Nimitz Class am-1 Page 23

  But now they could hear the distant clatter of the Navy chopper, flying down Kilbrennan Sound between Kintyre and Arran. For a few moments it hovered twenty feet above the fore-casing, while the winchman pulled Baldridge and the admiral unceremoniously into the cabin, before it swept away for Faslane.

  On landing, there was an urgent message for Bill. “Call Admiral Arnold Morgan on his private line in Fort Meade.” A waiting lieutenant escorted him to a small private office, which had a private phone line, bypassing the main switchboard. “Just dial straight out, sir, 001, then the U.S. area code, then the number.”

  Bill dialed, private line to private line. Within seconds he heard the permanently irritated growl of Admiral Morgan come down the line. “Morgan…speak.”

  Bill chuckled. “Lieutenant Commander Baldridge. Ready to speak.”

  He heard the admiral laugh. “Hey Bill, good to hear you. What’s hot?”

  “Howd’ya find me?”

  “Old buddy. Admiral Elliott. New buddy for you, right?”

  “Yessir. A real good guy. Paved my way.”

  “I hear you may be onto something.”

  “I sure am, sir. About as near to certain as I ever could be — if someone hit our carrier, I got the guy who did it.”

  “Give it to me.”

  “Israeli officer. Commander Benjamin Adnam. A-D-N-A-M. The best trainee commanding officer they ever taught up here. I’ve just spent a day with his Teacher, Admiral Sir Iain MacLean. He reckons there’s about five people on this earth who could get out underwater through the Bosporus. Him and Elliott…a couple of other possibles…and Adnam.”

  “Shit! Is that right? Where is this sonofabitch?”

  “Not sure. But I suppose either at the Israeli Navy Base in Haifa, or in one of their submarines. He was up here less than a year ago, working up an Upholder Class submarine his Navy had just bought.”

  “No chance he might be an Arab, eh?”

  “Yessir. I think there is such a chance. Several quite suspicious aspects of his life. I’ve been talking to a close friend of his…he’s been completely out of touch for months and months, which is apparently unusual.”

  “You got all you need?”

  “Yessir. I was planning to come back either overnight or first thing tomorrow. I’ve a ton of things to tell you.”

  “Lemme know when you’re arriving in Washington. I’ll have someone meet you. Then come straight on down to Fort Meade. Between you and me, the President is getting trigger-happy. He is determined to smack someone’s Navy right in the mouth, ASAP. Hurry home.” The line went dead, a disconcerting habit of the admiral’s. He just didn’t bother with good-byes. Didn’t have time. Scott Dunsmore said old Morgan did it to the President once. Not this President, the one before.

  Bill glanced at his watch. It was five forty-five in the afternoon. What he needed was the Concorde flight to Washington, first thing in the morning. That meant he must leave for London this evening. He left the office, explained his situation to the admiral, who picked up a telephone and spoke to someone in Northwood. Then he spoke to someone on the base, and finally said, “Okay, that’s it, Bill. We’ll drive home right away. The chopper will pick you up at eight o’clock at my house and whip you into Glasgow in time for the nine-thirty flight to London. Your ticket’s at the British Airways desk. If I were you I’d find a bit of supper in the airport, and catch some sleep in the Concorde lounge. It’s pretty civilized and that new Washington flight boards at 0700.”

  The journey back around the loch to Inveraray passed quickly. Back at the house, Bill rushed upstairs, packed his bag, jumped in the bath, shaved, changed out of uniform into a civilian coat and tie, and headed downstairs. The admiral was on the phone, Lady MacLean was out with the children, and Laura was awaiting him in the hall.

  “So soon,” she said, quietly. “I would have enjoyed another dinner and chat.”

  “Duty calls,” Bill replied awkwardly.

  “If I hear from Ben, how do I find you?”

  Bill handed her a piece of paper. On it was written the number of his apartment in Suitland, Maryland, with its answering service, and his number at the Navy Intelligence office. For good measure he also included the number of the ranch in Kansas. Ray’s number, not his mother’s, in the interests of security. He also included both his personal addresses. “I was kinda hop in’ you wouldn’t lose track of me,” he said.

