Not that he had time for a romantic involvement now. For years the Navy’s most fearless, and feared, seeker after truth, Admiral Morgan was trying to string together facts that seemed unconnected and incompatible. In the next few hours he was going to sort them out and almost certainly initiate drastic action against two of the world’s most powerful nations.
Charlie slid the car down into the Pentagon’s subterranean garage. The limousine came to a halt outside the private elevator, which ran to the offices of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Admiral Scott Dunsmore, the former Chief of Naval Operations. Admiral Morgan would spend fifteen minutes having a cup of coffee there and then head for the headquarters of the new CNO, Admiral Joseph Mulligan, the former Commander of the Atlantic Submarine Force.
Two US Marine guards were waiting to escort Morgan to the CJC offices. Before the Admiral stepped into the elevator, he turned to Charlie and said, “I might pop out of this door any time between now and 1630. Be here.”
One of the guards risked a slight smile. The Admiral fixed him with a withering eye. “No bullshit, right?” he growled.
“Right, sir,” replied the guard, uncertainly.
Coffee with his old friend the Chairman was relaxed and informal, its purpose merely to brief Scott Dunsmore on the President’s state of mind regarding the China problem. There were no surprises. Admiral Dunsmore had guessed anyway. Admiral Morgan’s briefing of Admiral Mulligan and possibly another privately invited guest would be a meeting of considerably greater detail. By nightfall Scott Dunsmore expected a clear resolution to have been made. It looked like they were heading for a nonattributable “black” operation. The less people knew about it the better.
Outside the CNO’s office, a young flag lieutenant informed Admiral Morgan that Admiral Mulligan would be about ten minutes late. He had cleared the Navy yards in a chopper a short while ago and was on his way here. “I’ve just spoken to him, sir. He said to go right in, and he’ll be as quick as he can.”
Arnold Morgan walked into the outer section of the CNO’s quarters and saw a uniformed Naval officer waiting, reading the Washington Post. Directly above his line of medals he wore a small submarine insignia on which were set twin dolphins, the fabled attendants of the sea god, Poseidon. Admiral Morgan glanced immediately at the three golden stripes with the single star on the sleeve, offered his hand in greeting and said, “Morning, Commander. Arnold Morgan.”
The big man in the armchair stood immediately, shook hands, and said, “Good morning, sir. Cale Dunning, Columbia.”
Admiral Morgan smiled. “Ah yes, Boomer Dunning, of course. I’m delighted to meet you. You probably know, I used to drive one of those things.”
“Yes, Admiral. I did know. You were commanding one of ’em when I first left Annapolis back in 1982. Baltimore, wasn’t it?”
“Correct. She was brand-new then. Not so refined as your ship, but she was a damned good boat. There’s a lot of days when I wouldn’t mind commanding one again. They were great years for me. Make the most of yours, Boomer. There’s nothing quite like it you know, and you can never get ’em back, once they decide to move you onward and upward.”
The two submariners sat down in opposite armchairs, each one uncertain about bringing up the subject they were both here to discuss. Admiral Morgan had requested the meeting and would essentially take charge of it. He had also suggested that Admiral Mulligan invite Commander Dunning. The two men had never met.
Now Morgan elected not to broach the topic of the Chinese submarines until the CNO arrived. He glanced at the open pages of the Post and asked Commander Dunning if there were any unusually hideous distortions in the paper.
“Not that I’ve hit on so far, sir,” said Boomer, grinning. “Matter of fact I’ve been reading a long article in here about that Woods Hole research ship that vanished last year. I’ve read some stuff about it before by the same guy — Frederick J. Goodwin. Seems to know a lot about it.”
“That’d make a change for a newspaper reporter,” growled the Admiral. “Normally they know just about enough to be a goddamned nuisance.”
Boomer chuckled. “Well, sir, he’s been down to that French island where the ship disappeared. Found the first bit of wreckage, a hunk from a bright red styrene life buoy. Had the letters C-U-T on it. He’s checked back at the base. Cuttyhunk was equipped with life buoys that seem to fit that description.”
“I guess that more or less proves she went to the bottom, eh?”
“This guy thinks not. He’s saying that if she went down, there would have been wreckage all over the place. And since the Navy sent a frigate in to search they must have found something. It was just a few days after the incident.”
“That was kind of unusual. Our frigate was down there sniffing around for three months. Still found zilch. What does he say about the attack that was mentioned in the final message?”
“That’s really his whole point, Admiral. He reckons they were attacked, and that a crew member made a desperate last-ditch attempt to alert the outside world by dropping a Cuttyhunk life belt over the side. He says there’s no other explanation for the otherwise total lack of wreckage.”
“Yes there is.”
“What’s that?”
“The guys who sunk her hung around for a couple of days and cleared everything up. By the time our frigate got there the place was empty.”
“Right. Except for one little bit of one life belt that got away.”
“That’s it. Where did they find it, by the way?”
“That’s another interesting bit of deduction by Mr. Goodwin. He says it was trapped in the windward side of a large rock, not quite big enough to be called an island. He says the position of the life buoy strongly suggests it did not come in from the open sea, but from the fjord itself.”
“Well, our frigate captain was of the opinion the Cuttyhunk did not sink in the fjord. They found absolutely nothing, you know. I wonder how they missed the life buoy?”
“Goodwin thinks the frigate captain would almost certainly have avoided that particular bit of water. It’s apparently very close to a big kelp bed, and the channel there is narrow and rocky. He doesn’t think any Navy captain in his right mind would want to go through there in a warship.”
“Guess not, Boomer. Better to miss the old life buoy than get that stuff in your intakes and end up getting towed out of there two weeks later.”
“Yessir. I’m with the captain on that one.”
“So what’s Mr. Goodwin’s conclusion? Does he think Cuttyhunk sank or not?”
“He thinks not, sir. He thinks she’s still floating somewhere, but he does not offer much of an opinion about the crew or the scientists on board. He just thinks it unlikely that our frigate would not have got some firm indication from somewhere that they were steaming right over the wreck of the Woods Hole ship.”
“Sounds like he’s getting overexcited. I hate mysteries, you know. But I read this report pretty thoroughly at the time. It is possible she sank out in the bay in six hundred feet. Then you really might not find her.”
“That’s true, Admiral. But Goodwin says the flow of the water, and the prevailing westerlies, make it a nautical impossibility for that life buoy to have ended up where it did.”
“I doubt there’s much accounting for which way the wind blows inshore there, whatever the hell it’s doing out at sea. So I suppose we’ll just have to let the matter rest. Pity.”
“Admiral, I don’t think this character Goodwin is very anxious to let it rest. He’s writing about the subject for the next three days. Tomorrow’s piece is entitled ‘The Menace of Kerguelen.’”