8

1030 Wednesday, July 17.

ADMIRAL MORGAN WAS PACING HIS OFFICE DEEP IN THE heart of Fort Meade. The short, stubby, fiercely glowing cigar, jutting out like a 40mm Navy shell from between his teeth, betrayed his impatience. It was ten-thirty in the morning, and the admiral never smoked before sunset unless he was profoundly irritated.

Before him stood a young lieutenant who had been charged with the relatively simple task of contacting Captain Carl Lessard at the Israeli Navy HQ in Haifa to check whether it would be possible to speak to Israeli submarine commander Benjamin Adnam.

The lieutenant had returned to say that the admiral’s request was not being complied with.

“Did you speak to Captain Lessard?”

“Yessir.”

“Did you tell him you were calling for me?”

“Yessir.”

“Did you tell him it was just routine, nothing serious?”

“Yessir.”

“What did he say then?”

“He said he did not think he could help but would put me through to someone who might.”

“Whadya mean, he couldn’t help? They only own four working submarines. He must know where his fucking commanding officers are. What the hell’s he talking about?”

“Not sure, sir.”

“I know you’re not sure! Try not to keep aiming a glaring light at the totally fucking obvious.”

“Nossir…er…yessir.”

“Who did you speak to next?”

“An officer in the personnel department.”

“The what!”

“The personnel department. And he said he did not keep records of submarine commanders’ whereabouts.”

“Then what?”

“Well, I called back and got put through to the submarine operations center. They said they were not empowered to tell anyone the whereabouts of their commanders.”

“Jesus Christ! We paid for their fucking Navy!”

“Well, sir, you did not give me instructions to get heavy with them, you just said speak to Captain Lessard.”

“I know what I said, for Christ’s sake. Get Lessard back on the phone. I’ll speak to him personally.”

That had been thirty minutes ago. Three minutes ago, a perfectly charming Israeli secretary had come onto the line and said that she was afraid that Captain Lessard had just boarded a warship and would not be available for at least three weeks.

“Some bastard’s lying,” Morgan fumed. And the furnace on the end of his cigar radiated with vicarious fury.

“Okay, Lieutenant, I guess I’m going to move to Plan B.”

“Could I ask what might that be, sir?”

“The hell you could. I’m still working on Plan A.”

Morgan chuckled at himself, at last. But it did not disguise the indignation in his face. And he decided to put the matter on hold, until Bill Baldridge arrived an hour from now.

He dismissed his lieutenant, and paced. Then he put in a call to the Shin Bet in Tel Aviv, Israel’s secret interior Intelligence service, equivalent to America’s FBI, and Britain’s MI5. Morgan had enjoyed considerable access to the organization since the appointment of the former Navy Chief, Rear Admiral Ami Ayalon three years ago as its head.

They were old friends, and the ex-Israeli commando had been unfailingly cooperative with the Americans. Arnold Morgan knew that Ami would not be in, but trusted his assistant to connect him with someone who would be more helpful than Captain Lessard had been.

Morgan’s ensuing conversation with a very senior Israeli intelligence officer had been short and brief, culminating with a promise to arrange something through the Washington embassy. At that point the admiral knew something was afoot. He picked up his direct line to the CIA in Langley, and was put through to Jeff Zepeda, who was surprised and pleased to hear from him.

Zepeda agreed to contact the Israeli embassy and get someone who would speak to the admiral in straightforward language. He spent a few minutes explaining that he was drawing a large blank so far in his inquiries in Iran, but there was something stirring in Iraq. Meanwhile the admiral should stand by for a call from one of the Mossad’s representatives in Washington.

Admiral Morgan checked his watch. He did not want to be in the middle of something when Baldridge arrived. He paced, and was debating the possibility of lighting another cigar, when the phone rang. “Admiral Morgan…good morning…this is General David Gavron, at the military attaché’s office in the Israeli embassy. I have been advised by Tel Aviv and by your own CIA, that it would be wise for us to meet….”

“Well, General, I’m kinda surprised at the momentum my very simple inquiry has generated.”

“Admiral, if you do not mind my saying so, men such as yourself do not make very simple inquiries.”

“And, General, men such as yourself sure as hell don’t spend much time answering ’em.”

“Then perhaps we should agree in advance our subject is less than simple.”

“General, that goes without saying.”

“Well, I did speak to Captain Lessard about an hour ago….”

“On a warship,” interjected the admiral, an edge of skepticism in his voice.

“Of course. That’s where he is. And he did tell me you were a very straight and decent man to deal with.”

“Can we meet this evening, say around seven o’clock?”

“I’ll be where you say.”

Admiral Morgan gave him precise directions to the restaurant in Alexandria and told the general to come alone, as he would.

Meanwhile he abandoned the second cigar, and settled down to wait for Bill Baldridge. The lieutenant commander came through the door bang on time, still wearing civilian clothes.

“Bill, I’m glad you’re here. Let me get us some coffee.” He pressed a number on the phone, ordered the coffee, and then continued, “I’ve scheduled us to talk until about 1400, then we’re due to meet Admiral Dunsmore at the Pentagon. Before we start, look at these….”

He pointed to a table at the rear of his office where about one week’s worth of Washington Post s were arranged. The papers detailed what was known about the sinking of the Thomas Jefferson. Bill had never seen such exhaustive coverage. But he had not yet been born when President Kennedy was assassinated.

The sinking was still the lead story nine days after the event. Bill quickly scanned the week’s headlines, and was quite surprised to see that no one had posed the only question worth asking. The question he and the admiral were trying to answer. There was not one story suggesting that the nuclear fireball which vaporized the great warship had been the act of a foreign power.

The incident had placed the Navy under heavy attack, no doubt about that. Tabloid journalists were swarming all over the country looking for memorial services being held for the lost men. They were hurtling from one end of the country to the other, coaxing photographs from stunned and grieving families, interviewing the mothers, wives, and children, whose lives would be forever edged with sorrow.

Meanwhile, the press had gone berserk, slamming the Pentagon, the Service Chiefs, the President, and the policy of arming U.S. warships with nuclear weapons.

