The Shark Mutiny

by Patrick Robinson

  The 90 minutes passed quickly, Ambassador John Peacock came in for a brief chat, then went off to meet his wife. At eight o’clock sharp, Lt. Ramshawe went and sat behind the big desk in the study, picked up the blue phone and dialed the main number of the White House.

  Jimmy, his Aussie accent undiminished, said, “Good evening. I’m calling from the office of the Australian ambassador, and he would like to speak immediately to Admiral Arnold Morgan…You probably want to verify this call, so get back to me right away would you?”

  “Yessir, we’ll check the private number for the Australian ambassador and come right back.”

  Thirty seconds later, the phone rang…“Ambassador Peacock’s office?”

  “Correct.”

  “Sir, I’m afraid the National Security Adviser is not in right now…. If it’s urgent, we can locate him.”

  “Please do.”

  “Hold a moment….”

  Three full minutes went by, mostly taken up by Le Bec Fin’s maître d’, Pierre, asking the White House to wait while he connected a telephone to the private booth occupied by Admiral Morgan and Kathy. He’d done this a few times before, and he placed it right next to the bottle of 1995 Château Beychevelle, which was “breathing,” as yet untouched, in the middle of the table.

  Arnold Morgan thanked him, and picked up the phone. “Morgan…Speak.” His telephone manner never varied, but Kathy still giggled.

  “Just a moment, sir…connecting you to the Australian ambassador.….”

  “Sir, is that Admiral Morgan?”

  “In person, Ambassador Peacock. And I guess this is pretty important? I’m just sitting down to dinner.”

  “Sir, this is not actually Ambassador Peacock. My name is Lieutenant Jimmy Ramshawe, and I work in surveillance at Fort Meade, and I’m calling you under what you might think are somewhat dishonest circumstances.”

  Arnold Morgan’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “Fraud phone call from an Aussie, right before a little dish of grilled prawns…Jesus, what’s the place coming to?”

  “But, sir, it is important.”

  “I guess it must be. You’ve gone to a lot of trouble to interrupt my goddamned dinner. What did you say your name was…Jimmy Ramshawe?”

  “Yessir. Surveillance.”

  “Okay, Jimmy. Shoot. And hurry…Wait a minute…. (aside) Kathy, tell Pierre to put the prawns on hold for five minutes, and lemme have a glass of that Bordeaux…I have a feeling I’m gonna need it…. Go, Jimmy.”

  “I don’t know, sir, how well up-to-date you are on the Global Bronco situation?”

  “Well, I haven’t spoken to the tanker’s owner for at least four hours.”

  “Sorry, sir…Anyway, I was the operator who tracked, or tried to track, all those sea mines China bought from Moscow three months ago.”

  Arnold Morgan’s antennae flew up like lightning rods. But he stayed calm…. “Aha.”

  “Well, sir, they transported them under terrific secrecy…then we had that little convoy of surface ships, three frigates and a Sovremenny destroyer make a special journey all the way from the South China Sea to Iran. Then I picked up three Chinese Kilo-Class submarines making their way north up the Arabian Sea; they ended up in Chah Behar. All seven of the ships, as you know, have mine-laying capacity.

  “Then we had night exercises with the Iranians. We picked up very little, but they were out there all night off the Omani coast. Then we picked up a missile movement, Sunburn S-As on the southeast coast. And suddenly, a couple of weeks later, a damn great tanker explodes, twenty-seven miles in a straight line from those missile launchers. And what’s the first thing we see? Two of those Chinese frigates, now flying the Iranian flag, just five miles from the explosion, forty miles from their jetties in Bandar Abbas.”

  Admiral Morgan was listening.

  “Sir, I think they may have been out there activating the mines, and it is my opinion that there may be a serious minefield out there, maybe running from the Omani coast, place called Ra’s Qabr al Hindi, right across to Iran. And I think we ought to find out.”

  “Jimmy, I assume you have reported all this to Admiral Borden?”

  “Of course, sir. But he doesn’t want to know. Keeps asking for evidence. Well, I don’t have any bloody evidence, but I’ve got enough clues to warrant a damned careful look.”

  Arnold Morgan thought carefully, and then he said, “I suppose you’ve considered the consequences of a phone call like this. Bypassing the regular channels of command?”

