actually controls the Canal, illegally in my view, thanks to the fifth-rate fucking antics of a fourth-rate, lying Central American country, aided by a U.S. President who kept his brains somewhere near the end of his pecker.”

“By all acounts that provided room for a considerable amount of brains,” interrupted Harcourt.

“None of ’em focused on the interests of this country and its global role,” growled Arnold. “If China does this now, what else will they be capable of? This is the most dangerous situation we’ve had in our backyard since the Cuban Missile Crisis. Which brings us to the crux of the problem. We need to get the Chinese out of Panama, and to do that we’ll have to throw ’em out. And for the sake of world opinion, we need a major reason to do so. We find that goddamned submarine, we have that reason.”

Again the five men in Arnold’s West Wing office nodded in agreement.

“Gentlemen, I am proposing we smash the lock gates on the Atlantic side, which will drain Gatún Lake in short order, leaving our submarine exposed.”

The room went deadly silent.

“You mean bomb the locks, obliterate them?” asked General Scannell.

“No, General. I mean blow off the lakeward gates of the upper Gatún Locks, the entrance into the high chamber. The water will do the rest.”

“SEALs?”

“Precisely.”

“Well, it’s feasible, I can tell you that. I made a study of the Canal at West Point, and I served in Panama in the 1989 invasion. Those top gates are critical. Knock them off, and it’s all over.”

Arnold grinned, grimly. “And I am quite sure, gentlemen, it has not escaped you, that when the Canal is effectively destroyed, the Chinese will have no further reason to remain. They will hear the thunder of Uncle Sam, bellowing, GET OUT OR ELSE. And they will likely vamoose of their own accord. In any event, we’ll land a fighting force and clear the damn place out, both ends.”

“What about the Panamanian Government?” asked Harcourt.

“You mean before or after they change their pants?” asked Arnold.

“After,” said Harcourt, urbanely.

“We’ll tell them we are reclaiming the Canal we built because they have proved hopeless, treacherous custodians whose stupidity and disloyalty—maybe both—nearly caused a world war. We’ll tell ’em we intend to rebuild the Gatún Locks, immediately, and to restore world order to the path between the oceans.”

“Who’s paying?” asked Harcourt.

“We are. They’re penniless. But we will assume total control of the entire Canal Zone, the railroad, and all the territories that bound the waterway. That includes the dockyards. The towns at either end will essentially come under our control.”

“You mean we’re going in there like Genghis Khan?” said General Scannell, “Like conquerors?”

“Oh, no,” said Admiral Morgan. “Panama needs the money from that canal, and right now they have nothing. We are the only guys who can rebuild it. And for that, we will require all revenues for five years, sixty percent thereafter. Panama can have the rest.”

“Neat,” said Alan Dickson. “Very neat, indeed. Two priceless
Naval Bases, priceless dockyards, total control of the Canal. And a damned kick in the ass for the Chinese. We just killed about two hundred birds with one stone.”

“One lock gate,” said Arnold.

“Two, actually,” said Jimmy Ramshawe. “We need to blow two. They close folded, like a flattened V.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant Commander,” said General Scannell. “Very informative.”

“Any time, Chief,” replied the junior officer in the room, grinning his lopsided Aussie grin.

Right now, there was that sort of mood in the lair of the National Security Adviser. No dissent. Everyone deeply grateful for the clarity of Admiral Morgan’s discourse, his motives and conclusions, and the obvious merit of his plan.

“Do we intend this to be a public attack, with the entire world knowing who did what to whom?” asked Admiral Morris.

“Absolutely not,” said Arnold. “It’s dead secret. We admit nothing, and we rant on and on about the criminally negligent way the Panamanians and the Chinese have handled the upkeep and engineering inspections on the Canal locks. Within a dozen years of our leaving Panama, the entire thing caves in.”

“I suppose some people will guess what really happened,” said Admiral Morris.

“So they might. But they will prove nothing because we’ll be in control. I suppose, sooner or later, the stupid media will work out the
Eisenhower
battle group was parked fifty miles off the Panamanian coast at the time of the lock disaster. But we’ll be as mum as the goddamned Chinese would have been, if we did not find that submarine.”

Just then, Kathy O’Brien tapped lightly on the door and entered, gesturing a waiter to place the large coffee tray on the conference table. She carried with her an encrypted E-mail printout from SEAL Headquarters, Coronado, across the bay from San Diego.

Admiral Morgan’s heart jumped. It always did when the hard-nosed, hard-edged SEAL Commanders went to work on a project. But for the moment he wished to say nothing of how far advanced his plans were. The plans he and Admiral Dickson had spent all night preparing.

As the SEALs loved the thoroughness of any operation involving the President’s NSA and their own CNO, so Arnold Morgan loved the bullet-hard response he always got from John Bergstrom when his fighting men began to refine the broad brushstrokes of an essentially political objective.

Arnold handed the signal from Coronado to Admiral Dickson, who read carefully, scribbling notes in the margins as he did so. Then Admiral Morgan told the others to gather around the big table, where Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe would bring them right up to speed on the precise movements of the submarine and the area in which it was now believed to be.

