Nimitz Class

by Patrick Robinson

  “Sir,” said Admiral Dunsmore, “you did say you did not really want to know the details of the plan. I guess we took that literally as well.”

  “How large a force went in, Scott?”

  “Nine swimmers, sir, plus the driver in the ASDS.”

  “Is that all? Many casualties?”

  “None for us, sir. We have no idea how many Iranian crew were aboard the floating submarines. But one armed guard was marginalized in the floating dock.”

  “Marginalized?”

  “Yessir. Removed from our area of operation.”

  “Shot? Killed?”

  “Precisely so, sir.”

  “Delicately stated, Admiral,” said the President. “Considering you run the world’s roughest hit squad.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The President shook his head in wonder at the professionalism with which he was surrounded. He then slipped quickly into his own agenda, and, as expected, said he would make a rare Saturday night broadcast to the nation, announcing his plans for special pension funds for the widows and children of the men who died in the carrier.

  “I already know there will be objections from some branches of the Armed Services,” he said. “But no congressman will object, not if he wants to continue working in the Capitol. The newspapers will be forced to applaud us, the public will approve. Also I’m counting on the fact that I’m too good a friend to the military for any of you to upset me!”

  General Paul ventured to say that there would be objections to special pensions from people who had lost fathers and husbands in other conflicts but were not being given special treatment. That was why the military routinely opposed such schemes, and had done so throughout the twentieth century.

  “The worst thing,” the President interrupted, “the very worst thing that could happen to you guys would be for me to be driven from this office in the aftermath of this disaster. You would get a Democratic President, a Democratic Congress, and possibly a Democratic Senate. And they would have a great time dismantling the Navy, banning nuclear weapons, cutting out our shipbuilding programs, and above all ending the building of aircraft carriers for the foreseeable future. They would then take all of that money and do what they always do—give it away to the poor, the weak, the sick, the incompetent, the stupid, and the idle, and worse, the dishonest.

  “The four billion dollars we spend on building an aircraft carrier each year keeps top engineers, shipbuilders, scientists, and steel corporations in real-time profitable work, honing skills, keeping this country out there in front…with an end product, which, all on its own, helps to keep every American safe.

  “When you build an aircraft carrier you are making this country happen. And you get at least half of it back in taxes.

  “Hey, I’m sorry, guys, you all know my views, and I hope you share them. But you have to help keep me in office. And I know that a special consideration from this government to those Jefferson widows is going to touch a real chord with the public. Besides, I want to do something for them.

  “Now let’s run over the situation regarding the unknown culprit who hit our ship. Do we still think it’s Iran, and have we punished them sufficiently? Josh? Scott?”

  The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs nodded, and Admiral Dunsmore stepped up to the plate. “Sir,” he said, “we do think Iran was the culprit, but we do not believe they carried out the hit on the Jefferson with one of their inventory submarines in Bandar Abbas. We think they got their hands on a fourth Kilo from Russia.”

  “Okay,” said the President. “Just remind me why we do not think it was one of the submarines from Bandar Abbas.”

  “Because the two floating Kilos have not moved for several weeks. And the leader of our special forces saw the third Kilo in what he firmly believes to be a major overhaul. He says there was a large section of the hull missing and a major piece of machinery removed from inside. He thinks it impossible that the submarine could have been operational during the month of July.”

  “Yes, I did read that. Do we believe him?”

  “Very definitely, sir. Lieutenant Bennett has been in the Navy since he first went to Annapolis. His father is a fisherman on the coast of Maine. He’s been with boats all of his life, and the disruption he saw to that Kilo left no doubt in his mind. Personally I think the engineers were repairing that submarine for a few weeks in June, before she went into the floating dock on July 2, for completion of the work below the waterline.”

  “Admiral Morgan,” said the President, formally, “do you have a view on this?”

  The Texas Intelligence chief was thoughtful. “Well, sir, in my experience, when a seasoned officer in the United States Navy makes a judgment of a technical matter, he’s normally correct. I accept what the SEALS lieutenant observed.

  “What concerns me more is that I am now very sure the submarine that hit the carrier is still out there. We have not found it, neither has anyone else. None of our overheads nor our surveillance people have seen it.

  “And I am extremely worried that it may strike again. That Kilo probably had two nuclear-tipped torpedoes on board, and no one’s told me he fired any more than one of ’em.”

  “Are you telling me it was definitely a Russian-built submarine?”

  “There is no longer any doubt about that, sir. The only submarine in all of this world which was missing on the night of July 8 was the Kilo they thought had sunk in the Black Sea. Well, they were wrong, which they now admit. That Kilo got out of the Black Sea. I believe it torpedoed the Jefferson…and I believe it’s still out there, possibly just hiding, but possibly awaiting another opportunity.

  “Mr. President, we have to find and destroy that submarine.”

  “Yes, Admiral. I see that. But how did it get out? Every expert I talk to says it is impossible to transit the Bosporus underwater. No one has ever done it. And you tell me the Turks say no Russian diesel boat has exited the Black Sea on the surface for five months.”

