Once the seven men had seated themselves around the large table in the captain’s office and breakfast had been served from the adjoining small galley, the steward closed the door to leave the officers alone, and the captain cleared his voice.
“Please dig in while it’s hot,” he said with his “take charge” manner and a characteristic wave of his hand. “We’ve got a lot to talk about, but let’s grab some chow first.”
While they ate, the conversation did not stray from normal shipboard small talk. Hugh Harrison certainly had no idea why the captain had called this unusual meeting, and being relatively new on board despite his many years of naval experience, he was prepared to listen rather than lead the conversation.
The executive officer, or second-in-command, was Commander Richard Anglin. Commander Anglin was the perfect XO: he was a detail-oriented, serious-but-fair administrator who made an excellent match for the more gregarious Captain Robertson. “We’re going to hate to lose you, Jimmy,” Commander Anglin said, addressing Lieutenant Commander Jim McKnight, as the steward returned to pour coffee at the end of their meal. “But I’m sure you’re ready for some shore duty to be with your family.”
“Yes, sir, you’re right. Shirley and the girls are looking forward to me being home, and I’m ready to start XO school myself next month.”
Captain Robertson turned to Hugh Harrison. “Hugh, does the Secret Service watch your wife and kids, now that your brother is the president?”
“Not really, sir. Just his wife and kids. They called on us once and checked out our living situation and gave us some advice. But since we live in the naval community near the Norfolk base, they don’t seem too concerned about us.”
“Well, be careful. Even with the cold war over there’s still a bunch of crazy people running around with all sorts of causes to promote. I’d hate to see your kids, or your wife, mixed up in anything like that.”
“Thank you, sir. Having my older brother in the White House has, of course, made me think about a lot of things, and we’re staying alert to any potential problems.”
When the dishes had been cleared, except for seven cups of coffee, the captain leaned forward on the white tablecloth and signaled that it was time to start the real agenda.
“Gentlemen, the conversation we’re about to have will undoubtedly prove to be one of the most difficult in my almost thirty years in the navy. I’m going to assume that, like me, you will not personally agree with everything you’re about to hear. But I also assume that, like me, you’re a committed officer, prepared to take orders from our commander in chief, even when you do not personally believe in them, so long as they don’t violate our Constitution. So please bear with me on this, and try to think how we can make what I’m about to describe to you work, rather than fretting about why it’s happening. Because, gentlemen, trying to buck this order will apparently do us no good whatsoever.”
He sat for a moment and slowly looked around the table, meeting each man’s eyes for a moment, letting his words sink in before proceeding.
“You may remember that before we left for this missile firing exercise last week I went to Washington for a day. I was called to a series of meetings in the Pentagon, and what I’m about to tell you is the result of those meetings. I’ve waited until after our training exercise to talk with all of you together so we could concentrate on the missile shots that had to be accomplished over the past several days. But now, as we head back to Norfolk, we have this new issue that will require our full attention, although it’s of a completely different nature.” There was another pause, then Robertson leaned even further forward, looked down at his hands momentarily, exhaled slowly, and began again.
“As you certainly know, each of the armed services has been trying to deal with the two issues of women and gays serving on active duty status ever since the broad guideline of inclusion was handed down several years ago. It appears the measures which the navy has taken to date have not been adequate, at least not for the more militant advocates, nor for our president.” Robertson paused, and Hugh Harrison noted a few glances in his direction.
“So, our new president has signed another executive order mandating affirmative action. We have been given twenty-four months to implement it in every phase of military life.
“Our meeting in Washington was with the chief of Naval Operations to discuss the navy’s two new experiments, one on the East Coast and one on the West, on how best to implement the president’s order in the real world of manning and fighting a U.S. naval warship.
“On the West Coast our sister ship, the USS Pierce, is the ship that has been chosen for the experiment. Gentlemen, we are the ship chosen on the East Coast.”
Again he paused and looked around but was met by neutral stares. “Here are our orders. Hugh, your weapons department is going to get a new section in Fourth Division: all women who have been selected from shore stations, training commands, and missile ranges around the world. Our new missile fire control officer will be Ms. Teri Slocum. She’s an Annapolis graduate. These ladies—or women, I guess it is—will berth as a group in somewhat modified Fourth Division spaces. By the way, Hugh, all of your current fire-control technicians will be reassigned to shore duty unless they specifically request a ship, so there should be some relatively happy families there.”
Another pause and a glance at his hands. This time Captain Robertson spoke more slowly.
“After we return to Norfolk we’re going to slip over to the yard for two weeks to receive some modifications to our living quarters.” Looking at Lieutenant Henry Early, the administrative officer, the captain continued, “Henry, you’re going to have some admin personnel replacements in the ship’s office. All seven of them are lesbians. And, Bill,” he addressed Lieutenant Commander William Hatcher, the supply officer, “Supply Division will receive twelve homosexual men.”
