The instant the weapons officer confirmed the order and the coordinates, which were read back to Giannotti and then Kelly, the commander, gave the order to fire.
A few keystrokes later, the weapons officer said, “Missile away.”
All heads turned toward the large screens above the combat center consoles, one of which showed a view of the bow as captured by one of the high-definition cameras on the photonics mast.
Below the surface, a single hatch swung open, and a burst of bubbles from the discharge of pressurized cold gas marked the ejection of the capsule housing the Tomahawk.
The buoyant capsule rose fast, breaking the surface and completely exiting the water before a solid rocket booster ignited for a few seconds, thrusting the 2,900-pound missile into cruise flight.
The Tomahawk’s turbofan engine took over as the wings unfolded, accelerating to its cruise speed of 550 miles per hour, as the onboard guidance systems used GPS navigation to steer it to its preordained coordinates.
Approximately 1,100 miles west, Mohamed al-Asmari, a Yemeni national who had been imprisoned at the Guantanamo Bay detention camp but then was released and repatriated to his home country, woke for Fajr, the early-morning prayer. In addition to him, three other former detainees from Guantanamo, along with another twenty-two jihadists, lived in this camp, where they had daily instruction in the building of improvised explosive devices. Two of the men had grown up in the United Kingdom and were teaching English to their fellow mujahideen as a part of a plan to eventually send them to Europe or America as Syrian refugees.
The camp had been built mostly from old cargo containers trucked in from the port of Hodeidah. From a distance, they didn’t look like much, but a closer inspection showed window air conditioners mounted in holes that had been cut with a torch in the side of the containers. A portable generator powered them, as well as the lights, several laptops, and the roof-mounted satellite dish.
Al-Asmari went outside to empty his bladder. He enjoyed the mornings, before the heat of the day became unbearable. Finished, he turned to go back inside to pray.
Just a few feet above the horizon, the Tomahawk dashed over the desert sands, its GPS guidance system now assisted by its terrain contour matching (TERCOM) system.
As it approached the target, the system’s Digital Scene Matching Area Correlation kicked in, providing terminal guidance while being tracked by an Enhanced Imaging Systems satellite operated by the National Reconnaissance Office. And circling the camp at three thousand feet, a General Atomics MQ-1 Predator focused its cameras to capture the event in high definition.
Inside his metallic home, al-Asmari unrolled his prayer mat and knelt, facing Mecca. He bowed forward and touched his head to the mat just as he heard the faint sound of a jet engine.
Before he could sit up, the Tomahawk dropped right in the middle of the terrorist enclave. Its one-thousand-pound high-explosive warhead detonated with enough force to shred his metal container as well as the surrounding ones, turning them into red-hot shrapnel that propagated radially at the speed of sound, ripping through the rest of the camp in a nine-hundred-foot radius.
— 4 —
Arriving at the isolated retreat Friday afternoon, DNI Hartwell Prost, feeling almost uncomfortable in L.L. Bean khakis and a collared button-down, met up with President Cord Macklin, casually dressed in a pair of jeans, a black shirt, and black cowboy boots. They went for a walk along the trout stream.
“Big Mac’s by the river,” reported Keith Okimoto, dressed in a dark sweater, jeans, and hiking boots. Other agents dressed in full camo gear were no doubt also present but unseen.
The Secret Service detail kept a respectful distance as they reached a pair of Adirondack chairs a dozen feet from the babbling waters and sat down. Prost had a large, brown-paper shopping bag from which he began pulling bags branded with McDonald’s Golden Arches. The president’s code name hadn’t originated just with his last name. Actual Big Macs were the president’s favorite meal… when the first lady wasn’t around.
“Damn, Hart, how’d you pull this off? Closest one’s six miles away in Thurmont,” he said, digging into one of the bags.
“Best if you don’t know, sir. Plausible deniability.”
Macklin laughed. “Man, the fries are even still hot.”
Prost shrugged. “Being DNI has its benefits, sir.”
A few Baltimore orioles flushed from the cover of a nearby shade tree, catching the president’s eye as he unwrapped the Big Mac and took a hearty bite. Prost did the same.
“Pretty pathetic when you think about it,” the president said after swallowing and taking a sip of his chocolate shake. “The most powerful man on the planet sneaking around eating burgers for fear of his health nut of a wife. But the hell with it. Love these things.”
“Could be worse, sir.”
“How’s that?”
“You could be sneaking around doing other things… like some of your predecessors.”
Macklin almost choked, then laughed again.
After eating and having the Secret Service detail remove all evidence, the president reached into his pocket and pulled out two cigars, offering one to Prost. “The Russian ambassador claims he gets them from the same factory that made Castro’s.”
“So, this is how the other half lives,” Prost replied, bringing it under his nose and inhaling. “Thank you, Mac.”
At the president’s insistence, outside of the fishbowl of the White House, Prost and other members of his senior staff took a more casual approach with the president. Macklin said, trimming the end of his cigar with an old pocketknife, “The doctor says I should give these up. Says they aren’t good for me.” Macklin smiled and handed the knife to Prost, who made quick work of trimming his own cigar.
“Things in life that we really enjoy rarely are,” Prost replied. “Sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll.”
“Well, at least I still get to listen to the Stones and even Meat Loaf, so two out of three ain’t bad,” the president replied, and Prost chuckled.
“So, what’s the BDA on the Yemen strike?” the president asked, referring to the bomb-damage assessment.
“Video from the Predator indicated we hit the camp dead center. Satellite imagery shows nothing but debris. There’s no evidence of survivors. It will be released on YouTube shortly.”
“Good.”
“And looks like Blevins delivered on his promise,” Prost said, referring to the carrier deployment plan.
“He did. And he even included a strike package.”
“That’s right. Multiple targets in Iran, Syria, and Lebanon. We’re also continuing to build the target list.”
“Already included in my address tonight. The networks have been notified. We’ll strike selected targets as I speak and in the hours following. You’re welcome to watch it live at the lodge.”
Prost frowned. “Thanks, sir, but it’s a long drive back to DC, and I have to be back for the breakfast meeting. I’ll catch it on the radio on the way home. I’m sure you’ll do great.”
“Why don’t you spend the night, then? I’ll set you up.”
“Thanks, sir, but you have enough on your plate to worry about—”
“Nonsense,” Macklin insisted. “It’s no trouble at all, and besides, that way you’ll be well rested. I need you at the top of your game tomorrow.”