Nimitz Class (14 page)

“So, who has ’em?” asked the President.

“Several nations,” said Baldridge. “The British, the French, the Russians, the Chinese. God knows who else. But I’m betting Admiral Morgan knows where every one of them is right at this moment.”

The admiral looked up and did not smile. “We gotta pretty good handle on them,” he said. “And as for feasibility, the only nation I could suggest might have tried, successfully, to pull off something like this would be Iran. First of all, they want us out of the Gulf. Their government is filled with Islamic fundamentalists.

“And they do own three Russian-built Kilo Class submarines, all stationed down at their Naval base in Bandar Abbas, only around four hundred miles from where the
Thomas Jefferson
was operating.

“The Iranians have been struggling to buy and organize a submarine fleet for several years now. They bought two secondhand Kilos from the Russian Black Sea Fleet, then they got their hands on a third, much newer one in 1996. We spotted all three of them on the satellite five days ago in Bandar Abbas. The latest pictures are in the Pentagon right now. I have checked. No one saw any one of them move. So I guess the latest pictures will still show all three in the same place.”

“And if they don’t? If one of them is missing?” asked the President.

“Then we have a live suspect,” said Admiral Morgan. “They have the motive. And the submarine.”

“How about Iraq?” said the President. “Could they have one of these Kilos?”

“They could, I suppose, in theory. But they have a serious problem with harbors. They have no infrastructure to run submarines. If they had, we’d have seen it. There’s nothing. If we assume they did somehow buy or rent such a boat from the Russian Black Sea Fleet,
then they must have driven it out through the Bosporus, right under the eyes of our satellites, and the Turks.

“Then they must have driven all through the Med, past our surveillance at Gibraltar, then five thousand miles south, right around Africa, finding a way to refuel, then up into the Indian Ocean, north to the Arabian Sea, dodged through all of our Battle Group defenses and blown up the carrier with a nuclear-headed torpedo.

“At the conclusion of which, gentlemen, they would have no home port. They’d have to get rid of the submarine. In which case we, or someone else, will find something, or at least someone.”

The audience sat fascinated. Finally Defense Secretary MacPherson said, “Arnold, does this mean you write off the possibility of Iraq?”

“Well, not quite. I suppose they
could
—just—have pulled off what I just outlined, but I seriously doubt it. Submarines are very complex machines. For a long operational run, you need a real expert. I can’t see an Iraqi masterminding something like this. You see, we’re not talking even about the very best of the breed. We’re talking fucking genius. I hope we could produce one or two such commanders. The Brits probably have a couple too. After that you got yourself an empty cookie jar. Iraq? Forget it.”

“Stated like that, I guess so,” said the President. “It would have to be a million to one. What are the odds about Iran?”

“Well,” said Admiral Morgan. “I’d say if all three of their known submarines are still safely in port when we get the latest satellite pictures—then they probably did not do it. Because they would have needed to pull off exactly the moves I described for the Iraqis—and I cannot imagine an Iranian captain in the control room of a submarine on such a mission.”

“Okay,” said the President, through a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Then what happened to the
Jefferson?”

“It must have been an accident. There is no other explanation,” said Harcourt Travis.

“Agreed…no other explanation…must have been an accident…nothing else fits.” The men around the table were edging toward a conclusion, the sound political conclusion. The sensible conclusion. There was no dissenting voice, save for one. The most junior voice in the room.

“It was not an accident,” said Baldridge softly.

The President looked up. But it was MacPherson who spoke. “Bill,” he said. “I appreciate your concern, and everyone here appreciates your opinion and your knowledge of the technology. But you must see that we cannot go around making wild accusations against another nation, without one scrap of evidence. Nor even a feasible scenario that actually might fit a potential aggressor’s intentions. We’d look absolutely ridiculous.”

“True,” replied Baldridge. “But not quite so ridiculous as you might look if the sonsabitches hit us again.”

The President of the United States sat very still, and stared at Lieutenant Commander Baldridge. Then he turned away and said, “I did hear that. But every ounce of my political instincts tells me to ignore the nonaccident theory.”

“And remember, gentlemen,” said MacPherson gently, “This is a political discussion. We are trying to decide what to
say
, not what to do. Every sentence we utter will have enormous repercussions, both here and around the world. We must speak with the utmost prudence. We have to protect the President, the government, the Navy, and the morale of the nation. Not to mention the defense of the nation—one word from us, that we may have been vulnerable to attack, any attack, and it might give someone else…er…encouragement.”

“I don’t have a problem with any of that, sir,” chipped in the lieutenant
commander. “But I am here as a scientist, and my trade is to distill many known facts into one major fact. It’s nothing to do with me what anyone
says
. The question I assume you want me to study is, did someone blow up our carrier? And if they did, Who? And
how
? And, after that, I guess we need to assess whether they might do it again. If you guys want me to, I’m real happy to work in total silence, deep in the background. If someone hit us, we
must
find that out, even if we never admit we’re checking.”

“I think that is straight,” said Admiral Morgan. “Right here we are moving into two separate spheres of operation. In my book too, Bill’s correct. We
must
find out if there is something going on, and I want to volunteer my services to head up that investigation, perhaps as a coordinator, answering to Scott Dunsmore.

