* * *
Jensen was ushered straight into the Oval office, an agitated Amy Pittman already seated opposite the President.
“You’re heard what Thorn said?” demanded Pittman. “The bastard’s trying to kill this Administration.”
Jensen nodded in confirmation and sat down next to Pittman. The President looked surprisingly calm, some handwritten checklist resting on the seat beside him.
“And,” continued Pittman angrily, “where’s this ‘formal resignation’ of Thorn’s? He wasn’t brave enough to resign in person; no early-morning phone call and if there’s a letter, no-one’s seen it.”
“There’ll be one hiding somewhere,” Cavanagh said philosophically. “Although, after what he said, I’m surprised Dick didn’t fling it in my face. First the Vice-President and now the Secretary of State – I’m intrigued to know who will be next.” He looked across at Jensen, a rueful smile touching his lips. “I think we’re well past coincidences, Paul; this is definitely a play for power – maybe not by Thorn directly, but he’s certainly part of it.”
“Just look at what he said,” Pittman interjected, glancing down at her tablet and picking out a few choice words. “’Incompetent, indecisive, gutless, appeasement, bluff’; he’s pulled no punches and has merely given more ammunition to our enemies.”
“Exactly as he intended,” confirmed Jensen. “Thorn’s sent out three very specific messages: the President can’t deal with the crisis, the voting system is flawed, and those elected have no true authority.”
“A very public message,” Cavanagh agreed. “And what’s next – I just can’t believe we’ll see tanks heading along Pennsylvania Avenue?”
“I assume not, Sir. This is more subtle than with Russia and is not a crisis brought about by terror attacks but a collapse from within, the people’s faith in the Administration slowly being eaten away.”
“Not that slow – it’s barely two weeks since we learnt about Hanson.”
“McDowell’s been feeding stories to the media for far longer. Certain key figures obviously needed to be taken out of the picture, although I’m not certain as to exactly why: the Vice-President, Dan Quinn, even Enrique Garcia. There must be more to come, something particularly damaging to give those involved a suitable excuse to act.”
Cavanagh nodded in understanding, “Thorn, or whoever else it is, needs to ensure that the pressure keeps mounting. The South China Sea must be my immediate concern. This Chinese sub – give me some good news, Paul, I could certainly do with it.”
“I’m sorry, Sir, all I have is a mix of uncertainties. The initial data analysis points to the submarine being one of China’s ageing Ming-class, most likely pennant number 310. However, there is an outside chance it’s North Korean, specifically the submarine discussed at the Wilhelmshaven symposium, designated 746.” Jensen pursed his lips, definitely now on unclear ground. “Whilst it might be theoretically possible for Russia to dredge up one of its decrepit Romeo subs and fool us into thinking it’s Chinese or North Korean, there is no evidence to support such a premise. But why then did Hanson travel to Wilhelmshaven? And then we also have Sukhov. To borrow from Sherlock Holmes, the improbable might just be the truth. The information China has so far provided neither confirms nor contradicts the assertion that submarine 310 was involved, and we’re not likely to get anything out of North Korea.”
It wasn’t the most helpful of responses, but the Intelligence Community was struggling to find anything which would definitely prove China’s innocence or indeed their guilt. There had been an upsurge in communications traffic between China’s military bases but that was probably to be expected.
Pittman asked, “And if it were North Korean, this submarine would have the range to reach Vietnam?”
“It’s about 3000 miles and their range is apparently 9000; so, yes, it’s possible.”
“It just seems so unlikely,” said Cavanagh. “If they’d attacked a Japanese or South Korean vessel, then that would make far more sense. I just can’t see what advantage they gain from attacking Vietnam. Which brings us back to the unfortunate options of China or Russia.” He gave a deep sigh of frustration, “At least we seem to be making progress on independent arbitration over the disputed territories. Vietnam needs careful handling and the Deputy Secretary of State is already on her way to Hanoi...”
The discussion continued, Thorn’s accusations glossed over, the Joint Chiefs supposedly agreeing with Cavanagh’s policy of gentle persuasion. Not so the media or the public, the White House switchboard inundated with calls, everyone demanding to know how the President was going to respond to Thorn’s stinging remarks. A basic press release was considered the best first step, giving the White House at least a few hours to come up with something rather more definitive. Theoretically, Thorn was still Cavanagh’s Secretary of State, his letter of resignation presumably stuck somewhere between the State Department and the White House; the President had for the moment held fire on signing a formal letter of dismissal, preferring not to make matters more complicated than was necessary.
