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Scimitar SL-2 (Admiral Arnold Morgan Series #7)

Scimitar SL-2 (Admiral Arnold Morgan Series #7)

3.7 23
by Patrick Robinson

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Amid the Canary Islands lies the massive crater of thevolcano Cumbre Vieja. Scientists theorize that one day the volcano will erupt, triggering a series of events that will lead to a tsunami higher than any in recorded history. This mega-tsunami, with waves of more than 150 feet in height, would ravage Europe, Africa, and ultimately the East Coast of the United


Amid the Canary Islands lies the massive crater of thevolcano Cumbre Vieja. Scientists theorize that one day the volcano will erupt, triggering a series of events that will lead to a tsunami higher than any in recorded history. This mega-tsunami, with waves of more than 150 feet in height, would ravage Europe, Africa, and ultimately the East Coast of the United States, causing immeasurable loss of life and destruction . . .

After Professor Paul Landon, the world's most prominent geophysicist, is found with a bullet in his head, it is discovered that Ravi Rashood—America's nemesis and the former SAS officer who is now the head of Hamas—has hatched a diabolical plot against the West: to fire a nuclear-tipped guided cruise missile—Scimitar SL-2, named for the curved sword of the Muslim warrior Saladin—into Cumbre Vieja.

United States Admiral Arnold Morgan, the retired National Security Adviser, and the Pentagon know it's not a joke when Rashood, accompanied once again by his wife, the Palestinian Shakira, explodes Mount St. Helens. Morgan knows something even more horrific is to come.

But stopping them won't be easy.

Rashood and his Hamas crew are deep in the ocean, in an undetectable sub, which he managed to procure from Russia via communist China. Perhaps worse, a new President, a weak-willed liberal in the White House, worries about taking a stand. As the terrorists' deadline approaches, the newly implemented and unseasoned National Security team must consider the unthinkable. They must assume the daunting task of organizing a mass relocation of major population centers along the East Coast to safer ground.

Morgan once again finds himself at the center of a desperate cat-and-mouse chase, battling his greatest enemy yet as he races against time to locate the silent underwater marauder and stop Rashood before the unimaginable happens.

With his trademark authentic research and grasp of military hardware, geopolitics, and cutting-edge science, Patrick Robinson is at the top of his game with this new tale.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Ravi Rashood, the arch-villain of Robinson's 2003 adventure, Barracuda 945, returns for another round with Adm. Arnold Morgan, national security adviser for the former U.S. president, a militaristic Republican. Rashood and Morgan's showdown takes on some of the aura of the Holmes/Moriarty duel Rashood has even named his new submarine Barracuda II thanks, in part, to Robinson's rather plummy prose; not even Clive Cussler would have a character utter "Streuth" as an expletive. At 64, the crusty Morgan has earned his retirement and married his longtime love (and longer-time secretary), Kathy O'Brien. The recently elected Democratic president, "peacenik" Charles McBride, has little use for Morgan's services; Morgan's sidelining gives Hamas General Rashood the opening he needs to hatch another nefarious plot. Robinson builds the story's tension slowly; the lesser lights newly installed in federal security positions are slow to put together the pieces of seemingly unrelated events including the murder of the world's leading geophysicist in London and the surprising eruption of Mount St. Helens. Rashood's plan, which tangentially includes evergreen Western foes Russia, North Korea and China, involves triggering an apocalyptic mega-tsunami via volcanic eruptions caused by a nuclear-tipped guided cruise missile launched from the aforementioned Barracuda... whew! Robinson's full-bodied, measured prose has a retro feel, and his narrative, studded with informative historical and political tidbits, turns every new setting into its own short story. Agent, Ed Victor. (Aug.) Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.

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HarperCollins Publishers
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Admiral Arnold Morgan Series , #7
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Scimitar SL-2 LP

Chapter One

Thursday, January 8, 2009
The White House, Washington, D.C.

