Power Play (40 page)

The United States could not conduct the quiet, quick-reaction response they needed, the one that would give them both privacy and anonymity, unless they had that new base close to the action, with a secret submarine, hidden from the Russian satellites, and a secret plan, hidden from everyone.

“I guess we all understand the situation,” said General Lancaster. “Unless we want World War III, we cannot just go charging out into the Atlantic and blow a Russian merchant ship sky-high. First of all, everyone would know, and the Russians would make it public, and probably slam a US Navy base with one of those Iskanders. That course of action would be purely primitive.”

“But if I cannot persuade the Irish PM to come with us, instantly,” mused Arnold, “that may be our only recourse. Markova is a dangerous sonofagun. He hates the USA, and he would seize any excuse to hit us, feigning innocence and telling the world he was truly aggrieved.”

“The more you think about it,” responded Zack, “the more subtle we will need to be. We just want that ship to vanish, no trace, no survivors, and no goddamned explosions shaking the stratosphere.”

“If Team 10 is in place in Donegal,” said Mack, “and SOSUS picks up that freighter, we’ll get it done. I’ll need a specialist team of four frogs and stickies. That way there’ll be no mistakes.”

“I suppose there’s no way to avoid taking out the entire Russian crew?” suggested Zack. “I mean, that’s kind of close to murder.”

“Just so long as you don’t mind Ivan Sneakovitch running to a Western newspaper,” replied Arnold, “and then describing in graphic detail the barbaric action of the US Special Forces gunning down innocent civilian crewmen, women, children, cripples, and half-wits, with no mercy for anyone.”

Zack Lancaster shuddered. “That, of course, is the very last thing we need,” he said.

“That’s no prisoners,” confirmed Arnold. “And Mack, you’ll remember who you’re shooting, right? A group of villainous Russian murderers who intend to wipe out half the population of Fort Meade.”

“We won’t forget that, sir,” said Mack. “We never forget the true character of our enemy. That’s why we joined.”

“Attaboy,” said Arnie.

No two men in all the history of US conflict ever took to each other quite so rapidly as Admiral Morgan and Captain Bedford.

The three men talked almost until midnight, sipping Bailey’s Irish Cream on the rocks until tiredness overtook them. Mack ordered breakfast for all of them at 7:00 a.m., settled the bill on his government charge card, and made sure there was a heavy-duty order of Irish sausages for everyone.

The following morning he was first away, driving down the west coast to Shannon. The helicopter for the other two touched down on the lawn at 8:30, and they took off instantly for Clonakilty, flying almost due south on the first stages of their 210-mile journey back to Château Morgan.

The fast US Navy helo took them straight over the heart of Ireland, over the counties of Sligo, Rosscommon, and Galway. They crossed the mighty Shannon River, leaving Limerick to their left, and then flew directly over four more of Ireland’s great salmon rivers, the Blackwater, the Lee, the Bandon, and the Argideen, all of them in County Cork.

The pilot touched down on the lawn of Ardfield House before ten, and the two US military high commanders walked into the house to find Kathy and Virginia having breakfast.

“Good Lord!” said Kathy. “Where did you two spring from?”

“We’re back from wild and woolly Donegal,” declared Arnold. “And we’ve slept the whole way home on account of an Irish breakfast that would have fed a SEAL Team.”

“Well, come and sit down while I give you some coffee to wake you up again,” she replied.

Arnold added, “I’ll have mine in the study. There are a couple of phone calls I need to make—in the national interest, that is.”

He retreated into one of his new rooms, a brickred-painted, book-lined room with a huge partners desk at one end, green leather top, and a “captain’s chair.” Admiral Morgan went to work, putting in a call to the American Embassy in Dublin and asking to be put through to Ambassador Jack
Kirkpatrick, a southern newspaper and television owner with deep family roots in Ireland.

Their conversation was somewhat prolonged and, for Arnold, subtle. The objective of the old lion of the West Wing was to inform the representative of the United States in Ireland that he must effect a meeting with the
taoiseach
just as soon as humanly possible. He informed him that a thorough briefing was essential and that he and his houseguest, General Lancaster, were proposing to fly up to Dublin tomorrow for an urgent meeting that would probably last for the biggest part of the morning.

