“Hmmm. Well, Bill, let me put my cards on the table. I don’t need to have higher clearance to give you access to the records. But I was required to hear from you exactly what you were investigating. I guessed anyway. Now we both have what we want—and I would like you to inform your CNO, and your government, that you will have, as always, the complete cooperation of the Royal Navy and, I am quite certain, of Her Majesty’s Government.”
“Thank you, sir. Could I ask you a question?”
“Shoot.”
“When did you first realize the Jefferson had been hit?”
“Well, I heard about it toward the end of the ten o’clock news on the evening of the disaster. They showed live film of Scott Dunsmore making the announcement. I suppose by about 2235. I was pretty leery about an accident. I always considered sabotage a possible but rather silly theory. I spoke to the First Sea Lord at about2245. He agreed with me. I spoke also to Dick here, which made three of us nearly certain there was a bit of skulduggery. Been waiting to hear from you ever since.”
“You were a bit quicker than we were, sir.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t worry, Bill. It’s sometimes easier to be clear when you are far away and not so embroiled. Anyway, we’ve been at it a bit longer. Admiral Nelson would have opened fire on Baghdad by now, if he could have got Victory up the river!”
Bill looked up. He considered discussing the Iraqi theory with this very hard-eyed British submarine chief, but decided to say no more than he had to. For the moment.
“Yeah, I guess he would at that. Meantime, to get back to my assignment, perhaps I could spend a few hours looking at the records, and then come back and discuss the best way to proceed.”
“Perfect…Dick, take the commander out to Andrew’s office and then find him a space where he can work in private. Andrew should stay with him, and with the files, as a matter of security.” The admiral offered another handshake, smiled, and observed that he had enjoyed their brief meeting.
But as the American reached the door, the admiral called out, “Oh, Bill. Good luck, old chap, we’ll find him. I was told your brother was on board. I am very sorry.”
“Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.”
As he left, Bill heard the admiral call out, somewhat informally, “Have we found that fucking submarine yet?…Good…what was it?…radio mast…bloody things are always going wrong.”
And now he followed the Flag Lieutenant downstairs to the basement. They entered a very private room, with a long table, no windows, many telephones, a television, and the kind of upholstered armchairs arranged around the table which suggested this room was sometimes occupied by persons of high standing.
“Sit down here, sir,” said the lieutenant, respecting the American’s rank, “and I’ll nip upstairs and collect the files. It’s just the foreign Perishers, sir, right?”
“Right,” said Bill, grinning. “Just the foreign Perishers.”
“Oh, sir, are you interested in the ones who failed? There’s a few of them.”
“No, Lieutenant. My Perisher passed. I suspect with flying colors.”
“Quite so, sir,” said the lieutenant, with a slightly knowing grin, and bounded back up the stairs. He returned quickly, with a surprisingly small file. “I think most of ’em are in here,” he said. “But there may be one or two others. I’m going to run through the whole list again. Back in ten minutes. No hurry. The admiral wants you to have lunch with him—three hours.”
Bill Baldridge opened the file. There appeared to be about four sheets of paper on each man, clipped together in a red cardboard folder with MOD stamped on the front. He glanced first at the format without bothering to read the details. The top of page one gave the man’s name, rank, and nationality. It also gave his home base and a brief summary of his experience as a Naval officer. It then carried a succession of reports charting his progress, his examination marks, with comments. There followed a detailed assessment of his personal and professional character, his strengths and weaknesses, on what was clearly an official report. It was signed on the last page by the Teacher.
Also on the table in front of him was a big Navy writing pad, yellow pages, lined. Bill tore one out and folded it neatly in two. He decided to open each file and then clip the folded paper to the top of page one, covering the part which gave the details of the man’s background. That way he could read the report carefully, with an open mind. No prejudices, no preconceived ideas. If the report showed a potentially outstanding submarine officer, then he would go back and uncover the personal details. And the nationality.
The first file was a bit of a joke. A young commander from Saudi Arabia. Passed the course, just, but in the opinion of the Teacher possessed “no flair, no inspiration, and little imagination.”
