Nimitz Class (11 page)

The CNO wound up the call swiftly and spoke briefly to CINCPAC. The news was sparse. It was still pitch-dark and the weather was worsening. The frigates felt it dangerous to reenter the contaminated “last known” position. There could be no further doubt about the fate of the
Thomas Jefferson.
The great ship had gone, in a nuclear fireball, made less blinding by the low clouds, fog, and rain which annually blanketed the Arabian Sea during July and August when the southwest monsoon swept in.

Scott Dunsmore gathered up his final reserves of self-control, and instructed Lieutenant Commander Bamberg to speak once more to CINCPAC and inform Admiral Sadowski that in his opinion the remainder of the
Thomas Jefferson
Battle Group should return to Diego Garcia, regroup, make temporary repairs, and head as soon as possible for their home port of San Diego.

Then he walked back out into the wide corridor of E Ring and set off for the meeting which had the potential, in his opinion, to begin an insidious political reduction in U.S. Navy firepower—firepower which had grown relentlessly from the early days of the Polaris submarines to the modern era of Trident and the carrier Battle Groups. No one walking along E Ring noticed him brushing the forearm of his dark blue suit across his weather-beaten face.

Dunsmore joined General Paul in the second-floor office and the two Chiefs, accompanied by two military aides, made their way down in the elevator to the subterranean Pentagon garage. The staff car was parked four strides from the door. Only General Paul and Admiral Dunsmore embarked, and the Army driver, briefed in the urgency of the journey, drove swiftly out into the sweltering humidity of a Washington summer afternoon, air-conditioning at full blast, right foot ready to hit the gas pedal as they headed for I-395.

“Did you tell the President what has happened?” asked the admiral.

“No. I interrupted some meeting in the cabinet room and told him I was on my way to see him on a matter of such grave consequences, I would not even trust the White House switchboard to overhear the conversation.

“You know how quick he is? He just said, ‘Fine. Get over here. I’ll be waiting. Do I cancel appointments?’

“I told him in my view he ought to clear his schedule for at least two hours. If I’d been completely honest I probably shoulda said two months, or years.”

“You go through the White House Chief of Staff for this kind of appointment?”

“No. With this President, there’s a direct line between CJC and the Chief Executive. Someone else answered the call and I said: ‘This is the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs speaking from the Pentagon. I need to speak to the President on a matter of extreme urgency. Right now.’ That’s all it takes. He was on the line in seven seconds.”

The staff car sped across the Potomac, and the tires squealed as they swung off 395 at the Maine Avenue exit, heading west along the waterfront, and then hard right, straight up the short wide highway which cleaves across the top end of the Mall, past the Washington Monument and onto Constitution Avenue.

As they threaded their way up through the government buildings, Admiral Dunsmore asked two questions: “Will he be alone? And who speaks first?”

“Yes, to the first. At least initially. I do, to the second. Then I’m passing the ball right into your safe hands.”

“Where are you going to be during my explanation?”

“I am afraid to say, right next to you.”

“West Executive Avenue entrance coming up, sir,” announced the driver as he hit the brakes. And it was already clear they were expected. The guard waved them straight through, and at the door they were both instantly issued security passes handed to them by Secret Service agents.

Two of them escorted the military Chiefs straight into the West Wing, directly to the southeast corner, to the Oval Office. The senior
agent tapped just once and opened the door. He and his colleague walked through first, beckoning the general and the admiral to follow. The President stood up, nodded to the agents to wait outside, shook hands gravely with his visitors—both of whom he knew well—and asked them to sit down in the two sturdy wooden armchairs set before his desk.

The admiral glanced briefly at the portrait of General Washington, admired the beautifully scalloped arch above the bookshelves, and stared out onto the sunlit southern lawn of the White House. He could hear General Paul speaking.

“Mr. President, it is my very sad duty to inform you that we have lost a U.S. Navy aircraft carrier in some kind of a nuclear accident in the Arabian Sea, about three hours ago. There were six thousand men on board and you may assume there are no survivors.”

The President hesitated, grappling with the immensity of the words. “I may assume there is absolutely no possibility of a mistake, General?”

“You may, sir.”

