H.M.S. Unseen (26 page)

He got his way, too. All of the delegates agreed to recommend that their governments attack the problem, forcing banks to listen to reason: that it was not all the fault of the poor nations. Much of the problem could be laid at the door of the banks themselves, for making highly injudicious loans to those who plainly could not repay, worse, did not understand the terms correctly. Martin Beckman was on the verge of making himself a significant piece of modern financial history.

They also worked on the burgeoning grain mountains, examining ways to ship the vast tonnage of surplus cereals from Europe and the United States to the Third World. They hammered out a rota system that other nations would contribute the shipping and freight costs to match the contributions of the governments that supplied the wheat, oats, and barley.

They tackled the world oil-distribution problems. At least they tried to. But there was a certain reserve about the Middle Eastern nations, most of whom had recently mortgaged years of “futures” in order to buy warships and aircraft. China, whose voracious appetite for automobile fuel was reaching gluttonous proportions, stayed out of this discussion, despite Martin Beckman’s assertion that they were currently using more refined oil than the U.S.A.

Nonetheless it was tacitly agreed that all nations at the conference would resolve to ensure that the world’s tanker routes would remain open for free trade, for the greater good. Iran, the nation that strategically controlled the Strait of Hormuz, voted yes for this only after Martin Beckman made another speech suggesting that any blockade of the Gulf would cause untold hardship to the sick and the elderly and the children of the poorer European nations.

“This is a conference about humanity, for humanity,” he said. “I am quite certain that all the nations here would wish to proceed in that spirit…I do not think anyone in this room would approve any nation making oblique threats to cause hardship for any of our fellow men. Not here, Iran. This is a forum for peaceful coexistence among nations…and I defy you to vote against a resolution for the peaceful trade routes of the world’s principal fuel.”

Thus the guardians of the Strait were shamed into joining the unanimous vote for free and open tanker routes, wherever the tides ebb and flow on the planet earth. Martin Beckman arrived in London a hero of the Left. As he prepared to depart for Washington on Sunday morning February 26 he was a hero of the people. And not just the people of Great Britain and the U.S.A. He was a hero of the people of the world. His was the voice of decency and reason, a man whose clearly defined basic goodness came through to all the delegates who dealt with him.

Certainly the world leaders present recognized that he spoke with enormous authority, as the Vice President of the most powerful of nations. But Martin Beckman never mentioned what his nation might or might not do. He came to the conference with an air of modesty, and, despite being lauded by the international press on an almost hourly basis, he departed with the same humility. Which was a considerable achievement, because it seemed that every member of the crowd that had thronged the eastern edge of Hyde Park to see him arrive, thronged into the precincts of London’s airport to see him depart.

The security was massive as the American delegation arrived at Terminal Four, but thousands and thousands of students still packed the viewing galleries and the fences along the perimeter to watch the gleaming new Boeing of the U.S. Presidency take off for Washington. And as it did so, above the roar of the four giant Pratt and Whitney engines, there could still be heard the anthem of the Doves, swelling out across the airport. The unforgettable words of the slain John Lennon rose into the winter sky, lilting, beseeching, over and over, turning the commercial sprawl of Heathrow Airport into a sacred cathedral on this cloudless Sunday morning. “
ALL WE ARE SA-A-YING…is GIVE PEACE A CHANCE.”

260900FEB06. 53.20N, 20.00W. Depth 300.
Course 180. Speed 9.

HMS
Unseen
, fully refueled and stored, had been running quietly south from the frozen shores of Iceland for four days, snorkeling for the shortest possible periods. And now, 470 miles due west of Galway, the CO ordered the submarine to periscope depth once more.

The crew raised the big communications mast and sucked down the critical message from the satellite.
Unseen
was back underwater cruising south by the time the commanding officer decrypted it.

The Sunday morning air traffic was busy, but not so busy as on a weekday. Transatlantic jetliners were using four of the northerly routes across the ocean, stacked four high. This meant that a big passenger aircraft from one of the European capital cities was passing overhead every nine minutes, flying at around 420 knots at 33,000 feet minimum. Sometime after 1210(GMT)
Unseen
would begin her target search…for the only one using IFF Code 2471.

The time passed slowly in the black submarine, but it came back to periscope depth and went to full alert shortly after 1200 (GMT). At 1233 they saw her IFF code on the radar screen, their first detection.

“
Squawk Code 2471, sir. Bearing one-zero-zero. Range 224 miles.”

At 1235: “
Range 204, sir. Track and CPA assessed. Distance off track 34 miles.”

“That’s too tight. I’m going to make a fast run south,”
snapped Ben Adnam. “…
10 down…150 feet…make your speed 18 knots. I want to be back up and looking by 8 miles to CPA.”

The submarine drove down under the Atlantic waves leaving no mark on the choppy surface. The planesman leveled off at 150 feet; then
Unseen
accelerated, running flat out through the deep, eating up the distance, but risking detection as her electric motors powered her forward.

At 1245 the Americans caught her, picked her up on SOSUS, the great underwater electronic network that scans the oceans on behalf of the United States. It was a quiet day at the U.S. listening station at Keflavik, way out on Iceland’s southwestern peninsula, and the urgency in the voice of the young operator was surprising.

“I’m getting something, sir, not engine lines, but it’s a noise source of some kind…probably flow noise. I don’t think it’s weather.”

His supervisor moved swiftly over to check it out. There were still no machine-originated lines coming up, but it was a very definite noise. And it was not a fish. That left the only other fast-moving creature under the sea.

The supervisor strained his eyes for five minutes, searching for a clue. Shaft count? Blade count? Not a whisper. No telltale pattern came up on the screen.

