counter, and handed over his economy-class ticket and passport. A slim dark brunette from Customer Service approached him. “Mr. Baldridge?” she inquired.
“That’s me.”
“Come this way, and I’ll take you down to the Admiral’s Club. I’ll bring your ticket and passport.”
Baldridge shrugged and walked down the wide corridor, through the security check, and crossed the concourse to the big oak door guarding the first-class lounge. His escort pushed the door open, gave a cursory nod to the attendant, and led him to a private corner table marked “Reserved.” A telephone was positioned next to his deep armchair, and someone was asking him whether he preferred a drink, or perhaps coffee.
“Coffee, please,” he said. “Black, two sugars. Thanks, ma’am.” Someone in high authority had cleared his path, he had no doubt of that.
No one at American Airlines, nor indeed at the Royal Navy’s headquarters, had the remotest idea of the young American officer’s mission.
When the flight was called, Bill was escorted to a first-class seat. There was no one in the seat next to him. He had a couple of large glasses of fresh orange juice, an early dinner of steak fillet and fruit salad, and slept for the rest of the night. The six-hour journey passed quickly, and the flight attendant awakened him with a pot of fresh coffee. He drank it, disappeared for a shave, and stepped down the jetway into London’s Heath row Airport at 7 A.M. refreshed but in a somber mood.
He was escorted through passport control, his bag was brought to him in the customs hall, and he walked straight out through the “Green, nothing-to-declare, lane,” into the safe custody of a Royal Navy staff driver and a female officer.
He sank quietly into the backseat, and left it to the driver to fight his way through the rush-hour traffic out onto the M4, and from there onto a circuitous route through the western suburbs to the tree-lined, unprepossessing military base in Northwood, some fifteen miles from central London. From a bunker beneath these bland modern buildings, Margaret Thatcher conducted the Falklands War in the company of her generals, admirals, and air marshals. Only the forest of radio and satellite communications which protruded from a half-dozen roofs betrayed this place as a secret citadel of Great Britain’s military defenses.
They passed through the guards at the gate, drove on down the hill, and stopped outside the main building. “I understand you will be here for most of the day, sir,” the driver ventured. “Leave your bag. I’ll be waiting.”
Bill was escorted up the steps, through the glass doors, and up two additional flights to the offices of Admiral Sir Peter Elliott, the Royal Navy’s Flag Officer Submarines. He was greeted by the Flag Lieutenant, Andrew Waites, who shook hands and hustled him next door to meet the admiral’s Chief of Staff, Captain Dick Greenwood. The place left an impression of battleship gray, steel desks, slightly tired carpets, cluttered tabletops.
It was the people who set it apart, as indeed they set apart the Navy offices in the Pentagon. Here in England each man was dressed in his “number twos,” dark blue trousers, white shirts and black ties, navy sweaters with high round necks and lapels. A small insignia on the shoulders indicated rank. All the faces, the manners, the attitudes were those of highly trained, confident, fit men.
The Royal Navy appeared to Bill to have misplaced a submarine of their own, judging by the conversation — a couple of “Oh shits,” three “Jesus Christs,” and a loud “Well, send him another fucking message.” Baldridge grinned. It was the same in every top submarine service. The sheer difficulty of communication with an underwater warship, which couldn’t hear a goddamned thing most of the time, was the most frustrating aspect of the job.
The COS was brisk and to the point. “I don’t see any reason to hang around. Tell me how you like your coffee and we’ll pop straight in and see the boss.”
The Royal Navy’s Flag Officer Submarines (FOSM), Admiral Elliott, stood up behind his desk and shook hands with the American. He was not as tall as Bill, but he was slim and stood very erect — unmistakably a military man. The eyes were piercing blue, the dark hair graying at the temples, the skin still tanned. The expression wide open, but wary. A man who has spent a lot of years at sea, Bill thought. What he did not know was that Admiral Sir Peter Elliott had been an outstanding submarine captain, commanding a Polaris in the 1970s, and a nuclear hunter-killer in the Falklands. He had also been the Teacher at Faslane. So indeed had Captain Greenwood, another nuclear boat commander.
The three men sat down and chatted briefly about the hot summer, both in England and the United States, and then the Royal Navy’s submarine Flag Officer asked Bill Baldridge precisely what he wanted.
“I have been given no briefing from the Admiralty, save a message to suggest I cooperate with you within my discretion. It may also be within my discretion to report our conversation to the Ministry of Defense, and I think you should understand that before we proceed.”
“I understand perfectly, sir. However, I have been asked by the CNO to make all of my inquiries here as discreet as possible.”
With the playing field now clear of minor obstacles, and the slow Kansan drawl of the American settling easily on his ears, the British admiral smiled and said quietly, in an impeccable English accent, “Well, Mr. Baldridge, how can I help you?”
“Sir, I would like to request your permission to review your files of foreign officers who passed through the Commanding Officers Qualifying Course at Faslane during the period from 1982 to 1992.”
Admiral Elliott shot a glance at Captain Greenwood, who imperceptibly shook his head — a shake of such infinitesimal motion, Bill was glad he caught it.
“Impossible for several reasons, I am afraid, the most obvious being that the material is highly classified.”
“Hmmm. Can I get around that?”
“Well, perhaps if you were to tell me what you’re looking for, that might be a start.”
“I don’t think so, sir.” And then, “I am not really empowered to do so,” he lied.
“You must understand one thing. Even if I gained the necessary permission to show you the documents, I would have to clear each one with the respective embassy of the officer concerned. Before I showed you one word.”
Bill now knew he was in a serious game of poker. “Well, sir, I would remind you that I am here on the highest possible authority.”
“I do not really have proof of that. I would most certainly require you to verify it. How far up can you go — I mean to a U.S. official we can contact right now.”
“Quite high, sir. The Chief of Naval Operations at the Pentagon, if necessary. If that won’t do, the Secretary of Defense. Failing that, the President of the United States. Even at this early hour of the morning.”
“Yes,” replied the admiral, slowly. “You really do want to see those records, don’t you?”
“Yessir. Yes I do.”
“Okay, Bill. I am going to ask you formally, now, and I want you to answer me, otherwise I shall have no alternative but to refer your inquiries to Whitehall, which has a way of holding things up for several weeks… sometimes years!”
“Sir, if I have to, I’ll have the President call the Prime Minister….”
“I know you can, and I know you will. But all of that may not be necessary. Answer me. Tell me why you want to see my records.”
“Because I’m looking for someone, sir.”
“Yes, I have worked that out. Who are you looking for…?”
“I can’t say, sir…well, not really.”
The admiral stood up, smiled down at Bill, walked over to a table, and poured three cups of coffee, two sugars for Bill. “Very well,” he said. “Let me ask you a question. And I require you to answer it honestly.”
“Okay, Admiral,” said Bill.
The admiral swung around, stared straight at Bill, and said sharply: “You think some bastard blew up the
“Yessir. I do.”
“So do we. Matter of fact we’ve been waiting for you to show up for several days now.”
Lieutenant Commander Baldridge’s face expressed pure relief. For the first time he knew he was among friends.
“May I assume, Commander, that you are working on the theory that the carrier may have been hit by a torpedo delivered from a submarine?”