“God Almighty! Six thousand dead? Six thousand American servicemen dead? How could such a thing possibly happen?”

“Mr. President, I just wish I knew. But we were all ten thousand miles away from the Arabian Sea. There’s never been anyone killed in a nuclear
accident
. I just cannot offer any explanation. But Admiral Dunsmore may be able to clarify the situation a little better than I.”

“Okay. Okay. Now let’s just stay calm, despite the fact that the United States is about to earn both the ridicule and the sympathy of the entire world during the next twenty-four hours. Come on, Scott, any clues? Any excuses? Any ray of light? Can you give me a rough outline of what transpired? I guess we’ll have to announce something real quick. But talk me through it first. Then I’ll call in some help.”

The admiral ran swiftly through the facts—the position of the
Thomas Jefferson
and the Battle Group, the sudden underwater eruption, the huge waves, the nuclear fallout, the lack of sonar confirmation of a big ship breaking up. The sudden, inexplicable disappearance of the carrier. The devastating, irrevocable conclusion that
the USS
Thomas Jefferson
had been vaporized in some kind of a nuclear holocaust.

The big Oklahoman behind the presidential desk was still for a moment, resting his chin upon his hands. Then he asked suddenly, “Who was the Flag officer?”

“Zack Carson, sir.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that,” he said. “He and I are from the same part of the world.”

Both the military Chiefs already knew that. Everyone in America was acquainted with the President’s rural background in the Oklahoma Panhandle, close to the Kansas border, where his family’s cattle ranch was well known. He later had a dazzling academic career at Harvard Law School.

“Sir, I think the announcement should be made from here, given the scale of a national disaster. I would recommend that the CNO makes a formal statement to the White House Press Corps in the next forty-five minutes. Then you should address the nation at around 2100 this evening. Or before.”

“I agree with that,” replied the President. “But I have one question. You sure this was an accident?”

Admiral Dunsmore looked up sharply, surprised by the directness of the question he knew must be asked sooner or later. He paused for a moment, staring past the President at the flags of the Marines, Navy, and Air Force which flanked the tall windows. Then he answered, “No, sir. I cannot be sure of that. At this stage no one can. We cannot rule out an attack from an unknown enemy. Nor can we rule out some act of sabotage. However, until we have some kind of suggestion to that effect, sir, I see no reason to cause that kind of alarm to the public.”

The President looked thoughtful. “It’s kinda hard to know which way to swing,” he said. “An accident makes the Navy look incompetent, which I would dearly like to avoid. A successful attack on an American aircraft carrier, possibly by some guy essentially dressed in a sheet, would spread great consternation, possibly even panic. The fucking liberal press would absolutely love it. I guess we are talking about the lesser of two evils. And either way the Navy looks bad.”

“The way I see it,” said General Paul, interrupting the Navy-Presidential conference, “is this. If that ship was attacked, then I guess we’ll find out in the end. But I see no need, at this stage, to suggest the possibility to the press or the public. As things stand, we must deal with a huge outpouring of grief, recrimination, scorn, and derision. There is no need to add public fear to an already lousy equation.”

“I agree,” said Admiral Dunsmore. “Let’s not add to our woes. At this point, despite some natural reservations, I think we should announce a shocking accident on one of our carriers. There is no advantage whatsoever in suggesting a U.S. Battle Group came under attack and a $4 billion carrier was obliterated by foreign persons unknown. My God, if you’re not safe in a carrier, protected by a private strike/attack air force, guided missile cruisers, and two nuclear submarines, how on earth can anyone, anywhere, ever feel safe?”

“My thoughts precisely, gentlemen,” said the President. Then, smiling wryly, “And I trust you will forgive me for bringing up the unthinkable?”

Scott Dunsmore nodded courteously. But he was thinking, “Every time I meet you, I understand better why you are sitting in that chair. If you’d been in the Navy, you’da been sitting in mine. Or more likely the General’s.”

In the next thirty minutes, the White House staff geared up for the press conference. The two military Chiefs adjourned to President Reagan’s old Situation Room in the West Wing basement, with the Press Secretary, Dick Stafford, and two writers.