  Laura laughed at the pile of information, handwritten on the “Inveraray Court” writing paper. And as she did so, they could hear the roar of the Royal Navy helicopter thundering down onto the lawn outside. Both of them knew they had about five seconds before the admiral emerged from his phone call.

  “I wish you weren’t going,” said Laura, helplessly.

  “So do I,” said Bill. “But I must. Can I speak to you, somehow, somewhere?”

  Laura pressed a piece of paper into his hand. It contained a phone number and several time frames.

  Admiral MacLean came out of his study. “Okay, Bill, I hope we meet again. Come on…”

  The roar of the chopper’s engines drowned out all further conversation. Laura followed them out, and Bill instinctively ducked his head as he headed for the helicopter’s door. The loadmaster was already out, and helped him aboard, strapping him into his seat. Bill latched the door shut, gave a thumbs-up to the pilot, who took off instantly, as if conducting an evacuation from a battle zone.

  Bill looked out of the window at the two figures standing on the lawn, waving. He thought of the admiral’s amazing kindness, and quite remarkable grasp of the situation. And he felt he had not thanked him nearly enough. And then he smiled, waved back from about four hundred feet, above the gleaming waters of the loch now. But he felt a twinge of guilt that he was not really waving at Admiral Sir Iain MacLean.

  8

  1030 Wednesday, July 17.

  Admiral Morgan was pacing his office deep in the heart of Fort Meade. The short, stubby, fiercely glowing cigar, jutting out like a 40mm Navy shell from between his teeth, betrayed his impatience. It was ten-thirty in the morning, and the admiral never smoked before sunset unless he was profoundly irritated.

  Before him stood a young lieutenant who had been charged with the relatively simple task of contacting Captain Carl Lessard at the Israeli Navy HQ in Haifa to check whether it would be possible to speak to Israeli submarine commander Benjamin Adnam.

  The lieutenant had returned to say that the admiral’s request was not being complied with.

  “Did you speak to Captain Lessard?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Did you tell him you were calling for me?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Did you tell him it was just routine, nothing serious?”

  “Yessir.”

  “What did he say then?”

  “He said he did not think he could help but would put me through to someone who might.”

  “Whadya mean, he couldn’t help? They only own four working submarines. He must know where his fucking commanding officers are. What the hell’s he talking about?”

  “Not sure, sir.”

  “I know you’re not sure! Try not to keep aiming a glaring light at the totally fucking obvious.”

  “Nossir…er…yessir.”

  “Who did you speak to next?”

  “An officer in the personnel department.”

  “The what!”

  “The personnel department. And he said he did not keep records of submarine commanders’ whereabouts.”

  “Then what?”

  “Well, I called back and got put through to the submarine operations center. They said they were not empowered to tell anyone the whereabouts of their commanders.”

  “Jesus Christ! We paid for their fucking Navy!”

  “Well, sir, you did not give me instructions to get heavy with them, you just said speak to Captain Lessard.”

  “I know what I said, for Christ’s sake. Get Lessard back on the phone. I’ll speak to him
personally.”

  That had been thirty minutes ago. Three minutes ago, a perfectly charming Israeli secretary had come onto the line and said that she was afraid that Captain Lessard had just boarded a warship and would not be available for at least three weeks.

  “Some bastard’s lying,” Morgan fumed. And the furnace on the end of his cigar radiated with vicarious fury.

  “Okay, Lieutenant, I guess I’m going to move to Plan B.”

  “Could I ask what might that be, sir?”

  “The hell you could. I’m still working on Plan A.”

  Morgan chuckled at himself, at last. But it did not disguise the indignation in his face. And he decided to put the matter on hold, until Bill Baldridge arrived an hour from now.

  He dismissed his lieutenant, and paced. Then he put in a call to the Shin Bet in Tel Aviv, Israel’s secret interior Intelligence service, equivalent to America’s FBI, and Britain’s MI5. Morgan had enjoyed considerable access to the organization since the appointment of the former Navy Chief, Rear Admiral Ami Ayalon three years ago as its head.

