H.M.S. Unseen

“No. At least no one’s told me. But SUBLANT will know.”

“Okay, George. Keep me posted on it, will you? And if the Brits do get in touch, would you have their Flag Officer give me a call…he’s an old friend just got promoted. Admiral Sir Richard Birley. ’Course when I knew him he was Commander Dick Birley, trying to drive a Polaris boat. We shared a few laughs in London…too long ago. So long, George.”

Arnold Morgan was late. It was after eight o’clock, the exact time he was due at a small French restaurant in Georgetown for an assignment to which he increasingly looked forward. It was only dinner with his secretary, which might almost have been mundane for a sixty-year-old, twice-divorced admiral. Except this secretary, the thirty-six- year-old divorcee Kathy O’Brien, was possibly the best-looking woman in the entire White House. A long-legged redhead from Chevy Chase, she had worked for the tyrannical Texan since first he had entered the building and almost fired his new chauffeur on opening day.

For one month she had gazed with awe at his command of the workings of the world’s navies, his knowledge of international events, the intentions of various countries, his total mistrust of foreigners. For another six months she had watched him ride roughshod over men in the highest offices, contemptuous of stupidity, withering in his judgments, cynical in his appraisal of diplomats, especially foreign ones.

The President himself, a right-wing Republican from Oklahoma, trusted Arnold Morgan implicitly. He actually loved Arnold Morgan. So, fortuitously, did the beautiful Mrs. Kathy O’Brien. And the friendship had grown, hesitantly at first. For it was beyond the comprehension of Arnold Morgan, who had no illusions about his craggy lack of good looks, how any woman could be attracted to him, far less this goddess who worked as his secretary.

His failed marriages, and the endless criticisms of his wives, both of whom had summarily left him, had created a man who believed that all women were a mystery, and whatever it was they wanted or liked, it most definitely was not him. As such, he chose to “get along without ’em,” and it had been so long since any woman had shown the slightest interest in him, he almost died when Kathy O’Brien said one day, “You, sir, eat too many of those damned roast beef sandwiches, and you drink too much coffee. Why don’t you come out to my house tomorrow night, and I’ll cook you a decent dinner?”

He was so utterly flabbergasted, he had just said lamely, “Okay, what are you going to cook for me?”

The slender Kathy, sassy to the last, called back “Roast beef,” as she swung out of the door.

That had all started a year ago, during which time the admiral had discovered that this lady, who had her own money and did not particularly need the job, offered him what he had never had from either wife. She offered him total respect for what he did. In her heart Kathy O’Brien worshiped him, although she was not anxious for that aspect of the relationship to become known.

But unlike the wives, she had seen him operate first hand…talking to the President as an equal, laying down the law to people of incredible stature on the international stage. She had seen high officers of the CIA tremble before his wrath. She had seen top brass from the Pentagon arriving at the White House just to hear his opinion. She had fielded calls for him from the heart of the Kremlin. Even from Beijing.

As far as she was concerned, this five-foot-eight-inch, powerfully built military dynamo was the most important man in Washington. He was important not for his family background, and not just for his job. Nor even for the fact that he had been one of the Navy’s best captains of a nuclear submarine. No, in Kathy’s mind, Admiral Arnold Morgan was important for his towering intellect and his towering personality. He was biggest medium-sized man she had ever seen.

In turn she never minded if he was late…Christ, he’s probably saving the world. She never scolded him when he forgot a gift, or failed to thank her, or was suddenly unable to accompany her to her mother’s house in northern Maryland. Because she knew him. If Arnold could cram those little matters into his crowded life for her, he would do so. If not, he was probably in the Oval Office, or in the Pentagon, or visiting Admiral Morris at Fort Meade. He could be anywhere. How many girlfriends could say that? Not many. And above all, he was most definitely not a womanizer. As his secretary, Kathy really knew that.

And now as she waited at Le Champignon, nursing a kir royale, she smiled at how she knew he would look when he came in the door — flustered, irritated, preoccupied, worried he had forgotten something, a look like thunder on his face, frightening the maitre d’ to death, telling him to get someone out there to park his car…until he saw her. And then the pent-up fury of Admiral Morgan would evaporate while she watched, and his face would light up, and he would lean over and tell her that he loved her above all else. And she almost wept with joy at the very thought of him.

He finally arrived at 2025, having fought his way up Pennsylvania Avenue in the pouring rain, cut across M Street and into Georgetown along Twenty-ninth Street. As she expected, he told Marc, the maitre d’ to get someone to get rid of his car. But he was too late. Marc, like Kathy, was honored to be in the great man’s presence, and he’d had someone out there waiting under the awning ever since Kathy was seated. The admiral always arrived and just jumped out, right outside the door, leaving the car running, with no thought for the two slightly confused Secret Servicemen who followed him everywhere in another vehicle. One of them would drive them both home to Mrs. O’Brien’s house later.

The admiral greeted her with enthusiasm, since it had been all of three hours since they had seen each other. And he ordered the same drink as Kathy. The admiral was a curious dichotomy, because, for a man who professed to mistrust all foreigners, he had developed the most cosmopolitan taste in food, thanks in part to Kathy, who had lived in Paris with her former husband for almost three years in the 1990s.

Tonight they chose pate de foie gras, followed by sole meuniere for her, and coq au vin for the admiral. He selected a bottle of 1995 Puligny Montrachet to share with the first course, which Kathy could finish with her fish. And he chose a half bottle of 1996 Chateau Talbot to go with his chicken. It was an expensive dinner, and they tried to make time for it twice a week.

Admiral Morgan was financially better off than he had ever been, because his job as national security advisor to the President now carried a salary of almost $200,000, and under a new law he was also entitled to collect most of his admiral’s pension while he served in the White House. The President himself had pushed that law through, because he believed it was absurd that top military people were being lost to government simply because their pensions were suspended while they worked as senior public servants.

“The pensions have been earned, over years and years of service,” he said. “I expect these outstanding men to be paid entirely separately should they choose to enter another important job in government when their days in the armed services are over.”

All of this was outstandingly good news for the admiral, because his two former wives had both remarried, his children were grown and earning, and, anyway, his daughter, like the wives, was not actually speaking to him right at the moment. His obligations were minimal.

Kathy, meanwhile, was noticing that her admiral was not actually speaking to her much at the moment either. He was very much within himself, and munched contentedly.

“Is there anything the matter?” she asked.

And he looked up suddenly, “No, no…I’m sorry. I was just thinking about something…kinda bothering me.”

“What kind of thing? Not me I hope.”

“No, no. You don’t look anything like an Upholder-Class submarine…entirely the wrong shape…and you’re faster.” He grinned his lopsided grin.

“What submarine?”

“Oh, it’s just been announced that the Brits have lost a submarine in the English Channel. It’s on all the news channels, and it’ll be in every newspaper tomorrow. It’s the first time they’ve lost one for a half century. There’s a real fuss going on over there. Right now, as we sit here, half the Royal Navy is trying to find it, but there seems to be no sign.”

“Oh, how horrible. Do you think it’s on the bottom somewhere, and they’re all still alive? How long have they got before the air runs out?”

“Not long…forty-eight hours at most…and they were last heard from about twenty hours ago. They’re gonna have to move very quickly to save them.”

“Look, darling, I know how awful it is and everything. But why is it giving you such concern?”

“To tell you truth I’m not sure. There’s just something in the back of my mind that’s bothering me. I think it’s