The brand-new Democratic Administration, fresh from a narrow election victory, was moving into the West Wing. With the exception of the President, who knew he was going anyway at the end of his second term, every hour of every day was a trauma for the outgoing Republicans. For the big hitters of the military and government, handing over the reins to what most of them believed to be a bunch of naive, inexperienced, half-assed limousine liberals led by an idealistic young President from Rhode Island, who would have been pushed to hold down a proper executive job -- well, anywhere -- was appalling.

And today was probably the worst day of all. Adm. Arnold Morgan, the retiring President's National Security Adviser, was about to leave the White House for the last time. His big nineteenth-century Naval desk had already been cleared and removed, and now there were only a few good-byes left. The door to his office was wide open, and the Admiral, accompanied by his alarmingly beautiful secretary Kathy O'Brien, was ready to go. In attendance was the Secretary of State Harcourt Travis; the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Gen. Tim Scannell; the Chief of Naval Operations, Adm. Alan Dickson; the Director of the National Security Agency, Adm. George Morris; and Morris's personal assistant, Lt. Comdr. James Ramshawe, American by birth, with Australian parents.

As the great man took his leave, they all stood in a small "family" huddle, veterans in the last half-dozen years of some of the most brutal secret operations ever conducted by the United States Military. Their devotion to Arnold had grown from the series of great triumphs on the international stage due, almost entirely, to the strengths of the Admiral's intellect.

Like Caesar, Admiral Morgan was not lovable -- except to Kathy -- but his grasp of international politics, string-pulling, poker-playing, threats and counterthreats, Machiavellian propaganda, and the conduct of restricted, classified military operations was second to none. At all of the above he was a virtuoso, driven by an unbending sense of patriotism. During his reign in the West Wing he intimidated, cajoled, outwitted, and bullied some of the most powerful men on earth. His creed was to fight and fight, and never to lower his blade short of victory. Gen. Douglas MacArthur and Gen. George Patton were his heroes. And now the Admiral was departing, leaving his Washington confi- dants devastated, convinced that another heaven and another earth must surely pass before such a man could be again.

Many of the high-ranking civilians would themselves go within a few short weeks of the incoming Democrats, but none so utterly ignominiously as Admiral Morgan himself. Called on the telephone by a Miss Betty-Ann Jones, a Southern liberal who had never been to Washington, he was told, "President McBride thinks it would be better if y'all resigned raht now, since he dun't think you and he's gonna get along real well."

Arnold Morgan had needed no second bidding. Five minutes later, he had dictated his short letter of resignation to Kathy, and ten minutes later, they were working on their wedding date, the colossal job of National Security Adviser no longer standing between them.

At Arnold's farewell dinner, at a favorite Georgetown restaurant, Secretary Travis, always the voice of irony and sly humor, had arrived at the table humming theatrically and loudly the tune of "Those Wedding Bells Are Breaking Up That Old Gang of Mine." Shortly he would return to Harvard to take up a professorship.

The military members of Arnold's inner circle would remain at their posts, more or less, under a new Commander in Chief.

And now Admiral Morgan stood at the great oak door to his office. He hesitated briefly, and nodded curtly to the empty room. Then he strode outside to the corridor, where his former colleagues waited. He smiled with some difficulty. "I'd be grateful," he said, "if each one of you would come and take me by the hand."

And so they said their farewells, each consumed by the private sense of trust they all shared with the National Security Chief. The last handshake was with the youngest of them, Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe, with whom Admiral Morgan had a near father-son relationship.

"I'll miss you, Jimmy," he said.

"And I'll miss you, sir," replied the young officer. "I don't suppose you'll ever know how much."

"Thanks, kid," said the Admiral informally. And then he turned on his heel, immaculately tailored in a dark gray suit, gleaming black leather lace-up shoes, blue shirt, and Naval Academy tie.