To Jensen, Thorn’s speech was full of distortions and downright lies. Cavanagh’s decision to send the Gerald Ford south was the stick to the diplomacy carrot, and there had never been any suggestion that the United States would fail to come to the Philippines’ aid. Beijing had apparently been furious with Cavanagh over the redeployment of the Carrier Strike Group to the South China Sea, arguing that it broke the concept of military forces being held at their present levels, but the President had rightly countered that U.S. naval forces had never once been part of that discussion.
Thorn knew all of that, but chose to ignore it because it didn’t fit in with the message he was determined to get across. It was the same with Thorn’s claims concerning the Midterms: various State laws did indeed prevent millions from voting, the majority of whom were ex-felons, and in practice it had ultimately become a form of racial discrimination; yet the national trend had seen a steady loosening of restrictions, many regaining their voting rights on appeal. Similarly, the software used to process online votes was produced by the Tampa-based SOE, bought by a Spanish company in 2012 – not exactly votes counted in Spain. The problems highlighted by Kristen Ulrich, and reinforced by Thorn, were valid but not quite as extreme as suggested, with States well aware of the potential problems, checks in place to ensure accuracy. Personal security and the potential for fraud via online and email voting was a concern but again verification was carried out at various stages, with no evidence to suggest either was a serious problem.
Thorn had also turned Jensen’s unofficial investigation into the U.S. military against them, the President not willing to blame Jensen for taking sensible precautions. If there was to be a coup, some military support would be essential, with Washington an obvious and key target. The Washington Post had become the first broadsheet to print an article speculating about the possibility of a coup, its author a Nicholas Redmane; it took almost an hour before anyone in Homeland Security had realised the name was in fact an anagram of Michael Anderson.
Jensen wasn’t surprised, and Anderson was more of a nuisance than a real concern, the FBI investigation into Garcia’s murder suggesting that the Englishman was most likely being framed by McDowell, and a more thorough forensic analysis of Garcia’s house had finally identified the presence of Jon Carter’s DNA. The search for McDowell himself was now concentrated to the west and south of D.C., all police leave cancelled in anticipation of the next phase: protests, strikes, terror or cyber-attacks – Jensen was prepared for just about anything.
The Koschei – 22:30 Local Time; 15:30 UTC
Karenin sat in his small cabin and reread the decoded signal from Vladivostok, still puzzled as to why the Koschei’s orders had changed. When he had first read it some six hours earlier, for a brief moment he had been tempted to ignore the signal and continue with his original instructions, but it just wasn’t in his nature to disobey a direct order.
I
n Vladivostok the plan had been for the second target to be a Philippine patrol boat or if that proved impossible, then something of similar value to HQ-17; it hadn’t even been a requirement that the second target be sunk, just as long as the torpedoes had a minimum run of five minutes. With the sonar trace plus additional data from America’s military satellites, there should be little doubt it was the work of a Chinese submarine.
Now, Karenin had been given a list of potential targets in order of priority, with orders to sink at least one. Not a Philippine patrol boat or a fifty year-old Vietnamese frigate, but a modern warship from the United States. This wouldn’t a quick and clinical strike against a lone and inattentive enemy; this would be an attack against a skilled and experienced crew, the warship equipped with state-of-the-art sonar and anti-submarine systems, traveling as part of a defensive unit, the dipping-sonars from a swarm of protective helicopters lashing the surrounding waters to seek out the enemy.
The Koschei was hardly up to such a challenge, it lacking the speed, agility and noise reduction expected of a modern hunter-killer sub. Some of the technology it could call upon might be relatively modern but the submarine was armed with elderly torpedoes without the sophistication to even know a real target from a decoy.
If it wasn’t to become a suicide mission, then Karenin would need to ensure captain, crew, technology and submarine worked seamlessly together, the Koschei likely to have but one chance to strike. He had been supplied with the latest satellite and intelligence reports concerning the U.S. deployment, the Gerald Ford Carrier Strike Group of ten vessels – plus probably at least one Los Angeles-class attack submarine – moving south to join up with the four-ship detachment led by the USS Milius.
