Nimitz Class

by Patrick Robinson

  She must, thought Bill, have been the perfect admiral’s wife. Very like Grace Dunsmore in manner. Brisk, confident, and friendly. High-ranking Navy officers usually have wives of that type; poised and highly skilled at making people feel at home. It goes with the territory. Years of nursing young officers and their wives through daunting social occasions, knowing they are terrified of one’s husband. Meanwhile Bill leaned down and managed to greet Fergus, Samson, and Muffin all at once, patting them with a practiced, friendly roughness, the way Labradors expect to be treated.

  “You a countryman, Bill?” asked the admiral, observing his ease with the boisterous dogs.

  “Yessir,” replied the Kansan. “I’m from the Midwest. Family raises cattle out there.”

  “They do? Then you’re a real countryman.”

  They chatted for a while about the High Plains, and then the admiral said, “Now, why don’t you go upstairs and move into your room, and then meet me in there in fifteen minutes.” He pointed to a white-painted door on the left side of the hall, and added, “I’ll pour you a decent glass of malt whisky. Don’t dress.”

  Bill correctly assumed this meant no need for uniform at dinner, so he climbed the stairs hoping the unseen Angus had dealt with his suitcase. He had. Everything had been unpacked and placed in a tall Sheraton tall boy, dirty clothes removed, washing kit laid out in the bathroom.

  The bedroom itself overlooked Loch Fyne. And although it was still light, there was a thin beeswax-colored mist laying low across the water. The room was decorated with English chintz, bluish and pink in tone, but the main window was a bay, with a little antique desk and chair. There was no shower in the bathroom, so he tipped half a jar of fragrant blue crystals into the tub, filled it with hot water, and hopped in. When he emerged five minutes later, he dressed in dark gray slacks, white shirt and tie, with a dark blue blazer. Downstairs the admiral had poured the promised malt whisky. “Water?” he asked as Bill came in the door.

  “Thank you, sir,” replied the American.

  “I am no longer a serving officer,” Admiral MacLean said. “Please call me Iain. My wife expects you to call her Annie. My daughter, when she shows up in a minute, is Laura.”

  Because Bill Baldridge had grown up with a certain amount of deference, as the son of one of the biggest ranchers in central Kansas, and later as a highly respected submarine weapons specialist in the Navy, not to mention his entitlement to be addressed as “Dr. Baldridge”—certainly within the hallowed confines of MIT—he never gave a thought to the sudden intimacy he now enjoyed with this very grand Scottish family.

  He was unaware of the rigidity of the British class system, how by some unknown radioactivity, Admiral Sir Iain MacLean and Lady MacLean both knew instinctively that he was, despite the huge distance apart of their worlds, of their class.

  But before either the wife or the daughter arrived, there was one question Bill wanted to put to the admiral. He sipped his whiskey, interested in its deep smokey flavor, and said, “Admiral, tell me something. Which nation do you think hit the Jefferson?”

  Iain MacLean smiled and said quietly, “I do not like answering a question with a question. But you’ve obviously checked whether all three of the Iranians’ Russian Kilos were still anchored at Bandar Abbas?”

  “Yes, we have. There were three of them on the Friday before the hit. But only two on the following Wednesday.”

  “Then I make Iran my number-one suspect. It is possible to hide a Kilo. And if they have done so, then I would consider they had made the hit from another source. Maybe a fourth Kilo we do not know about yet. Either way I would consider their behavior suspicious in the extreme.

  “Also we should remember the unprecedented activity there has been from the Iranian Navy in recent years. Back in 1993 they conducted thirty-six exercises in the Gulf. They have now conducted more than sixty. They have conducted joint exercises with Pakistan. And they are making closer and closer ties with Oman, with whom they control the Strait of Hormuz.

  “They are the only Gulf state to have a known, workable submarine capability. I expect you remember three years ago, when there was a delay in the U.S. Carrier Battle Group arriving on station in the Arabian Sea, the U.S. put eighteen F-16 fighter aircraft on Bahrain as a precautionary measure. Remember also, the Iranian Navy operates under a single command—that of the Islamic Revolutionary Guards Corps.

