Schofield frowned.
'A Mersenne Prime . . .' he said. 'A Mersenne prime number. It's a number . . .'
The image of General Ronson Weitzman in the Hercules flashed across his mind, babbling incoherently under the influence of the British truth drug: it wasn't just Kormoran. It was Chameleon, too . . . oh God, Kormoran and Chameleon together. Boats and missiles. All disguised. Christ. . . But the Universal Disarm Code, it changes every week. At the moment, it's . . . the sixth ... oh my God, the sixth m . . . m . . . mercen . . . mercen—'
Mercen . . .
Mersenne.
At the time, Schofield had thought Weitzman was just mixing up his sentences, trying to say the word 'mercenary'.
But he wasn't.
Under the influence of the drug, Weitzman had been telling the truth. He had been naming the code.
The Universal Disarm Code was the sixth Mersenne prime number.
As Book relayed his tale to Schofield and the others, behind him Scott Moseley was busy inserting the GPS co-ordinates from the launch list into the plotting program.
'I've got the first three boats,' Moseley said. 'The first co-ordinate
must be the location of the Kormoran launch boat, the second is the target.'
He handed Book the document: now with place names added to
it and highlighted:
Book relayed this to Schofield, 'The first boat is in the English Channel, near Cherbourg, off the Normandy beaches. It'll fire on London, Paris and Berlin. The next two boats are in New York and San Francisco, each set to take out multiple cities.'
'Christ,' Schofield said as he hovered in the water.
The patrol boat was 50 yards away, almost on him now.
'Okay, Book. Listen,' he said, just as a low wave smacked him in the face. He spat out a mouthful of salt water. 'Submarine interdiction. Those missile boats can't launch if they're on the bottom of the ocean. Decode the GPS locations of all the Kormoran supertankers and contact any attack subs we have nearby. 6881s, boomers, I don't care. Anything with a torpedo on board. Then send them to take out those Kormoran launch boats.'
'That might work for some of the tankers, Scarecrow, but it won't work for all of them.'
'I know,' Schofield said. 'I know. If we can't destroy a launch vessel, then we'll have to board it and disarm the missiles in their silos.
'The thing is, a light-signal response unit would require the dis-armer—me—to be reacting to a disarm program on the unit's screen. Which means I'd have to be sitting within sixty feet of each missile's control console to disarm them, but I can't be everywhere around the world at the same time. Which means I'll need people on each launch boat connecting me via satellite to that boat's missiles.'
'You need people on each boat?'
'That's right, Book. If there are no subs in the area, someone's going to have get on board each Kormoran boat, get within sixty feet of its missile console, attach a satellite uplink to that console and then patch me in via satellite. Only then can I use a CincLock unit to personally stop all the missile launches.'
'Holy shit,' Book said. 'So what do you want me to do?'
Another wave splashed over Schofield's head. 'Let's tackle the first three boats first. Get yourself to New York, Book. And call
Moseley plotted the points on a map. 'The first boat is in the English Channel—off Cherbourg, France, up near the Normandy beaches.'
David Fairfax. Send him to San Francisco. I want people I know on those tankers. If I get out of this alive, I'll try for the tanker in the English Channel. Oh, and ask Fairfax what the sixth Mersenne prime number is. If he doesn't know, tell him to find out.
'And last, send that Department of Defense inspection team in early—the one that was going to visit Axon's missile-construction plant in Norfolk, Virginia, at 12 noon. I want to know what's happened at that plant.'
'Already done that,' Book II said.
'Nice work.'
'What about you?' Book said.
At that exact moment, the French patrol boat swung to a halt above Schofield. Angry-looking sailors on its deck eyed him down the barrels of FAMAS assault rifles.
'They haven't killed me yet,' Schofield said. 'Which means someone wants to talk with me. It also means I'm still in the game. Scarecrow, out.'
And with that Schofield was hauled out of the water at gunpoint.
THE WHITE HOUSE,
WASHINGTON, USA
26 OCTOBER, 0915 HOURS LOCAL TIME
(1515 HOURS IN FRANCE)
The White House Situation Room buzzed with activity.
Aides hustled left and right. Generals and Admirals spoke into secure phones. The words on everyone's lips were 'Kormoran', 'Chameleon' and 'Shane Schofield'.
The President strode into the room just as one of the Navy men, an Admiral named Gaines, pressed his phone to his shoulder.
'Mr President,' Gaines said, 'I've got Moseley in London on the line. He's saying that this Schofield character wants me to deploy attack submarines against various surface targets around the world. Sir, please, I'm not seriously supposed to let a thirty-year-old Marine captain control the entire United States Navy, am I?'
'You'll do exactly as Captain Schofield says, Admiral,' the President said. 'Whatever he wants, he gets. If he says deploy our subs, you deploy the subs. If he says blockade North Korea, you blockade North Korea. People! I thought I was clear about this! I don't want you coming to me to check on everything Schofield asks for. The fate of the world could be resting on that man's shoulders. I know him and I trust him. Hell, I'd trust him with my life. Anything short of a nuclear strike, you do it and advise me later. Now do as the man says and dispatch those subs!'
OFFICES OF THE DEFENSE INTELLIGENCE
AGENCY,
SUB-LEVEL 3, THE PENTAGON
26 OCTOBER, 0330 HOURS LOCAL TIME
(1530 HOURS IN FRANCE)
A battered and bruised David Fairfax trudged back into his office on the bottom floor of the Pentagon, flanked by a pair of policemen.
Wendel Hogg was waiting for him, with Audrey by his side.
'Fairfax!' Hogg roared. 'Where in all hell and damnation have you been!'
'I'm going home for the day,' Fairfax said wearily.
'BuWshit you are,' Hogg said. 'You are going on report! Then you are going upstairs to face a disciplinary hearing under Pentagon Security Regulations 402 and 403 . . .'
Too tired to care, Fairfax could only stand there and take it.
'. . . and then, then, you're going to be outta here for good, you little wise-ass. And you're finally gonna learn that you ain't special, that you ain't untouchable, and—' Hogg shot a look at Audrey— 'that this country's security is best left to men like me, men who can fight, men who are prepared to hold a weapon and put their lives
on the—'
He never finished his sentence.
For at that moment a squad of twelve Force Reconnaissance Marines stomped into the doorway behind Fairfax. They wore full battle dress uniforms and were heavily armed—Colt Commando assault rifles, MP-7s, deadly eyes.
Fairfax's eyes widened in surprise.
The Marine leader stepped forward. 'Gentlemen. My name is Captain Andrew Trent, United States Marine Corps. I'm looking for Mr David Fairfax.'