Nimitz Class

“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!”

“Jesus! He never told me anything about the South Atlantic.”

“They don’t, do they? Not those Brits. So when we get warnings from such a man, even such a man’s daughter, we listen with respect.