If the two squadrons behaved as predicted, the Koschei was now in the ideal target position, and also protected to some extent by relatively deep water. Karenin didn’t understand the logic of what he was being asked to do but assumed his superiors had good reason for the change of target – it was just a shame that they didn’t seem to understand they were demanding the impossible.
With a deep sigh of resignation, he stood up and moved back to the control room, his concerns hidden behind a veneer of confidence. For well over an hour now the Koschei had been creeping along, operating the strictest of silent routines, tracking an elusive set of contacts as they moved ever closer. Temperature variations and the sea’s complex currents were distorting the sonar signals, the exact type and number of vessels as yet uncertain.
Karenin moved to stand behind the sonar chief, watching the operators at work, impatient for answers.
“Confirm four contacts,” announced the sonar chief. “Leading vessel identified as Arleigh Burke-class destroyer USS Milius. Bearing one-two-five; range 22 kilometres; speed 18 knots on heading three-one-two. Targets designated as Gold-One through Four.”
“Active sonars?”
“Nothing detected, Sir.”
Karenin felt a wave of relief spread through him: the Milius might be low down on his target list but at least it offered an easier option than he’d feared. The Americans’ over-confidence was their one weakness, and better a destroyer than the Koschei sunk in a futile attempt to attack an American Aircraft Carrier.
The Koschei drifted silently, those in the control room awaiting their captain’s orders with a mix of eagerness and fear. Karenin offered a quiet word where necessary, checking everything, holding his own concerns in check; he wanted the U.S. squadron to get close enough for the Chinese torpedoes to at least have a reasonable chance of success, setting a fairly arbitrary target of six thousand metres.
“Active sonar detected: bearing zero-one-zero; range thirty-plus; high probability AQS-22 dipping-sonar.”
“Any other contacts close to that bearing?” It was consistent with where the Carrier Strike Group should be, just a little earlier than Karenin had expected.
“Passive contacts only, Captain; at least six, range sixty-plus; signals too distorted to classify.”
Sixty kilometres was close enough, Karenin’s main concern the accompanying Los Angeles submarine. The Koschei’s eight torpedo tubes – six forward and two aft – were already fully loaded, the submarine a relatively noisy and inferior relic from a past era, yet still hoping to fight one last duel.
“Set solution for tubes one through six as Gold-One; two degree spread. Tubes one to three passive setting; tubes four to six active setting.”
The tension in the control room was palpable, the fact they were about to attack an American destroyer somehow more momentous than before – after all that is what the submarine had originally been built for.
“Solution confirmed, Sir; Gold-One: bearing one-zero-eight, relative zero-one-five; speed 18 knots; range 6500 metres.”
Karenin moved to stand close to the XO, eyes drawn to the fire-control console. “We will fire in two salvos, starting with tubes one through three.”
The XO confirmed the orders, before flicking up the red safety covers on the console in front of him.
“Open outer doors,” said Karenin quietly. “Prepare to fire on my mark.”
The XO’s right hand hovered close to the firing buttons, a slight tremor revealing his own nervous anticipation.
Karenin waited; every extra second would give the torpedoes a better chance of success while conversely increasing the risk to the Koschei. “Fire one through three.”
The three dull thumps followed in quick succession, the deck juddering slightly. Karenin silently counted to twenty, forcing himself not to speed up.
“Fire four through six… Helm, left five degrees rudder; come to course zero-three-zero; all-ahead one-third.”
Karenin chose to try and squeeze the Koschei between the two opposing U.S. units, hoping they would assume he would immediately head south or west. The sub had just two torpedoes left, the aft tubes now the Koschei’s prime defence.
“Gold-One increasing speed and turning, Captain; four minutes to first impact. All torpedoes running true.”
“Ten degrees down-angle; make your depth three hundred metres.” The Koschei creaked and groaned as they moved deeper – despite the submarine’s age it had proved robust, although Karenin had no intention of testing the submarine anywhere near its maximum depth of 500 metres. On the surface, Karenin imagined the panic as the Americans tracked the torpedoes, their standard doctrine the ‘crack the whip’ tactic of high-speed evasive manoeuvres whilst also deploying the Nixie torpedo decoy.