  They were old friends, and the ex-Israeli commando had been unfailingly cooperative with the Americans. Arnold Morgan knew that Ami would not be in, but trusted his assistant to connect him with someone who would be more helpful than Captain Lessard had been.

  Morgan’s ensuing conversation with a very senior Israeli intelligence officer had been short and brief, culminating with a promise to arrange something through the Washington embassy. At that point the admiral knew something was afoot. He picked up his direct line to the CIA in Langley, and was put through to Jeff Zepeda, who was surprised and pleased to hear from him.

  Zepeda agreed to contact the Israeli embassy and get someone who would speak to the admiral in straightforward language. He spent a few minutes explaining that he was drawing a large blank so far in his inquiries in Iran, but there was something stirring in Iraq. Meanwhile the admiral should stand by for a call from one of the Mossad’s representatives in Washington.

  Admiral Morgan checked his watch. He did not want to be in the middle of something when Baldridge arrived. He paced, and was debating the possibility of lighting another cigar, when the phone rang. “Admiral Morgan…good morning…this is General David Gavron, at the military attaché’s office in the Israeli embassy. I have been advised by Tel Aviv and by your own CIA, that it would be wise for us to meet….”

  “Well, General, I’m kinda surprised at the momentum my very simple inquiry has generated.”

  “Admiral, if you do not mind my saying so, men such as yourself do not make very simple inquiries.”

  “And, General, men such as yourself sure as hell don’t spend much time answering ’em.”

  “Then perhaps we should agree in advance our subject is less than simple.”

  “General, that goes without saying.”

  “Well, I did speak to Captain Lessard about an hour ago….”

  “On a warship,” interjected the admiral, an edge of skepticism in his voice.

  “Of course. That’s where he is. And he did tell me you were a very straight and decent man to deal with.”

  “Can we meet this evening, say around seven o’clock?”

  “I’ll be where you say.”

  Admiral Morgan gave him precise directions to the restaurant in Alexandria and told the general to come alone, as he would.

  Meanwhile he abandoned the second cigar, and settled down to wait for Bill Baldridge. The lieutenant commander came through the door bang on time, still wearing civilian clothes.

  “Bill, I’m glad you’re here. Let me get us some coffee.” He pressed a number on the phone, ordered the coffee, and then continued, “I’ve scheduled us to talk until about 1400, then we’re due to meet Admiral Dunsmore at the Pentagon. Before we start, look at these….”

  He pointed to a table at the rear of his office where about one week’s worth of Washington Post s were arranged. The papers detailed what was known about the sinking of the Thomas Jefferson. Bill had never seen such exhaustive coverage. But he had not yet been born when President Kennedy was assassinated.

  The sinking was still the lead story nine days after the event. Bill quickly scanned the week’s headlines, and was quite surprised to see that no one had posed the only question worth asking. The question he and the admiral were trying to answer. There was not one story suggesting that the nuclear fireball which vaporized the great warship had been the act of a foreign power.

  The incident had placed the Navy under heavy attack, no doubt about that. Tabloid journalists were swarming all over the country looking for memorial services being held for the lost men. They were hurtling from one end of the country to the other, coaxing photographs from stunned and grieving families, interviewing the mothers, wives, and children, whose lives would be forever edged with sorrow.

  Meanwhile, the press had gone berserk, slamming the Pentagon, the Service Chiefs, the President, and the policy of arming U.S. warships with nuclear weapons.

  “Are you looking at that horseshit about not letting the Navy go to sea properly armed against every eventuality that could befall this country of ours?” snapped Morgan, watching Bill pause on a big inside-page article.

  “Yessir.”

  “Can you believe those bastards? Asking us to go out and face any enemy without big weapons in case someone gets hurt. That fucking newspaper should be closed down.”

  “Yessir,” said Bill. “I’m with you on that. But this President will never stand up for any of that crap. Would you like to hear my report, sir?”

  “Shoot.”

