The President and Vice President were engaged in quiet conversation as Nichols ushered Jordan into the Oval Office. They turned instantly and faced Jordan, who observed that they were as uptight as the President’s special assistant.
“Thank you for coming, Ray,” said the President without fanfare, nervously motioning to a green couch beneath a portrait of Andrew Jackson. “Please sit down and tell us what in hell is going on out in the Pacific.”
Jordan always found himself amused by the painful uneasiness that gripped politicians during an impending crisis. No elected official had the seasoned toughness and experience of career men such as the Director of Central Intelligence. And they could never bring themselves to respect or accept the immense power Jordan and his counterparts possessed to control and orchestrate international events.
Jordan nodded to the President, who towered a good head above him, and sat down. Calmly, with what seemed to the others agonizing slowness, he set a large leather accountant’s style briefcase on the floor and spread it open. Then he pulled out a file as a reference.
“Do we have a situation?” the President asked impatiently, using the formal watchword for an imminent threat to the civilian population, such as a nuclear attack.
“Yes, sir, unfortunately we do.”
“What are we looking at’?”
Jordan glanced at the report purely for effect. He’d already memorized the entire thirty pages. “At precisely eleven-fifty-four hours, an explosion of great force took place in the North Pacific, approximately nine hundred kilometers northeast of Midway Island. One of our Pyramider spy satellites recorded the flash and atmospheric disturbance with cameras and recorded the shock wave from clandestine hydrophonic buoys. The data was transmitted directly to the National Security Agency, where it was analyzed. This was followed by readings from seismographic array stations linked to NORAD, who in turn relayed the information to CIA technicians at Langley.”
“And the conclusion?” the President pushed.
“They agreed the explosion was nuclear,” he said calmly. “Nothing else could be that massive.”
Except for Jordan, who seemed as relaxed as if he was watching a soap opera on television, the expressions of the other three men in the Oval Office looked positively grim at the abhorrent thought that was finally thrown out in the open.
“Are we on DEFCOM Alert?” inquired the President, referring to the scale of nuclear readiness.
Jordan nodded. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering NORAD to go immediately to a DEFCOM-Three Alert with standby and staging for DEFCOM-Two, depending on the reaction by the Soviets.”
Nichols stared at Jordan. “Are we airborne?”
“A Casper SR-Ninety recon aircraft took off from Edwards Air Force Base twenty minutes ago to verify and collect additional data.”
“Are we certain the shock wave was caused by a nuclear explosion?” asked the Vice President, a man in his early forties who had spent only six years in Congress before being tapped for the number-two job. The consummate politician, he was out of his depth on intelligence gathering. “It might have been an underwater earthquake or volcanic eruption.”
Jordan shook his head. “The seismographic recordings showed a sharp pulse associated with nuclear detonations. The reflection from an earthquake goes back and forth for a longer length of time. Computer enhancement confirms that fact. We should have a good idea of the energy in kilotons after the Casper collects atmospheric radiation samples.”
“Any guesses?”
“Until all the data is in, the best guess is between ten and twenty kilotons.”
“Enough to level Chicago,” Nichols murmured.
The President was afraid to ask the next question, and he hesitated. “Could… could it have been one of our own nuclear submarines that blew up?”
“The Chief of Naval Operations assures me none of our vessels were within five hundred kilometers of the area.”
“A Russian maybe?”
“No,” Jordan replied. “I’ve notified my USSR counterpart, Nikolai Golanov. He swore all Soviet nuclear surface ships and submarines in the Pacific are accounted for, and quite naturally blamed us for the event. Though I’m one hundred percent sure he and his people know better, they won’t admit they’re in the dark as much as we are.”
“I’m not familiar with the name,” said the Vice President. “Is he KGB?”
“Golanov is the Directorate of Foreign and State Security for the Politburo,” Jordan explained patiently.
“He could be lying,” offered Nichols.
Jordan shot him a hard look. “Nikolai and I go back twenty-six years together. We may have danced and shined, but we never lied to one another.”
“If we aren’t responsible, and neither are the Soviets,” mused the President, his voice gone strangely soft, “then who is?”
“At least ten other nations have the bomb,” said Nichols. “Any one of them could have run a nuclear bomb test.”
“Not likely,” answered Jordan. “You can’t keep the preparations a secret from Global Bloc and Western intelligence gathering. I suspect we’re going to find it was an accident, a nuclear device that was never meant to go off.”
The President looked thoughtful for a moment, and then he asked, “Do we know the nationality of the ships in the blast area?”
“All the details aren’t in yet, but it appears that three vessels were involved, or at least innocent bystanders. A Norwegian passenger-cargo liner, a Japanese auto carrier, and a British oceanographic ship that was conducting a deep-bottom survey.”
“There must have been casualties.”
“Photos from our satellite before and after the event show that all three ships vanished and were presumed sunk during or immediately after the blast. Human survivability is very doubtful. If the fireball and shock wave didn’t get them, the heavy radiation will in a very short time.”
“I take it a rescue mission is planned,” said the Vice President.
“Naval units from Guam and Midway have been ordered to the site.”
The President stared at the carpet steadily, as if seeing something. “I can’t believe the British were secretly conducting a bomb test without notifying us. The Prime Minister would have never gone behind my back.”
“Certainly not the Norwegians,” said the Vice President firmly.
The President’s face made a mystified expression. “Nor the Japanese. There’s no evidence they ever built a nuclear bomb.”
“The device might have been stolen,” suggested Nichols, “and clandestinely transported by the unsuspecting Norwegians or Japanese.”
Jordan shrugged offhandedly. “I don’t think it was stolen. I’m willing to bet a month’s pay an investigation will prove it was deliberately being carried to a scheduled destination.”
“Which was?”
“One of two California ports.”
They all looked at Jordan in cold speculation, the enormity of the whole thing growing in their minds.
“The Divine Star was bound from Kobe to Los Angeles with over seven thousand Murmoto automobiles,” Jordan continued. “The Narvik, carrying a hundred and thirty passengers and a mixed cargo of Korean shoes, computers, and kitchen appliances, sailed from Pusan for San Francisco.”
The President grinned mildly. “That should put a small dent in the trade deficit.”
“Good God,” muttered the Vice President, shaking his head. “A frightening thought. A foreign ship smuggling a nuclear bomb into the United States.”
“What do you recommend, Ray?” demanded the President.
“We dispatch field teams immediately. Preferably Navy deepsea salvage vessels to survey the sunken ships and learn which ship was transporting the bomb.”
The President and Nichols exchanged knowing glances. Then the President stared at Jordan. “I think Admiral Sandecker and his ocean engineering people at NUMA are better suited for a deep-water operation. I’ll leave it to you, Ray, to brief him.”