  “Yessir.”

  “But you decided to take the risk anyway?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Now, I’m going to be very formal with you. Lieutenant Ramshawe, it is entirely out of order for you to have taken this action. You must return to Fort Meade and place the entire matter with Admiral Borden. It is essential you use our regular channels of information. Neither the Navy nor the Intelligence services can afford this kind of undisciplined and unorthodox method of operation. Kindly see that it does not happen again.” At which point he put down the phone.

  “Kathy,” he said, “that was rather an interesting phone call. It confirmed what I have unfortunately suspected…that the man sitting in George Morris’s chair is a total asshole.”

  Back in the Australian Embassy, Jimmy Ramshawe was perplexed. “He listened carefully to all I had to say,” he told Jane. “Then he gave me a right choking off for not going through Admiral Borden…Jesus, I was only calling him because I could not go through Admiral Borden.”

  “Well, I’m sure he understood that,” said Jane. “Even I understood that, and I only heard one half of the conversation.”

  “Right. But it still puts me in a no-win situation. If Admiral Morgan believed me, he’ll probably call and report me to the Director, and use the information to give him a right bollocking. If he didn’t believe me, he’ll probably call anyway and recommend I be removed from any position of trust. The ole bastard never even gave me a chance to ask him to keep it confidential.”

  “Jimmy, Arnold Morgan did not get where he is by being stupid. I’m sure he plugged right into the situation and will very likely be grateful for the call, may even act on it. He’ll appreciate what you did, and I don’t think he’ll betray you.”

  “Christ, I hope you’re right…. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  Jimmy and Jane did not dine as well as Arnold Morgan and Kathy, nor in such opulent surroundings as Le Bec Fin. But they were not far away in a bar in Georgetown, eating a couple of cheeseburgers and drinking Budweiser instead of grilled prawns, veal marsala and Château Beycheville.

  The Lieutenant was on duty at 0600, so he dropped Jane off at home sometime before midnight and headed back to the Watergate, a distance of less than two miles. Inside the apartment he kicked off his shoes, put the kettle on, checked his messages (none) and switched on the television, CNN automatically, muttering to himself, “Just better make sure no one’s declared war.”

  No one had. The news, he thought, was unfathomably dreary, lightweight…health care, second-rate pop star getting divorced, famine in Africa, all-star third baseman dying of drugs. Blah-blah-blah, grumbled Jimmy to himself. These guys ought to be called The Four Newsmen of the Apocalypse: Conquest, Slaughter, Famine and Death. Especially Death, on his pale horse. That’s all they bloody think about.

  But then he stopped dead in his tracks as he headed back to the kitchen, half listening to some other late report from the newscaster:

  “Reports are coming in of a major oil spill in the Gulf of Iran. A giant crude-oil tanker is currently listing off the coast of Oman, with an apparently damaged bow section. According to Dubai shipping sources, oil is pouring out of her for’ard tanks.”

  “HOLY SHIT!” The Lieutenant charged right back into the living room, but the item was over. They were back on the President’s forthcoming visit to India. Jimmy picked up the phone, dialed Fort Meade, spoke immediately to Lt. Ray Carpenter…. “You got anything on a tanker leaking
oil in the gulf?”

  “Come on, Jimmy. What do you think this is? Greenpeace? Nothing right now.”

  Despite himself, Lt. Ramshawe laughed. Then he called CNN news headquarters in Atlanta and asked if they had an accurate fix on where the tanker was. He announced himself as a director of Texas Gas Transport, told them he was afraid it might be one of his ships. In return he’d keep them posted if it was.

  The CNN foreign desk was not much help but said he was more than welcome to call their man in Dubai, since it was already almost nine o’clock the following morning in the Middle East.

  He thanked them profusely, dialed the number in Dubai and spoke to the reporter, David Alidai.

  “Sorry, pal. I’m dealing with the Omani Navy’s public affairs office. The only person in there’s called Hassam, but he doesn’t know much. I think he’s been told to shut up until they assess the damage to the environment. But if you guys own the ship, he might be a bit more forthcoming. I’ll give you his number…. Good luck.”

  Jimmy hit the dial buttons to Oman, and was put through to the aforementioned Hassam.

