“Kinda scary, when you think about it,” said Bob MacPherson. “But unless we are able to do something, I guess they’ll soon be able to rampage about the world doing anything they please, just because no one feels big enough to fight them.”
“I don’t really think that’s so,” said Arnold Morgan. “The real issue is, who is prepared to risk a Chinese nuclear missile coming screaming out of the skies, aimed at the US of A?”
“Well,” said the President, “who is?”
“I am,” said his National Security Adviser.
“You are?”
“Sure I am,” growled Morgan. “Remember a few other things about them. Not just their gigantic population of goddamned rice-growing peasants, slopping around in fucking paddy fields. Remember their lack of sophistication. Last time they tried launching an ICBM it nearly blew up their own ship. Every time they launch one of these programs they screw it up. So what could they hit? Pearl Harbor with a big missile, nuclear-headed? No, they couldn’t hit something that small. And would they want to? I don’t think so. They’d be having a discussion like this one. Guided by their political commissars, backing off, backing off, running scared.
“They’d make old Pung Yang Travis here look like Alexander the Great!”
“Thank you, Arnold,” said Harcourt urbanely. “Inside every conservative Secretary of State there’s always a noble savage trying to get free.”
They all laughed at the light relief. And just then Admiral Brett Stewart, COMSUBLANT, arrived, apologizing for his lateness, explaining that he had been at sea when the signal had come through summoning him to Washington.
“I for one am delighted to see you, Brett,” said Harcourt. “As the current commander of our Atlantic submarine strike force, you might be able to prevent our esteemed chairman from declaring war on China in order to get one of our submarines back.”
“I already heard,” said the admiral. “And I don’t think we’re going to get it back. Not even if we took out half the Chinese Navy. They want that submarine. They probably want it more than they’ve ever wanted anything. My guess is that right now they’re in the process of moving in their engineers and scientists, probably with reinforcements from Russia, all getting ready to take Seawolf apart. Judging from the signals I’d say they’d opened fire on Judd Crocker’s repair crew on the stern of the submarine. I expect you’ve gone over all that, and I’m sure you agree, they really want that submarine. Opening fire on an American Navy crew isn’t something anyone does lightly.”
“My thoughts entirely,” said Admiral Morgan.
“Fact is, we cannot get the ship out of Canton,” said Admiral Stewart. “Anyone know if they’ve shut down the reactor?”
“We think so,” said the CNO. “Next satellite pass will show us.”
“It would make sense if they had shut it down,” said Stewart. “Then when they get their team in place, they’ll take it critical, moving everyone through the process, step by step…telling us, no doubt, that there’s some kind of a radiation leak and it’s not safe yet to return it to us.”
“Admiral Morgan thinks if we want to preserve the high technology in Seawolf, we have to blow it up.”
“Correct,” replied Admiral Stewart instantly. “Otherwise there’s gonna be a dozen of ’em, flying the flag of the People’s Republic, dominating all of the Far Eastern oil routes, and some in the Middle East. China’s become expansionist in the past five years. If you want my opinion, they must not have a fleet of Seawolf submarines. And that means we gotta take out the original.”
“Who agrees?” said Admiral Morgan. “If you do, raise your right hand, like I’m now doing.”
Admiral Mulligan raised his, General Scannell also. So did the Defense Secretary, Bob MacPherson. Admiral Stewart raised his. The two CIA men raised theirs. Harcourt Travis said that such a military operation was so far out of his realm, he would abstain, but would not vote against.
The President himself stood up and asked if he might be excused for five minutes, but he too would abstain because his thoughts were too personal for objective thought. Everyone in the room could see he was on the verge of tears, and everyone knew that the apparition of the Chinese torturing his terrified only son had taken him to the brink.
He left the room, and as he did so Arnold Morgan stood up and followed him out, hurrying after him. “Sir, wait…there’s something I want to tell you.”
The President turned around, and the admiral could see the tears streaming down his face.
“Listen, sir. I want you to know this…and you have my promise. If we hit that submarine, we’ll have Linus out of that fucking rathole inside three hours of the big bang. 1 got a plan. Stay with me, sir…I’ll get him out of there…that’s a promise.”
The President nodded, tried to smile, and patted his NSA on the shoulder. “Thank you, Arnold.…give me a few minutes. I’ll be right back.”
Admiral Morgan walked back into the Situation Room.
“How was he, Arnie?” asked Harcourt Travis.
“’Bout like any of us would be if some fucking Chinaman was getting ready to pull our son’s fingernails out.”
“This President is just about the best friend the military ever had,” said General Scannell. “We have to do our best for him, no matter what, even if the risks are high.”
Arnold Morgan was now back in the chair. “I believe, gentlemen, we just voted overwhelmingly to obliterate Seawolf before they get a handle on her technology…”
Everyone nodded. And the chairman continued, “Okay, now let’s try to formulate a rough plan, because we don’t have that much time. From that plan we’ll get some timing. As a point of principle, I think we should try to spring the crew, amid the mass confusion that there’s going to be in Canton when we split Seawolf’s nuclear reactor in half.”
“But how are we going to get a team in there?” asked Admiral Mulligan.
“With great difficulty, probably,” said Arnold Morgan. “But let’s stay with step one, how to destroy the submarine while she’s moored alongside in Canton. We got a bomb expert in here?”
“Not really,” said the CNO.
“I’ll get one,” interjected General Scannell, and he took from his pocket a slimline mobile phone and hit one button that patched him straight into his office, and everyone heard him say, “Get ahold of General Cale Carter, and have him send in the Air Force’s number one bombing expert…Situation Room, White House, inside the hour…tell him I’d prefer he came in person if he could…yup…right…’bye.”
They adjourned to a small private dining room at 2030, just as Vice Admiral Bergstrom landed on the White House lawn in a Navy helicopter from Andrews. Fifteen minutes later General Carter, a Southerner from Alabama, arrived and joined them for an excellent dinner organized by Admiral Morgan. In a sense it reflected his precise instructions to the chef: “Sirloin steak, medium rare…roast potatoes and whatever green vegetables you like…salad, but no rice, for Christ’s sake no rice, and nothing stir-fried.”
There were bottles of sparkling mineral water on the table, plus an ice-cold bottle of California sauvignon blanc — the admiral had growled that he never touched Chardonnay until after Labor Day.
No one tasted the wine, except for the President, who needed it, and Admiral Morgan, who wanted it. Between them they polished off the bottle while they brought General Carter up-to-date on the proposed bombing raid. The only opinion Admiral Morgan offered was that he favored a high-level bomb, from say 50,000 feet above the Pearl River, rather than a missile or a sea-skimmer.