It was now clear that the Ambassador was not going to change his President’s mind despite Harcourt Travis’s firmly reasoned statements. The meeting was going nowhere. And he called it to a close by informing the Russian Ambassador that he had an official communique from the President of the United States, “who formally presents his compliments to the President of Russia, and requests that he give very serious consideration to not fulfilling the Chinese order for the submarines.
“We are formally submitting this request through your diplomatic offices and would like your assurances that it will be transmitted to your President within a half hour.”
“You have those assurances, Mr. Travis, despite the disagreeable hour. It’s about 0200 in Moscow now.”
“Thank you, Ambassador. We are giving your President exactly forty-eight hours to inform us that he has canceled the order before we shall be obliged to consider different options.”
“I understand, Mr. Travis. And hope, most respectfully, that this does not affect our own personal relationship in the future.”
He held out his hand to receive the white envelope. And Admiral Morgan added, “A whole lot of things are going to be affected most respectfully if those goddamned Chinese make even one move toward shutting us out of the Taiwan Strait. Especially if Russian-built submarines are deemed, by us, to be the culprit. And that you guys, knowingly and willfully, let it happen.”
The time was 1810 when the Ambassador left. “I guess we just have to wait it out,” said Harcourt. “Want some dinner?”
“No thanks. I wanna get back to Fort Meade to see what’s going on in the world. I’ll get a sandwich there. Since the die is cast and time is running out, the whole drift is now toward the CNO. The President does not wish to be informed further, and as you know, the communique asks that the Russian reply be directed to the Navy office.”
“I realize that, Arnold. It’s a pretty weak attempt to lower the profile. But it’s better than nothing. Anyway, I don’t think there’s going to be a reply. Let’s have a chat sometime tomorrow. In private.”
“Sure, Harcourt. Anything big happens, I’ll let you know later.”
Two days later, on December 14, the digital clock on the wall of the CNO’s office showed 1830. No message had been received from the Russian government. Admiral Morgan was checking with the White House and the State Department. There was nothing. Admiral Mulligan was pacing the length of his office. Commander Dunning sat quietly in an armchair. Like the Russian President, he too would say nothing. He had a great deal on his mind.
As the clock went to 1836, the CNO said: “Okay. Let’s go down and see the Chairman.” They left the office, walking briskly onto the eerily deserted E-Ring.
The guards in front of the Chairman’s office immediately escorted them into the inner office, where Admiral Scott Dunsmore awaited them.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said. “Any news?”
“No, sir,” replied Admiral Mulligan. “We have received no reply to the President’s communique.”
“Very well. I believe we are all clear as to the wishes of the President,” said Admiral Dunsmore. “I would like you to set those plans in motion immediately. Needless to say the operation is Black. No one will discuss this with anyone who does not already know — just the President, Harcourt, Bob, and the Director at Fort Meade.”
All three men nodded. No further words were spoken. The ruthless near silent efficiency of the US Navy was on display for their military leader. Admiral Mulligan led the way out, followed by Admiral Morgan. Commander Dunning brought up the rear. And as he made his exit, he heard the Chairman say in a soft voice, “Boomer…good luck.”
3
Jo Dunning was not having much luck attempting to back the family Boston Whaler into the garage for the winter. She had run over and probably ruined an expensive deep-sea fishing rod, and had somehow succeeded in jamming the white forty-horsepower Johnson outboard motor on the stern of the boat firmly into the right-hand wall of the wooden garage. She was not anxious to drive the jeep forward, in case she went over the fishing rod again, and anyway she was half afraid the entire building might cave in.
The phone was ringing in the house, however, and with huge relief she opened the door and fled the hideous scene, hoping against hope that the call would be from Boomer. Even harassed and angry, dressed in old jeans and a white Irish-knit fisherman’s sweater, Jo Dunning was a spectacular sight. Her long, dark red hair, long slim legs, and what Hollywood describes as “drop-dead good looks” somehow betrayed her. It was impossible to believe she was merely a Naval officer’s wife: here, surely, was a lady from
Half right. Jo was very definitely the wife of the nuclear submarine commanding officer Boomer Dunning. But she had retired from her career as a television actress on the day she had met him, fifteen years previously. This was not, incidentally, an incident that had threatened to bring CBS to its knees, since at the time Jo had been resting for several months and, in the less-than-original words of her own mother, was wondering if indeed her “career was down the toilet.”
And now, as she ran to the telephone in the big house that would one day be theirs, she hoped her luck on this wretched day would change — that Boomer would be calling to confirm their plans to spend three days at Christmas together with the children in this waterfront house on the western Cape.
But Jo’s luck had not turned, except for the worse. The voice on the line was that of a young lieutenant junior grade from the SUBLANT headquarters in Norfolk, Virginia, where Boomer was now stationed.
“Mrs. Dunning?”
“Speaking.”
“Mrs. Dunning, this is Lieutenant Davis down here at SUBLANT calling to let you know that Commander Dunning has been assigned to a special operation, beginning immediately. As you know, it will be difficult for him to speak with anyone outside the base. You may of course call here anytime, and we’ll do our best to let you know how long he’s going to be. But for the moment, he’s terribly busy — he’ll try to call you tonight.”
Jo Dunning had had a few conversations like this before, and she knew better than to probe. She was so anxious about Christmas, however — which would be their first together for three years — that she asked the question directly.
“Will he be home in a few days?”
“No, ma’am.”
Her heart fell. “How long, Lieutenant?”
“Right now, he’s expected to return toward the end of January. We’re looking at a five-week window.”
“A five-week widow,” she murmured. And then, “Thank you, Lieutenant. Please tell my husband I’ll be thinking of him.”
“I certainly will, ma’am.”
“Oh, Lieutenant, are you going with him?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Tell him to drive carefully, won’t you?”
“I sure will, ma’am.”
At which point Jo Dunning put the phone down and wept. Just as she had wept last summer when all of their plans were ruined because of another operation at the end of the world down in the South Atlantic. Except she had not known at the time
And as she sat now in her father-in-law’s wooden rocking chair, staring out at the sunlit waters of Cotuit Bay, she could think only of the terrible, deep waters in which she knew her husband worked, and the monstrous, black seven-thousand-ton nuclear killing machine of which Boomer Dunning was the acknowledged master. No one, in all of military history, had ever hated anything quite so badly as the lovely Jo Dunning loathed the United States Navy at this particular moment. Her tears were tears of desolation. And fear. No one ever said it, but everyone even remotely connected with the submarine service knew the dangers and the anxiety that pervaded every family whose father, son, or brother helped to operate America’s big, underwater strike force.
It was not that she couldn’t cope with it. Jo thought she could cope with anything, even, if it came to it, the