“That man,” muttered Bill, “did not blow up an American carrier.”
The next three files were more promising, but again there was no evidence of flair, nor inspiration, nor even daring. Their marks were not bad, and having read four reports now, Bill realized the key passages were those written about each man by the Teacher. So far he had read reports by three Teachers, but two of the reports, both completed in 1987, were penned by the same man. They were signed, Commander Iain MacLean. “Now there is a tough ole sonofabitch,” murmured Baldridge. “Trying to get a compliment out of him must be like climbing mountains in Pawnee County. Maybe he just doesn’t like foreigners.”
He read two more reports. By this time Lieutenant Waites was with him, reading as well, keeping the files straight.
“Andrew,” said Bill, “can you get hold of another couple of files on good English guys who passed? I’d like to compare how the Teachers write about nationals as opposed to foreigners.”
“Sure. I’ll just get it cleared by the boss, and bring ’em down. There’s two more foreign reports also coming down in a minute. They were in a separate file.”
“Okay. I’d just like to get a feel on how harsh these Teachers are. I’m telling you…this guy MacLean, what a tyrant. Glad he didn’t mark my stuff at MIT. I’d still be there.”
“I’ve never met him, sir. But he certainly does tell it like it is.”
The final two foreign reports arrived, and the young Flag Lieutenant checked them in, and then went back upstairs to retrieve a couple of the English documents. Bill Baldridge opened the first of the newly arrived files and carefully placed his folded paper over the identity section on page one. He skimmed the results, noting the highest marks he had seen on any of the foreign papers. He skipped quickly to the Teacher’s comments, and his heart pounded as he read just six words. “The best Perisher I have taught yet.”
In his haste to see who had signed it, he turned the page, dropped the file, and managed to knock everything onto the floor. He shoved back the chair and stuck his head under the big table, as Andrew Waites arrived.
“What the hell are you doing down there?” he asked. “Trying to tunnel your way out?”
“No. I just knocked all the stuff over. Got kinda over excited. But I think I have something.”
Bill stood up and reopened the critical file. He carefully turned to the last page. The signature was clear. Commander Iain MacLean. “Holy shit!” said Bill Baldridge. “I think we might have him.”
They sat down together to read the full report. “This man was quite outstanding in every respect. He might have been even better if he had listened more carefully to my refinements. He was, however, a maverick by nature, and when I told him anything he was always trying to improve it before testing it.
“A perfectly remarkable mind…with the best memory of the periscope picture I ever met, never mind taught…iron nerves in the face of the oncoming frigates…icy sense of command under pressure…strange preoccupation with self-preservation…but a natural-born streak of daring….
“If I had to name one officer with whom I had to stand shoulder-to-shoulder in any submarine warfare situation it would be without question this lieutenant commander.”
>
Bill gazed anew at the signature. It was identical to three others—the handwriting unmistakably that of Commander MacLean.
He turned back to the opening page, unclipped his covering sheet, and tried to stay calm while he read through the personal details, hoping to discover a Muslim fundamentalist. But the officer was an Israeli, and a Jew.
“Fuck,” Baldridge muttered to himself.
And yet a sixth sense was telling Bill Baldridge that he had found his man. This brilliant Israeli submarine officer, who had passed the course in 1988, must now be around forty-two years old. Lieutenant Commander Adnam was his name—Benjamin Adnam.
He and Lieutenant Waites glanced through the final report, another Saudi, who was not in the same league. “No natural instincts for warfare,” the Teacher had written.
“Hey, we gotta go. I’ll take the main file, and we’ll ask the admiral if you can have a copy of the bits you want to take. I’ll tell him I checked ’em through with you.”
They hurried back up to FOSM’s offices. Bill recounted his findings to Captain Greenwood, who sent him directly to the admiral.
The great man listened carefully, and gave permission to copy the document and allowed the American to take it with him. “It’s a bit irregular,” he said. “But when our closest Naval allies have taken the body-blow you chaps have…we’ll usually bend a few rules to help out…now let’s go and have some lunch…celebrate a satisfactory morning’s work. Mr. Adnam, eh? Clever little bugger, by the sound of it.”