“Are you looking at that horseshit about not letting the Navy go to sea properly armed against every eventuality that could befall this country of ours?” snapped Morgan, watching Bill pause on a big inside-page article.

“Yessir.”

“Can you believe those bastards? Asking us to go out and face any enemy without big weapons in case someone gets hurt. That fucking newspaper should be closed down.”

“Yessir,” said Bill. “I’m with you on that. But this President will never stand up for any of that crap. Would you like to hear my report, sir?”

“Shoot.”

Lieutenant Commander Baldridge had half-filled a notebook during his flight from Heath row. He regaled Admiral Morgan with every fine detail on Commander Ben Adnam, and his Perisher training at Faslane. He recounted his long conversations with Admiral Sir Iain MacLean. He had carefully recorded the admiral’s precise words in describing how, and why, so few people in the world could have made a successful underwater passage through the Bosporus.

He was equally precise in recounting the firm opinion the admiral had presented to him that Commander Adnam could have done it. Of that Admiral MacLean had been very sure.

Bill startled Morgan when he reported that Israel must be regarded as a very real suspect. Whatever they might perpetrate against the USA, he explained, they could be certain that Iran or Iraq would be blamed. He informed Morgan of Admiral MacLean’s view that the position of Israel’s extremist right wing must always be examined in any unusual occurrence in the Middle East. He pointed out MacLean’s reasons, his historical assessment of some high-ranking officers in the Mossad, and the conservative factions of the Israeli Government.

Admiral Morgan, who already knew much of what the younger officer was saying, sat and listened silently. Only once did he interrupt to compliment Baldridge.

“That’s a beautiful job you’ve done, Bill. Real information. Real research. Real judgment,” he said appreciatively. “Guess you found yourself on a kind of crash course in modern history. Some of those senior guys in the Royal Navy…damned impressive, ain’t they? I love ’em. Never underestimate a top British Naval officer just because they talk funny. They don’t think funny. Sorry, Bill…go on.”

At this point Bill decided to impart the intelligence from Laura, and he built a case—not that Ben was an Arab in disguise but that he could have been a Muslim. He never revealed his exact source, but told Admiral Morgan about the mosque in Egypt, Commander Adnam’s preference for Cairo, and his occasional sympathy for the Arab cause, no matter how great an atrocity had been committed. He told him too about his wariness, his coldness, his new car, and his monthly trip to London.

Admiral Morgan interrupted again. “Was she pretty?” he asked.

“Who?”

“The lady who told you all of this.”

Bill smiled at the perceptiveness of the Intelligence chief, and then replied, crisply, “Yessir. She was Laura Anderson, the admiral’s daughter.”

“And Adnam’s girlfriend?”

“Yessir, while he was at Faslane.”

“She on our side now?”

“Yessir.”

“Does she think Adnam would have been capable of committing such an unbelievable act of villainy?”

“Yessir. Yes she does. Not quite so firmly as you just said it. She described him to me as an ultimate professional, a guy who would carry out his duty no matter what.”

“Well, if that is the considered opinion of the daughter of Iain MacLean, we’d better take that on board with due seriousness, because I’m going to tell you something about that Scottish officer you did not know, and I am quite sure he did not tell you.”

“Sir?”

“You remember when the Royal Navy fought the Falklands War against Argentina back in 1982?”

“Sir?”

“What do you remember most about it?”

“That night they blew away that damned great Argentinean cruiser and drowned four hundred people…what was it called? The General Belgrano.”

“That’s it, Bill. Changed the course of the war. Frightened the Argentinean fleet away for good. Iain MacLean was the submarine sonar officer who helped Commander Wreford-Brown stalk that cruiser for two days, and then blow it apart with three old Mark 8** torpedoes. Two of ’em hit, right under the bow, and the engine room. It was a perfect example of persistent tracking, followed by a careful, logical attack.

“Remember too, the Belgrano was accompanied by two old but pretty well-equipped guided missile destroyers, American-made, like the cruiser, very fast and carrying plenty of depth charges. Having made a textbook submarine attack, the Royal Navy made a textbook getaway. No one got a sniff.

“They vanished into the South Atlantic, and were next sighted rolling up the Clyde—where you’ve just been—sporting a darn great skull-and-crossbones over the tower—the traditional Royal Navy signal for a kill. I guess that’s where MacLean’s career started to take off. But as Teacher, and then FOSM, he became a legend. Virtually rewrote the book on submarine warfare. I met him a few times in Washington, and if I hadn’t known he was retired, he would’ve been my first suspect on July 8!”

“Jesus! He never told me anything about the South Atlantic.”

“They don’t, do they? Not those Brits. So when we get warnings from such a man, even such a man’s daughter, we listen with respect.

“I’m not saying Miss Laura ought to be made an honorary admiral or anything. But do not write off the possibility that the apple may not have fallen far from the tree…and now we wanna find out where the hell is Commander Benjamin Adnam, right?”

“Yessir. And we’d like to take a careful look at the activities and motives of Israel. So far as we know for certain, Adnam is an Israeli submarine commander.”

“Yeah, but we have accounted for the Israeli submarines. As we have almost accounted for the Iranian submarines. And the Iraqis don’t have any.”

“Unless one of them has one we don’t know about,” said Bill. “An unknown boat they sneaked out of the Black Sea with an unknown commander. Because we surely know now who that commander might be. Especially now you’ve put a branding iron on the man who taught him.”

“Bill, you’ll get no argument from me on any of that. Now, let’s have a few gulps of this coffee, and then I’ll tell you my news.”

The admiral finally stopped pacing the room. He sat down behind his desk and told Bill the salient points of his investigation. “Dealing with the rogue submarine first, we have two facts. One, we think we heard him in the strait, two, a Russian submariner went overboard and drowned off the Greek islands. The dates of the two incidents fit, which would make it, almost certainly, the same ship, and the Russians are not denying the dead man was a submariner.

“However, they are being a bit cagey about one thing. When I contacted them the day after we picked up the acoustic contact in the strait, they admitted they had lost a Kilo Class submarine in the previous three weeks in the Black Sea and were searching for the hull. But when I asked whether the drowned man was a member of that ship’s company, they clammed up real fast, and refused to confirm whether they had found the hull of the Kilo. I’m working on it right now. Talking to Rankov when he gets back Friday.