  “All true, sir. But it did get out. We have to assume that. Someone got it out. Some submarine genius drove it out under the surface, through the Bosporus. We are on the trail of the man we think did it. But we must assume he first achieved the impossible and took a submarine where no submariner ever took one before.”

  “That’s a tall order for me, Admiral. And before I commit additional resources to another military reprisal, I am going to propose something to you. I want you to prove to me that it could have happened. I want you to select a couple of the best submariners we have, and arrange for them to make an underwater transit through the Bosporus from the Black Sea in a diesel-electric boat. If they make it, I will agree to put into operation a worldwide hunt for the missing Kilo, until we find and sink it, whatever the expense may be.

  “If, however, they fail to make that transit for any reason, or get caught by the Turks, I will deem that the destruction of the Jefferson was a pure accident, and there the matter will rest.”

  Arnold Morgan gulped. “Sir, we don’t actually own a small diesel-electric any more. We’d have to borrow one from the Royal Navy.”

  “Excellent. Go do it.”

  “Sir, may we use your authority to put this operation into action?”

  “Of course.”

  “Sir, if they are forced to surface, and end up in a Turkish jail, may I assume you will use your best efforts to get the submarine back, and get the men out…both British and American?”

  “Admiral, you may assume I will get them out. And I’ll get the submarine back. But I don’t want the Turks to know this is happening, and then to turn a blind eye. Otherwise it won’t count, will it? I want our submarine to face the precise hazards your Commander Adnam faced. No bullshit.”

  “Very well, sir,” said Admiral Dunsmore. “We will proceed on those precise lines. If our best men cannot do it, assisted by the best in the Royal Navy, then we will deem the entire thing to have been impossible all along. The sinking of the Thomas Jefferson will become an official United St
ates Navy accident.”

  “Correct, Admiral…and unless anyone has anything else to mention, I would like to get back to my office and work on my speech for tonight. Thank you all…and by the way, I think that goddamned submarine is still out there, and I want our Bosporus mission to succeed, so let’s get it done.”

  By mid-afternoon, Admiral Morgan and Bill Baldridge were back in Fort Meade, plotting and planning for the ride through the Bosporus. Baldridge would go as the official observer on behalf of the Pentagon. And he would reopen his talks with Admiral Elliott, and probably Admiral MacLean. Arnold Morgan had him booked out of Washington on a Sunday night flight to Heath row. He put in a call to the duty officer at Northwood Navy headquarters to ensure the British Submarine Flag Officer was ready to receive him. They confirmed the arrangements in twelve minutes.

  “Okay, Bill, you happy with all this?”

  “Yessir. But I’ll tell you one thing, I’d be happier running through the Bosporus with Admiral MacLean somewhere below the periscope.”

  “Well, have a chat with Admiral Elliott on Monday morning. I know the CNO is going to talk to the First Sea Lord in London tomorrow, and the Royal Navy will do everything they can. I just hope they’ve got one of those Upholder Class boats of theirs in some sort of shape so we can borrow it.”

  Bill Baldridge left the Fort Meade office in the early part of the evening, but Admiral Morgan settled in for what he described as “a long night.” He would listen to the President speak at 2100, but his real business would take place in his office at 0200 in the morning.

  In separate rooms, in separate places, the Navy’s investigative spearhead, Admiral Scott Dunsmore, Admiral Arnold Morgan, and Lieutenant Commander Bill Baldridge, sat and listened to the President of the United States speak on television. They watched him walk to the podium in the White House briefing room, and they saw him take a sip of water, before beginning:

  My fellow Americans, tonight I stand before you to share with you my thoughts and prayers for the families of the men who died on Thomas Jefferson last month.

  I expect that many of you are already aware that it has been the policy of generations of American governments not to single out certain special cases for those of our naval and military men who die in the service of their country.

  The official viewpoint has always been that even in the military, a life is a life, and none is more precious than another in the eyes of God. Therefore no President and no United States Congress has ever awarded financial benefits to those families left behind in what are always the cruelest of circumstances.

  Tonight I intend to break with that tradition. I intend to break with it after days and days of soul-searching with my Chiefs of Staff, and knowing that veterans’ organizations all over the country will support me.

  The plain truth is, I don’t happen to believe in a lot of the policies we have sometimes used to shortchange the families of those who died in the service of this great nation.

  I happen to believe that those who die bravely and honorably wearing the uniform of the United States Marines or Navy or Army or Air Force represent the very best of our men, and their sacrifice is the highest one of all. But I do not have the power to turn back the clock.

  I intend to be guided by my own conscience. And I will not tolerate hardship for those who held together the very fabric of our society, while husbands and fathers set sail in their great warship to police this world on behalf of the United States of America.

  It takes a while to fully understand what we owe to those men…for their devotion to duty…for their skill…for their courage…for their downright patriotism. And right here I’m talking about men who come screaming out of the sky in big seventy-thousand-pound fighter attack bombers, slamming them down at high speed into the heaving decks of aircraft carriers, risking their lives day after day.

  I’m talking about the skilled technicians who talk ’em down, about the navigators, the engineers, the flight deck crews out there in the wind and rain, working in constant danger, to make sure the rest of us live our lives in peace.