The admiral and his Flag Lieutenant accompanied Bill down the stairs, and into the large officers’ mess hall. The communal tables sat twelve people, and admirals mingled freely with captains, commanders, lieutenants, and lieutenant commanders. The Navy is more democratic than other services—possibly because when the bugle sounds the call of battle, senior officers do not send anyone anywhere. They all go together.
Bill Baldridge sat next to the admiral with Andrew on his other side. Bill thoroughly enjoyed chatting with fellow officers from the Royal Navy, reveling in their wit and laughter, as they fought their way through gigantic portions of fried cod and chips. After lunch he asked Admiral Elliott if he could see Commander MacLean. “He’s retired now,” the admiral replied. “I relieved him in this job. Admiral MacLean lives in Scotland, quite near Faslane. But yes, certainly you may…might as well take the three-forty British Airways flight up to Glasgow. I’ll have someone meet you. Andrew’ll fix up your ticket. All we ask in return is that you keep us informed.”
“Thank you, sir. I am certain we will stay in close cooperation. I really appreciate all your help.”
Bill Baldridge collected his file, and a return ticket to Glasgow, which had appeared somewhat miraculously. He then said good-bye to his new friends, and the Navy driver got him to the airport with a half hour to spare. And once more the American was escorted to a double seat, with no neighbor, for the eighty-minute flight to the great shipbuilding city on the Clyde.
They touched down at Glasgow airport a little after five o’clock. The weather was much cooler, and a Royal Navy driver was again there to meet him. The man behind the wheel, Able Seaman Reginald White, turned out to be a submarine rating known to his friends as Knocker, whose home was in east London. The journey was slow, through rush-hour traffic and out across the River Clyde onto the busy A82 highway up to the Highlands. Road signs pointed to a place called Dumbarton, and quite suddenly the busy, urban character of the A82 gave way to an entirely different landscape. Where, just a few miles previously, the banks of the Clyde had been lined with shipyards, and the river itself an obvious, but rather deserted, commercial estuary, there was now a vast, glorious expanse of lonely water.
Out to his left Bill could see the Clyde become wider. To his right were low mountains which he guessed were likely to get a lot higher. He also sensed the car turning north. Quite suddenly, it seemed, the clouds vanished and he was surprised the sun was still so high.
“What’s the big white building on the far shore?” he asked Knocker. “The one right at the edge of the land.”
“That’s the Cloch Lighthouse, sir,” the man answered. “It’s over at Gourock. A landmark for submariners returning to base. Just past there we make a long starboard turn toward Helensburgh—in a few minutes I’ll show you our markers at the Rhu Narrows. Faslane’s about four miles up from the entrance.”
They sped through a little town, still hugging the shore, and Bill could see now how narrow the entrance to the great submarine loch really was. There were several channel markers and navigational buoys around, but without the chart, Bill could make little of them. As a place to bring home a damned great submarine, he considered it would present a bit of a challenge.
“Christ!” said Bill. “That is narrow. You come through here at any time of the day?”
“Yes, sir,” he said. “It’s a lot easier now. They widened it quite a bit for Trident—that’s a really big bastard—ever seen one?”
“Uh-huh,” said Bill. “Matter of fact I’ve been on one of our own. You’re right. It’s a big bastard. Where’s Faslane from here?”
“Further up on the right, sir. You’ll see the ’ole complex over this next ’ill.”
Bill kept gazing at the peat-dark stretch of water. He was thinking how strangely deep it must be. And in his mind he envisioned one of the Royal Navy’s diesel-electrics sliding through here with just her periscope showing above the surface. “Too narrow,” he thought. “Can’t be more than about four hundred yards across.”
Staring through it was the dark-skinned, anonymous yet cruel face of Lieutenant Commander Benjamin Adnam. “You’d want to be very good indeed to command a submarine in these waters,” he said slowly.