“Meanwhile the Turks confirm they received no application from the Russians to bring any submarine through the Bosporus on the surface during the months of March, April, or May. So what’s that goddamned Russian submariner’s body doing on a Greek beach?”

“Well, he couldn’t have washed right through from the Black Sea, and then the Dardanelles, not all that way,” said Baldridge. “So that’s all very significant for us. How about Israel—will they tell us about Adnam?”

“Bill, I thought they would, been trying to talk to them since we spoke on the phone, but they are being even more cagey than the Russians. I’m meeting one of their guys tonight, after we finish with Scott Dunsmore.”

“What’s the latest on Iran?”

“Hell, that’s just the usual hotbed of intrigue. We think one of their submarines vanished from off its moorings in Bandar Abbas three days before the Jefferson was hit. But it could be in the Iranians’ big floating dock. The water’s very shallow all around the approaches to the main Navy harbor. I can’t see how they could have driven a submarine out of there on the surface without being picked up by the ‘overheads.’

“If, however, they did, and somehow got back in again, and then parked the submarine in a covered dock, that makes them very clever, very dangerous little guys. Too goddamned clever.”

“I’ll tell you what Iain MacLean says. He reckons the Iranians are our number-one suspects by a long way. He says if all three of their Kilos are still in Bandar Abbas, then they either got a new one—which is still at large—or they got out of Bandar Abbas, and then got right back in again. Either way he says Iran is the likely culprit.”

“He’s right. They have the strongest motive, they are at least as careless about human life as the Iraqis. And they have three Russian Kilos which we know about.

“I’m telling you, Bill. The President is very concerned about them and their goddamned submarine fleet and their increases in Naval exercises in the Gulf. Right now, without a CVBG in the area, we are preparing to put at least twenty-four FA-18’s on the airstrip in Bahrain, like we did before, until the new carrier arrives in October. The Emir of Bahrain is a very good guy, and we are expecting permission this week.

“I’m not sure how the CNO and the President see it, but right now, it’s gotta be Iran, and Israel, probably not Iraq. Your information about Adnam is obviously critical, but we have to get the Israelis to tell us the truth. If they did do it, they’ll tell us Adnam is gone. If they did not do it, Adnam probably has gone! It’s a matter of getting Israeli Intelligence to tell us the truth. Then we’ll know what to do.”

The two men talked for another hour before leaving for the Pentagon. Once there, they apprised Admiral Dunsmore of their inquiries, told him about Commander Ben Adnam, and Admiral Morgan promised to be in touch as soon as he had finished with the Israeli general later in the evening. Admiral Dunsmore called General Paul and suggested that he meet with the President as soon as Morgan “has wrung the truth out of the Mossad.”

Bill Baldridge got a ride with Morgan to the Dunsmore estate in order to retrieve his car. Which would give the Intelligence chief ample time to drive back to Alexandria and prepare for the arrival of General Gavron.

Before leaving, he asked his office to dig up some background on the man he thought might pinpoint the precise whereabouts of Commander Adnam, and told his staff he would call at around six-thirty in the evening. Thereafter the time sped by rapidly. Admiral Morgan, driving himself as usual, joined the stream of south-running traffic on the western shore of the Potomac, and, with Bill Baldridge’s navigation, swept into the CNO’s residence.

Bill knew Grace Dunsmore was out, and anyway he was anxious to get home to Maryland, in his own car. He thanked Admiral Morgan for the ride, and arranged to speak to him either later that night or first thing in the morning.

Admiral Arnold Morgan turned north once more and made for the quaint little seaport of Alexandria. There was however nothing quaint about his business this evening. The Israeli would be very tough, and very uncooperative at first. The admiral considered it highly likely that he might have to impart a few home truths to this particular opponent.

He reached the bar, chatted for a few moments with the landlord, and asked him to put a pot of coffee in his usual booth. Then he disappeared through a door, into the proprietor’s private quarters, and called Fort Meade where his lieutenant was waiting. The time was 1830.

General Gavron’s details were sketchy but interesting. He was a pure Israeli of the blood, a true Sabra, born and bred in the fertile Jezreel Valley, southwest of the Sea of Galilee, between Nazareth and Megiddo. Like his old colleague General Moshe Dayan, he had been brought up by his parents to grow fruit and vegetables but ended up spending most of his adult life in the military. His family was from Germany, and had emigrated to help plant forests in the northern half of the country and thereby increase Israel’s rainfall. The Gavrons were devoted to enabling the young country to feed itself. Their eldest son, David, born six months after their arrival in 1947, elected to adopt another critical course for a Sabra, to help establish and defend Israel’s boundaries.

He was called up as a conscript, like every Israeli, when he was just eighteen. By 1973 he was a promising young captain in an armored brigade. The Yom Kippur War of that year established him as an officer of much potential. He fought in the front rank of General Abraham “Bren” Adan’s hastily assembled tank division as they drove out to face the army of Egypt, still swarming in across the canal, on that terrible early morning of October 8.

Face to face across the desert, heavily outnumbered, not quite prepared, still amazed by the suddenness of the surprise attack, Bren Adan drove his men into battle with reckless courage. The Egyptian Second Army, dug in and backed up by hundreds of tanks, almost lost their nerve at the ferocity of the Israeli onslaught. But after four hours, they forced the Israelis back.

At that point the entire country was in the hands of the largely teenage Army in the front line, whose task it was to hold the Egyptians at bay for forty-eight hours, until the reserves arrived. The death toll among Israel’s youth in those two days was staggering. Even Adan’s more experienced tank men died by the hundreds in the sands of the northern Sinai. David Gavron, fighting within twenty yards of the general, was shot in his left arm trying to drag a wounded man clear of a burning tank. Then the blast of an exploding shell flung him twenty feet forward into the sand.

But Gavron got up, and a field surgeon patched his arm, stitched his face, and, unhappily for Egypt, the same thing happened to the bloodstained Army of Israel. And when finally Bren Adan’s armored division regrouped, and again rolled forward eight days later, Captain Gavron, arm bandaged, his face deeply cut and seared from sand-burn, was in one of the leading Israeli tanks, directing fire coolly, to devastating effect.