Jimmy spread out a big chart of Panama, its coastal sea lanes, and the lake that encloses the Canal. He had marked times and positions all through yesterday, Friday, right until the moment the
Barracuda
slipped out of the sea-lane and seemed headed into the steaming rain-forest islands that look like patchwork around Gatún Lake.

He waited a few moments, until they were each absorbed in the detail, and then told them he was headed to the Oval Office
where the President, the Defense Secretary Bob MacPherson, and “one or two other time-serving politicos” awaited him.

Like his first meeting of the day, Arnold’s second one did not take long. It ended after six minutes, when he pointed out to the Commander-in-Chief that it was political gold dust. It was a bold move, yes, but done in complete secrecy. They would get the Chinese out of Central America, find the submarine, and, more important, find who was responsible for the attacks. Then there was the fact that he alone, President John Clarke, would be remembered in history as the man who took back the Panama Canal, had it rebuilt, and placed it firmly under American control, denying no ship access in peacetime, just as the United States had always behaved in their long years of stewardship.

John Clarke loved it. And Arnold swept back into his office, stood aside, inside the door, and announced, grandly, “Gentlemen, the President of the United States…”

Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe stood to attention and was greeted warmly by the Chief Executive, who addressed everyone in the room by their first names, thanking them for all they had done, and expressing his great confidence that the next couple of days would help sort out the very great problem that had been haunting the United States since the oil disaster in Alaska.

“You think the submarine’s gonna yield all the information we need?” he asked.

“Maybe,” replied his National Security Adviser. “We need to find out precisely who our enemy is. But in any event, I do think we have a political victory in that China, who may have helped them and then stood well back, did so at the cost of the Panama Canal, which made the operation not worth the price, certainly not financially, definitely not strategically, and perhaps even worse in terms of prestige. We will make them look like some Third World banana republic, which they hate worst of all.

“I like it,” said the President. “I like it a lot.”

“Only
we
know how badly we came out of the whole thing,” said Admiral Morgan. “The damage to our West Coast oil and power industry was massive. They have caused us terrible pain and suffering and they proved we’re damn nearly defenseless
against attackers in a nuclear submarine. But that submarine gives us a sensational checkmate against the Chinese, and it will be a long time before anyone trusts them again.”

“Perfect,” replied the President. “But, gentlemen, I hope you can reveal the identity of our real enemy, the little bastards who actually drove the damn thing and opened fire on us?”

“Sir, we have our theories. And, of course, we suspect the Middle East, as ever. And whether we find the culprits or not, that submarine will shed some serious light on the subject.”

“D’you think the Panamanians will be obstructive to our forces searching the lake for the ship?”

“Sir,” said the Admiral, all business now, “when we ORDER them to take us to that submarine RIGHT NOW, they’ll jump right out of their fucking ponchos with fright. I’ll tell them we want total cooperation. NO ONE is even to touch that submarine until our inspection is complete, and that might take several weeks. The general obedience of the Panamanian Government and its rabble of an army will not be a concern in the face of U.S. authority.”

“Especially with the Chinese out of there,” said the President, smiling at the thought of it.

“Those little bastards will be gone by the end of the week,” said Admiral Morgan. “Hightailing their asses back to Shanghai. For good.”

“Do you envision a precise sequence of events in the immediate aftermath of the collapse of the lock gates?” asked the President.

“Absolutely,” said the Admiral. “The United States will announce, with a lot of outrage, that we are proceeding to the area to begin the work of repairing the Gatún Locks. We will inform the Chinese that an occupying force of ten thousand United States Marines is preparing to land in the Canal Zone and that all Chinese nationals living or working in the area will vacate the country immediately. We will advise the Chinese Government to assist with this evacuation, since any remaining Chinese nationals will be incarcerated indefinitely until the Canal is repaired. They’ll protest. We’ll ignore them.

“At the same time, we will dispatch gunships to circle the Presidential Palace, while a force of one thousand Marines, plus
tanks, arrives at the main gates with the Treaty, which will hand the entire Panama Canal Zone back to the United States.”

“How about the Panamanian President doesn’t want to sign it?”

“Don’t worry. He’ll sign. First time. Fast.”

“And we’ll be doing it all in the name of the world’s free passage through one of its most important seaways?”

“Correct, sir. Plainly, the Panamanians and the Chinese can no longer be trusted to undertake such a responsibility. And by that time, they’ll be about a hundred tankers turning south for the joys of Cape Horn, a seven-thousand-mile journey in front of them. The entire world will be up and cheering us on.”

“I like it,” said President Clarke, using his favorite expression of approval. He was relieved that something good might come out of this nightmare. “I like it a lot.”

“Sir, I will require you to sign this document giving formal permission for Operation Goodwill to begin. Just authorizing the military to, er, observe the lock gates for a few days…and then to proceed to Panama to restore the Canal Zone to United States control, if our engineers deem it necessary.”