“I would like to work closely with Admiral Schnider, and I would like to have Bill Baldridge in the field. He’s junior enough not to matter, and smart enough not to be easily fooled. He’s also arrogant enough to be a real pain in the ass, which is not that bad—since we don’t much want to hear what he finds out. In this way the main players, the President, Dick, Sam, Bob, and the Defense staff can devote their time to the formal investigation, keeping the public informed, and the careful management of the news—I hesitate to say manipulation because it’s not my business. But I understand the importance of how this catastrophe is presented to the world.

“Meanwhile, we can quietly get into the ‘down and dirty’ without telling anyone. That way, with a bit of luck, we might find out what these scumbags are really at.”

“From my point of view, I cannot stress too strongly that it is better for us to take ridicule from the media over an accident, than to admit we were hit,” Dick Stafford said. “That’s about a hundred times worse, because it would allow the media to slam us from every direction. There is an unspoken public sympathy for an accident, on the basis that we are all, generally speaking, human.

“But the press and television can whip up public fury at blind incompetence; and they can make a hit look like just that, blind incompetence. Then they will go for the President, every Republican
senator, members of the Armed Services Committee, not to mention the Navy, and the Pentagon. I can only suggest that you never even consider making it public that a U.S. Navy carrier was hit by a missile. If you want to teach someone a real serious lesson, go do it, with my blessing, but please…don’t ever admit why you did it.”

“How about,
if
we did it?” asked the President.

“Say nothing,” said Stafford. “Look after the interests of this nation as you all think fit…you want to scare someone to death, fine…you want to beat the shit out of someone, still fine. But remember the media would not hesitate to urge the government to start dismantling the Navy, even though such a course of action borders on insanity. They will hang anyone in power at the slightest chance.”

“One thing about a Republican administration,” said the President, “you get a lot of very wise, very erudite guys hanging around the White House. I think we are on the right lines, but there is one danger I want to point up. And I want each of you to have this in mind in all of our actions in the coming weeks. I do not want the Navy fucked over. I do not want these assholes telling the nation that nuclear weapons ought to be banned. The only freedom there is, on this troubled goddamned planet, is courtesy of the enormous power of the American Carrier Battle Groups. Even the Russians at
the height of their own power were afraid of us. And I don’t want us to be undermined by a lot of left-wing bullshit and bleating. Bear that in mind, will you?”

Around the table there were sounds of agreement, and the President moved to wrap up the meeting. “I agree with Admiral Morgan’s proposal that he head up a deep background investigation, answering to Scott Dunsmore. And I would be grateful for the close support of Admiral Schnider for as long as it takes. Commander Baldridge will be seconded to the group as the man in the field. Please tell General Paul I would like to sit in on the military meeting at the Pentagon late this afternoon for an hour or so. I will probably broadcast again tomorrow evening. Thank you, gentlemen. Keep it tight.”

It was 10
A.M.
when the breakfast group adjourned, and Admiral Morgan suggested that Baldridge and the two CIA men accompany him to the Pentagon for a talk before the afternoon meeting. The four of them piled into the big Navy staff car waiting at the door of the White House. Admiral Morgan told the driver to take them to the Washington Navy Yard.

It was just a few minutes’ drive, and Admiral Morgan told the driver to head for the submarine area at the Navy Memorial Museum, where the public can look through periscopes at the Washington skyline.

By this time the two CIA men, Jeff Zepeda, a Brooklyn-born expert on Iran, and Major Ted Lynch, one of the Agency’s leading financial and Middle East experts, were beginning to wonder what kind of a mystery tour this was. The suspense was short-lived. Admiral Morgan had whistled up a senior guide and they were escorted to one of the big periscopes in an area cordoned off by thick red velvet ropes. “You guys ever looked through a periscope before?” he said cheerfully.

“Not me,” said Jeff. “Nor me,” said Ted.

“Good,” replied the admiral. “Now I’m gonna get this thing focused. And then I’m gonna hand it over to Jeff. And I’m gonna tell you what you’re seeing.”

He adjusted the periscope himself, with the grace of someone who knows a lot about the subject. Then he said, “Okay, now take a look.”
Jeff Zepeda stepped forward, grasped the handles, and stooped to peer at the Washington rooftops.

“You see the Capitol building?” he asked.

“Yup, got it. Hell, it looks pretty big through this thing, but somehow far away.”

“Now I’m going to ask you to imagine something…I want you to imagine that huge building is the USS
Thomas Jefferson
, okay? And I want you to imagine that you are about to punch a nuclear missile right into its guts and obliterate every single person in there. Thousands of them…”

All four men were absolutely silent. “I want you to understand that you are about to destroy the lives of thousands of decent people—perfect strangers to you…wives, children, mothers, fathers, and young men at the peak of their careers. The view you have now is the view he had when he called out his last order…‘Bearing one-three-five—range seven thousand yards now…
fire!
’

“Do you know how evil you have to be to pull off something like that, Jeff? If I’m right, and if Bill here is right, we are looking for one of the most ruthless assassins in the history of mankind. And I am afraid he’s also goddamned clever. Whatever they are saying at the White House and the Pentagon, we must find him, because, like Bill, I actually think the bastard might do it again.”

When Jeff Zepeda stepped back from the periscope he was plainly shaken. This was a man who had served in the embassy in Tehran until it fell to the Revolutionary Guards in 1979. A man who had gone undercover, in Arab dress, riding the Tehran railroad out to Damascus and back for three years. Jeff Zepeda had watched from doorways, from safe houses, as the massed thousands of the Ayatollah’s followers had raised their banners proclaiming,
“Neither East nor West—Islamic Republic.”