Bringle carried on listened in silence, hating where he guessed this was going.
“Consideration has been given to issuing the British with an ultimatum to peacefully quit their positions in Abadan and to withdraw their naval forces to neutral ports in the Gulf. However, everything we know about the British tells us they would probably laugh in our faces. There is also the question of what we do if the British ‘go nuclear’ in the Gulf.”
The commander of Carrier Division Seven cleared his throat.
“What if they go for targets inside the Soviet Union?”
McDonald guffawed in wry unhappiness.
“What happens if they do something like that would be a decision that was made way above my pay grade, Bill.” He did not linger on this. “The Soviets are weak in air power in Iraq. Down south even HMS Centaur’s air group could hurt them really badly. Our best intelligence is that before Centaur steamed for the Gulf she took onboard the nukes stored in the British Far East special weapons facility at Hong Kong at the time of the October War.”
“And those devices are still onboard?”
McDonald nodded.
“We think so, yes.”
Both men knew that of the British carrier’s compliment of between sixteen and twenty aircraft — De Havilland Sea Vixens and Supermarine Scimitar subsonic interceptors — it was likely that several of the Sea Vixens were modified ‘nuclear ready’ aircraft.
“It will be Carrier Division Seven’s mission to ensure that HMS Centaur’s nuclear capability is not exercised,” McDonald declared. “Furthermore, Carrier Division Seven will operate so as to achieve local air superiority over the Persian Gulf so as to deny British V-Bomber and other potentially hostile strike aircraft known to be based in the region any opportunity to launch nuclear strike missions from bases around the Gulf. Once in situ in the Gulf Carrier Division Seven aircraft are authorized to fly deep penetration missions over Iran as far west as the Iraqi border to gather electronic intelligence, and to provide airborne command and control platforms for any offensive evolutions by the Kitty Hawk Air Group over southern Iraq,” he hesitated, took a breath, “which become necessary, against Soviet land and air forces or British, Australian and New Zealand naval, air and ground forces operating in that theatre.”
Bringle was too stunned to respond for some moments.
Stunned as in if his chin had just been on the wrong end of a Rocky Marciano right cross…
It did not sink in for some seconds.
“You’re really serious about this, aren’t you… ”
McDonald nodded grimly.
“Yes,” he sighed.
Bringle felt physically sick.
He swallowed hard.
“I’m sorry. I need to get this straight, sir,” he muttered, almost choking on his disbelief. “If it comes to it you’re asking me to attack men I fought with in the Second War, men who fought side by side with us in Korea and only a couple of months ago in the Mediterranean,” he hesitated, “without warning?”
The Chief of Naval Operations had wrapped it up in a parcel of jargon and staff college war gaming ‘speak’ but nothing really masked the outrageousness of what he had just described.
Both men understood that regardless of how outgunned the British and their allies were in the Persian Gulf — in theory one or two Bringle’s missile cruisers could wipe out the whole ABNZ (Australian, British and New Zealand) Persian Gulf Squadron without ever letting it come within range of its biggest guns — in practice any kind of stand up fight was likely to be an extremely bloody affair. As if that was not bad enough, and it was, the idea of cold-bloodedly stabbing old friends in the back was… unspeakable.
“It might not come to that, Bill,” McDonald remarked dully.
The CNO had had days, possibly weeks to get his head around the abomination they were discussing; it was all horribly, disgracefully new to Bill Bringle. He had always been honored, occasionally tearfully proud to wear the uniform of the United States Navy but right now he was starting to feel dirty and there was a part of him that was tempted to ask if even the President had the right to make him feel that way about his uniform.
“Hang on,” he pleaded. This was what drowning probably felt like. “Suddenly, we trust the Russians?”
“Yes,” the Chief of Naval Operations retorted tersely.
Nobody liked feeling dirty; McDonald had had longer to get used to the idea than the commander of Carrier Division Seven.
“We don’t want another nuclear exchange. Things could easily go to Hell again. There’s a big picture that needs to be seen here, Bill. How do we keep the Red Army’s hands off the Arabian oil fields without starting another nuclear war? How many more Chicagos and Buffalos and Seattles are we willing to trade for our clear consciences? What’s more important; our personal moral scruples or the survival of our country? That’s what this is about.” He turned, looked the other man in the eye. “I don’t like this any more than you do. I’ve told you the way it is. What I need to know before I fly back to Philadelphia is if I can rely on you if this thing goes badly? Will you do what has to be done if it comes to it?”
For the first time in his twenty-seven year career in the Navy Bringle paused, half-hoping this was a bad dream.
“How will the options open to me be framed in my orders, sir?”
“Explicitly,” McDonald promised. “You know what is at stake; you will be authorized to take whatever action you see fit to discharge your duty. The orders I brought with me bear my signature and are countersigned by the President.”
Bringle did not believe he said what he said next.
Afterwards he did not believe he had said what he had just said and he certainly did not recognize the stranger’s voice he heard saying it.
In fact he felt numb to his bones.
“I’m sorry but I need to read those orders before I give you my answer, sir.”
McDonald nodded, reached inside his jacket and pulled out a sealed envelope with the Secretary of the Navy’s seal of office stamped across its top right hand corner.
“Take your time, Bill.”
Bringle was permitted to inform his flag captain and three other named ship commanders the contents of his orders. He was not given leave to discuss the same with anybody.
Once he took Carrier Division Seven into the Persian Gulf he was God.
It was terrifying…
“You will want me to sign and date your copy of this document, sir?” Bringle muttered, dazedly. No man achieved flag command without understanding how the machine of state worked.
McDonald nodded.
When the pens were put away the two men stood, the one surveying the other.
“This is the saddest day of my life, Bill,” the senior man said.
Duty is as heavy as mountain; death as light as a feather…
“Nobody will ever forgive us for this,” Bringle concurred.
They lived in a World in which honor and decency were dead letters; dirty words scorned on the lips of good men.