“Well, that’s some good news isn’t it, Pamela?” the president said. “What about the other one? The
Super Dragon
?”
“That dragon has been slain, Mr. President. Local fishing fleets report a huge explosion in the North Atlantic. One hour ago, one hundred miles due east of Cape Farewell, Greenland. She simply disappeared off the screen.”
“Accidental?”
“I doubt we’ll ever know, sir.”
“This tanker explosion had a nuclear signature?”
“I’m afraid so, sir.”
“Okay, so nobody’s blowing smoke. General Sun-yat Moon and the Mandarins are sending us a very clear signal. Anything else? Anybody?”
“Captain Mariucci just calling from
Leviathan,
sir. He says they’ve got her two gas turbines up and running. She’s making for the Ambrose Light. Their current speed is almost thirty-one knots.”
The president looked up and smiled.
“Well, God bless America,” he said.
The room burst into loud, sustained applause.
“Uh, Mr. President?” John Gooch said when the room fell silent.
“Yes, John?”
“It’s
Seawolf,
sir. Her skipper reports he is flat-out en route to the Continental Shelf rendezvous.”
“And?”
“At this point, sir, there’s no way he can make the 4:00
A
.
M
. deadline unless he pushes that monster way, way beyond her approved performance parameters.”
“You tell Pokey Fraser I said forget the goddamn parameters. The taxpayers gave him a two-billion-dollar undersea Ferrari. Tell him it’s time to damn well use it.”
“Yes, sir. I suggest it’s also time to tell him about the nuclear device aboard
Leviathan.”
“Does he have a Wild Card ticket?”
“No, sir.”
“He does now. You tell him to move his ass.”
3:34
A.M
., EST
A THIN RED SLAB OF LIGHT LIT THE RIM OF THE BLACK
world. USN Commanding Officer Persifor Fraser, standing in the bridge position atop the fairwater of SSN-21, the nuclear attack submarine
Seawolf,
was not happy. His command wasn’t the usual boat on the New London waterfront. She was the quietest, fastest submarine on the planet. No submarine, and few surface boats, could cover more ground more rapidly than
Seawolf.
En route to Block Island Sound, she’d gone halfway across the Atlantic in roughly forty-eight hours!
Suffice it to say that CDR Pokey Fraser was a man unaccustomed to being late for an appointment. Now the president himself was on his ass and justifiably so. The Red Chinese had embedded a goddamn nuclear device in an ocean liner’s keel and were threatening to blow up New York City.
And his beloved
Seawolf
might be just three minutes too late to stop them.
The huge bow wave rode halfway up the sub’s fairwater. The sharp salt spray stung his eyes, whenever he lowered the heavy binoculars to look at his watch. Goddamn it! He had the pedal to the frigging metal and he still might not make it!
Fraser had to make it. Aside from the enormity of this mission, he owed it to his men.
His crew of fourteen officers and 124 sailors had been at sea at the time of September 11. Because of the nature of submarine operations, his boys had extremely limited access to real-time events. Crew emotions had been all over the map. Many had friends and family in New York and at the Pentagon. Their country had been attacked, and they were in a good position to do something about it. The ship had sortied from Scotland, moved halfway back to the East Coast, when she received urgent orders to move directly to the Med to increase the number of Tomahawks and launch platforms in that theater of operations.
She’d acquitted herself admirably.
Now, Fraser’s destination was the “Wall,” an area of the Atlantic due east of the Ambrose Light, seventy-one degrees longitude, forty degrees latitude, right at the undersea edge of the continent. The seabed dropped off dramatically there and a deep underwater canyon known as the “Wall” gashed the slope, plunging to a depth of two and a quarter miles.
If you had to get rid of a large nuclear bomb in a big hurry, it was as good a place as you were going to find.
Fraser cast a sidelong glance at the two young sailors standing alongside him beneath the small forest of search-and-attack periscopes, the ESM, radar, and communications masts. The fresh-scrubbed and eager faces of his topside watch captured his entire crew’s present mood perfectly. Just like their comrades half a world away in the Taiwan Straits, they planned to stick it, in very short order, to those who would terrorize America. The goddamn Red Chinese.
Fraser gripped the rail, his knuckles white. Six miles. That was the outside range of his Mark 48 torpedoes. He just needed to close within six miles. That wasn’t too much to ask for, was it? Six lousy miles? He leaned into the stinging spray, willing his submarine onward.
3:39
A.M
., EST
The president stood erect, helplessly watching the seconds disappear from the digital mission clock on the wall. Until he took
Leviathan
off the table, his hands were tied. The long knives were out. The Pacific Fleet and the Chinese fleet were at each other’s throats, waiting for him to make the next move. How fascinating it was to be held to account by history. To realize that a wrong word, even a wrong gesture, had enormous consequences. It took every ounce of concerted effort he could muster to keep his true feelings out of his voice when he spoke.