Meanwhile, could embassy staff organize a dinner party at the first opportunity to see the
taoiseach
in a social situation? No, the general would not attend that, as he was returning to the Pentagon in a couple of days, but Arnold regarded this particular exercise as a matter of the utmost priority, and Ambassador Kirkpatrick was to do everything in his power to make it happen fast.

The ambassador did, of course, know all about the towering reputation of Arnold Morgan and the massive role he had played in some of America’s most dangerous times. And, quite frankly, the very sound of Admiral Morgan’s name made him extremely nervous.

But today, the admiral was in a mellow and polite mood. He sounded understanding, aware of the difficulties in handling heads of government. He said he had full confidence in the ambassador’s tact and ability to organize this critically important meeting.

Before he rang off, the admiral said warmly, “I’ll wish you good-bye and the best of luck in this task. Look forward to seeing you tomorrow,” which was most unlike him.

His sign-off statement was, however, more typical. “Don’t fuck this up, Jack,” he added. “Or there’ll be all hell to pay.”

 

Landing helicopters in the middle of the city of Dublin involved a labyrinth of regulations. Like most cities, special permissions were required, and the US Embassy offices, situated in Ballsbridge, could not be lightly exempted.

The arrival of Admiral Morgan might prove in the end to have been momentous, but right now, so far as Dublin Air Traffic Control was concerned, he could travel to Ballsbridge on the bus. US Embassy staff had to move swiftly and finally secured permission to land from the Gaelic Athletic
Association, proprietors of the enormous Croke Park Stadium, the largest in Europe, on the north side of Dublin, between Drumcondra and Ballybough.

US officials had made one hell of a “pitch” to the association’s chief executive to obtain his consent: that Admiral Morgan was probably the most commanding military presence in Washington, that his mission was hugely important for Ireland, that it involved discussions that would end in Irish PM to US president. The Gaelic Athletic Association would never regret this special hand of friendship offered to the United States.

And now the admiral was on his way, flying northeast on this bright Wednesday morning, crossing the River Suir south of the Rock of Cashel and then making a ten-mile detour around Coolmore, the world’s greatest thoroughbred stud farm, where near-priceless stallions and broodmares roam in peaceful pastures. You can do darned nearly anything legal in Ireland except land helicopters in Ballsbridge and frighten the horses in Tipperary.

Arnold was flying to Dublin alone this morning, and thus far, as they clattered up toward Kilkenny, he knew nothing of the historic past of the eighty-two-thousand-capacity stadium where they would land. This was the place Dubliners call “Croker,” the $260 million sports arena risen from the old Croke Park, where one of the most outrageous British massacres took place on November 21, 1920.

That was the day a small contingent of Royal Irish Constabulary and the British Auxiliary Division burst into the stadium and opened fire into the packed crowd awaiting the Gaelic football clash between Dublin and Tipperary. They shot thirteen people dead and gunned down the Tipperary captain, Michael Hogan, who died later at the hospital.

There were Irish families who never got over it. For nine decades the Gaelic Athletic Association would not permit players of a British game, like rugby or soccer or cricket, even to set foot on the hallowed turf of Croke Park. Eventually, they allowed the Irish rugby team to play England at Croke, while their own stadium at Lansdowne Road was being rebuilt.

Before the game, the head of the Gaelic AA had appealed to the huge crowd to appreciate that the young English players knew nothing of the events of the past. The great throng rose to them as sportsmen as they took the field. But the ghost of Tipperary’s slain Michael Hogan prowled
the touchline that day, and the Irish XV inflicted on the English their heaviest defeat ever in Dublin, forty-three points to thirteen.

In 1920 the king of England had made public his horror at what had happened on Bloody Sunday, as it would be forever known. And most of the world was appalled. Many people still think that was the end of the British in southern Ireland. The Irish War of Independence ended the following year.