He actually heard General Adan roar the motto of his beleaguered Army—“After me!”—as the Israeli guns opened fire once more. David Gavron never forgot that, never forgot the sheer nobility of the man, standing in the turret of his tank, right fist clenched, while he led the battered division forward, shelling their way into the heart of the Egyptian Second Army, which cracked and then gave way in panic.

At midnight on October 17, Bren Adan and his remaining officers reached the Suez Canal and established a bridgehead. At 0500 on October 18 they crossed the canal into Egypt, driving south to the Gulf of Suez, playing hell with the Arab defenses wherever they fought, and isolating Anwar Sadat’s Third Army in the desert.

The Israelis were never going to let David Gavron go back to growing fruit after that. He was decorated for gallantry, promoted to become one of the youngest colonels in the history of the Israeli Armed Forces. He became a valued friend of both Bren Adan and Arik Sharon for all of their days. And his move to the secretive, sensitive military area of the Intelligence Service meant he had been singled out for the highest calling Israel can bestow upon a battlefield officer. David Gavron was one day going to head the Mossad.

By the time the Israeli general walked into the waterfront bar in Alexandria, Admiral Arnold Morgan knew he was awaiting a man who was a towering hero in his own country, where senior military figures are held in enormous esteem. He was not disappointed.

General Gavron, at the age of fifty-five, was a tall, lean Army officer, with hair shaved even more closely than the admiral’s. He had deep-set blue eyes, a hawkish nose, and a wide, thin, even mouth. A jagged scar on the left side of his face bore testimony to a distant tank battle in the Sinai. He was tanned, but fair-skinned with freckles around the nose and eyes. He wore no tie, and a gray, lightweight civilian suit, which could disguise neither the military walk nor the officer’s bearing. He looked coiled, as if he could break your neck with a single blow, and he stood smiling while Arnold Morgan climbed to his feet.

Then he offered his hand, and said softly, “Admiral Morgan? I’m David Gavron…Shalom.” The solemn greeting of peace, from the land where Abraham forged his covenant with God.

“Good evening, General,” replied Admiral Morgan. “It was good of you to come. Just a very simple inquiry.”

Both men laughed and shook hands. The admiral poured coffee for them both—knowing the Israeli would never dream of touching alcohol. But he wasted not one second of time. “My question may not be simple, but I think it’s at least an easy one,” he said, grinning. “Can you tell me the whereabouts of one of your best submarine commanders, Mr. Benjamin Adnam?”

General Gavron was ready. “Well, we are conducting some exercises in the Med at present. I suppose he could be out there. I believe they are working with the new Upholder Class submarine we bought from the Royal Navy. As I recall, Commander Adnam was scheduled to take her out into the Atlantic.”

“I have no doubt about that,” replied Morgan. “But I do not really need to know what he was scheduled to do. I need to know absolutely, is he, or is he not, on that submarine, right now, as we sit here? No bullshit.”

The Israeli was slightly taken aback by the directness of the admiral’s assault. “Well…I expect you know that for security reasons, we never tell anyone anything about our unit commanders, or their seniors, in any of the branches of our services. We have many enemies, some obvious, and some unseen. It would be more than my career is worth to inform anyone of such detail.”

“David,” replied Admiral Morgan, in a more conciliatory tone, “I am asking for your help. And I appreciate the constraints upon you, although I doubt that your government would be keen to lose the services of such a distinguished officer as yourself.

“But if you feel unable to tell me where he is working right now, could you tell me this—is Commander Benjamin Adnam still a serving officer in the Israeli Navy, as we know he was ten months ago?”

“Well, I assume he is. I am not in the Navy myself, but I know his reputation. I would have to make a few inquiries, which would take a while. It’s 0230 there now, tomorrow.”

“General Gavron, you came to meet me tonight, fully aware of what my question is. There are several people at the Navy base in Haifa who know what my question is; there are several others in the Shin Bet Intelligence office in Tel Aviv who also know what my question is. That means the Mossad knows what my question is. I must now assume that you have been sent here to stall me. And if that is so, it may be necessary for my government to make one or two things clear to your government.”

“Your government, Admiral, is very good at that,” replied the general, smiling.

“Yours ain’t so bad at it either,” replied the admiral.

And so they sat, two ex–military men, both unused to compromise, both brought up to treat the problems of their respective countries as if they were their own. Deadlocked in this Virginia bar, they sipped their coffee, the American uncertain how tough to get, the Israeli uncertain how much to give away, not sure when to pose the question he knew he must ask.

“General,” the admiral persisted, “I have to find out about Commander Adnam, and it may be in both of our interests for you to tell me.”

“Admiral, I cannot tell you. No one has told me. Deliberately, I suppose. But I too have a question which I would like to ask you. Why do you want to know about Commander Adnam?”

Admiral Morgan had hoped it would not be necessary to deal with this. But he was ready. He sat in silence for thirty seconds, and then he said: “General Gavron, we are considering the possibility—and it is only a possibility—that the accident in the Thomas Jefferson may not have been an accident.”

“Hmmm. You mean someone may have taken her out?”

“Yes, someone may have. With a torpedo fired from a small, silent submarine.”

“Nuclear-tipped?”

“Probably.”

“And why should you think it was driven by Commander Adnam?”

“What should concern you a great deal more, General, is that we may think the submarine was Israeli.”

Israeli! Us? Blow up a United States aircraft carrier. No. No. No. Not us. We are friends.”

Admiral Morgan was amused to see this cool Army officer from the Holy Land in temporary disarray. But he recognized genuine incredulity when he saw it. “General, we know there are people in your government who have never forgiven us for letting Saddam Hussein bombard Israel with Scud missiles, then leave him still in power.

“We have our enemies in Tel Aviv, as we have them in most places in the Middle East. And the Israeli Government would know, that if they did commit such an atrocity as obliterating a U.S. carrier, we would instantly blame Iran or Iraq. And so you see, General, your nation is very much under suspicion by us.”

“And where, Admiral, does Adnam fit in?”