  “This is only a personal opinion from an old, fairly unimportant submarine driver. But if I were the President, I should consider that now would be a very timely opportunity to frighten the living daylights out of them. And I’d be inclined to do it very, very soon.”

  Baldridge, who, since leaving Faslane, was receiving the best lesson in modern warfare history he had ever had, was loving this talk. But he kept his eye firmly on the ball. He smiled and nodded in agreement. Then he said: “Who would be your second choice, sir?”

  “Well,” he said, “I’m not sure where Iraq would put a submarine after the mission. No one has seen it, and they plainly have not scuttled it, otherwise someone would have found wreckage. So I would have to say, Israel would be very high on my list. As things stand I imagine the Americans are anxious to get rid of Bandar Abbas as a submarine base, which of course is precisely what the Mossad would love.”

  “One more thing, sir. Where do you think the submarine came from—the one which destroyed the Jefferson?”

  “Well, I am certain it’s not British. So it has to be Russian. I’d say it came from the Black Sea.”

  “But how did they get it? Did they buy it? Rent it? And how did they get it out?”

  “I’m not sure how they got it. But those naval ports are full of the old Soviet Navy personnel, who rarely get paid. Men from the Middle East bearing gifts, like millions of dollars, would doubtless get a proper welcome in poverty-stricken communities like those.”

  “But how did they drive it out?”

  “Oh, straight through the Bosporus,” said the admiral crisply. “A deal with the Turks.”

  “Admiral Morgan says the Turks say emphatically not.”

  “Hmmmmm.”

  “Admiral, could they have got it out underwater through the Bosporus?”

  “I doubt it. No one ever has.”

  “Could Ben Adnam have done it?”

  But there was no time for an answer. The door pushed open, and a voice said softly, “Hello, Daddy…Commander Baldridge.”

  Bill turned and saw a slender woman in her mid-thirties. She had long dark hair that fell below her shoulders, and her face was gentle as well as striking. She gazed at Bill with a mildly amused expression. “I haven’t met many Americans,” she said.

  But the Kansan seemed slightly lost for words. He just stared into a perfect pair of calm, green eyes—perhaps, he thought, belonging to the lover of the man who had murdered his brother Jack.

  7

  2030 Monday, July 15.

  DINNER AT THE GRAND LOCHSIDE HOME OF SIR IAIN AND Lady MacLean was not, Bill thought, too shabby. It was served by the white-coated and red-bearded Angus, in a fifty-foot-long dining room with southerly views toward Strachur and the Cowal Hills. Annie had seated them, as a four, on a long, highly polished antique table, she and her husband facing across to Laura and Bill. Behind the American was a magnificent Georgian sideboard where a two-foot-long, perfectly cooked Scottish salmon had been laid out with a dish of new potatoes and another of fresh peas. In the center of the table were two silver dishes filled with mayonnaise.

  Bill guessed, correctly, that the admiral had caught the salmon. “Would you like me to serve everyone, sir?” asked Angus.

  “Oh yes, a bit of everything for everyone.” Then to Bill he added, “I never bother with a first course with salmon. Everybody would much rather have another bit of fish if they’re still hungry. Landed this one up on the Tay two days ago.”

  “That’s a heck of a fish, sir,” said Bill. “My brother was a fisherman, but he never caught anything like this on our local
rivers in Kansas.”

  The admiral looked up sharply. “You said ‘was’—you mean he’s given up the greatest art of the sportsman?”

  “No, Admiral, I thought you knew. My brother Jack was the Group Operations Officer in the Thomas Jefferson.”

  “Good Lord, Bill. I am sorry. No one told me, and they should have.”

  “How absolutely awful,” said Laura, speaking for the first time. “Is that any connection with why you are here? Conducting some sort of investigation?”

  “Well, in a way I am. But it’s nothing to do with Jack. There are hundreds of people in the Navy who had relatives on the carrier, and thousands more outside.”

  “I don’t suppose it makes it any easier though,” she said. “Shared grief never lessens it.”

  “No, ma’am. It does not.”

