After a lifetime in the US Navy, the burly, five-foot-eight-inch Texan had been extremely circumspect about taking off the dark blue for the last time and accepting the exalted Presidential post of National Security Adviser. But he respected and admired the southwestern Republican President who had appointed him. Where some presidents seek to dissociate themselves politically from the military, this well-educated ex-Harvard law professor from Oklahoma had always embraced the armed forces and had drawn admirals and generals into the heart of his administration.
Arnold Morgan and the President had worked closely together during a particularly disagreeable Black Operation the previous year. Less than three weeks after its conclusion, the President had confessed to some of his closest staff members that he really missed talking regularly to Morgan. “He’s such a cantankerous old bastard,” he said. “Doesn’t trust any foreign country except the UK, and them no further than he can kick ’em; calls people up in the small hours of the morning and is mostly too bad-tempered even to say good-bye on the phone. But a truly impressive mind. And a walking encyclopedia on world naval power.” Robert MacPherson, the Secretary of Defense, was also an admirer of the Admiral, and despite a few misgivings by the rather more refined Harcourt Travis, the Secretary of State, it was agreed that Admiral Morgan should be brought into the White House. Travis had raised no serious objection, stating drolly that he had to admit that Britain’s Neville Chamberlain “would have been considerably better off if he’d taken Admiral Morgan with him to meet Hitler in Munich in 1939.” It took almost a year to disentangle the Admiral from the front line of the US intelligence service, but he was now firmly established in the deeply carpeted inner sanctum of the West Wing.
The Admiral did not, by instinct, trust the Beijing government, and he trusted foreign submarines even less. The fact that the Kilos were being constructed in Russia, a nation he bitterly mistrusted, had the effect of accelerating his irritation with the current situation to the third power.
“Fuck ’em,” he growled. “We’re not having it.”
He stood up and pulled on his new dark gray civilian suit jacket, which had been cut for him by a military tailor. He strode out of his office, his black lace-up shoes gleaming, the brisk, unmistakable gait of a senior Naval officer betraying his past. That and his severely cut gray hair, and his way of staring straight ahead as he went forward. When Admiral Morgan set sail from his White House office he looked as if he were about to head into battle.
“Goddamned Chinese,” he snapped as he passed a new portrait of President Eisenhower, who he considered would probably have understood. And he continued muttering irritably. “Napoleon said it. And he said it right: when the Chinese giant awakens, the world will tremble. I’m not sure who’s going to be doing the trembling, but it’s not going to be the US of A.”
At the West Wing entrance, Morgan’s car and driver awaited him. “Morning, Charlie,” he said. “Pentagon. CNO’s office. Gotta be there at 1030.”
“SIR,” Charlie snapped back, like a cowed midshipman. He had never before driven a senior military man until the Admiral’s arrival, and he had not yet recovered from their very first meeting. Charlie had shown up two minutes late on Morgan’s first day in the office and could hardly believe his ears when Arnold Morgan had growled in menacing tones, “You are adrift, late, AWOL, slack, and useless. If anything like this
Charlie Patterson gunned the big limousine through the streets of Washington, heading east along the waterfront and picking up 1-395 at the Maine Avenue entrance. They crossed the Potomac and made straight for the United States military headquarters.
Admiral Morgan was well used to the familiar route, but for the past four years he had usually driven himself. A chauffeur was just one aspect of his new life to which he had to become accustomed. The others were the more relaxed office hours and the more regular social obligations. If he missed anything, it was the time he had once spent prowling around in his Fort Meade headquarters, in the small hours of the morning, checking the signals from America’s surveillance posts around the world. He now believed it was entirely possible he might have to locate a new lady to run his life. The years in submarines and then in Naval intelligence had wreaked havoc with both of his marriages. As far as he could tell neither of his two ex-wives, nor even his two grown-up children, were speaking to him at present, the result of years of neglect. With his highly salaried position, he was regarded, alongside the President, as one of the most interesting middle-aged bachelors on the Washington circuit. Dangerous waters for an unarmed former commanding officer, who was having to relearn any vestige of real charm he may once have had as a young lieutenant.
Not that he had time for a romantic involvement now. For years the Navy’s most fearless, and feared, seeker after truth, Admiral Morgan was trying to string together facts that seemed unconnected and incompatible. In the next few hours he was going to sort them out and almost certainly initiate drastic action against two of the world’s most powerful nations.
Charlie slid the car down into the Pentagon’s subterranean garage. The limousine came to a halt outside the private elevator, which ran to the offices of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Admiral Scott Dunsmore, the former Chief of Naval Operations. Admiral Morgan would spend fifteen minutes having a cup of coffee there and then head for the headquarters of the new CNO, Admiral Joseph Mulligan, the former Commander of the Atlantic Submarine Force.
Two US Marine guards were waiting to escort Morgan to the CJC offices. Before the Admiral stepped into the elevator, he turned to Charlie and said, “I might pop out of this door any time between now and 1630. Be here.”
One of the guards risked a slight smile. The Admiral fixed him with a withering eye. “No bullshit, right?” he growled.
“Right, sir,” replied the guard, uncertainly.
Coffee with his old friend the Chairman was relaxed and informal, its purpose merely to brief Scott Dunsmore on the President’s state of mind regarding the China problem. There were no surprises. Admiral Dunsmore had guessed anyway. Admiral Morgan’s briefing of Admiral Mulligan and possibly another privately invited guest would be a meeting of considerably greater detail. By nightfall Scott Dunsmore expected a clear resolution to have been made. It looked like they were heading for a nonattributable “black” operation. The less people knew about it the better.
Outside the CNO’s office, a young flag lieutenant informed Admiral Morgan that Admiral Mulligan would be about ten minutes late. He had cleared the Navy yards in a chopper a short while ago and was on his way here. “I’ve just spoken to him, sir. He said to go right in, and he’ll be as quick as he can.”
Arnold Morgan walked into the outer section of the CNO’s quarters and saw a uniformed Naval officer waiting, reading the
The big man in the armchair stood immediately, shook hands, and said, “Good morning, sir. Cale Dunning,
Admiral Morgan smiled. “Ah yes, Boomer Dunning, of course. I’m delighted to meet you. You probably know, I used to drive one of those things.”
“Yes, Admiral. I did know. You were commanding one of ’em when I first left Annapolis back in 1982.
“Correct. She was brand-new then. Not so refined as your ship, but she was a damned good boat. There’s a lot of days when I wouldn’t mind commanding one again. They were great years for me. Make the most of yours, Boomer. There’s nothing quite like it you know, and you can never get ’em back, once they decide to move you onward and upward.”
The two submariners sat down in opposite armchairs, each one uncertain about bringing up the subject they were both here to discuss. Admiral Morgan had requested the meeting and would essentially take charge of it. He had also suggested that Admiral Mulligan invite Commander Dunning. The two men had never met.