“Well, would anyone be foolish enough to open fire on the USA with a submarine that was in their known inventory? So we think they may have acquired one from Russia, and driven it out through the Bosporus. We keep a list of all high-flying submarine commanders in the world—real experts, the best of their profession. Every one of them is accounted for. Except Adnam. And you guys are being very, very cagey. It is just possible we may decide, in the next twenty-four hours, that you are deliberately lying to us, and then we might get very, very ugly.

“I hope you have enjoyed having a Navy for the past few years.”

Morgan knew he had shaken the Israeli. David Gavron betrayed no fear. But neither did he reply. He took a sip of coffee, and ruminated upon the fact that unless his government cooperated with Admiral Arnold Morgan there was likely to be big trouble, on a scale no one could cope with.

“Admiral,” he said. “I must confer with my superiors. I am sorry our meeting has been so brief. Can you let me have a number, or numbers, where I can speak to you later tonight?”

The admiral handed him a card with his office phone and fax, and his home number scrawled on the back.

“I’ll be waiting,” he said.

General Gavron headed back to his embassy. Admiral Morgan drove directly to Fort Meade. He ordered a roast beef sandwich, more coffee—the latter loudly…“Black with buckshot!” his own word for the tiny white sweeteners he used. He called Admiral Dunsmore in the Pentagon, and advised him to put any meeting at the White House on hold until the morning. Then he retired to his computer, conducting yet another search, for any submarine in all of the world which could, conceivably, have crept up on the Thomas Jefferson. Two hours later, he arrived at the same conclusion he had arrived at earlier. The only submarine not accounted for was the Russian Kilo reported sunk in the Black Sea.

He ran the CIA program of leading submarine commanders from all over the world for the sixth time in two days. There was no one on that list who was anywhere near the Black Sea at the appropriate time. The arrival of Bill Baldridge had presented him with the only real suspect—the Israeli, Adnam.

Admiral Morgan knew they had no real record of the man’s obvious brilliance. Everything about Adnam was shaded. To Morgan’s deeply skeptical mind, Adnam did not add up. And there had been an instant conspiracy by the Israelis to shield their man from investigation. Morgan believed General Gavron might not know Adnam’s whereabouts, but he believed there were some people in Tel Aviv who did.

The digital clock on his wall approached midnight. He sat in his armchair and turned on the television, picked up a West Coast baseball game, checked CNN occasionally. By 0100 he was asleep.

At 0210 the phone rang, and he reached for it like a striking cobra, wide awake in an instant.

“Admiral, this is David Gavron.”

“Shalom, David,” said Arnold Morgan.

“It took my superiors a while to gather the information you need. I am sorry to call you so late. It is just after 0900 in Israel.”

“To tell the truth, David, I don’t have anything much more pressing to do,” replied the admiral.

“No. I suppose not. Anyway I am instructed to inform you that the man you seek left the service of the Israeli Navy in November of 2001, eight months ago. We have no record of his present whereabouts.”

“What do you mean, ‘left’? Did he resign, desert, or was he fired?”

“I think it would be better if we spoke face-to-face. Can you come here right away? I’m at the Israeli embassy. I will meet you at the gate.”

“I’m leaving now.”

Morgan pulled on his uniform jacket and charged for the door, down the corridor and into his car. This was it. The Israelis were about to come clean. Adnam had plainly skipped town. The question now was, who was he working for? And where the fuck was he?

Two minutes later the admiral was racing south down the Baltimore-Washington Parkway at over 90 mph. He had never put it to the test, but he considered that in a straight fight between the Maryland State Police and the Director of the Office of National Security on an emergency mission, there would be only one winner—not the troopers.

Five minutes later, the tires of the staff car squealed as he hit the Capital Beltway at Exit 22, heading west across the northern end of the sleeping city. It took him under ten minutes to cover the twelve miles to Exit 33, the Connecticut Avenue intersection. He swung south toward Washington, turned off after a couple of miles, and came to a halt at the tall iron gates that guard the entrance to the embassy of Israel, some three miles out of town. Gazing through the dark at the striking stone building, with its great archways and Middle Eastern architecture, Admiral Morgan felt he could have been sitting right in the middle of Jerusalem.

Silently, General Gavron appeared at the car window and, as the gates swung open, instructed him to drive straight through. The admiral parked the car and stepped out onto Israeli territory. Silentguards observed him from the shadows. As he walked with the general across the great courtyard he could feel the atmosphere of this tough, brave little country, no bigger than the state of New Jersey, so often under attack, and even here in Washington surrounded completely by a protective fence, the iron wrought in the decorative style of the homeland. Everywhere you could feel it, a kind of gallant bracing against the unseen threat.

They slipped unobtrusively through a door and stepped into a large, airy building, of the type favored by modern Arab sheiks, where thousands of years of desert tradition collide, finally, with modern Western technology. They walked down a corridor, past a portrait of David Ben-Gurion, another of General Moshe Dayan, and into a small anteroom, comfortably furnished, with two sofas and three big, burgundy-colored armchairs. The antique Persian rug, spread on the marble floor, was probably priceless. A white-uniformed Israeli serviceman stood by to bring them tea or coffee. And David Gavron asked the admiral to be seated. He then answered the three questions that Morgan had fired at him on the phone.

“We do not know what happened to Commander Adnam. He just…er…well…vanished. Into thin air. He was on station one day, and gone the next.”

“David, are you telling me the absolute truth? Because if you are not, the consequences might well be monumental.”

“We are a long way past telling lies, Admiral. I swear to you—and this is the solemn word of an Israeli officer, and friend to your country, Commander Adnam vanished. Plainly, I could not have told you this without the highest possible authority. In fact, I did know something of this when we met earlier. But I was under orders to reveal nothing.”

Admiral Arnold Morgan silently cursed himself for having even considered he was being told the entire truth by a member of the Mossad on the previous evening. But he understood the Israeli’s predicament. And forgave him now that the upper hand was clearly American. “Did anyone conduct an investigation when Adnam was first discovered missing?”

“Of course. He was our top submarine commander. The Navy was very shocked. There was a time when we thought he might have been murdered. But Adnam had just taken off. We simply never heard anything, ever again.