  My fellow Americans, I am talking about humanity, kindness, and decency. Most things are not fair. Over six thousand men died in that Carrier Battle Group, through no fault of their own, through no weakness of their own, through no circumstance which any one of them could have foreseen or prevented.

  And behind them, they have left devoted spouses, and children who need the finest education we can provide for them, because most of them will grow up to be Americans as fine and as honorable and as accomplished as their fathers.

  My fellow Americans, there are many times when I too am heartbroken…heartbroken at the injustices I see around me. And often, like most Presidents, I can do too little about it. But in this instance, I can. And yes, I will.

  I am placing before Congress a special bill that will provide Jefferson serviceman with children a twenty-thousand dollar-a-year additional pension, until the children have completed college. It applies to four thousand families and will result in payments of approximately $800 million…substantially less than the cost of just one aircraft carrier…about $3.25 cents for every American, spread over one decade. Is there any one person sitting out there who would dare to suggest this was too high a price for us to pay?

  In addition there will be increased military pensions for everyone involved. I am afraid I do not have the power to make that forthcoming law retroactive to benefit other families, bereaved through other wars. But I can do it for those who suffered innocently from the terrible accident which occurred on the Thomas Jefferson.

  Once more I would like to state again that my prayers, and those of my family, remain with you, and will do so for all of my days in this place…. Good night to you, and God bless you.

  Admiral Morgan found himself standing up, his clenched fist held high. He watched Dick Stafford step forward onto the podium to announce that the President would take no questions. And he saw the great man walk away, alone.

  Admiral Morgan shook his head. “That President of ours,” he muttered. “Ain’t he something? He just slaughtered ’em. Made a pure ball-buster of a speech, blew $800 million, rode roughshod over 150 years of military tradition, told Congress to get into line or else, and there’s not a journalist or a politician in this country who would dare to utter one word of criticism about what he just said. Jesus. Sure glad he’s on our side.”

  He picked up the phone and requested someone bring him his regular late supper. He then retired to his computer and pulled up a chart of the Bosporus, which he studied carefully for a half hour. “Shit,” he said. “I’d rather Baldridge made that journey than I. That little stretch of water is really dangerous, and I hope to hell someone can persuade Iain MacLean to make the voyage.” And he added, to the empty room, “If he can’t make it, no one can.”

  He did not realize he was echoing the words of MacLean himself, speaking about Ben Adnam.

  Meantime he tried to find a baseball game on television, and settled down to wait until 0200 on the Sunday morning. He called the operator, told him to wake him at that time, and send in coffee, then to connect him to a number in Russia, out on the Crimean Peninsula, a Naval base to which he intended, like the British in 1854, to lay siege.

  The Black Sea Fleet’s headquarters in Sevastopol was the admiral’s target, and he barked the number to the operator…“011-7-692-366204…don’t speak to anyone. Get me on that line before they answer.”

  “Yessir. 0200 it is.”

  Admiral Morgan was tired. He ate his roast beef sandwich supper and fell asleep, leaning back in his big leather swivel chair. It seemed to him like moments before the phone on his desk rang. He picked it up instantly, heard a number ringing seven thousand miles away on the main Russian Navy Black Sea switchboard. He knew it would be a very quiet, almost deserted building this Sunday morning at 0900 local time. He knew also that Vice Admiral Vitaly Rankov was in residence this weekend, and he knew too that the Russian Intelligence o
fficer made a habit of working Sunday mornings.

  He heard the phone pickup announce the Sevastopol Fleet Headquarters. Admiral Morgan barked crisply in English, hoping to intimidate the operator: “Connect me to Admiral Rankov right now…he is expecting my call…and I’m calling from the United States of America. Hurry up!”

  There was a single click, and the deep, calm voice of the exSoviet battle cruiser commander rumbled down the line in Russian: “Rankov speaking, and this better be important. I’m very busy.”

  “Vitaly, you bastard, you’ve been avoiding me,” said Admiral Morgan, chuckling as he heard Rankov groan. “Jesus to God, Arnold, is there no peace left in all of the world?”

  But he laughed. The two Naval Intelligence men shared many secrets. “You know I thought this was the one time I would be safe from you—what is it? Two o’clock in the morning in Washington?” Rankov asked. “Where the hell are you, and why can’t you sleep like normal people?”

  “Duty, Vitaly, a devotion to duty. These are busy days for me.”

  “I guess so. Did you just blow up half the Iranian Navy, by the way?”

  “Who, me?” said Morgan, practiced now in responding to this accusation. “Certainly not. I’ve hardly left my desk.”

  “What I meant,” the Russian continued patiently, “was this: Did your special forces just take out the Ayatollah’s submarines in Bandar Abbas?”

  “No one has mentioned it to me,” lied Admiral Morgan effortlessly. “Why, has something happened?”

  The innocence in his voice was a betrayal to a fellow member of his profession. “You tell me a huge whopper, Arnold, when you know as soon as I do when something big breaks. You are an American bastard. Iranian Holy Man take out fatwah on you if you’re not very fucking careful. Then you won’t bother me no more. Those tribesmen slice your balls off.”

  “They better be a lot more careful I don’t slice theirs off,” growled Morgan.