  Laura looked at the sadness in his face. He really was, she thought, a very captivating man, not obviously married, and with the conspicuously cavalier air, and wayward eye, of so many submariners. Especially one other. Married mother-of-two or not, Laura assessed Lieutenant Commander Baldridge as a potentially dangerous presence in her life. Only once before had she met anyone with such instant allure.

  She was surprised when he smiled at her. “I’m beginning to adjust to the tragedy now, after a week. But I’ll never get used to not seeing Jack…not ever. He was one hell of an officer.”

  “I suppose it’ll be up to you to carry on the family tradition now.”

  “Not really. I’m leaving the Navy after this investigation. Going home to Kansas.”

  “Will you miss all the excitement?”

  “No. I don’t think so. I’ve gone about as far as I’m going in dark blue. They are not going to give me a full command.”

  “Upset one too many old admirals,” she laughed. “That’s a good way to conclude a promising career. At least it is here.”

  “You might be right at that.”

  “Bill,” said the admiral, “if you would like to ask Laura a few questions, I am afraid we are going to have to confide in her. But don’t worry. She’s spent quite enough of her life in and around the Navy to know what can be repeated and what can’t.”

  Bill tried to wheel the conversation out of its corner. He turned to her and smiled. “Now where are these two children I’ve been hearing about?”

  “Oh, they’re with Brigitte on their way to bed. They’re very young, three and five. After the long drive over here from Edinburgh I’ve just about had them for the day. I said good night before dinner. Their grandma is going up to see them in a minute—I hope.”

  “I guess Brigitte would be the nanny. I never met a proper English nanny.”

  “You’re not going to tonight either,” replied Laura. “Brigitte is from Sweden. She’s an au pair.”

  Then her face clouded over, and she said suddenly, “It’s Ben, isn’t it? That’s who you’ve come about.”

  Bill glanced at the admiral, who skillfully changed the subject. “Now, what would you all like to drink? There’s a bottle of cold Meursault here, and I opened a bottle of claret a while ago…Annie always drinks white wine with fish, so I know what she will have. But I don’t think white wine is mandatory with all fish. Matter of fact I prefer Bordeaux with salmon and that’s what I’m having.”

  Bill was really growing to like the admiral. “If it’s Bordeaux for you, it’s Bordeaux for me,” he grinned.

  “And me,” chimed in Laura.

  “What can I tell you about Ben Adnam?” Laura asked after the wine had been poured.

  Her father interrupted. “Laura, if it’s all right with you, I was proposing to leave you here with Bill for half an hour, after dinner, so you can answer his questions, or not, as you wish, in private. I think your mother would prefer not to have old memories…er…rekindled.”

  “But, Admiral, there’s something I did want to ask you,” said Bill. “Why does everyone nearly have a heart attack at the mere thought of going through the Bosporus underwater? I don’t get it. It can’t be that dangerous, can it?”

  “Yes. Yes, it can,” said the admiral, slowly. “Which is presumably why no one has ever even tried, never mind failed.”

  “But why? What’s so dangerous about it? It’s pretty wide, isn’t it? It’s a kind of bay, right?”

  The admiral smiled patiently. “In a way you are asking precisely the correct man,” he said. “I have been following various reports of Russians exporting ships to Middle Eastern nations for a couple of years. There’s been nothing but trouble over the submarine sales, especially to Iran, and some months ago I got Droggy to send me his latest chart of the Bosporus. Just to familiarize myself with the sheer difficulty of anyone, ever getting out through there, in a submarine, dived…just an academic exercise for an elderly retired officer with time on his hands.”

  “Then I have two critical questions,” said Bill. “First, who the hell’s Droggy? Second, can you tell me about the Bosporus?”

  “Certainly I can. Droggy is our jargon for the hydrographer of the Navy. As for the Bosporus, I have been extremely anxious about this for some months…thought no one would ever ask me to drone on about my new favorite subject…do you have a couple of months to spare?”

  “Sure I do, but I guess the Pentagon might wanna hear from me before September, Admiral.”