“Multiple active sonars to the south-east; active sonar also bearing zero-zero-two, range twenty-four kilometres.”
The Americans were closing the gap, the Koschei still not detected. “Ready countermeasures,” barked Karenin. “Program decoy for six knots; course zero-four-zero.”
“Two minutes to first impact; five torpedoes still running true.”
Karenin would settle for a single hit, the use of six torpedoes an outrageous waste of his remaining weapons, but the only way he knew to maximise the possibility of success. With wire-guided torpedoes, he could have at least countered some of the electronic systems and perhaps even bypassed the decoys, but the Yu-4B was an artless bully of a weapon, likely to be easily seduced, fooled or confused.
“Active sonar! Bearing three-five-three; range estimate ten kilometres… confirm dipping sonar.”
The helicopter’s dipping sonar was Karenin’s greatest fear: a submarine’s favourite hiding place was below the thermocline layer where it was protected from a surface ship’s hull-mounted sonar; the depth of the thermocline varied but even the present conditions of around 210 metres was well inside the dipping sonar’s maximum depth. Often working in pairs, a helicopter would do several sweeps then move on, sonar buoys dropped as an added deterrent.
“Launch decoy... Helm, right five degrees rudder; come to course zero-five-five. Ahead slow.” Karenin had no idea which way the helicopter would jump or whether it had a partner; he was working purely on instinct and trusting he made the right decision. The f
irst torpedo should have struck the USS Milius by now, the attack threatening to turn into an abject failure.
“Second dipping sonar! Bearing two-two-four; range estimate five kilometres.”
The helicopters were closing in, it still unclear whether they had detected the Koschei. They would keep leapfrogging, the decoy hopefully giving the submarine time enough to escape.
“Explosion in the water… possible hit! Second explosion, bearing one-eight-four.”
Karenin gave a relieved smile – whatever else happened, the Koschei had successfully attacked number five on Vladivostok’s target list. Maybe now he had finally made up for past mistakes….
“High-speed screws!” The sonar chief's voice was tense, fearful. “Bearing three-two-zero; range 900 metres; down angle five degrees… Confirm Mark-54 torpedo; designate – Alpha-One.”
“Launch noisemakers; all-ahead full!” Karenin was shouting out orders despite knowing he was too late, the American torpedo far too close.
Strangely, some part of his brain stuck with its training, remaining calm enough to try and work out the probable origin of the attack. The Mark-54 was a lightweight torpedo, and although the sub was well within range of the warships’ anti-submarine rockets, it was most likely dropped by one of the chasing helicopters. The Koschei was being hounded on all sides, vastly outnumbered with nowhere to go. Vladivostok had demanded that there be ‘no smoking gun’: the submarine’s actual origin had to remain secret, with no opportunity for the Americans to display a Russian captain and crew to the eyes of the world – not that surrender had ever been part of Karenin’s philosophy.
“Alpha-One: estimate one minute to impact, Sir.”
It was a timely reminder for Karenin to stop thinking and start acting. He ordered his own variation of the American’s crack the whip, the submarine’s rapid manoeuvres designed to create a barrier of acoustic interference.
Suddenly a high-pitched pulse reverberated softly around the control room, the sonar chief merely confirming what everyone instinctively knew. “Second torpedo! Bearing one-nine-five; twenty seconds to impact.”
“Right full rudder; maximum bubble, now!”
The pinging from both of the pursuing torpedoes was now clearly audible, an accelerating double-pulse that could only seal the Koschei’s fate. The rapid diving turn was Karenin’s last desperate hope to avoid destruction and it immediately had a success, creating enough of a maelstrom of bubbles collapsing in on themselves to bewilder the closest torpedo; the Mark-54 followed a noisemaker then slowed, switching back to search mode.
The Koschei twisted sharply once more but the second torpedo was rather more tenacious than its twin, exploding close to the aft torpedo room. The submarine’s double-hull was shaken and distorted, fracturing in several places.
In the control room, Karenin was knocked off his feet, crashing into the XO, both tumbling to the deck. The Koschei continued its descent, the downward flight now uncontrolled as sea-water at close to 30 atmospheres erupted into the engine and aft torpedo rooms.