At 1256 (GMT) the marks faded, then died altogether, as HMS
Unseen
slowed down and began to head back to the surface.

The supervisor moved away, told the operator to stay sharp, and immediately sent a signal to Fort Meade, Maryland.

The signal was on Admiral George Morris’s desk by 0800(EST). The director had been there since 0700, and he read the message carefully, simultaneously hitting the secure line to the White House, directly into the office of the President’s national security advisor.

At 1258 the radar operator in
Unseen,
then at periscope depth, was scanning the skies to the east. Within thirty seconds he had reestablished the track and the CPA.
“Target approaches 49 miles. Distance off track 20.”

“SURFACE! BLOW ALL MAIN BALLAST.”

Unseen
climbed malevolently out of the Atlantic, smashing her way through the waves, green water surging over the casing, the missile launcher stark against the empty skyline, as the radar tracked the incoming
Air Force Three
, bearing home the peace champion from the Peace Conference of Nations.

“Speed 420 knots, sir.”

“Range now 42 miles, sir.”

“
Check surface picture. Anything out there, inside 12 miles?. Nothing? Perfect.”

“
We have adequate firing solution within the parameters, sir.”

“Target holds course and speed. CPA unchanged…entering the missile envelope, sir.”

Commander Adnam nodded, checked his watch. “
COUNTDOWN?”

“Sixty seconds, sir.”

At 1302:20. “
MISSILE LAUNCH!”

Unseen’s
third SAN-6 Grumble Rif blasted off from the deck of the ex–Royal Navy diesel-electric. With fire roaring from behind, it streaked into the skies, climbing to 2,000 feet in three seconds, where it should have accelerated, but instead, summarily blew itself to smithereens, showering the ocean with flame, sparks, and shrapnel.

“
MALFUNCTION, SIR! MISSILE HAS SELF-DESTRUCTED.”

But the CO had seen the sudden unaccountable destruction, and the heavy cloud of smoke that hung high above his ship. With the launch aborted, he ordered the fire-control team to program and launch missile four.

At 1303:20 it fired, screaming into the sky with a perfect vertical takeoff, reaching 33,000 feet in under twenty seconds, and angling across to the Closest Point of Approach, toward which
Air Force Three
was making 420 knots, 15 miles out.

Colonel Jaxtimer saw it through the clear skies, or at least he saw the vertical smoke trail way out in front. The ex–Air Force bomber pilot reacted instantly. He was trained for this, and he was ready, and he knew what he was seeing. His broadcast waveband was open to Shannon, ready for the 20 West way point, and he hit it instantly. “MISSILE!
This is a guided missile!
”

As he spoke the SAN-6 changed course and came straight at the Presidential Boeing. Al Jaxtimer saw it, and he was still on the line to Shannon ATC. He hit the decoy button, knowing it to be near-useless in a head-on attack, then hauled on the stick, trying to evade. But the big Boeing was not built to be a fighter plane. And the Shannon operator heard the colonel cry out, “JESUS! MIKE!” as the big Russian-made weapon came screaming in, smashed into the area right below the nose, exploded, and blew
Air Force Three
apart, along with everyone who flew in her.

In the control center of
Unseen,
the words were simple, and they signified a task accomplished. “
No contact on radar bearing, Captain.”

“
Thank you, gentlemen. Nice recovery. Open main vents. Take her deep, 300 feet. Make your speed nine when you’re down there. Course zero-four-five.” It was precisely 1305 (GMT).

0805. Office of the National Security Advisor.
The White House.

Arnold Morgan gazed at the communication from the Icelandic listening station, which George Morris had faxed over from Fort Meade. The admiral looked at the time the American surveillance team had picked up the transient contact: 1245.
Jesus! Twenty minutes ago. Not bad.
He walked over to his big, sloping, chart desk, upon which the light was permanently on, and checked the position.

He took his calipers and made some measurements, muttering to himself constantly. “Something out there on 20 West, way south opposite the west of Ireland…could he be out there? And if he is, what the hell’s he doing? It’s seventeen days now since Starstriker went down…but this signal is telling me the guys at Keflavik think they may just have detected a diesel-electric, and that bastard’s in one.

“Let’s see…uh-huh, he could be in that position very easily. But why’s he in such a goddamned hurry? What’s he doing running his boat at a speed like that for eleven whole minutes? He must know we might get onto him. Beats the hell outta me, but he must think it’s worth it.

“He’s too far north to be after another supersonic airliner. And there’s not many warships out there. It really beats the hell out of me. But what do I know? Not much, except he got two supersonics, and he might be after a third. That’s not much, but it’s a whole lot more than some of these other assholes around here know.”

He buzzed Kathy, and asked her if there was anything he could reasonably offer her to acquire a cup of coffee. “I’m up for anything, dinner tonight, marriage, undying love…whatever pleases you. BLACK WITH BUCKSHOT, DINGBATS!”

Kathy shook her head, fixed him some coffee, and walked into his office. And there she found her boss and future husband, hunched over a map of the North Atlantic, pressing the buttons of a small calculator. “He coulda gotten there…no doubt…and since George couldn’t find a trace of another diesel-electric boat within hundreds of miles…and since even the Brits haven’t the first idea who it might be…I guess that’s gotta be him, right?”

“Right,” said Kathy. “Here, drink this. Shall I presume you are still searching for your phantom Arab submariner?”

“I’m not sure I haven’t found the sonofabitch,” he growled. “At least a very sharp young man in Iceland may have found him.”

“Iceland!” said Kathy. “I thought he was an Arab, not an Eskimo.”

Admiral Morgan smiled. “No. They just caught a noise they thought might be a submarine up there. Pretty vague but plausible for the man I seek. He gives away nothing, if he can help it. And he ain’t given us much this time either.”