The general sat in on the statement, while Admiral Dunsmore sat in the corner with an open line to the Pentagon, summoning top Navy brass to a conference on the fourth floor, E Ring, which would begin at 2200 right after the President’s address to the nation.

He placed his number two, the Vice CNO, Admiral Freddy Roberts, in charge of this, and a Navy jet was already refueling out at the San Diego Navy base in readiness for the flight to Washington. On board would be the C-in-C Pacific Fleet, and the Commander of the Naval Surface Fleet in the Pacific. The Commander of the U.S. Naval Forces (Central Command and Middle East), who was visiting San Diego, would also be on board. The Commander of Space and
Naval Warfare Systems was being traced on a visit to an electronics corporation in Dallas and would be scooped up by the same aircraft.

Admiral Dunsmore also requested the presence at the meeting of Admiral Morgan, and of a young lieutenant commander from Naval Intelligence, Bill Baldridge, the best nuclear weapons man in the service, whose brother had been lost on the carrier. As the monstrous Naval crisis began to take shape in the White House, he was gunning his 1991 Ford Mustang up the Suitland Parkway at around 87 mph, chatting on his mobile phone to the raven-haired wife of a notoriously uninteresting Midwestern senator. “Yeah, I don’t know what it’s about yet, but we don’t start till 10
P
.
M
. I could be at the Watergate by 2:30. I still got my key. Yeah, I knew he was in Hawaii, read it in the paper.”

Meanwhile the President was in conference in the Oval Office with his National Security Adviser, Sam Haynes, his White House Chief of Staff, Louis Fallon, and the Secretary of Defense, who had just arrived by helicopter from Norfolk, Virginia. The problem was how to distance the President from any kind of responsibility, protect the Navy, and make political capital from being seen to be concerned to the point of distraction.

By now Dick Stafford was shuttling between the Situation Room and the Oval Office, trying to mastermind the confident phrases which would allay the terrible damage the press were about to inflict on the U.S. Navy and the Presidency.

The one being written for Admiral Dunsmore was much the easier of the two, and at 4.30
P.M.
he stood before the packed White House press briefing room and read his prepared statement. “It is my sad and unfortunate duty to announce the loss of the U.S. Navy aircraft carrier
Thomas Jefferson,”
he began. The statement concluded with the words: “There were six thousand men on board, and there are no survivors.”

For perhaps ten seconds there was a stunned, disbelieving silence in the room, as if no one wanted to accept the paralyzing news as real. But when pandemonium finally broke out, it very nearly registered on the Richter Scale. It seemed that every journalist in the room, all two hundred of them, leapt to their feet at the same time waving notebooks and microphones, yelling for information.

Admiral Scott Dunsmore wisely refrained from answering the questions which rained down on him from all areas of the room.

“When exactly did it happen?”

“When do we get a list of the dead?”

“How do you know there were no survivors?”

“Is this the biggest peacetime disaster in U.S. military history?”

“Will the Chief of the Navy resign?”

White House aides moved instantly to the admiral’s side, the press secretary appealed for order…“Gentlemen…
gentlemen! This is a day of great tragedy…please! Try to act in a dignified manner!”

Too late. This was beyond a press conference. This was a feeding frenzy; the sharks of the media scented blood. Anyone’s blood. And they were circling Scott Dunsmore as if he were Adolf Hitler come back to life. Flashbulbs lit up the room, cameramen fought for position, trying to photograph the devastated CNO. No one could be heard clearly above the frenzy, which eased only marginally as the wire service men from UPI, Associated Press, and Reuters dived for quiet corners, mobile phones vibrating with the sheer magnitude of the story they were imparting to their city desks.

The White House Chief of Staff ordered the Marine guards to move forward between the front row and the dais and the press secretary ordered the room cleared.

Even as Admiral Dunsmore was being escorted from the room by four U.S. Marines, tomorrow’s tabloid headlines were already being drafted…“6,000
U.S. SERVICEMEN DIE—NAVY NUKES ITSELF”…“NUCLEAR HOLOCAUST ON U.S. CARRIER”…“U.S. FLATTOP SELF-DESTRUCTS”…“NAVY NUKES 6,000 AMERICANS.”