something real quick. But talk me through it first. Then I’ll call in some help.”
The admiral ran swiftly through the facts — the position of the
The big Oklahoman behind the presidential desk was still for a moment, resting his chin upon his hands. Then he asked suddenly, “Who was the Flag officer?”
“Zack Carson, sir.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that,” he said. “He and I are from the same part of the world.”
Both the military Chiefs already knew that. Everyone in America was acquainted with the President’s rural background in the Oklahoma Panhandle, close to the Kansas border, where his family’s cattle ranch was well known. He later had a dazzling academic career at Harvard Law School.
“Sir, I think the announcement should be made from here, given the scale of a national disaster. I would recommend that the CNO makes a formal statement to the White House Press Corps in the next forty-five minutes. Then you should address the nation at around 2100 this evening. Or before.”
“I agree with that,” replied the President. “But I have one question. You sure this was an accident?”
Admiral Dunsmore looked up sharply, surprised by the directness of the question he knew must be asked sooner or later. He paused for a moment, staring past the President at the flags of the Marines, Navy, and Air Force which flanked the tall windows. Then he answered, “No, sir. I cannot be sure of that. At this stage no one can. We cannot rule out an attack from an unknown enemy. Nor can we rule out some act of sabotage. However, until we have some kind of suggestion to that effect, sir, I see no reason to cause that kind of alarm to the public.”
The President looked thoughtful. “It’s kinda hard to know which way to swing,” he said. “An accident makes the Navy look incompetent, which I would dearly like to avoid. A successful attack on an American aircraft carrier, possibly by some guy essentially dressed in a sheet, would spread great consternation, possibly even panic. The fucking liberal press would absolutely love it. I guess we are talking about the lesser of two evils. And either way the Navy looks bad.”
“The way I see it,” said General Paul, interrupting the Navy-Presidential conference, “is this. If that ship was attacked, then I guess we’ll find out in the end. But I see no need, at this stage, to suggest the possibility to the press or the public. As things stand, we must deal with a huge outpouring of grief, recrimination, scorn, and derision. There is no need to add public fear to an already lousy equation.”
“I agree,” said Admiral Dunsmore. “Let’s not add to our woes. At this point, despite some natural reservations, I think we should announce a shocking accident on one of our carriers. There is no advantage whatsoever in suggesting a U.S. Battle Group came under attack and a $4 billion carrier was obliterated by foreign persons unknown. My God, if you’re not safe in a carrier, protected by a private strike/attack air force, guided missile cruisers, and two nuclear submarines, how on earth can anyone, anywhere, ever feel safe?”
“My thoughts precisely, gentlemen,” said the President. Then, smiling wryly, “And I trust you will forgive me for bringing up the unthinkable?”
Scott Dunsmore nodded courteously. But he was thinking, “Every time I meet you, I understand better why you are sitting in that chair. If you’d been in the Navy, you’da been sitting in mine. Or more likely the General’s.”
In the next thirty minutes, the White House staff geared up for the press conference. The two military Chiefs adjourned to President Reagan’s old Situation Room in the West Wing basement, with the Press Secretary, Dick Stafford, and two writers.
The general sat in on the statement, while Admiral Dunsmore sat in the corner with an open line to the Pentagon, summoning top Navy brass to a conference on the fourth floor, E Ring, which would begin at 2200 right after the President’s address to the nation.
He placed his number two, the Vice CNO, Admiral Freddy Roberts, in charge of this, and a Navy jet was already refueling out at the San Diego Navy base in readiness for the flight to Washington. On board would be the C-in-C Pacific Fleet, and the Commander of the Naval Surface Fleet in the Pacific. The Commander of the U.S. Naval Forces (Central Command and Middle East), who was visiting San Diego, would also be on board. The Commander of Space and Naval Warfare Systems was being traced on a visit to an electronics corporation in Dallas and would be scooped up by the same aircraft.
Admiral Dunsmore also requested the presence at the meeting of Admiral Morgan, and of a young lieutenant commander from Naval Intelligence, Bill Baldridge, the best nuclear weapons man in the service, whose brother had been lost on the carrier. As the monstrous Naval crisis began to take shape in the White House, he was gunning his 1991 Ford Mustang up the Suitland Parkway at around 87 mph, chatting on his mobile phone to the raven-haired wife of a notoriously uninteresting Midwestern senator. “Yeah, I don’t know what it’s about yet, but we don’t start till 10 P.M. I could be at the Watergate by 2:30. I still got my key. Yeah, I knew he was in Hawaii, read it in the paper.”
Meanwhile the President was in conference in the Oval Office with his National Security Adviser, Sam Haynes, his White House Chief of Staff, Louis Fallon, and the Secretary of Defense, who had just arrived by helicopter from Norfolk, Virginia. The problem was how to distance the President from any kind of responsibility, protect the Navy, and make political capital from being seen to be concerned to the point of distraction.
By now Dick Stafford was shuttling between the Situation Room and the Oval Office, trying to mastermind the confident phrases which would allay the terrible damage the press were about to inflict on the U.S. Navy and the Presidency.
The one being written for Admiral Dunsmore was much the easier of the two, and at 4.30 P.M. he stood before the packed White House press briefing room and read his prepared statement. “It is my sad and unfortunate duty to announce the loss of the U.S. Navy aircraft carrier
For perhaps ten seconds there was a stunned, disbelieving silence in the room, as if no one wanted to accept the paralyzing news as real. But when pandemonium finally broke out, it very nearly registered on the Richter Scale. It seemed that every journalist in the room, all two hundred of them, leapt to their feet at the same time waving notebooks and microphones, yelling for information.
Admiral Scott Dunsmore wisely refrained from answering the questions which rained down on him from all areas of the room.
“When exactly did it happen?”
“When do we get a list of the dead?”
“How do you know there were no survivors?”
“Is this the biggest peacetime disaster in U.S. military history?”
“Will the Chief of the Navy resign?”
White House aides moved instantly to the admiral’s side, the press secretary appealed for order…“Gentlemen…
Too late. This was beyond a press conference. This was a feeding frenzy; the sharks of the media scented blood. Anyone’s blood. And they were circling Scott Dunsmore as if he were Adolf Hitler come back to life. Flashbulbs lit up the room, cameramen fought for position, trying to photograph the devastated CNO. No one could be heard clearly above the frenzy, which eased only marginally as the wire service men from UPI, Associated Press, and Reuters dived for quiet corners, mobile phones vibrating with the sheer magnitude of the story they were imparting to their city desks.
The White House Chief of Staff ordered the Marine guards to move forward between the front row and the dais and the press secretary ordered the room cleared.
Even as Admiral Dunsmore was being escorted from the room by four U.S. Marines, tomorrow’s tabloid headlines were already being drafted…“6,000 U.S. SERVICEMEN DIE — NAVY NUKES ITSELF”…“NUCLEAR HOLOCAUST ON U.S. CARRIER”…“U.S. FLATTOP SELF-DESTRUCTS”…“NAVY NUKES 6,000 AMERICANS.”
It would be up to the President to check the balance, to try to convince a by-then hysterical public that the U.S. Navy was not in fact being run by a group of homicidal maniacs. He had about four hours to perfect his words.
