Admiral Arnold Morgan was breaking the habit of a lifetime. He was going on vacation tomorrow. And, as a further break with tradition, he was taking his secretary with him. This, incidentally, caused no consternation in the White House, where secretaries normally remain in the office to cover for vacationing bosses.
Everyone knew about Admiral Morgan and Kathy O’Brien. Everyone had known for the past six months. Ever since the national security advisor had decided no longer to keep their secret. He had even touched base with the President, and informed him of the relationship, on the basis that the Chief Executive ought rightly to be the first to know who the third Mrs. Arnold Morgan might be.
The President was delighted for them both, but accepted that Mrs. Morgan would, for reasons of propriety and professionalism, leave the White House once they were married. He also made one strict condition, that he would be invited to the wedding.
Since then every young stud on the Presidential staff had refrained from asking Mrs. O’Brien out for dinner, which was as well, since she always said no anyway. But the subject of her discreet romance became unaccountably off-limits. No one ever mentioned it, and certainly no one risked a joke about it, possibly because there was the unseen threat that anyone who really pissed off the severe and autocratic ex — nuclear submarine commanding officer might find himself on the wrong side of one hundred lashes. Admiral Morgan had a way of exuding authority.
Two weeks previously, he’d talked to the President about the vacation first, told him he would like to take Kathy to the Western Isles of Scotland. There were a couple of people he wanted to talk a little business with in the UK, for reasons he would be happy to reveal to the President. But he would prefer to wait until after he returned.
“Arnold,” said the great man, “however you want to play it is almost certainly the right way. However, for security reasons I would prefer you to travel in a U.S. military aircraft, and I hope you can make it back for my birthday on May 24.”
“No trouble, sir. I’ll be gone ten days max. Leaving on the eleventh. But I might have a little interesting stuff when I get here.”
“Okay, Admiral. Stay cool. We’ll talk soon.”
He was finally ready to leave, and two White House secretaries were detailed to stand guard over Kathy’s executive domain while she was gone. The admiral and his distant bride-to-be would fly in a U.S.A.F. modified KC 135 jet, the military equivalent of a DC10, manufactured by McDonnell Douglas and fitted with a secure, ultramodern communications system in case the President should wish to speak to the admiral in-flight.
They took off from Andrews Air Force Base at 0700 sharp, and came in to land at the Royal Air Force’s Lyneham base in Wiltshire at 1800 local time. A U.S. Navy staff car met them and drove them 50 fast miles to a beautiful, private, hotel-restaurant, the Beetle and Wedge, on the banks of the River Thames at Moulsford, Oxfordshire.
The car that followed them contained two Secret Servicemen, plus the high-security communications system that would patch the admiral directly to the Oval Office. The hotel owner had previously worked in 10 Downing Street and understood the intricacies of such matters. Though her ex-boss, the pedantically polite and careful former Prime Minister, Edward Heath, might have found little in common with the irascible right-wing American national security advisor.
Arnold Morgan and Kathy checked into separate but adjoining rooms. ”Just in case those assholes from the London tabloids have planted some ugly little bastard with a camera up the goddamned chimney.”
Later they dined by the river, looking out at one of the most perfect stretches of water on the Thames. They ate fresh grilled fish that the landlord prepared for them personally, and they sipped glasses of golden Montrachet Chevalier, 1995. The admiral’s long-suffering secretary had rarely, if ever, felt so happy.
“Why won’t you tell me where you’re going tomorrow morning?” she asked, just before they retired for the night.
“Because tomorrow, my private thoughts and fears suddenly become business. And that’s classified, even from you.”
By 8 A.M. the following morning the admiral was gone, driving through the little towns of Wallingford and Thame to the Oxford — London motorway, the M40. His driver sped him in the direction of Northwood, home of the Flag Officer of the Royal Navy’s Submarine Service.
A young submarine officer met him at the main gate and hopped into the car for the short downhill drive to FOSM’s lair. He was escorted immediately into the inner sanctum, and he was greeted personally by Rear Admiral Sir Richard Birley, a lean, slightly built man, with smooth-combed fair hair, who walked athletically, and whose smile had caused deep wrinkles at the sides of his eyes. He had not smiled much lately, however.
“Arnold! How terrific to see you…it’s been too long. Actually…it’s been ten years. Come and sit down.”
“Hey, Dick…good to see you, old buddy. How’s Hillary and the girls?”
“Well, they’re both at university now…but basically everything’s fine. Bit quieter without them…”
“Guess so…I forgot to tell you before, but I’m thinking of getting married again myself…but she says she won’t do it till I retire.”
“Christ, that probably won’t happen for about thirty years since you’re A) indestructible, and B) wedded to the security of that country of yours.”
“Heh, heh, heh…I’ll talk her into it.”
“Bully her into it!”
“Heh, heh, heh.”
“Want some coffee?”
“Good call, Dick. Black with buckshot.”
“Black with what?”
“Buckshot. That’s what I call those little white bastards that make it sweet…I always forget the proper name.”
“Oh, I see. Well, I’ll pour it while you tell me what you want to see me for. I’m assuming this isn’t purely social?”
“No it’s not. I came to see you because I wanted to have a chat about HMS
“Uh-huh. I’ve been doing quite a lot of chatting about that particular submarine just lately. But not more than about seven hundred times a day.”
The British admiral poured the coffee, invited his lieutenant to locate buckshot, which caused huge merriment among the American Secret Service detail sitting in the outer office. They were very used to seeing people scurrying around looking for Hermesetas for the Big Man.
“Dick, we’re old friends. And I want you to answer me straight. Was there a real problem with the Brazilians? Were they really as incompetent as the newspapers are suggesting? I mean the general impression we’re getting is that your department somehow allowed a bunch of lunatics to go out and kill themselves in a Royal Navy submarine.”
“Arnold, how confidential is this conversation?”
“Totally. I just want to get filled in, privately, with a conversation that will never go beyond these four walls. Not even to the beautiful lady who won’t marry me.”
Admiral Birley chuckled. “Arnold, the Brazilians were not wonderful, but they were not that bad. They were a little behind in their training, but only about a week, and I had four sea trainers on board, men who we think are the best in the world.
“The Upholder-Class boats are very good. We spent a year ironing out all the initial difficulties before we were forced to put them out of service and into reserve.
“But what about all this newspaper stuff?”
“Christ, you of all people know what they’re like. Give them just a sniff of the possibility of incompetence, and they move in like vultures, regardless of the damage they might be doing, regardless of who might be irretrievably hurt. Regardless of whether they are right.”
“I suppose that’s the difference, Dick, between proper executives and media executives. The proper ones have to be right, or suffer often horrendous consequences. The media guys can more or less get away with