“John?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Twenty minutes. Somebody has to blink. Talk to me.”
“Everything’s up for grabs, sir.”
“Granted. What do they want?”
“They want us out of Iraq.”
“Tell them to get out of Oman. What else?”
“Commander Fraser reports he has closed to within twenty-one miles of the target area.”
“And the target?”
“We’ve got an SH-60 Seahawk helo en route now, sir. That chopper should have visual contact with the liner shortly. If she maintains her current speed,
Leviathan
will arrive at the ‘Wall’ eight minutes from now at 3:47
A
.
M
.”
“Range of
Seawolf’
s torpedoes?”
“Mark 48ADCAPs, sir. Heavyweight torpedoes. Range six miles.”
“Tell Commander Fraser to launch two torpedoes the second he closes to within ten miles of the target. Knock her wheels off right over the canyon.”
“Sir? Ten miles is pushing the—”
“You heard me.”
“With all due respect, sir, we’ve got three good men on that boat, Mr. President, and I think—”
“You think I don’t know that! Damn it, man. Do all you can to warn Hawke. Keep trying to get him. But I can’t risk the lives of hundreds of thousands for—just do as I say.”
“Yes, sir!”
Gooch watched the man scurry away and then caught the president’s eye.
“We’re looking at rapidly evolving time and distance calculations here, Mr. President.
Leviathan
will have barely reached the ‘Wall’ at that point. If we miscalculate even slightly and she goes down on the lip, or in shallow water, the nuclear explosion will trigger a wall of dirty water fifty feet high. People will be swimming down Fifth Avenue. And glowing in the dark.”
“We’ll just have to take that chance, John. I need that vessel on the bottom.”
3:47
A.M
., EST
“What’s his bloody problem?” Hawke asked Mariucci. Hawke had sounded the recorded “Abandon Ship” alarm repeatedly throughout the ship beginning at 3:30
A
.
M
. Word of the impending nuclear disaster had spread throughout the ship rapidly. Chinese nuclear reactor technicians, reluctant kamikazes all, had been ordered to remain hidden aboard by their superiors in Beijing. Now they came crawling out of the woodwork—and made a mad dash for the promenade deck. Bright orange-topped, motorized lifeboats, thirty on each side of the ship, hung fifty feet above the water.
Two full lifeboats had already been dispatched and disappeared over the horizon. The third and last one was ready to be lowered away. Captain Dechevereux, who had originally stated he was staying with his ship, had understandably changed his mind. He was now seated in the bow of the lifeboat smoking furiously and cursing the name Bonaparte. Von Draxis had gone missing. Hawke thought perhaps the man had done the only sensible thing and jumped overboard.
Hawke had the controller in his hand, ready to push the button that would lower away the lifeboat. The last to board, an over-wrought Chinese technician, was bouncing up and down on the deck, screaming.
Mariucci, climbing into the boat, said, “He says he’s not getting in the lifeboat without the rest of his colleagues.”
Hawke looked at the man. “You’ve got one second. In or out.”
The man turned on his heel and ran off toward the stern. Hawke looked at his watch and said, “Twelve minutes.”
“Okay. That’s it,” Mariucci said. “Climb in and let’s get the fuck out of Dodge.” Hawke didn’t move. He was looking at him funny. Something was wrong.
“Where’s Tynan?” Hawke said.
“Hell, I don’t know,” Mariucci said. “I figured he was coming.”
“Where did you last see him?”
“In that bar, directing the Chinese to the lifeboats.”
“Which bar? There are about thirty.”
“Where we first met von Draxis.”
“Normandie? How quickly we forget.”
“Alex. We got to go. Now.”
Hawke pushed the button and the lifeboat jolted into movement, rapidly dropping away down the side.
“Jump in!” Mariucci cried.
“No man left behind, John. I’ll catch the next boat.” Hawke ran up the nearest stairway, taking them three at a time. He remembered the Normandie bar as being one deck up, overlooking the bow. He had less than ten minutes now, to find that young Coast Guardsman and get the bloody hell off this ship.
3:48
A.M
., EST
“MR. PRESIDENT,” JOHN GOOCH SAID,
“
SEAWOLF
IS AT TEN
miles and closing.
Leviathan
is one mile from the ‘Wall,’ proceeding on autopilot at thirty knots. ETA two minutes.”
“Is everyone off that boat?”
“We can’t get hold of anybody on board. Coast Guard Search and Rescue helo approaching the target area from the north reports two lifeboats in the water. Riding low. Full.”
“Full?”
“That’s what the
Yankee Victor
pilot said, sir.”
“So they’re probably all off. Inform
Seawolf.
