Captain Curtis and his crew listened silently to sonar emitting the terrible echoes of the two dying submarines, an ear-shattering cacophony of tortured metal and roaring water as both vessels broke up on their way down to the bottom of the ocean. For Curtis, it was the first time he had been responsible for the deaths of so many men. It pricked his conscience and heightened his sadness at the horrible fate he had dished out to fellow submariners. However, he had carried out his duty and would have no hesitation in doing the same again if he had to. He turned to his XO.
“Mr Talbot, inform COMSUBOP we have engaged and destroyed K449 shortly after she released a missile, and we have also engaged and destroyed the Russian Akula. Inform them too, we are returning to base forthwith.” Then to the helmsman, “Full ahead. Steer three-three-seven. Depth 600.” After a short pause, he looked again at his XO. “Lieutenant, you have the conn.”
47
Two hundred and fifty miles northwest of HMS Ambush’s position, USS Lassen, one of the U.S. Navy’s latest advanced Aegis-guided missile destroyers, was patrolling 100 miles northeast of the island of Mayaguana in the southern half of the Bahama chain. Her orders: to scan the skies twenty-four hours a day and to intercept and destroy hostile missiles. Along with its cruise missiles, Lassen carried RIM-67 solid propellent-fuelled, surface-to-air missiles, designed to counter high-speed, high-altitude cruise missiles in an advanced ECM environment. Inside the operations centre of the warship, radar monitors registered K449’s Stingray launch and followed its rapid climb to the northwest at Mach 0.8. The ship’s Ballistic Missile Defence system instantly acquired the target and locked on. Without hesitation, Lassen’s commanding officer gave the order to intercept and seconds later the twenty-six-foot long, fourteen-inch diameter RIM missile rose into the air in a billow of smoke and hurtled upwards towards its target at a speed of Mach 0.9.
Within a very short time, a ball of flame lit up the night sky as the heat-seeking RIM found its target and reduced the Russian Stingray to a stream of scattered, burning debris that plunged to earth in a rain of fire.
* * *
Remnants of the destroyed Stingray smashed into the soil of Rum Cay, a small, sparsely-populated, Bahamian island, just twenty miles southwest of San Salvador Island and 185 miles southeast of Nassau. Falling out of the darkened sky, the smoking remnants, including the fractured warhead with vials carrying the deadly IL-4 smallpox strain, landed just north of Port Nelson in St George’s Bay on the southern side of the ten-mile long by five-mile wide island. The warhead and its vials shattered on impact, spilling its contents over the immediate surrounding ground.
Of the sixty inhabitants in the small township, together with dozens or so in yachts moored in the bay, all heard and saw the explosion high above. They watched in disbelief as bits of debris cascaded down onto their tiny island and into the sea around. The town’s general store owner and his wife were the first to arrive at the scene north of the township and looked on in awe at the smouldering pieces of debris. Within a short while, the rest of the inhabitants arrived and began to closely inspect and prod the wreckage with sticks before the store owner decided they should contact the authorities in Nassau and tell them what had happened.
In less than three hours, the Bahamian military authorities arrived on the island by helicopter, inspected the wreckage and promptly placed a quarantine order on all the inhabitants and those on board yachts in the bay. No one, but no one, would be allowed to leave or enter. The island was placed in total lockdown and sealed off from the rest of the world until further notice.
48
It was early fall in Washington. Mid-morning traffic gathered momentum on the roadways surrounding the White House, which looked clean and fresh amidst the greenery of lawns and trees tinted with gold as sunlight bounced off the elegant facades. In the Situation Room, U.S. President William Marsh sat with his National Security Council at an emergency meeting to discuss the latest events in connection with the events off the Bahamas during the night. In the room with the president were: Vice President, Mark Toby; Secretary of Defence, Michael Knight; Secretary of State, Sam Cox; the president’s National Security Adviser, David Bloomfield; and Commodore Robert Sumner, Head of the British Naval Attaché stationed in Washington. The commodore had been invited by the president to provide details concerning the British naval action.
“… Sir, that concludes the initial reports sent by HMS Ambush’s commander; a more detailed description of the action will be given once the submarine returns to base,” Sumner finished.
“Thank you, Robert,” said the president, a tall, handsome man in his late fifties, now in his second term as president and the second black American to hold the office. “I have read the report from the Bahamians; not good reading, but at least we know now what we are up against. Thank God they reacted as quickly as they did. Can we be assured the island is totally isolated?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Knight, removing spectacles from a weather-beaten face. “Nassau informed us immediately that they had a bio-weapon problem. Everyone on the island, including the military investigators, is in total lockdown. Our warships now completely surround Rum Cay to ensure that remains so.”
“Do we know if it’s the super strain?” the vice president asked, running a hand through a fine head of greying hair.
“We don’t; not yet, Mark,” Knight answered.
“How soon will we know?” asked Bloomfield, middle-aged, tall and athletic. He was greatly respected by the president, trusted to give sound advice.
“We’ve already sent down a team from Atlanta. They should be on the island as we speak. I gave strict orders to inform us the moment they find out,” replied Knight.
“And if it is?” questioned Cox, a lawyer and ex-CIA officer.
Silence descended around the table; all looked at the president.
After a few moments, President Marsh leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “I guess we’d have no choice but to obliterate Rum Cay and all those on it,” he replied.
“Nuclear?” shot Bloomfield.
“Yes, if there was no other way.”
The president looked directly at Knight. “The report says the virus hit the ground in liquid form. What significance is that?”
“As I understand it, the four-inch diameter plastic balls – five altogether in the refrigerated warhead – were filled with the virus and pressurized with carbon-dioxide gas. They were designed to be released less than 500 feet above the ground and burst throwing out the virus in aerosol form. The mist was supposed to drift down onto the population. In this case, the balls broke up on impact and discharged solidified contents directly over the ground. Each of those balls held 300, or more, grams of liquid viruses.”
“So for the moment we can be assured it’s confined to the island?”
“Correct, sir.”
“Am I also correct in recalling the incubation period for this super strain is short?”
“Yes, Mr President,” Knight quickly replied. “Once exposed and infected, I’m told hours rather than days. Death is also measured in hours too.”
“What is the survivability of the virus?” the president questioned again.
“Several hours in temperatures around 80 degrees Fahrenheit; in colder temperatures, say less than 50 degrees, with humidity no more than eighteen to twenty percent. The virus has a lifespan of about twenty-four hours. To remain alive and replicate, it has to jump from host to host.”