He walked resolutely, shoulders back, upright, full of dignity, with Kathy, his bride-to-be, at his side. He walked among the portraits of Presidents past, nodding sharply to General Eisenhower, as he always did. He walked like a man not departing but like a young officer recently summoned to the colors. In his mind a lifetime of thoughts, a lifetime of service to his country. The different people he had been ... the Commanding Officer of a surface ship and then of a nuclear submarine out of Norfolk, Virginia ... the Intelligence Tsar, head of the National Security Agency in Maryland ... and finally the right hand of a faltering Republican President who ended up knowing neither loyalty nor patriotism. That never mattered. Arnold had enough for both of them.

Walking along the familiar corridors, the Admiral heard once more the swish of the waves on a ship's hull heading out of a threatened harbor and into the great rolling swells of the ocean, the metallic scream of the anchor chain, the terse instructions of the COB, and in the deepest recesses of his mind, the shouts and commands of far-lost U.S. Navy SEALs whom he had never seen, never met, obeying his orders. Always obeying. As he himself obeyed his. Mostly.

He heard again the bells of the watch, tolling off the hours. And the smooth slide of his submarine's periscope ...

Scimitar SL-2 LP. Copyright © by Patrick Robinson. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

Meet the Author

Patrick Robinson is the author of seven international bestselling suspense thrillers, including Nimitz Class and Hunter Killer, as well as several nonfiction bestsellers. He divides his time between Ireland and Cape Cod.