“The Intelligence Service had a fairly thorough look. But I spoke to them again, a couple of hours ago. The whole matter remains a mystery. Commander Adnam’s parents were both killed in a small village which was bombed during the October War of 1973. As you know, our Achilles heel is poor records of immigrants. And they found no details of Adnam’s parents beyond about 1965. But there’s nothing suspicious. Except that it is a little unusual that no solid background information would be available on a man so prominent, and in such a sensitive area of our national defense. But that’s how it is for now.”

“Will your Intelligence services look again?”

“In the light of what you said to me, we consider the matter to be critical. We are reasonably sure Adnam is no longer in Israel. If he was, we’d have found him.”

“Will you keep me informed?”

“Of course. You have our deepest sympathy for the men who died on the carrier. As you know, we do not approve of surprise attacks for no apparent reason.”

Morgan smiled. He stood up and explained that he must go at once.

General Gavron said he understood, of course, and he escorted the American back, past the guards, to his car. It was 0320 when Morgan pulled through the gates, with the window down. And he heard General Gavron say very firmly, “Admiral, we did not hit your carrier. Do not waste your time thinking we did. And you can count on our support for anything you may need.”

Admiral Morgan saluted him as he left. And he could see the Israeli still standing alone, beyond the embassy fence. A nice man, he thought, in a big and dangerous job. “And now, I believe, a truthful man, which I suspect he likes better.”

He drove at a more leisurely pace back to the parkway, swinging off to his home in Montpelier, a few miles before the turning to Fort Meade. He lived now in an official government residence close to his office complex, but he still owned and often visited the small, secluded, single-story frame house he had lived in while married. These days he had a housekeeper five mornings a week, and the place was spotless, but it looked and felt like a Navy officer’s wardroom. Admiral Morgan had never been long on chintz and deep sofas.

He poured himself a deep glass of bourbon on the rocks, called the Pentagon, and asked a duty officer to relay a message to the CNO after 0600 that he would be awaiting him in his office at 0700, with information of a highly sensitive nature. He then put in a call to the headquarters of the Black Sea Fleet to check the arrival of Vice Admiral Rankov, and was agreeably surprised to hear he would be in Novorossisk later today.

He hardly touched the bourbon, and at 0420 Arnold Morgan hit the sheets and set his alarm for 0530. It had been a long night, but his adrenaline was still high, and most of the seventy minutes of rest he had allocated himself were wasted. His mind kept racing over the same questions. How long would it take the Mossad, and the USA, to find Commander Adnam? And where was he now and, worse yet, where was his fucking submarine? Had young Baldridge been right when he had suggested the unnamed enemy might strike again? Admiral Morgan was out of bed before the alarm even considered awakening him. He was showered, shaved, and dressed, and on the phone to Baldridge before 0540. Told his new field officer to be at the Pentagon by 0640 for a briefing.

Inside the Pentagon, he and Bill Baldridge pondered the revelations of General Gavron. “It’s changed the rules, hasn’t it, sir?” said the younger officer. “Either Adnam helped the Iranians get one of their Kilos into action very quietly—Bandar Abbas being so damned close to where the CVBG was working. Or he helped them get a new Kilo out of the Black Sea. And, if we accept he could have helped the Ayatollahs, I guess he could have helped anyone else do the same thing. It brings Iraq right back into the picture…and Libya…Syria…Egypt…Pakistan…any of ’em. Because if any one of those nations had Adnam, the only other thing they needed was money.”

“Yeah. To rent or buy a Russian boat and crew. But we still have to look at motive. And the nations with the most powerful motives are Iran, and, I guess, Iraq. The others are lightweight for something this big, and also would be much more afraid of the consequences. I don’t think we should take our eyes too far off the most obvious ball.”

“No. Guess not. And do you write the Israelis out of the list of suspects now?”

“Almost. I’ll make another couple of calls this morning. See if I can get Lessard on the line. Then we’ll have to see whether they found their lost commander. Or at least found out who he really is. Meantime I think we should brace ourselves for the fact that this President wants action. Right now. And I’m not sure what to advise. When you are as big and strong as we are, it’s damn difficult to punish someone on a large scale without starting World War III.”

 

At 0710, the Chief of Naval Operations walked through the door. Admiral Dunsmore beckoned both men to follow him into his office and ordered coffee, which was rapidly becoming a staple of Arnold Morgan’s diet. He then ordered the Intelligence Admiral to tell him everything.

The conversation lasted about five minutes. Admiral Dunsmore said little, absorbing every detail. Then he called General Josh Paul and said he thought they should meet with the President at the earliest possible time. He replaced the phone, and it rang within five minutes. The CNO just said, “I’m leaving now. I’ll be by your office in three.”

Admiral Morgan then called the Navy Intelligence office and left a message with an assistant to Admiral Schnider that Lieutenant Commander Baldridge would be working out of Fort Meade for the remainder of the week. Bill shrugged, and the two men headed for the garage. By the time they made it, General Paul and Admiral Dunsmore were already bound for the White House.

Seated in the back of the staff car, Scott Dunsmore ran over the situation with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, told him of the rising suspicion that Benjamin Adnam was the commander of the submarine which they now believed had destroyed the Jefferson. He informed him of the defection of the Israeli Navy officer, how they had been promised the support and help of a very worried Mossad, and how Iran remained the prime suspect.

General Paul asked one question. “Do you guys think that this Adnam could have got one of the Iranian Kilos out through the Strait of Hormuz, hit the Jefferson, and then got back into Bandar Abbas without us knowing?”

“No. We don’t really. But since we thought the carrier was just about impregnable, and we were wrong about that, I suppose we have to accept the possibility that the guy who successfully got into the Battle Group, might also have successfully chugged in and out of the harbor without being spotted by the overheads. ’Specially during the monsoon.”

“Yeah. Guess so. We’re still not seeing three boats in Bandar Abbas. Just the two, right?”

“Uh-huh. But the third one still might be in that big covered floating dock. We just can’t get a look in there.”