Launch torpedoes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is the Chinese premier on the line?”
“They’re getting him now, Mr. President.”
“Good. Get Hawke on the radio. Make sure he’s safely away.”
“Trying every twenty seconds. He’s not responding, sir.”
“Probably a little busy. Keep trying.”
3:50
A.M
., EST
Hawke burst into the Normandie bar, his eyes scanning the large room for any sign of movement. Deserted. Tynan could be anywhere. He had nine minutes. Less. His mobile rang again. It was incessant. What the hell did they want now? He had nothing to report except his imminent demise. He heard a soft moan coming from a banquette to his left and sprinted through the sea of empty tables. He saw Tynan spread-eagled on the floor. He was on his back, staring upward, his eyes unfocused, his chest heaving rapidly. His shirtfront was a bloody mess.
Hawke bent down and spoke softly to him.
“Tynan. If you can hear me, clench your fist.”
His right hand opened slowly and closed tightly.
“Von Draxis,” Tynan croaked. “He…had a knife and he…I didn’t see him, he just—”
“Hold on, Tynan. I’m going to get you out of here,” Hawke said, getting his arms under the big man.
“Ready? Here we go.”
It took every bit of Hawke’s strength to stagger to his feet with the dying man in his arms. He ran for the door, knocking over any tables and chairs that got in his way, stumbling, almost going down twice. He stayed on his feet. Ten yards and he’d be back on deck. A shadowy figure appeared in the doorway, lurching toward him with his head down and his heavily muscled shoulders bunched.
Von Draxis. How had he escaped? An enraged bull, his white dinner jacket spattered with Tynan’s blood. Hawke kept moving forward, somehow heaving Tynan up on his right shoulder to free his left hand. The German still had the knife. A big one, and it was coming up in his hand as he recognized the man coming at him.
“My Lord Hawke!” von Draxis said, sputtering furiously, his eyes dancing, “I’ve finally figured out who you are. General Moon told me. You’re not George Moran. You’re that bastard Hawke, aren’t you? You’re the one who—”
“Get out of my way,” Hawke said and kept moving.
“Ha! You think you’re leaving? Deserting the ship like those Chinese rats? I told Luca we could never count on the Chinese! Come here! You’re not going any—”
Hawke’s left fist flashed out, connected with the man’s nose, and there was a soft crack of bone, a dry twig snapping in two. Von Draxis dropped the knife. His hands flew to his face, blood trickling from beneath them, and his legs gave way. He went down hard. He was trying to get up but he couldn’t get anything to work. He looked up at Hawke, blood streaming from his nose.
“You think this is the end?” he said, red bubbles forming on his lips.
“Don’t you?”
“Bonaparte and I, we are invincible. Unsinkable, just like this beautiful ship I built. We—”
“Bonaparte is going down, just like you and your boat.
Auf wiedersehen, Baron. Schlafen Sie gut.”
Hawke paused at the top of the steep stair leading down to the life-boats. There was no way of descending with Tynan over his shoulder. He had five minutes now. No time to lower the boat anyway. No. He would have to—his mobile was ringing in his pocket and he fished it out.
“Hawke,” he said, his mind racing ahead, searching for a way out of this.
“Alex, it’s Jack McAtee. You’re in the lifeboat? You’re away?”
“No, sir. Not in the lifeboat at all, I fear, Mr. President. Are we—are we over the—over the ‘Wall’?”
“Alex, the torpedoes are launched! Yes, you’re well over the ‘Wall.’ Get off that boat now!”
“Right. Good idea. It’s just that unless you sink this bloody ship…I don’t know—she’s got to go
down
! To the bottom, or—”
“That’s my problem! Listen to me, damn it! You get your ass off that—”
“Mr. President. I’ve a badly wounded man here. He’s not going to make it unless he—medical attention. Or—”
“Alex, do you see the chopper? There’s a Coast Guard—hold on—somebody get that pilot to drop a goddamn rescue sling…Hawke is still aboard the damn boat—Alex, listen to me. Get somewhere where you can—”
Hawke staggered beneath the weight, his strength all but gone. Searching the skies, he moved forward toward the rail and open deck. He simultaneously heard and saw the chopper to starboard, coming in low over the water. Orange-suited crew stood in the open bay and paid out line.
“Alex, are you still there? You’ve only got one shot at this!”
“Yes, sir, I—” a sharp blow from behind. Like a blow from a hammer. A searing pain in the small of his back. The bloody German. The bloody knife. He went down hard on his left shoulder and rolled, trying to hold on to Tynan, trying to break the gravely injured man’s fall.
3:52
A.M
., EST
“Coast Guard helo
Yankee Victor
, this is the president speaking. Copy?”