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Scimitar SL-2 3.7 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 23 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Although I found this book enjoyable it tends to get a bit bogged down in the courses the submarine is taking without much in the way of reference. Also some of the descriptions of military equipment seem a bit off. The biggest error, that would offend any Navy pilot, was a reference to the flight of aircraft from the USS Regan, '... most of them bring flown by four of the most famous fighter squadrons in the United States Air Force.' Please Mr. Robinson, you have written enough naval books to know the Navy flies its own aircraft.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Incredible writing skills, stupid plot.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Authors Note:<br>Since l started out as a son of Poseidon in RP, that is how my story will be. I will not be a son of Eris, however she is involved greatly.<p>This story is dedicated to Cyrus, Rayne, Allyson, Skylar, Jak, Jack, Cypher, Maximum, Clove, Raven, Kenny, and my Fans.<p>In memory of Kenny. May his soul live on... or at least untill he gets back.<p>"Out of the blue and into the black."<br>~Neil Young<p> "Born down in a dead man's town."<br>~BruceSpringsteen<p> "If something bad COULD happen, it WILL happen."<br>~&#167&#1108&#1026'&#167 Life Story<p> Ever get that feeling your not wanted? Yeah, that's how l feel everyday of my pathetic life. I always feel like the Gods do everything in their power to work against me, l guess that's kind of what they are doing... l guess l forgot to introduce myself. I'm Seth son of Poseidon. I'm 12 years old, and have been on te run for two years now. On the run from what, you might say. Well l'll tell you, the Gods. Yeah l said Gods not God. Aparently l'm in some kind of world full of Gods. For all l know, the lady that sells me coffee from down the street, could be a Goddess.<p>"Boy you goin' to pay fo' dat coffee?" Ugh speaking of the lady... l look up at her, in her white apron that makes the black in her skin more noticable, and her brown hair tied up in a bun, and put in a hair net. "'Cause lma 'bout to close up boy."<p>"Yes ma'am, sorry about that," l said, placing two crumpled dollar bills on the counter. "Here's your tip ma'am. Sorry l couldn't give you more since your such a great server. Oh and have l ever told you how pretty your eyes are? They remind me of chocolate, so dark and rich." I say, laying the flattery on. Ugh l hate having to do this, but if l don't they usually make me tip higher, since here in New York it's a law to tip 15% of your tab.<p>"Aw son it's fine," she starts, "no nee' to try flatterin' me boy. I see you sittin' dere in da streets all alone. I knows you ain't got enough money to pay me." She continued as she pushed the two dollars back towords me, "besides l already made more today then l have in four years. Funny eh?"<p>"Oh yes ma'am! That is quite funny!" I said enthusiastically, not believing my ears. She doesn't want me to pay her? Did l hear right?<p>"Now you be on yer way boy. The night's full of many odd things. Wouldn't want you to get caught up in all dat stuff out der. The worlds a strange place after the sun sets. After the Gods have gone to sleep and are no longer watchin' you to guide you." She said walking to her back room as she did. The door closed with thump and she dissapeared from sight.<p>l got up heading for the front door, opening it and taking a deep wiff of the Manhattan air. My kind of air. Poluted, but still my kind of air. I started down the street, walking with my hands in my pocket, carful to stay under the street lamps, when suddenly a thought occured to me. Had the woman just said Gods? She had said Gods! Not God. Not even holy lord, but Gods. Plural. Why?<p>I was busy thinking this over, too busy to notice both the shadow to the left of mine, and the clicking noise a pistol makes when it's being co<_>cked. I didn't notice untill the cool round barrell was pressed against the back of my head, and someone gave me a choice. One choice, with one overall answer.<p>"You want to live kid? 'Cause if so l suggest you hand over that wallet." The man had given me a choice to lose my life, or my chance at life.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
A review is REQUIRED, so I must fill this space with the alibi that I am about one-half way through the book, but I do intend to finish the book.
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Guest More than 1 year ago
I thought this was more of a submarine and government thriller than a geological thriller. Geologically, it was a major disappointment.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I have read all of Mr. Robinson's naval thrillers and this one is very good. A little too much detail in areas or situations that don't involve real action. (i.e. detailing the mass evacuation) He seems to be straying away from his more action oriented style as in Nimitz Class or Seawolf, but the new villian is very refreshing. A little more action and bring back the Navy Seals, but otherwise Keep Up the good Work.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I got this book overseas not knowing much about the author or if it would be any good. As I started to read you get pulled into the story. Will the terroists make it what will the President do..? The suspense grows with every turn of the page. I highly reccommend reading this book.
Guest More than 1 year ago
The basic story of an Islamist radical destroying the east cost of the U.S. by blowing a volcano with a nuclear missle, and susequently causing a gigantic tsunami is interesting, and the geology is well developed. It's up to a recently fired admiral to override the new pacifist president of the U.S. to defeat the threat. A huge amount of time is spent on a submarine's transit to the point of attack, and many pages are devoted to the evacuation of major cities. The solution to the problem takes about a half dozen pages. Odd distribution of story line, in my view. Unfortunately, this technothriller is rife with basic factual errors. Granted, the work is fiction. However, too many recongnizable technical errors add doubt to the whole story. -Army master chief? Not in our army. Same with the Ensign, Junior Grade. - Squadrons of Air Force aircraft on the USS Reagan? Air Force aircraft cannot take off or land on a carrier. And all the squadrons you named were Navy anyhow. - F-15 Tomcat? Sorry, Pat. The F-15 is the Air Force Eagle. The Tomcat is the F-14. Anyhow, when you wrote the book, the Tomcat was already scheduled for the scrap heap, to be replaced by the F/A 18 Super Hornet. That evolution would be (and was) completed before the 2009 timeline in the book. - Senior Captains in command of Guided Missle Frigates (FFGs)? Not in our Navy. That's a Commander's billet. - Carrier pilots don't have 1/20th of a second to hit the throttles after they miss the wire. They go balls to the wall as soon as they touch down. If they waited to see if they missed the wire, they would die. - Shooting down a cruise missle with a Harpoon? The Harpoon is a fire-and-forget anti-ship missle. - The Ch-53D is the Super Stallion, not the Sea Stallion. - How can you go from bearing 070 to bearing 360 by turning right 70 degrees?
Guest More than 1 year ago
Great premise, but I was left wondering where the hunt was. I enjoy Patricks' action sequences, but this book was mired in administrative bureaucracy.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Great story, but gets too bogged down in side stories. I've read all of Patricks' books, but this one lacked the classic action and chase scenes of his other books.