The Shark Mutiny (2001) Page 8

  “You don’t have to tell me his bloody name, sweetness. Everyone knows his name.”

  “Yeah, but everyone isn’t about to call him on his private line.”

  “You have that number?”

  “No, actually, I don’t.”

  “Well, how’re you going to get it?”

  “You’re going to get it for me.”

  “ME?”

  “Right. The thing is this…. I’m going over the heads of all my superiors, including the Acting Director. If anyone finds out, I’m probably dead in the Navy.”

  “Wow! What would you do?”

  “Well, I was thinking of changing my name to Rickshawe and becoming a Chinese spy.”

  Jane laughed, which pleased him. He’d thought it was a good joke earlier, but there was nothing like testing it on a live audience.

  “Jimmy, may I ask why you are doing this, and how you expect me to find a number that is probably private to the President of the United States.”

  “No it’s not that private. The switchboard here could get it, on behalf of the ambassador. At least they’d get patched through by the main White House operator.”

  “You want me to use Dad’s name?”

  “No. I’ll talk. But I want to make the call from here, and then verify it, by having them call back on your dad’s private line, which will be on record at the White House. They have a direct line to all major Washington ambassadors. That way I’ll get patched through to the Admiral.”

  “Well…I suppose so. Doesn’t seem much harm. And if there is, the only one in trouble is going to be you. You better have something pretty important to say—that bloody Admiral’s supposed to be a tiger.”

  “Yeah, I know. My dad knew him a bit when he was in the Navy.”

  “Anyway, you picked a good night. Both my parents are going out.”

  “I know that, too. You told me. Dinner at the British Embassy, right?”

  “Yup. They’ll both be gone by seven o’clock.”

  “That’s good. I want to call around eight. Because that way I’ll know he’s settled wherever he’s going to be. Hopefully at home. I don’t want to have to go through this rigmarole twice, or even three times. And that’s what’ll happen if I make the call while he’s in transit somewhere.”

  “Can I know what you want him for?”

  “Not really. But since I can’t make the call without you, certainly not from my office, I have to tell you. Janie, I think the Chinese and the Iranians, between ’em, have put some kind of a minefield across the Strait of Hormuz. That tanker blew up this morning…no accident. And I think there might bloody easily be more.”

  “Jesus. I read about that…but why doesn’t Fort Meade get onto it?”

  “Because Admiral Borden, the Acting Director, doesn’t believe it. Doesn’t want to do anything until he has some proof.”

  “Well, why do you think Admiral Morgan will be any more interested than Admiral Borden?”

  “I don’t have a reason. Just a gut feeling, that’s all.”

  “Pretty expensive gut feeling, if you’re wrong and he goes to Borden and tells him he’s got some kind of a nutter on his staff.”

  “Yeah. I know. What a ripper. But I don’t think he will….”

  “Anyway, let’s go and watch the news in Dad’s study, see if they’ve blown any more ships…then you can get started on blowing your entire career…. Want some more tea?”

  The 90 minutes passed quickly, Ambassador John Peacock came in for a brief chat, then went off to meet his wife. At eight o’clock sharp, Lt. Ramshawe went and sat behind the big desk in the study, picked up the blue phone and dialed the main number of the White House.

  Jimmy, his Aussie accent undiminished, said, “Good evening. I’m calling from the office of the Australian ambassador, and he would like to speak immediately to Admiral Arnold Morgan…You probably want to verify this call, so get back to me right away would you?”

  “Yessir, we’ll check the private number for the Australian ambassador and come right back.”

  Thirty seconds later, the phone rang…“Ambassador Peacock’s office?”

  “Correct.”

  “Sir, I’m afraid the National Security Adviser is not in right now…. If it’s urgent, we can locate him.”

  “Please do.”

  “Hold a moment….”

  Three full minutes went by, mostly taken up by Le Bec Fin’s maître d’, Pierre, asking the White House to wait while he connected a telephone to the private booth occupied by Admiral Morgan and Kathy. He’d done this a few times before, and he placed it right next to the bottle of 1995 Château Beychevelle, which was “breathing,” as yet untouched, in the middle of the table.

  Arnold Morgan thanked him, and picked up the phone. “Morgan…Speak.” His telephone manner never varied, but Kathy still giggled.

  “Just a moment, sir…connecting you to the Australian ambassador.….”

  “Sir, is that Admiral Morgan?”

  “In person, Ambassador Peacock. And I guess this is pretty important? I’m just sitting down to dinner.”

  “Sir, this is not actually Ambassador Peacock. My name is Lieutenant Jimmy Ramshawe, and I work in surveillance at Fort Meade, and I’m calling you under what you might think are somewhat dishonest circumstances.”

  Arnold Morgan’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “Fraud phone call from an Aussie, right before a little dish of grilled prawns…Jesus, what’s the place coming to?”

  “But, sir, it is important.”

  “I guess it must be. You’ve gone to a lot of trouble to interrupt my goddamned dinner. What did you say your name was…Jimmy Ramshawe?”

  “Yessir. Surveillance.”