  Lieutenant Commander Baldridge had half-filled a notebook during his flight from Heath row. He regaled Admiral Morgan with every fine detail on Commander Ben Adnam, and his Perisher training at Faslane. He recounted his long conversations with Admiral Sir Iain MacLean. He had carefully recorded the admiral’s precise words in describing how, and why, so few people in the world could have made a successful underwater passage through the Bosporus.

  He was equally precise in recounting the firm opinion the admiral had presented to him that Commander Adnam could have done it. Of that Admiral MacLean had been very sure.

  Bill startled Morgan when he reported that Israel must be regarded as a very real suspect. Whatever they might perpetrate against the USA, he explained, they could be certain that Iran or Iraq would be blamed. He informed Morgan of Admiral MacLean’s view that the position of Israel’s extremist right wing must always be examined in any unusual occurrence in the Middle East. He pointed out MacLean’s reasons, his historical assessment of some high-ranking officers in the Mossad, and the conservative factions of the Israeli Government.

  Admiral Morgan, who already knew much of what the younger officer was saying, sat and listened silently. Only once did he interrupt to compliment Baldridge.

  “That’s a beautiful job you’ve done, Bill. Real information. Real research. Real judgment,” he said appreciatively. “Guess you found yourself on a kind of crash course in modern history. Some of those senior guys in the Royal Navy…damned impressive, ain’t they? I love ’em. Never underestimate a top British Naval officer just because they talk funny. They don’t think funny. Sorry, Bill…go on.”

  At this point Bill decided to impart the intelligence from Laura, and he built a case — not that Ben was an Arab in disguise but that he could have been a Muslim. He never revealed his exact source, but told Admiral Morgan about the mosque in Egypt, Commander Adnam’s preference for Cairo, and his occasional sympathy for the Arab cause, no matter how great an atrocity had been committed. He told him too about his wariness, his coldness, his new car, and his monthly trip to London.

  Admiral Morgan interrupted again. “Was she pretty?” he asked.

  “Who?”

  “The lady who told you all of this.”

  Bill smiled at the perceptiveness of the Intelligence chief, and then replied, crisply, “Yessir. She was Laura Anderson, the admiral’s daughter.”


  “And Adnam’s girlfriend?”

  “Yessir, while he was at Faslane.”

  “She on our side now?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Does she think Adnam would have been capable of committing such an unbelievable act of villainy?”

  “Yessir. Yes she does. Not quite so firmly as you just said it. She described him to me as an ultimate professional, a guy who would carry out his duty no matter what.”

  “Well, if that is the considered opinion of the daughter of Iain MacLean, we’d better take that on board with due seriousness, because I’m going to tell you something about that Scottish officer you did not know, and I am quite sure he did not tell you.”

  “Sir?”

  “You remember when the Royal Navy fought the Falklands War against Argentina back in 1982?”

  “Sir?”

  “What do you remember most about it?”

  “That night they blew away that damned great Argentinean cruiser and drowned four hundred people…what was it called? The General Belgrano.”

  “That’s it, Bill. Changed the course of the war. Frightened the Argentinean fleet away for good. Iain MacLean was the submarine sonar officer who helped Commander Wreford-Brown stalk that cruiser for two days, and then blow it apart with three old Mark 8** torpedoes. Two of ’em hit, right under the bow, and the engine room. It was a perfect example of persistent tracking, followed by a careful, logical attack.

  “Remember too, the Belgrano was accompanied by two old but pretty well-equipped guided missile destroyers, American-made, like the cruiser, very fast and carrying plenty of depth charges. Having made a textbook submarine attack, the Royal Navy made a textbook getaway. No one got a sniff.

  “They vanished into the South Atlantic, and were next sighted rolling up the Clyde — where you’ve just been — sporting a darn great skull-and-crossbones over the tower — the traditional Royal Navy signal for a kill. I guess that’s where MacLean’s career started to take off. But as Teacher, and then FOSM, he became a legend. Virtually rewrote the book on submarine warfare. I met him a few times in Washington, and if I hadn’t known he was retired, he would’ve been my first suspect on July 8!”