  “I’m sorry. I cannot tell you anything. We know very little ourselves.”

  “Listen, Hassam, this may be our ship. We had a VLCC right in that area…. I’m just asking for a position…. Surely you can provide us with that…. Please try, otherwise I’ll have to speak to the Admiral.”

  Jimmy had no idea what Admiral he was going to speak to, and Hassam could not have cared less, kept him waiting on the line for five minutes. Then he came back and said, “Mr. Haig, the damaged ship is positioned at latitude 26.19 north, 56.49 east. She’s in 250 feet of water.”

  “Hassam, I’m grateful. But I don’t think that’s us. It’s a bit too far south. Do you know if there are any other ships in the area?”

  “Well, we have two Qahir Corvettes out there trying to keep order. The strait is very busy. All tankers are being brought to a halt right now…. I believe there are two Iranian frigates out there also, but I can tell you no more.”

  Jimmy hung up and sprinted out of the apartment, willing the elevator to take him instantly down to the parking lot. He unlocked the Jaguar and retrieved the chart that he had left in the leather side pocket. He relocked and sprinted back to the elevator, which had not yet resumed its upward journey.

  Inside the apartment he spread the chart on the dining table, scrabbled around for a ruler and measured. The stricken VLCC in the Hormuz Strait was only nine inches from the missile site, a fraction less than 18 miles. It was six inches from the Global Bronco, just less than 12 miles.

  And it was pretty much on the line that joined the Iranian missile site and the spot where the Bronco had exploded yesterday.

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” breathed Jimmy. “The bastards have mined the strait. And it’s dollars to doughnuts the VLCC hit one of ’em with its bow.”

  He reached into his pocket and found the scrap of paper with the White House phone number. He checked his watch and saw it was 12.45 A.M. “Well, I didn’t manage to get fired five hours ago, but I’m damn sure certain I’m going to pull it off now.”

  And he dialed the main switchboard of the White House. When they answered, he said, “This is Lieutenant Jimmy Ramshawe, Chief Surveillance Officer Middle and Far East, National Security Agency, Fort Meade. I need to speak to Admiral Arnold Morgan on a matter of extreme urgency. He WILL take the call. Please make it and then patch me through.”

  For the second time that evening, the White House interrupted the fearsome Security Chief. He and Kathy were home, sipping a glass of their favorite sauternes, a sweet, silky 1995 dessert wine from the Gironde, before going to bed, when the phone rang.

  “Sir, this is the White House main switchboard. We have a Lieutenant Jimmy Ramshawe on the line, who would like to be connected to you.”

  Admiral Morgan raised his eyes heavenward. But he took the call. “Jimmy,” he rasped. “This better be awfully important.”

  “It is, sir. There’s a second big tanker crippled in the Hormuz Strait. I just heard a flash on CNN. But I called Dubai, then the Omani Navy, and I got a position on the ship. It’s eighteen miles from the missile site I mentioned, and it’s twelve miles from the Global Bronco. More important, it’s on a dead-straight line linking the two ships and the missiles. The odds against that have gotta be a zillion to one. They’ve mined it, sir. Of that I am now very sure.”

  Arnold Morgan hissed his breath inward. His thoughts raged through his mind. “Jimmy, where are you?”

  “I’m in my apartment, sir. The Watergate.”

  “You are? Hell, I used to know an Australian Admiral who lived in there. You any relation?”

  “My father, sir. Naval attaché here a few years back.”

  “Jesus. This is getting worse and worse. Your dad and I had a few times together. Lives in New York now, right? With Qantas?”

  “That’s him, sir.”

  “Okay. Now listen. I want you to meet me in my office in the White House in twenty minutes. I’m leaving right now. I’ll have an escort for you at the West Executive Avenue entrance. You know where that is?”

  “Yessir.”

  “And, Jimmy, speak to no one. Not a sentence. Not a phone call. This is very important. Believe me.”

  “Yessir.”

  “And, Jimmy, make sure you bring your working chart with you.”

  “Yessir.”

  Arnold Morgan stood up and walked to the top of the basement stairs in Kathy’s large Chevy Chase home. He yelled instructions to his Secret Service detail, organizing Lt. Ramshawe’s escort at the White House. He kissed Kathy good night, pulled on his coat and headed outside where his car and two agents were waiting.