The car pulled up to the West Wing entrance. The Secret Service men were there to meet them, hand over their passes, and escort them immediately to the same conference room they had used for the breakfast meeting with the President eight days previously. When they arrived, the Defense Secretary, Robert MacPherson, and the Secretary of State, Harcourt Travis, were already seated. The National Security Adviser, Sam Haynes, arrived within moments. Five minutes later the President himself walked in accompanied by his press chief, Dick Stafford. The doors were shut firmly behind them by the Marine guards, who remained on duty immediately beyond the door.

A military quorum of five was now seated around the table; five men who, if they acted in harmony, had the power to do almost anything they wished on the international front. They were five men whose unanimous decision could unleash the terrifying power of the U.S. Navy on an enemy. The sixth man, Travis Harcourt, was there to supply wisdom on a wide international base; the seventh, Dick Stafford, to ensure, professionally, that their actions would always be perceived by the American nation as justified.

The President sat at the head of the table, flanked by Mr. MacPherson and Mr. Travis. General Paul and Admiral Dunsmore sat next to them, opposite each other, with Sam Haynes and Dick Stafford at the end of the table. The President greeted everyone by their first names, and thanked them for coming. He then requested that Admiral Dunsmore brief the meeting formally with the latest update on the list of suspects.

It took about ten minutes, since the President and his cabinet officers had not yet been appraised fully of the situation regarding the drowned Russian sailor, nor of the importance of Commander Adnam, nor of the grave consequences of the Israeli admission of his disappearance.

“Scott,” the President said at the conclusion of the CNO’s briefing, “we have a submarine, sealed up tight, going along under the water, trying to stay quiet and remain undetected. Since they are all locked up inside, how can someone fall overboard and drown?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the CNO explained. “We should have made that clear. If someone should drop a hammer on a metal deck inside the submarine, that clang could be heard for possibly fifty miles under the water. The enemy of the stealthy submarine is noise…any noise…it is regarded with immense concern by every member of the ship’s company.

“Remember, every bit of machinery in a submarine, bar the propeller, is set upon heavy rubber mounts, all designed to deaden noise and vibration…to ensure that the hundreds of rotating parts throughout the ship make no more racket collectively than the hum of your computer. At least, not beyond the hull.

“Now suppose something, a bracket, a wire, even an old oil can, gets loose somewhere up in the casing and it starts to rattle. The moment that noise is heard, something has to be done about it. Invariably, the submarine must come to the surface as soon as it is safe to do so. And fix it.

“A party must go up on deck and stop that rattle no matter what. In a big sea at night, that is really dangerous. Whenever there is a man overboard on a submarine, we assume it’s probably something like that. If they had not bothered to fix it, that rattle would have served as a beacon to anyone listening within fifty miles.

“No competent submarine commander would ever make that kind of mistake—even if it cost the life of one of his crew.”

“Cost more than that,” replied the President. “But I’m grateful to have it cleared up.”

He then asked the same question General Paul had asked. “Could Commander Adnam have piloted one of those Kilos out of Bandar Abbas, and then back in again, without being seen by the U.S. satellite reconnaissance systems?”

Scott Dunsmore gave him the same answer he had given the General. Highly unlikely, but not absolutely impossible. After all, the guy had somehow achieved the impossible anyway, by getting into the heart of the invincible CVBG.

There were no other questions at this time, because it was clear the President himself was thinking very carefully. It was almost one minute before he spoke, And when he did, a tense silence gripped the table.

“I am proposing, gentlemen,” he said, “to take those three Iranian Kilos out of our lives for good. I want them destroyed. And I want it done fast. By the time it is done, we may know we have hit the exact culprit. If not, we may still have hit the right nation, because the chances are they merely used another submarine we do not know about. Let’s start by getting rid of those Kilos. I expect you all remember, my predecessor tried to stop them being delivered in the first place. But the Russians somewhat outwitted everyone.

“Those submarines have been a pain in the ass ever since. They have caused us to start moving squadrons of fighter aircraft into Bahrain for the second time in five years. And now we know they may have attacked a U.S. warship. I’m sick to death of this crap.

“Those three Kilos are a continuing threat, an endless problem to everyone. Get rid of ’em. All three of them—if all three of them are there. If not, hit two, and we’ll get the third one when the sonofabitch returns home.”

Robert MacPherson spoke first. “Mr. President, I want to clarify just one thing. Are you proposing we just fire up a fleet of fighter-bombers and go in and destroy the entire Naval base, straight in the front door and take the place off the map? Not that it would be any problem.”

“I simply want all three of those submarines removed. Permanently.”

Dick Stafford was next: “Sir, can we assume you would like to avoid starting World War Three?”

“Yes, you may. But I don’t want the military attack compromised because of it.”

“Sir,” said General Paul, “I think it would be better to take them out in what would appear to be mysterious circumstances, so that no one, least of all the Iranians, would ever be exactly sure who had done it.”

“I’m with you on that,” said Stafford.

“Any chance it would just seem like an accident?” asked Harcourt Travis.

“Yes,” said the general. “They would find themselves in very much the same position we are in. They would have to announce an accident, otherwise they would be spreading alarm and panic among their own populace. And they would not want to lose face with their Arab neighbors. But they would know the destruction of their Russian-built submarines had been achieved by a very powerful military force.”

“Would you like to be any more certain that Iran is the nation which hit our carrier?” asked Stafford.

“No. I think we’re certain about that. But I’m happy to get rid of their submarines anyway. And I’m perfectly happy to hit them, and anyone else as well, if that’s what it takes to ensure we teach the right nation a very severe lesson. I have given it much thought, and as far as I am concerned, those three Kilos are history. I’m looking forward to hearing how it’s going to be done.”

“That’s easy,” said General Paul. “It’s a Special Forces job.”

“It’s an easy answer, and a correct answer,” said Admiral Dunsmore. “But it is not an easy mission. The water in the three harbors at Bandar Abbas is very shallow. We’d need a nuclear submarine to bring in a SEAL team, and then an SDV to complete the last part of the journey. I’m guessing, but I would say they’d have to travel fifteen miles in, and fifteen miles back on a battery-powered underwater vehicle. That’s a nine-hour job, it’s quite dangerous, and it can’t be set up overnight.”