  “Okay, Jimmy. Shoot. And hurry…Wait a minute…. (aside) Kathy, tell Pierre to put the prawns on hold for five minutes, and lemme have a glass of that Bordeaux…I have a feeling I’m gonna need it…. Go, Jimmy.”

  “I don’t know, sir, how well up-to-date you are on the Global Bronco situation?”

  “Well, I haven’t spoken to the tanker’s owner for at least four hours.”

  “Sorry, sir…Anyway, I was the operator who tracked, or tried to track, all those sea mines China bought from Moscow three months ago.”

  Arnold Morgan’s antennae flew up like lightning rods. But he stayed calm…. “Aha.”

  “Well, sir, they transported them under terrific secrecy…then we had that little convoy of surface ships, three frigates and a Sovremenny destroyer make a special journey all the way from the South China Sea to Iran. Then I picked up three Chinese Kilo-Class submarines making their way north up the Arabian Sea; they ended up in Chah Behar. All seven of the ships, as you know, have mine-laying capacity.

  “Then we had night exercises with the Iranians. We picked up very little, but they were out there all night off the Omani coast. Then we picked up a missile movement, Sunburn S-As on the southeast coast. And suddenly, a couple of weeks later, a damn great tanker explodes, twenty-seven miles in a straight line from those missile launchers. And what’s the first thing we see? Two of those Chinese frigates, now flying the Iranian flag, just five miles from the explosion, forty miles from their jetties in Bandar Abbas.”

  Admiral Morgan was listening.

  “Sir, I think they may have been out there activating the mines, and it is my opinion that there may be a serious minefield out there, maybe running from the Omani coast, place called Ra’s Qabr al Hindi, right across to Iran. And I think we ought to find out.”

  “Jimmy, I assume you have reported all this to Admiral Borden?”

  “Of course, sir. But he doesn’t want to know. Keeps asking for evidence. Well, I don’t have any bloody evidence, but I’ve got enough clues to warrant a damned careful look.”

  Arnold Morgan thought carefully, and then he said, “I suppose you’ve considered the consequences of a phone call like this. Bypassing the regular channels of command?”

  “Yessir.”

  “But you decided
to take the risk anyway?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Now, I’m going to be very formal with you. Lieutenant Ramshawe, it is entirely out of order for you to have taken this action. You must return to Fort Meade and place the entire matter with Admiral Borden. It is essential you use our regular channels of information. Neither the Navy nor the Intelligence services can afford this kind of undisciplined and unorthodox method of operation. Kindly see that it does not happen again.” At which point he put down the phone.

  “Kathy,” he said, “that was rather an interesting phone call. It confirmed what I have unfortunately suspected…that the man sitting in George Morris’s chair is a total asshole.”

  Back in the Australian Embassy, Jimmy Ramshawe was perplexed. “He listened carefully to all I had to say,” he told Jane. “Then he gave me a right choking off for not going through Admiral Borden…Jesus, I was only calling him because I could not go through Admiral Borden.”

  “Well, I’m sure he understood that,” said Jane. “Even I understood that, and I only heard one half of the conversation.”

  “Right. But it still puts me in a no-win situation. If Admiral Morgan believed me, he’ll probably call and report me to the Director, and use the information to give him a right bollocking. If he didn’t believe me, he’ll probably call anyway and recommend I be removed from any position of trust. The ole bastard never even gave me a chance to ask him to keep it confidential.”

  “Jimmy, Arnold Morgan did not get where he is by being stupid. I’m sure he plugged right into the situation and will very likely be grateful for the call, may even act on it. He’ll appreciate what you did, and I don’t think he’ll betray you.”

  “Christ, I hope you’re right…. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  Jimmy and Jane did not dine as well as Arnold Morgan and Kathy, nor in such opulent surroundings as Le Bec Fin. But they were not far away in a bar in Georgetown, eating a couple of cheeseburgers and drinking Budweiser instead of grilled prawns, veal marsala and Château Beycheville.

  The Lieutenant was on duty at 0600, so he dropped Jane off at home sometime before midnight and headed back to the Watergate, a distance of less than two miles. Inside the apartment he kicked off his shoes, put the kettle on, checked his messages (none) and switched on the television, CNN automatically, muttering to himself, “Just better make sure no one’s declared war.”

  No one had. The news, he thought, was unfathomably dreary, lightweight…health care, second-rate pop star getting divorced, famine in Africa, all-star third baseman dying of drugs. Blah-blah-blah, grumbled Jimmy to himself. These guys ought to be called The Four Newsmen of the Apocalypse: Conquest, Slaughter, Famine and Death. Especially Death, on his pale horse. That’s all they bloody think about.

  But then he stopped dead in his tracks as he headed back to the kitchen, half listening to some other late report from the newscaster:

  “Reports are coming in of a major oil spill in the Gulf of Iran. A giant crude-oil tanker is currently listing off the coast of Oman, with an apparently damaged bow section. According to Dubai shipping sources, oil is pouring out of her for’ard tanks.”

