Nimitz Class

to punish the aggressor.

“I expect you will have read, in the old days of Empire, we Brits always put a completely expendable gunboat up front, as a ‘mark of our interest.’ The battleship only showed up if the gunboat was attacked.

“Sir, if we have a troublesome area in a city, we send in police patrols. We do not send in the chief of police.”

The President’s face lit up as he cottoned on to the political advantages in such a new strategy. Admiral Dunsmore himself said, “Yes. It’s an interesting and often-considered thought. A few years back I personally doubted the wisdom of placing a huge carrier right between Taiwan and China….”

But just then a uniformed security guard came through the door with a message for Admiral MacLean to call his daughter, Laura, at ten the following morning.

“It’s a fairly local call, sir,” he said, conditioned by years of parsimony in the Royal Navy. “She took a few days off to visit a friend in New York. They’re going to a couple of operas or something. I think she’s staying outside the city with friends, Connecticut or New Jersey, I suppose. It’s a three-one-six area code.”

“She sure is outside the city, Admiral,” replied the President. “Three-one-six is just to the west of New York. About fifteen hundred miles, out near my country, in the southern half of the great American state of Kansas.”

“Oh dear,” said the admiral, wearily. “I was rather afraid of that. Her mother will be absolutely thrilled.”

December 14. Fort Meade, Maryland.

Admiral Morgan carefully slit open the special-delivery package which had arrived on his desk. It contained a small newspaper cutting, mounted on a sheet of crested diplomatic paper from the Israeli embassy.

CAIRO. Monday. The body of a man in his early forties, wearing Arab dress, was discovered by Cairo police in the precincts of the Citadel early this morning.

According to Police Chief Hamdi, the man had been shot once through the back of the head. His officers were acting on information received by telephone shortly after midnight. No murder weapon has yet been found, but police are still searching the area around the Mohammed Ali Mosque where the body was found.

Chief Hamdi said that the incident bore the marks of a professional killing, carried out by a person or persons unknown. The body, in his opinion, had been robbed. It contained no documents, identification, or credit cards. There was, however, “considerable cash.” Police inquiries are continuing.

Admiral Morgan delved deeper into the outer package, and pulled out a slim leather cigarette case. Inside the case was a small military badge, an anchor entwined with a heraldic vine, set upon a silver submarine — the coveted insignia of the Israeli Submarine Service. Looking closely Arnold Morgan could make out faded initials in the leather, “BA.”

The accompanying white card brought a smile to the face of Admiral Morgan. Scrawled upon it were the words, “Just to remind him he was still a commander! Arrogant little bugger, wasn’t he? Best wishes, DG.”

Admiral Morgan sat and thought. The leather cigarette case he would keep in his personal little military museum, which was comprised mostly of souvenirs from missions fought and won.

The little badge he resolved to give to the President, as a souvenir of the fight to bring to justice the killer of the Thomas Jefferson. In the end, Boomer Dunning’s torpedo and the Mossad’s bullet had provided an extreme form of rough justice. But nonetheless justice.

Midday. December 20. The White House.

The two Marine guards shut the door softly, leaving Bill Baldridge in the Oval Office, face to face with the President.

“Hey, Bill. Glad you could come,” he said, striding around his desk to shake hands. “I’ve arranged a little lunch for us, with Admiral Dunsmore and Admiral Morgan. I wanted the opportunity to thank all three of you in private for a damned difficult job conducted with just super professionalism.”

“Thank you, sir,” replied Bill. “I appreciate that. Very much.”

The President was silent for a moment, and then he said: “As you know, the operation was black, strictly nonattributable so there’s nothing I can really do about a reward. I can’t have you promoted, since you’ve retired from the Navy, and I cannot decorate anyone for their part in such a mission.” He grinned and added, “So I guess you’re just going to have to make do with my heartfelt personal thanks.”

“That, sir, would be more than sufficient.”

The President motioned for Bill to be seated and then he walked around to his desk once more. “Bill,” he said. “I am not quite as stupid as some people think. I remember it was you who blew the whistle on the accident theory.”

“Yessir. At the time it was a pretty lonely spot to be in.”

“I know it was. I also know it was you who insisted that the Arab commander of that Kilo must have somehow left a trail. You went and found him, identified him for the Mossad. Had you not found him, we might still be scratching our heads.”

“I was lucky in Northwood, sir.”

“I also remember it was you who warned me that Adnam was not in the Kilo when we hit it.”

“Crazy Ivan, right?”

“Crazy Ivan. The same words that wonderful Scottish admiral used. You got him for us too. And you were in Columbia at the final moment when we hit the Russian boat. Bill, I’d like to make you the youngest goddamned admiral in the Navy. But I can’t.”

“Don’t worry, sir. There’s not that many warships on the prairie.”

The President smiled. And then he produced from his desk drawer a small package, which he gave to the rancher from Kansas. “Open this, will you? I’m just going to the next office for a few minutes, then I’ll be back, and we’ll go and meet Scott and Arnold.”

The President left, and Bill Baldridge stood alone in the Oval Office. He removed the wrapping, and held a flat, black jewelry box in his hands. When he opened it, he saw only a sheet of official White House paper, on which was inscribed a careful handwritten note from the President, signed only with his first name.

The words were simple: “For Bill. Because you were brave enough to warn me. And because you are my friend.”

Beneath the paper, pinned to the deep red velvet of the box, was a small military badge, an anchor, entwined with a heraldic vine, set upon a silver submarine.

Afterword By Admiral Sir John Woodward

I should perhaps declare my personal interest in this book, written by Patrick Robinson, who assisted me in the writing of my own autobiography back in 1991.

For Nimitz Class, he asked me for technical advice on submarine operations — a request for me to wear again the hat of Flag Officer Submarines, rather than that of the Falkland Islands Battle Group Commander.

He now informs me there is a senior retired admiral featured prominently within the pages of Nimitz Class who may be somewhat familiar both to me and to those who served under my command. However, I am happy to say that his fictional admiral does not coincide with my own personal view of myself. I’m not even sure I would have recognized him!

Nonetheless my purpose in writing these introductory words is to express my approval for this book, and the very real, you might say terrible, issues it raises.

Patrick Robinson used several consultants both in the U.K. and in the United States Navy during the two years it took to prepare — and I do know that every one was acutely aware of the enormity of the subject and the consequent dangers under which the U.S. Navy operates.

The author has turned this “worst-case” scenario into a pageturning thriller. He has not, however, strayed from the grim reality of terrorism on the grandest scale: the vulnerability of the modern military commander to the sly and cunning knifeman.