“Roger, Mr. President, sir, this is U.S. Coast Guard
Yankee Victor.
I now have your man in sight, sir. He’s on the upper deck forward atop the forepeak. Some kind of a struggle going on—he’s, uh, he’s down, sir.”
“Listen to me, son. You’ve got three minutes before that ship blows sky-high and takes you with it.”
“Less than that, I’m happy to say, sir. I’ve got two torpedoes a couple of miles out and closing fast. I’m going in now. One pass. Okay, this is it. He’s, uh, he appears to be on his feet again. He’s…I, uh—can anybody tell what’s going on down there?”
“There is no time,
Yankee Victor.
Get him off that deck. And get your medic ready for that wounded man. Do it now.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Two-man rescue net is deployed. We’re going in now.”
3:54
A.M
., EST
Hawke climbed to his feet. He was reaching behind his back to see if the knife was still there as he faced the grinning German. The man’s nose had swollen to twice its size and coagulated blood clotted his lips, teeth, and chin.
“I get off,” said Von Draxis. “I must get off this—”
“Certainly,” Hawke said, lunging forward, lifting the man in one fluid motion from the deck, and heaving him over the rail and into the foaming sea far below, “I insist.”
He turned to his right at the whumping sound of the approaching helicopter, swooping in and out of a sharp bank and heading straight toward him. He bent and picked up the unconscious American, surprised at how easily he was able to get Tynan’s body up onto his right shoulder again. Directly overhead now, the chopper was slowing and flaring. The bright red rescue net hung from the hoist in the open bay and was swinging in elliptical loops. Trying desperately to keep Tynan balanced on his shoulder, he braced one foot against the rail and stretched out his right hand. The net was tantalizingly close. He was tempted to lunge for it—no, wait! Christ, he’d missed it! Missed his chance!
Still, the chopper hesitated above, whipping left and swinging the basket back once more—
What the hell? Two white torpedo trails just beneath the surface of the black water, racing toward the ship. One veered sharply toward the stem, the other continued straight toward the bow. A hundred and fifty yards…ye gods! They were seconds from impact and—there was the rescue net, swinging right toward him!
He reached up and snagged it. Wrestled with it a second, got the net’s hard square base down on the deck, managed to heave Tynan inside the opening as gently as possible under the circumstances…and climbed in after him.
“Tynan!” Hawke shouted at the man cradled in his arms over the deafening roar of the chopper’s engine. “We made it! You’re going to be all right! Just hold on!”
Then, at the precise moment the first two heavyweight torpedoes impacted the ship and exploded, Hawke felt the net jerk suddenly upward. The chopper lurched violently skyward, as if lifted by the horrific explosion below.
3:57
A.M
., EST
After the first two torpedoes struck, the Mark 48s kept coming. One narrowly missed the bow, swung hard left, circled, and slammed into the port side, successful on its second attempt. The torpedo salvo unleashed by
Seawolf
had already caused horrific but not imminently lethal damage. It wasn’t over. One more trail, another explosion. Then two, three, four huge explosions as more blackened holes appeared amidships. The center of the ship buckled. Her entire stern, blown off by the very first torpedo Fraser fired, to take out her propulsion pods hanging below, was still afloat, drifting way from the main body of the ship. What remained of the great liner, roughly two-thirds of her, lay dead in the water.
Hawke watched
Leviathan
founder from his lofty perch. He was still dangling twenty feet below the navy helicopter as the hoist reeled his rescue net upward. She had a slight list to starboard, but she was still pretty much balanced on her keel. Watertight compartments made the water rush from the starboard quarter to the port and then back again. This was probably what kept her remains on an even keel.
God almighty, it was just as he’d feared. Torpedoes, no matter how powerful or how many, were not enough to sink the damn thing! She had watertight bulkheads from stern to stern! It would take a bloody—wait! His peripheral vision had picked up something.
Hold the phone, the president had not let him down after all.
There, screaming across the water about thirty feet above the wavetops, was a squadron of Navy Tomcat F/A18 Super Hornets. He saw two spurts of flame beneath the wings of the lead jet. Two white trails streaked toward the liner. Two Onyx missiles had been fired. Then the fighters flanking the lead fired. Deadly and unstoppable, six Mach 2.9 ramjet antiship cruise missiles skimmed the waves and slammed into the great ship. The sheer force of the missiles, each with the impact energy of fifty-five hundred pounds striking at terminal velocity of 2,460 feet per second, literally vaporized the entire center section of the hull.
The bow section and stern section angled upward and started their long slow slide into the sea.
Leviathan
’s keel, which, after all, was made of lead, was borne down to the depths below. The unexploded bomb, compressed and buckled by the enormous pressure, plunged two and a half miles down the face of the sheer wall at the edge of the continent, straight to the bottom.