“Yessir, very good. They don’t have anyone ’ere who’s not very good. At least, not in command of a submarine, thank Christ! And the best ’ere are the best there is. Trust me.”
“I believe you,” said Bill Baldridge, staring again at the dark waters of the Rhu Narrows. For a while he just stared in silence. And then he said, absentmindedly, “I wonder what he looks like.”
“Who? Admiral MacLean?” said Knocker cheerfully, continuing before his passenger could gather his thoughts. “He’d frighten the bloody life outta you. He was the toughest Teacher who ever served ’ere. Everyone knows that. He failed more Perishers than anyone had ever done before. They fail one in five anyway. They say ole MacLean failed about one in two.
“For some that would mean he wasn’t nothing more than an ole bastard. But they say he was the best submariner there’s ever been.”
By now they could see the submarine base up ahead. It seemed to nestle down on the foreshore beneath the mountains. To the lay-man it might have looked like a sprawling factory complex. To a submariner it was unmistakable as a Navy base. Behind, to the north was a rugged Scottish mountain, the highest they had seen, jutting up into the clear blue sky, a summery green in the late sun of a July day.
“That’s called ‘The Cobbler,’” said Knocker helpfully. “Our main landmark comin’ home. You can see it for a long way, but you get used to the shape of it, as you turn up into the Gareloch. It’s got snow on its peak for about five months of the year. Must be bloody cold up there even in summer.”
Bill looked up at this great natural backdrop to Europe’s most sinister submarine base. It seemed to get bigger by the minute. But then suddenly they were at a guarded gateway. There was a small painted sign to the left: “ROYAL NAVY SUBMARINE BASE.FASLANE.” And then, underneath, “UNAUTHORIZED PERSONS NOT ADMITTED.”
Bill thought it might just as easily have said “UNAUTHORIZED PER-SONS WILL BE SHOT,” judging by the vigilance of the armed MOD Police guards. They must have known this was a staff car, and they must have recognized Knocker. But they treated him as a perfect stranger. One asked politely for his pass, and then handed it back with another document, for Lieutenant Commander Baldridge. Only then did the second guard step away from the front of the car.
/> Knocker drove through. “Bloody guards everywhere,” he said. And he added, “I dunno who the ’ell would wanna break in here. Load of ole cobblers, really.” Bill assumed this was a mark of general deference to Faslane’s private mountain.
They pulled into a parking place outside one of the low buildings above the waterfront. Bill could see a huge nuclear submarine at the jetty, and another much smaller one about a hundred yards further along the quayside. He was still surprised by the height of the sun, and even more surprised by the sudden, damp chill in the air. Knocker led the way into the reception area and told the duty guard he was in possession of Lieutenant Commander Baldridge from America, who was here to see Admiral Sir Iain MacLean. He then told Bill that it had been nice meeting him, and he would leave his suitcase with the guard as he understood he would not be required further.
Bill shrugged, followed a guard down a short corridor into what he guessed was a private room for senior officers. Around the walls were some excellent marine paintings and on two long tables were scale models, under glass, of Royal Navy submarines. The furniture was comfortable, like a men’s club—leather armchairs, polished side tables, and a leather and brass fender seat around a large fireplace, in which a big, rather garish electric fire glowed falsely at him.
To the left of the fireplace was another deep leather armchair with a slightly higher back than the others, the kind of stately chair in which one might expect to find Admiral Lord Nelson himself. Instead, there sat the unmistakable figure of Vice Admiral Sir Iain MacLean, wearing a dark gray Savile Row suit, sipping China tea, and reading the Financial Times.
“Lieutenant Commander Baldridge, sir,” said the guard. The admiral peeped over the top of his half-spectacles, and stood up slowly. He was a tall man, all of six feet two inches, with pale blue eyes, and the kind of lined face which tends to settle upon those who have spent a lifetime at sea. His expression was one of mild amusement, and his handshake rock solid. Bill put him at around sixty. “Good afternoon, Mr. Baldridge,” he said. “I understand you are interested in one of my Perishers.”
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