“Yes, sir. A woman.”
“Jesus H. Christ.” He sat down on one of the kitchen chairs. This was getting worse by the second. “What else do you have?”
“Around 0430, a fire broke out in one of the support shops in the shipyard. They’re still battling the blaze right now. They suspect arson.”
“No shit,” Pottinger said, in no way trying to keep the sarcasm out of his tone.
Brown continued. “A few minutes ago, the bodies of two shipyard security guards were found in the North Yard Ways, the building adjacent to the fire. Both had been stabbed to death.”
“Who killed them?”
“We believe it was the hijackers, Admiral. Oxygen tanks and other diving equipment were found abandoned in the vicinity of the killings,” Brown said solemnly. “Shipyard security concurs. The director of security believes the hijackers swam in, murdered the guards, then boarded Hartford.”
Pottinger tried to absorb all of this. “And they sailed off with one of your subs.”
Brown’s voice was grim. “Yes, sir.”
“What the hell happened to the floating booms?” Pottinger barked. “We spent $600 million to position those security measures everywhere that our submarines or our ships are docked in North America.”
“The security boom was in place, sir. Shipyard security put the boom in place behind Hartford immediately after docking. The ship was penned in, but the divers must have known that they couldn’t approach the boat directly from the water.”
“And that boom did nothing to stop the sub from leaving?”
“No, sir. That was never the intention behind their design,” Brown said. He was beginning to sound rattled. He had plenty to be rattled about. “They were just designed to keep intruders in small boats away. The security boom in place was an anti-motorboat, type B device. Historically, smaller light hull crafts belonging to protestors or curiosity seekers have been the only type of problem we’ve had in this area. The distinctive feature of this boom is the baulk — a heavy iron-strapped wood and metal tank fitted with eyebolts and links for connecting it to the boom-jack-stays. It stretches from pier to pier behind the vessel and…”
Pottinger let Brown talk for a moment. He knew the next steps in the notification chain, but he had to find out what measures were being taken.
“… two watertight iron tanks occupy the interior of each baulk and provide flotation. Each baulk is fitted with four steel spike cutters and connected by upper and lower jackstays. Along the upper jackstays, at intervals of four feet, four-pronged steel star cutters are—”
“But they didn’t do jack shit to stop Hartford, did they?”
“No, sir. They wouldn’t.”
Pottinger stood up again, thinking. The consequences of what this all meant would be dire, no matter what the outcome. Rogue terrorists using a fully armed U.S. fast-attack submarine could hold the world hostage. If they had the know-how — and there was no reason to assume they didn’t — they could use the sub’s nuclear weapons to strike any number of targets in the northeast. The damage that one nuclear submarine could do to the East Coast, to this country, was almost beyond comprehension. MK48 torpedoes, Tomahawk cruise missiles with nuclear and conventional warheads… never mind a goddamn nuclear reactor. That one submarine carried more fire power than United States ever released in any war.
Christ, he thought, they could hit Washington from where they were right now. Free in the Atlantic, they could start World War III.
Pottinger felt himself break into a sweat. Careers would be ruined for this, his included. Too late for that. What was important now was containing the potential damage.
“How many divers came in through the shipyard?”
“They found eight scuba tanks.”
The navy put hundred thirty people on those subs, but Pottinger knew a crew of eight trained people was enough to sail it out of there.
“Shipyard security has to have more details,” the admiral demanded. “Surveillance cameras, eye witnesses.”
“It’s too soon, sir, to have anything solid. Hartford is still backing into the channel.”
“Anybody is taking responsibility for the hijacking? Any sign of foreign or homegrown terrorist group activity.”
“Not yet, Admiral.”
Pottinger glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. As much as Brown had to be berated, it was much too soon to get any information from anyone.
“What action are we taking?” he asked, starting to pace the floor.
“Two tugs and three smaller craft are en route from the sub base. They’re approaching the I-95 bridge, and should catch up to it in a few minutes. Coast Guard has deployed a cutter from New London to assist, as well.” Brown went on to name another submarine, a sub tender, and an aircraft carrier that were within four hundred miles of Groton. All had been put on alert and were moving in to head off Hartford if the sub tried to disappear into the Atlantic. The first real support to reach them, however, would be from the air — sub hunters flying in from South Weymouth, Massachusetts.
“Any communication with Hartford?”
“None, sir. All channels are down.”
Pottinger ran his hand through his hair again. “What’s happening now?”
“Hold on, Admiral.” Brown was speaking with a subordinate. “The sub has completed its backing maneuver. Hartford is sitting in the channel, her bow pointing south toward the mouth of the harbor.”
“How long before the sub makes open water beyond the lighthouse?”
“Depending on their speed, they could clear New London Ledge Light in ten to fifteen minutes.”
Pottinger knew they couldn’t do anything to them while the nuclear submarine was in such close proximity to the Groton-New London shoreline. Whatever group was responsible for this had to know that, too. They had to be preparing to make their demands.
“But they are moving, Captain?”
“Not yet, sir. Their bearing is south, but they are not… Correction, Hartford is beginning to move.”
In an avalanche of shit, this would at least be a hint of air freshener. They could deal with this much better once the nuclear submarine was in the open waters of Atlantic Ocean. With a full crew, Hartford might be able to evade detection and disappear, but not with a skeleton group. Once they were clear of the coast, the Atlantic Fleet would be able to do whatever needed to be done.
“Brown, I want you to get any information you have on the crew that you know is aboard, and the civilian, to my office in the next ten minutes.”
“We’re sending what we have right now, Admiral.”
“Do you know anything about the civilian?”
“No, sir,” Captain Brown answered. “We’re bringing up the security clearance files now.”
Pottinger sat down. The pacing wasn’t going to prevent the inevitable.
“How much of this has leaked out?”
“Shipyard personnel were the first ones who realized Hartford was leaving. And with pursuit activity on the river, I believe it’s only a matter of time before the press is all over this.”
“Well, pick a spokesperson. But I don’t want a word of any of this confirmed until you have clearance from Washington.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pottinger needed to call his boss, Bob Gerry, commander of the Atlantic Fleet. But that wouldn’t be the end of the calls. The Defense Secretary was the next on the list. The Pentagon staff would take it from there. Considering the magnitude of the situation, the President would be briefed, as well.
Christ, all this the day before the election. That couldn’t be any coincidence, he thought grimly.