  They both laughed, but the admiral was serious. “The trouble with modern submariners like you,” he said, “is that you think the entire world runs on computers, that your search-sensors and electronic technology will give you everything you need. But you, Bill, and your fellow American submariners, these days are essentially big-ship, deep-ocean men. And all of your kit is designed for that.

  “Tackling the Bosporus requires inshore skills, which your Navy has largely thrown away. You haven’t trained for them for years, and, if we’re not bloody careful here, we’ll be doing the same.

  “Shallow water work involves a complete culture change, because so many things are completely different. For a start, your long-range sensors are useless, so you often receive no warning of approaching danger. As you know, charts and surveys get out of date. You must have the best and the latest, and make full use of them. Because, when you are operating close to shore, you are no longer sweeping like the cavalry across a wide uncluttered plain, you are groping about in the forest, like a bloody infantryman. So you have to know your ground.

  “That entails extremely accurate navigation—to five meters vertical, and fifty meters horizontal. Inshore, you’ve got to use your eyes. And remember, above all, you’ve lost the advantage of high speed, particularly to escape, if you’ve been careless. You simply can’t go fast, with the bottom that close.

  “And something else you may not know, Bill—you make twenty knots at two hundred feet, and you’ll leave a clear wake on the surface for all to see.

  “Only stealth, stealth and cunning, above anything you have ever done before, will keep you safe.”

  The American officer had never heard anyone speak like that. The admiral who faced him came from a different culture all right. A different world, and one which might ultimately lead to the master’s finest pupil, perhaps to the man who had found a way to destroy the Thomas Jefferson. Admiral MacLean no doubt told the young Adnam to use his eyes. “But,” thought Baldridge, “he sure as hell must have done a lot of listening.”

  Laura sighed gently. Her mother smiled the smile of the deeply tolerant. Unlike the American, they were very familiar with this particular lecture. And the admiral, visibly warming to his theme, pressed on, his focus now on the dark, swirling waters of the Bosporus.

  “It’s a nasty little stretch,” he muttered. “Not very wide for much of the way. And not very deep. There are parts which are very, very shallow for a submarine, right on the limits. Also it’s busy, almost all of the time, with deep-draft freighters going each way.

  “The channel is divided into two lanes, and of course you keep right. Overtaking is prohibited. And running south it�
��s often bloody difficult to stop. Imagine a seven-knot current in the narrowest bit.

  “Err to starboard, and you’re on the putty. Err to port, and you’re likely to have a head-on collision. In the most dangerous part, it’s too shallow to go deep, under an oncoming freighter. Also there’s a problem with a couple of wrecks, and I have my own doubts about the charting of the bottom. The soundings are a bit far apart for my taste.”

  At this point, the senior submariner began adjusting the dessert spoons and forks into a zigzag shape next to a mayonnaise dish.

  “Remember,” he said, pointing to the tablecloth with his knife. “You are navigating underwater, in the pitch dark, and there is a big S-bend about one third of the way down from the Black Sea…right here…parts of that are especially narrow. On either side there are shoals less than fifty feet deep.” He tapped the mayonnaise dish sharply with his fish knife. “If you stray out of your channel, which is less than a couple of hundred yards wide, you’ll hit the bank, and find yourself stuck on the surface, hard aground, in full view of everyone. And that would be very moderate news indeed.

  “Assuming you get through the S-bend, the south-going channel really closes in, immediately afterward, to its narrowest part, less than two hundred yards across. And that’s obviously where the current is at its worst, as the water surges through the bottleneck.

  “Running on down under the second bridge, there’s a damn great sandbank, bang in the middle of the south channel. The bottom comes up to eighty feet, which makes it impossible to duck under anything larger than a motorboat. And, to make it worse, there are already two bloody wrecks on that bank—one of them only forty-five feet down.

  “Looking at the chart, I would prefer to pick my moment, to hurry down the deeper north-going lane, if I could time it between the oncoming freighters and tankers. But that’s bloody dangerous, as you know.

  “Also the entire exercise is illegal. Under the Montreux Convention, the Turks don’t allow it. For any warships, of any nation. And they have a perfect right to stop any warship of any nation which has not given due notice, weeks in advance, of their intention to transit the Bosporus.