The plain truth is, I don’t happen to believe in a lot of the policies we have sometimes used to shortchange the families of those who died in the service of this great nation.
I happen to believe that those who die bravely and honorably wearing the uniform of the United States Marines or Navy or Army or Air Force represent the very best of our men, and their sacrifice is the highest one of all. But I do not have the power to turn back the clock.
I intend to be guided by my own conscience. And I will not tolerate hardship for those who held together the very fabric of our society, while husbands and fathers set sail in their great warship to police this world on behalf of the United States of America.
It takes a while to fully understand what we owe to those men…for their devotion to duty…for their skill…for their courage…for their downright patriotism. And right here I’m talking about men who come screaming out of the sky in big seventy-thousand-pound fighter attack bombers, slamming them down at high speed into the heaving decks of aircraft carriers, risking their lives day after day.
I’m talking about the skilled technicians who talk ’em down, about the navigators, the engineers, the flight deck crews out there in the wind and rain, working in constant danger, to make sure the rest of us live our lives in peace.
My fellow Americans, I am talking about humanity, kindness, and decency. Most things are not fair. Over six thousand men died in that Carrier Battle Group, through no fault of their own, through no weakness of their own, through no circumstance which any one of them could have foreseen or prevented.
And behind them, they have left devoted spouses, and children who need the finest education we can provide for them, because most of them will grow up to be Americans as fine and as honorable and as accomplished as their fathers.
My fellow Americans, there are many times when I too am heartbroken…heartbroken at the injustices I see around me. And often, like most Presidents, I can do too little about it. But in this instance,
I am placing before Congress a special bill that will provide
In addition there will be increased military pensions for everyone involved. I am afraid I do not have the power to make that forthcoming law retroactive to benefit other families, bereaved through other wars. But I
Once more I would like to state again that my prayers, and those of my family, remain with you, and will do so for all of my days in this place…. Good night to you, and God bless you.
Admiral Morgan found himself standing up, his clenched fist held high. He watched Dick Stafford step forward onto the podium to announce that the President would take no questions. And he saw the great man walk away, alone.
Admiral Morgan shook his head. “That President of ours,” he muttered. “Ain’t he something? He just slaughtered ’em. Made a pure ball-buster of a speech, blew $800 million, rode roughshod over 150 years of military tradition, told Congress to get into line or else, and there’s not a journalist or a politician in this country who would dare to utter one word of criticism about what he just said. Jesus. Sure glad he’s on our side.”
He picked up the phone and requested someone bring him his regular late supper. He then retired to his computer and pulled up a chart of the Bosporus, which he studied carefully for a half hour. “Shit,” he said. “I’d rather Baldridge made that journey than I. That little stretch of water is really dangerous, and I hope to hell someone can persuade Iain MacLean to make the voyage.” And he added, to the empty room, “If he can’t make it, no one can.”
He did not realize he was echoing the words of MacLean himself, speaking about Ben Adnam.
Meantime he tried to find a baseball game on television, and settled down to wait until 0200 on the Sunday morning. He called the operator, told him to wake him at that time, and send in coffee, then to connect him to a number in Russia, out on the Crimean Peninsula, a Naval base to which he intended, like the British in 1854, to lay siege.
The Black Sea Fleet’s headquarters in Sevastopol was the admiral’s target, and he barked the number to the operator…“011-7-692-366204…don’t speak to anyone. Get me on that line before they answer.”
“Yessir. 0200 it is.”
Admiral Morgan was tired. He ate his roast beef sandwich supper and fell asleep, leaning back in his big leather swivel chair. It seemed to him like moments before the phone on his desk rang. He picked it up instantly, heard a number ringing seven thousand miles away on the main Russian Navy Black Sea switchboard. He knew it would be a very quiet, almost deserted building this Sunday morning at 0900 local time. He knew also that Vice Admiral Vitaly Rankov was in residence this weekend, and he knew too that the Russian Intelligence officer made a habit of working Sunday mornings.
He heard the phone pickup announce the Sevastopol Fleet Headquarters. Admiral Morgan barked crisply in English, hoping to intimidate the operator: “Connect me to Admiral Rankov
There was a single click, and the deep, calm voice of the exSoviet battle cruiser commander rumbled down the line in Russian: “Rankov speaking, and this better be important. I’m very busy.”
“Vitaly, you bastard, you’ve been avoiding me,” said Admiral Morgan, chuckling as he heard Rankov groan. “Jesus to God, Arnold, is there no peace left in all of the world?”
But he laughed. The two Naval Intelligence men shared many secrets. “You know I thought this was the one time I would be safe from you — what is it? Two o’clock in the morning in Washington?” Rankov asked. “Where the hell are you, and why can’t you sleep like normal people?”
“Duty, Vitaly, a devotion to duty. These are busy days for me.”
“I guess so. Did you just blow up half the Iranian Navy, by the way?”
“Who, me?” said Morgan, practiced now in responding to this accusation. “Certainly not. I’ve hardly left my desk.”
“What I meant,” the Russian continued patiently, “was this: Did your special forces just take out the Ayatollah’s submarines in Bandar Abbas?”
“No one has mentioned it to me,” lied Admiral Morgan effortlessly. “Why, has something happened?”
The innocence in his voice was a betrayal to a fellow member of his profession. “You tell me a huge whopper, Arnold, when you know as soon as I do when something big breaks. You are an American bastard. Iranian Holy Man take out
“They better be a lot more careful I don’t slice theirs off,” growled Morgan.
“You’re a terrible man, Arnold Morgan. What do you want, as if I don’t know. The Kilo, hah?”
“Will you tell me about it, Vitaly?” said Morgan, his voice softening. “As a friend. I have to know.”
“Will you tell me why?”
“I will. This is on the record, and I expect you to convey it to your superiors.” He continued in a flat monotone. “Vitaly, we think someone got ahold of your Kilo, ran it out of the Black Sea, and sank the
Admiral Morgan heard the Russian’s sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. Admiral Rankov’s shock was unmistakable.
“No, old buddy, I’m not. And you’ve got about five minutes to convince me that a United States carrier with six thousand men on board was not vaporized for no reason at all by your fucking Navy. And if we happen to believe that is what took place, you won’t need to think of reducing your Black Sea Fleet any more. We’ll carry that little job out for you, real quick. You guys wanna buy some cheap crash helmets?”
“Arnold,