Karenin’s one thought was survival, no longer concerned as to what some admiral in Vladivostok might want. High-pressure air blasted out into the ballast tanks but it did no good, the Koschei remaining unresponsive. Many of the systems were offline, six decades of being crushed and stretched, battered and abused, finally taking their toll. Welds began to spring apart, the double-hull structure collapsing in on itself, a massive fissure seeming to leap across the outer hull. The stresses were just too much and the Koschei cracked in two, a burst of light from inside creating a golden halo. Karenin was one of the few still alive, able somehow to sense the submarine’s death throes as the Koschei defied its name and plummeted to the sea floor.
Eastern United States – 15:00 Local Time; 19:00 UTC
Anderson’s brilliant idea of searching out business permits was turning out to be not quite so brilliant after all. On closer inspection, none of his sixty-one possibilities was that good a match to his ideal and he was forced to re-think, now looking for ones that might at least be feasible.
By early-afternoon, he had finally reduced the number to a more manageable total of eight. Next it was down to a visible inspection, the fact it was a Saturday possibly an advantage, Anderson perhaps less liable to get in trouble while inspecting the genuine sites. McDowell’s allies were at long last starting to make themselves known, with Dick Thorn presumably just the first of several high-profile figures publicly to declare their anti-Cavanagh sentiments.
November 5th – Thorn’s attempt to derail Cavanagh’s Administration was more subtle than Guy Fawkes’ bid to blow up James I and potentially far more effective; many in the media were already fanning the flames of animosity, invariably focusing their criticism on the President’s perceived lack of nerve.
All of which gave a certain sense of urgency to Anderson’s present task. Fortunately, the Toyota’s satnav helped make the convoluted tour of Maryland and Virginia far easier to follow, Anderson trusting that a quick look at each venue or even just a drive-by would help him decide whether something more substantial was required. None of the eight sites were that far from each other, each one inside his 25-mile limit from Leesburg, and if truth be told Anderson wasn’t that certain what he was actually looking for, assuming the combination of his instincts and high security would help reduce the list down to maybe two at most.
It became a nightmare trip, Anderson wary of every other vehicle, then spending a nervous ten to fifteen minutes surreptitiously peering through a security fence or down past a line of trees. Some binoculars would have been helpful, but they hadn’t been part of the emergency supplies and Anderson hadn’t wanted to risk buying a pair.
By the time he’d crossed site number six off his list, Anderson was starting to lose confidence in his theory, the reality proving to be rather different to what a building permit and a look on Google Maps had suggested; although, having come this far it seemed stupid not to see it through, especially as number seven was by far the most promising of the eight.
Ten miles south of Leesburg, Anderson turned right onto Route 50 towards Aldie and then sharp left, following a single-lane road south as it climbed ever higher, a thick covering of trees to the right, open ground with the occasional copse to his left.
The target address was announced by a small badly-painted sign, a narrow dirt track winding down to the south-east through a clump of trees. Anderson could see what looked to be at least two buildings, maybe a hundred yards from the main road. There were also two cars and a pair of smart-looking 4x4s parked alongside, but no obvious signs of activity. High security it most definitely wasn’t, the only obvious deterrent a waist-high wooden fence around its perimeter.
Anderson kept going, choosing not to stop. Accommodation for six or more, plenty of space for an advanced computer facility, and privacy – although not a great match to what he’d originally had in mind, the Aldie site was a definite possibility, and by far the best of a bad bunch. The nearest neighbours were at least a half-mile away and there was room enough to hide a small army behind the buildings. The company name on the building permit had proved unhelpful, an online search merely confirming the company details and that it had been formed less than a year earlier, but it gave no clue as to the precise nature of the business.
There was definitely enough there of interest for a somewhat closer inspection to become a priority, just not during daylight hours.
Anderson drove on to number eight on his list, wanting to be absolutely sure he had made the right choice, even though his mind was already made up. Thirty minutes later, he was on his way back to Baltimore, working out how best to peruse the Aldie site, preferably without getting himself killed. He had a gun and thirteen rounds of ammunition, courtesy of McDowell’s associate – not that he had any intention of using them, but it was always best to be prepared.