In fact, Arnold would later discover what he believed was a close personal involvement in those events: the driving force behind this brutal battle of wills between the Irish and British was none other than the Big Feller, Michael Collins, C-in-C, Irish Republican Army, late of Woodfield, Clonakilty. On that very morning, November 21, 1920, Michael’s feared Irish hit squad, the Twelve Apostles, had raged into the streets around Dublin’s city center and slaughtered some of the most secretive British informers and spies, known as the Cairo Gang. In all, fifteen British intelligence officers were assassinated that day by Collins’s elite troops.

Unrepentant, ice cold in triumph, he declared, “By their destruction, the very air is made sweeter. I have paid them back in their own coin.”

The iron soul of this fabled Irishman seemed to Arnold to be as closely in tune with his own as it was possible to be. When finally he heard about Bloody Sunday, he accepted that the British action was a reprisal for the deeds of the Twelve Apostles, but nonetheless his man was still Michael Collins.

After just a few months living in Clonakilty, the former head of the US National Security Agency had lined up the IRA chief with his other hero, General Douglas MacArthur. The patriotism of both men touched him deeply, and the pure locality of Michael Collins made Arnold feel a part of it all. Spiritually, at least.

The helicopter was taking a long sweep around Dublin and coming in to land from the west. He could see Croke Park out in front, the lush green of the playing surface drawing ever closer. The pilot’s descent was gradual, and the helicopter came slowly down in front of the Michael Hogan Stand, named, of course, in memory of the Tipperary captain.

An embassy limousine was awaiting them and drove the admiral through the busy city streets to Elgin Road, Ballsbridge, where Jack Kirkpatrick was ready with hot coffee and a couple of Danish pastries. He listened
with nothing short of amazement while Arnold explained the scheme to bring Ireland into close partnership with the United States, sort out their debt, and construct a brand-new US Navy base on the north shore of Donegal Bay.

“Jesus, sir, you sure know how to wake a guy up,” he said.

“I’m not finished yet,” added Arnold. “If this works out well in the initial stages, we intend to go a step further.”

“You do?”

“Yup. We’ll probably turn the Republic of Ireland into the fifty-first state.”

“Steady, sir. Don’t do that—I’ll be out of a job!”

Arnold pressed on, confirming that the financial package the United States would present to the
taoiseach
would be almost irresistible—taking care of half the national debt, assuming responsibility and paying the interest. And, of course, the extra business in and around the Donegal area would be very significant, unemployment being so high.

After an hour of discussion, the US ambassador understood the entire merit of the scheme and felt confident he could persuade the
taoiseach
that it was imperative he attend a dinner party, this week, in order to meet the American admiral Arnold Morgan.

“And please tell him,” said Arnold, “if there is local difficulty among fishermen worried about their regular livelihoods, the US Navy intends to provide generous compensation out of its own budget. None of the American planners thought the presence of the US warships would have the slightest effect on the shellfish beds and that the compensation would, in the end, count as a mere bonus.

“Just impress upon him, Jack, that this is a win-win situation for everyone. But also let him know that the USA is trying to cope with a formidable threat from Russia, a possible nuclear hit on a critical part of our military establishment. I am imploring him to allow us to build this base in Donegal. Because it will change the world for us.”

“Okay, sir. I’ll get right on it. Will I assume you can come to dinner with us any evening I can fix it?”

“Absolutely,” said the admiral. “Depending on how you visualize the situation, I’ll either bring my wife or come alone. Whatever suits.”

“No problem. I’ll arrange it for the residence in Phoenix Park. That way there’ll be no problem with the helicopter.”

“Perfect,” said Arnold, glancing at his watch. “I’ll leave you in peace now. My car’s right outside, and the helo’s waiting over at Croke Park.”

The admiral took his leave and walked, under US Marine escort, outside to the waiting limousine. On the way back to the stadium, the driver, Liam Mulligan, was delighted to regale his passenger with the full history of Croke Park and the legends that haunt the place still.

When they arrived, he parked the car and walked out onto the playing surface with Admiral Morgan, and there he pointed out a rising section of the modern seating. “That’s Hill 16 over there, sir,” he said, with an unmistakable quiet reverence, “and deep inside it there are fragments of the rubble from the 1916 Easter Rising, from the Irish city buildings the British artillery smashed, including stone from the General Post Office. It’s a spiritual place.”