“Maybe we should just go in by air and obliterate ’em,” suggested MacPherson. “Less dangerous, far less chance of getting anyone killed, and very efficient.”

“Nonetheless, we’ll be branded a bunch of reckless maniacs by the international community,” said Stafford. “And then they’d all start asking questions. Why should the USA hit the Navy of Iran? What’s Iran done to deserve that?

“And then they’ll be asking if the Jefferson was really an accident. Was this outrageous air strike against Iran because the Pentagon believes the fate of the carrier was no accident? Because the Pentagon believes the Jefferson was hit by an Ay-rab in one of those Kilos?”

“Yes,” murmured the Secretary of State, “I suppose that would be very bad news indeed.”

“Yes. That would be hopeless,” said the President. “Gentlemen, I think it would be in my best interest to leave the meeting now. You may of course stay here as long as you wish, and perhaps Dick can inform me of anything particularly pertinent. However, the less I know about the technicalities the better.

“I just hope to see in the newspapers a couple of weeks from now that there has been a most unfortunate accident to three submarines at the Iranian Navy base in Bandar Abbas.”

“How long was that, sir?” asked Scott Dunsmore.

“Couple of weeks, Scott. Is that all right?”

“Sir, I think I would be inclined to allow a month. Just because it may take us that long to get a specialist submarine into the area, especially one we can equip with the new SDV, which also has to be transported. It’s over twelve thousand miles from our San Diego base. Also we have to allow the SEALS time to rehearse the mission.”

“Yes. I understand. But try to get it done in two weeks. Especially as I would like to have it done tomorrow.”

At which point Admiral Dunsmore said formally, “Well, gentlemen, since I am plainly the person to be charged with carrying out the Chief’s wishes, I would be happy to tell you any more details you may want. But I think it best that I get back to the factory and put this all in motion; then maybe we can meet tomorrow somewhere and I’ll brief you all further. By the way, the Navy likes the plan. We can’t wait to get rid of the Ayatollah’s submarines. I think this is a great call by the President.”

“Sure was. All my guys will be relieved,” said General Paul. “Matter of fact I think Scott and I should go back together right now, and get this thing moving.”

The meeting broke up. And the two Service Chiefs left the White House immediately. In less than one hour Admiral Dunsmore had contacted the most elite combatant force in the Armed Services, the SEALS. It is the U.S. Navy’s Special Forces Unit, where each man must possess a nearly unique combination of physical, intellectual, and emotional strength. Aside from speed and strength, and a natural agility in the water, he also requires a first-class memory and a thorough knowledge of dozens of weapons, systems, and demolition techniques.

The United States runs eight teams of SEALS. Three of them are based at Little Creek, Virginia, numbered Two, Four, and Eight. Numbers One, Three, and Five work out of Coronado, California, home of the U.S. Navy Special War Command—in the trade, SPECWARCOM—which oversees all SEAL missions anywhere in the world.

The admiral in command of SPECWARCOM, John Bergstrom, answered his telephone on the island of Coronado at 0835 on that Thursday morning. He was greeted by the Commander of the Fifth Fleet, Vice Admiral Archie Carter, who was visiting San Diego, and requested his presence at the main Navy base forthwith.

When he arrived, Admiral Carter was standing at a big desk using a pair of Navy dividers and a metal ruler. Before him was a Navy chart of the area north of Jazireh-Ye Qeshm, a long, parched island in the Strait of Hormuz. He was measuring the waterway between the eastern end of the island and the harbor directly opposite; this was the right-hand harbor of three, in a twenty-mile stretch along the southeast coast of Iran.

Admiral Bergstrom peered over his shoulder, gazing at the name at the head of the chart, “The Port of Bandar Abbas.” He noted the big radar domes marked clearly behind the harbor. He noted the narrow channel, only twenty-seven-feet deep, running between the pincer-shaped claws of the outer harbor walls. He noted the length of the long breakwater.

There could be but one reason why he had been summoned to this room, where the Commander of the Fifth Fleet was examining a chart of a potentially hostile foreign navy base: to organize its destruction. The SEALS specialty.

In his mind he imagined the base as his men would see it from the dark waters as they swam in…the flashing green light on the right, perhaps just illuminating an armed sentry on the harbor entrance. He noted the sheltered interior reaches of the harbor, tucked behind the sandy headland on the right. A death trap if they were seen. He wondered how carefully it was all guarded, what chance his men had of survival, and how many they might have to kill to get out.

“Morning, Admiral,” he said breezily. “What do you want us to do, blow the entire thing to pieces, or just destroy the warships?”

Admiral Carter smiled at the insight of the top man from SPECWARCOM. “Not all of them, John. Just three, all submarines. Orders direct from CNO. We’ve got fourteen days to get there and take them out. I understand the decision was made less than two hours ago in the Oval Office.”

“How close can we get to an SSN?” asked Bergstrom instantly.

“John, I’m very much afraid no nearer than thirteen miles.”

“Jesus. That means they’ll have to go in with the new Mark IX SDV. It’s untried. And it only makes five knots. But it’ll hold ten people, and it has a big battery, should run for twelve hours.”

And he stared down at the chart, looking again at the narrow confines of the harbor entrance. “Are the submarines all in the water?” he asked.

“No. Unfortunately, we think one of them may be in a covered floating dock, shored up on her keel, and probably guarded.”

“You want us to go in and take out the guards before we start?”

“No. I’d prefer you not to take out anyone, if possible. This is a completely clandestine operation, and ideally I would like the Iranian Navy to be wondering what the hell’s going on for as long as possible. Maximum damage, minimum noise, no traces left behind. Except three rather large, very wrecked, Russian-built submarines, which will never go to sea again.”

“Yessir. I understand. Will someone send the biggest, latest charts and overhead pictures over to us? And if we are pursued by armed Iranian patrol boats carrying depth charges, do I have permission to sink our enemy?”

“John, with this President we always enjoy that freedom. Shoot to kill in self-defense, if your lives are in danger. But in general terms I believe the White House would very much prefer you did not start World War Three.”

“I’ll certainly try to avoid that, sir,” replied Admiral Bergstrom.