There was a general stirring in the captain’s cabin as the officers responsible for operating the ship cleared their throats, looked down at their hands, or shifted in their seats. What has William done now? Hugh thought.
“I’m told by those who supposedly know more than we ever will about this subject that the only way women, gays, and lesbians can be assured a fair chance at both numerical equality and non-discrimination in advancement is by creating divisions made up of people with similar characteristics, and putting them on board fighting ships like ours. I offer you that wisdom, and I hope you’ll keep it in mind when and if some problems ever arise, which I certainly hope will not happen.
“Finally, to insure that the leadership on this ship is sensitive to all of these new needs, we will not only have Lieutenant Teri Slocum in the wardroom, but Jimmy McKnight’s relief as operations officer will be Lieutenant Commander Thomas Dobbs, who is a homosexual.”
There was more stirring and looking around by all of the men seated in the captain’s stateroom.
“Please remember that this is an experiment. CNO is going to want an accurate report and evaluation from us after three months and again after six months. By the way, if you find our experiment interesting, on the USS Pierce there will be the same numerical quotas of women, gays, and lesbians, but these individuals will simply be sprinkled all around the Pierce in virtually every division. For berthing purposes, ‘changing areas’ will be installed in all of their sleeping quarters and everyone will be required to change behind these partitions, so as not to offend anyone else. Their experiment is apparently based on some other group of experts who believe the best policy is anonymity. I’m sure we’ll all be interested to see how these two experiments turn out. Now, are there any questions?” the captain ended with a curious smile.
Silence greeted his question. Most of the men studied the tabletop. Hugh Harrison could not imagine how this plan could work, but he knew he was in no position to speak. Finally, Lieutenant Commander McKnight spoke up. “Captain, since I’m leaving, I guess I can say something. Has the navy lost its mind? This ‘melting pot’ of eighteen and n
ineteen-year-olds that we call the navy has just barely survived the combination of different ethnic backgrounds and races within our country. We throw young men together on a combat ship and immediately expect them to work as a team. Going to sea for six months with that already volatile mixture plus women, lesbians, and homosexuals is just asking for trouble. Don’t they think there won’t be fights? And there’s not much room to separate two guys or two girls fighting over someone when the ship is only five hundred feet long, and we’re stuck together for six months.”
“And, Captain, what about our wives?” asked Lieutenant Commander Perry Colangelo, the engineering officer. “Forgetting about the possible consequences for these new groups, what will our wives say when they find out we’re putting to sea with a whole division of women? The navy already has enough marital problems caused by long separation. How is this going to help?”
“You gentlemen just took the words out of my mouth. I said the same thing when we met in Washington last week; as did most of the squadron captains at the meeting. But those concerns carried no weight because the political decision had been made.” Captain Robertson looked again at Hugh Harrison, who had not looked up from the table in some time. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to make a go of it, do our best, and report up the chain of command what we see, hear, and experience. That’s the policy. Now do any of you have any practical questions on actual implementation that we can talk about?”
The department heads stayed with the captain and executive officer for another twenty minutes talking about the details of transferring in and out such a large number of sailors at one time. At the end of their session the captain concluded, “By the end of today I want each of you to have a meeting similar to this one with your junior officers, chiefs, and leading petty officers. Please be enthusiastic and upbeat, no matter how you might actually feel. We simply have no choice but to give this experiment a chance, and the chiefs and petty officers will be the ones on whom much of the implementation responsibility will fall. They’re going to have to be extra sensitive and extra helpful. Once we get these new people on board we’ll be starting a regular training cycle, leading up to our scheduled deployment to the Mediterranean later this year. Coming back from Washington, it occurred to me that if the navy has to go through this, then I’m at least proud they’ve chosen our team to try to make it work. Let’s give it our best.”
ODESSA, UKRAINE, ONBOARD THE BRIGHT STAR—It was already afternoon in the northern part of the Black Sea. There another ship, a freighter, prepared to depart the major Ukrainian port of Odessa to return to its home port in the Mediterranean Sea, further to the south. The captain of the Bright Star stood on the port bridge wing giving orders, as the nondescript freighter, similar to hundreds of others plying those waters, let go its last tie to the former Soviet republic and edged its way toward the mouth of the harbor. Watching these routine events from inside the shade of the wheelhouse was a tall, sunburned man with jet black hair and dark glasses. Although Sadim Muhmood was not the captain of the ship, he was nevertheless the leader of everyone and everything on the Bright Star, including the captain himself.
Once they were far enough from the docks to prevent his recognition by anyone who happened to be following the movements of the freighters in the harbor, Sadim joined the captain on the bridge wing and allowed the fresh breeze to revive his mind, which was slightly numbed from twenty-four hours without sleep.
“Allah has granted us good weather for the beginning of our voyage,” said the captain in Arabic, speaking toward the sea, but loud enough for Sadim, who was standing behind him, to hear.
“Yes, we are grateful,” responded Sadim in a low whisper, “but it is almost always so,” he added, referring to their practice of leaving port only after a front passed to insure the smoothest possible transit, given the nature of their work.