  “HOLY SHIT!” The Lieutenant charged right back into the living room, but the item was over. They were back on the President’s forthcoming visit to India. Jimmy picked up the phone, dialed Fort Meade, spoke immediately to Lt. Ray Carpenter…. “You got anything on a tanker leaking oil in the gulf?”

  “Come on, Jimmy. What do you think this is? Greenpeace? Nothing right now.”

  Despite himself, Lt. Ramshawe laughed. Then he called CNN news headquarters in Atlanta and asked if they had an accurate fix on where the tanker was. He announced himself as a director of Texas Gas Transport, told them he was afraid it might be one of his ships. In return he’d keep them posted if it was.

  The CNN foreign desk was not much help but said he was more than welcome to call their man in Dubai, since it was already almost nine o’clock the following morning in the Middle East.

  He thanked them profusely, dialed the number in Dubai and spoke to the reporter, David Alidai.

  “Sorry, pal. I’m dealing with the Omani Navy’s public affairs office. The only person in there’s called Hassam, but he doesn’t know much. I think he’s been told to shut up until they assess the damage to the environment. But if you guys own the ship, he might be a bit more forthcoming. I’ll give you his number…. Good luck.”

  Jimmy hit the dial buttons to Oman, and was put through to the aforementioned Hassam.

  “I’m sorry. I cannot tell you anything. We know very little ourselves.”

  “Listen, Hassam, this may be our ship. We had a VLCC right in that area…. I’m just asking for a position…. Surely you can provide us with that…. Please try, otherwise I’ll have to speak to the Admiral.”

  Jimmy had no idea what Admiral he was going to speak to, and Hassam could not have cared less, kept him waiting on the line for five minutes. Then he came back and said, “Mr. Haig, the damaged ship is positioned at latitude 26.19 north, 56.49 east. She’s in 250 feet of water.”

  “Hassam, I’m grateful. But I don’t think that’s us. It’s a bit too far south. Do you know if there are any other ships in the area?”

  “Well, we have two Qahir Corvettes out there trying to keep order. The strait is very busy. All tankers are being brought to a halt right now…. I believe there are two Iranian frigates out there also, but I can tell you no more.”

  Jimmy hung up and sprinted out of the apartment, willing the elevator to take him instantly down to the parking lot. He unlocked the Jaguar and retrieved the chart that he had left in the leather side pocket. He relocked and sprinted back to the elevator, which had not yet resumed its upward journey.

  Inside the apartment he spread the chart on the dining table, scrabbled around for a ruler and measured. The stricken VLCC in the Hormuz Strait was only nine inches from the missile site, a fraction less than 18 miles. It was six inches from the Global Bronco, just less than 12 miles.

  And it was pretty much on the line that joined the Iranian missile site and the spot where the Bronco had exploded yesterday.

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” breathed Jimmy. “The bastards have mined the strait. And it’s dollars to doughnuts the VLCC hit one of ’em with its bow.”

  He reached into his pocket and found the scrap of paper with the White House phone number. He checked his watch and saw it was 12.45 A.M. “Well, I didn’t manage to get fired five hours ago, but I’m damn sure certain I’m going to pull it off now.”

  And he dialed the main switchboard of the White House. When they answered, he said, “This is Lieutenant Jimmy Ramshawe, Chief Surveillance Officer Middle and Far East, National Security Agency, Fort Meade. I need to speak to Admiral Arnold Morgan on a matter of extreme urgency. He WILL take the call. Please make it and then patch me through.”

  For the second time that evening, the White House interrupted the fearsome Security Chief. He and Kathy were home, sipping a glass of their favorite sauternes, a sweet, silky 1995 dessert wine from the Gironde, before going to bed, when the phone rang.

  “Sir, this is the White House main switchboard. We have a Lieutenant Jimmy Ramshawe on the line, who would like to be connected to you.”

  Admiral Morgan raised his eyes heavenward. But he took the call. “Jimmy,” he rasped. “This better be awfully important.”

  “It is, sir. There’s a second big tanker crippled in the Hormuz Strait. I just heard a flash on CNN. But I called Dubai, then the Omani Navy, and I got a position on the ship. It’s eighteen miles from the missile site I mentioned, and it’s twelve miles from the Global Bronco. More important, it’s on a dead-straight line linking the two ships and the missiles. The odds against that have gotta be a zillion to one. They’ve mined it, sir. Of that I am now very sure.”

  Arnold Morgan hissed his breath inward. His thoughts raged through his mind. “Jimmy, where are you?”

  “I’m in my apartment, sir. The W
atergate.”

  “You are? Hell, I used to know an Australian Admiral who lived in there. You any relation?”

  “My father, sir. Naval attaché here a few years back.”

  “Jesus. This is getting worse and worse. Your dad and I had a few times together. Lives in New York now, right? With Qantas?”

  “That’s him, sir.”

  “Okay. Now listen. I want you to meet me in my office in the White House in twenty minutes. I’m leaving right now. I’ll have an escort for you at the West Executive Avenue

  entrance. You know where that is?”

  “Yessir.”