  “Straight to the factory, sir?”

  “You gottit.”

  It was almost 1 A.M. when the black White House staff car came barreling over the Taft Avenue Bridge, driving swiftly down Connecticut Avenue. It was raining now, and the city was quiet. They crossed Dupont Circle and made their way to Seventeenth Street, swinging into West Executive Avenue from where they could see a Jaguar already being waved through to the West Wing.

  Admiral Morgan met Lt. Ramshawe right outside the door, while four duty agents attended to his visitor’s pass and parked his car.

  The Admiral stuck out his hand, smiled, and said, “Hello, Lieutenant. Arnold Morgan.”

  Jimmy Ramshawe had met a few major men in his life, but this was different. The Admiral exuded power. He was all of seven inches shorter than Jimmy but his gaze was dead straight, his eyes bright blue and his grip strong. The Admiral’s dark gray suit had been tailored somewhere in heaven, and his black lace-up shoes were gleaming. The perfectly knotted tie was that of the Naval Academy, Annapolis, a place and experience that Arnold Morgan had never forgotten, and never would. He made Jimmy Ramshawe feel like a little boy.

  And in response to the Admiral’s curt but warm greeting, he just managed, “Sir.” He’d used up all his daring and bravado for one night, making two unauthorized calls on the private line to the right-hand man of the President of the United States.

  “Follow me,” said the Admiral, to anyone who might be listening, which included the two Secret Service agents who were with him at all times, four White House agents, and Jimmy. And, line astern, they set off in the wake of the Admiral, who never walked; he kind of pounded along the carpet, chin out, shoulders back, dead upright. If a regular wall had suddenly appeared in front of him, he would have crashed right through it, like a Disney cartoon, leaving just the outline of his silhouette. He conducted the business of the United States of America along very similar lines.

  At the big wooden door to his office he came to a halt, and his commands were sharp…. “Get me a competent secretary to sit in Mrs. O’Brien’s chair right now. Tell someone to bring us coffee…. You hungry, Jimmy?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Chicken sandwiches for the Lieutenant…and make sure someone’s attending to my phone exclusively at al
l times…Aside from that, my regular agents take up positions right here…and have the hot line to the President on high alert…I may have to speak to him in a major hurry.”

  Everyone nodded. Admiral Morgan glared; turning to one of his regular agents, he barked, “No bullshit, right, Bobby?”

  Bobby snapped to attention. “No bullshit. Sir, nossir.”

  It was a well-practiced routine, and everyone laughed.

  “Okay, gentlemen, that’s it. Lieutenant, let’s get to work…and tell ’em to hurry up with the coffee in case we both fall asleep.”

  Inside the office, Jimmy spread his chart out on the Admiral’s big desk. Arnold Morgan stared hard as the key spots were pointed out to him…the missiles, the Global Bronco, the stricken VLCC, currently pumping oil into the strait.

  “Okay, Lieutenant, first things first. I want to know what the master of that ship actually saw. I guess if they slammed into a mine…What was it, a contact PLT-3 from Russia?”

  “That was what the Chinese ordered, sir. So I’m assuming that.”

  “So’m I. Well, they make a pretty big bang in the water. The Captain must have heard something.”

  “I agree, sir. But the guy I spoke to in the Omani public affairs office was giving nothing away. It took me all my time to get him to tell me where the ship was.”

  “Well, if that’s the case, I may have to kick a little ass. Hard. Do we know the name or the nationality of the ship?”

  “Nossir.”

  “Okay. Well, the news guys will have that very soon. Meantime I’m gonna get the Royal Navy in London to do our work. The Brits are well in with the Omanis, have been for years. Just about every warship they own is British.”

  He picked up the telephone and ordered the new secretary, “Get me Admiral Sir Richard Birley on the line in Northwood, England. The numbers are in my big blue book, top right-hand drawer…. He’ll be at home, right near the base. He’s head of the Royal Navy’s submarine service.”

  Less than two minutes later, the Admiral’s old friend from London was on the line. The two men exchanged greetings, and the English submarine chief instantly agreed to have someone call the Omanis and find out precisely what was going on, who owned the ship and what the Captain had to say.