“It’s too bad about the American,” the captain said.
Squinting his eyes behind the dark glasses as he remembered the previous evening’s execution, Sadim responded, “He asked too many questions and was spending too much time at the docks. Besides, he was an infidel. Think of it this way: He had the privilege of being the first of what will be many, many Americans before we are finished.” He smiled in satisfaction as he touched the captain on the shoulder. Then he headed into the wheelhouse and down the ladder that led belowdecks.
The Bright Star was of a traditional design for a dry goods freighter, with a raised four-story superstructure for the crews’ quarters and command bridge located approximately one-third of the way back from the bow of the ship. There was a single hold forward of the bridge and three holds aft. Sadim descended the stairs through the working and living spaces in the freighter’s superstructure until he came to a doorway that led out onto the afterdeck.
He did not exit, but instead placed his hand on a special sensor on the bulkhead at the landing. Three seconds later, after the computer matched his handprint with its entry authorization, Sadim passed through a door that was not part of the freighter’s original design. He descended another ladder which was newer, cleaner, and better lit than the one coming down from the bridge.
These stairs took him down inside a void that had been created between the number one forward hold and the number four hold aft. In reality the number two and three holds, in the middle of the ship, were now only ten feet deep below the deck. Anyone opening a hatch from the deck and peering down for an inspection would see whatever goods the manifest declared they were carrying. But they always carried considerably less than the manifest stated, which mattered not to Sadim, so long as the papers were legitimate and no one on either end cared, which was always the case, thanks to the money that was paid.
At the bottom of this newer stairwell Sadim again placed his hand on a sensor in the bulkhead, and again a door opened, this time into the top floor of a three-level laboratory carved from the inside of the freighter. While the Bright Star had its normal share of dirt and rust, the laboratory was spotlessly clean, air-conditioned, and very bright. Sadim looked through the thick glass of the protective airlock and waved to a short man wearing white surgical-type clothing inside the lab. As the man walked toward the intercom on his side of the double door, Sadim reflected again how incredible it was to have such a complex facility inside such an ordinary-looking freighter. The facility had taken several years to build, while the special treasure from the Ukrainian countryside he and his colleague had purchased that singular night had remained hidden. But now the warhead was on board—it had been on board for three months—and his small team was well into its eighteen-month program of carefully refurbishing and slightly modifying the device. What a long journey it had been since the night when he and the man now approaching the thick glass, Andrei Kolikov, had first seen Allah’s gift in the rich Ukrainian soil.
“We are underway for Tripoli, my friend. Is everything in order here?” Sadim asked, using the intercom built into the wall.
“Yes, everything is in order,” came the reply from behind the white surgical mask. “We were able to find everything we needed in the usual ways, and we can now proceed to the next stage of our work.”
“Well, we will be at sea for the next few days, but then we will tie up securely again for at least two weeks. May Allah speed your success. I will see you at dinner.”
The man inside nodded and turned back toward his colleagues and their work.
Sadim retraced his steps up two ladders to his own spacious cabin, where he expected to be a voluntary prisoner for the next eighteen months. As he ascended the stairs he thought again how brilliant had been the Council’s plan to use this freighter as their mobile work station, allowing them to spend most of their time in a very friendly and sympathetic port, yet giving them the mobility they needed to tap into the former Soviet supply system when parts or information were needed for their highly specialized work. This had been their second trip to Odessa in three months, and in each case they had been able to find exactly wha
t they needed for the right amount of hard currency.
After the difficult events of the last twenty-four hours, Sadim was exhausted and ready to sleep. He considered again that they finally had a plan of revenge for the desecration of Palestine which no man, and certainly not this new American president, could stop.
Wait until the pictures start arriving at the White House and the Pentagon, Sadim smiled. Will they do as we demand? he wondered. Or give us the pleasure of killing millions of their countrymen in one instant? Hopefully our pictures and threats will cause their leaders to worry for their very lives, and to suffer daily, as our people have suffered...
ATLANTA—Later that day Eunice Porter sat somewhat nervously in the Ob-Gyn waiting room at Peachtree North Hospital, one of Atlanta’s largest and most prestigious hospitals. She was not nervous over the prospect of bearing a child, since she already had two young boys, although neither father lived with them. Nor was she particularly nervous over being at Peachtree North, even though it was a hospital she could never have frequented before the new National Health Plan made excellent health care more available to persons like her, who could not afford to pay.
She was nervous because she had taken one of the new “morning after” birth-control pills almost three months ago, but a drugstore pregnancy test and her own body suggested she was pregnant nevertheless. She had sworn that she would bring no more children into her life; she could barely make ends meet as a waitress. Yet now she nervously waited to learn whether or not she was really pregnant.
“Eunice Porter!” a familiar voice called. She turned to the next row of chairs and saw a friend from her high school days, Sally Kramer. Eunice smiled and moved over next to her acquaintance.
The President Page 3