Today Walter was reporting to Admiral David Lamar McDonald, the fifty-seven year old Georgian former naval aviator who had succeeded Anderson as Chief of Naval Operations. McDonald was a more outgoing, approachable figure than Anderson. He had commanded the USS Coral Sea (CV-43) — then one of the biggest carriers in the Fleet — in the mid-1950s and been C-in-C US Sixth Fleet in the Mediterranean. McDonald had been a natural shoe-in as CNO and only politics had delayed his assumption of the role at an earlier date. Unlike Anderson, everybody knew that McDonald enjoyed good professional and personal relations with both Secretary of Defense McNamara and with McNamara’s ‘military assistant’, three-star General William Childs Westmoreland.
“Stand easy, Commander,” McDonald ordered. Since the men were ‘inside’ and therefore ‘below decks’ they did not exchange salutes but Walter Brenckmann had snapped to attention. The older man stuck out his hand; his grip was dry and hard, mirroring the inner steel of the man who had been the US Navy’s youngest four-star admiral at the time of his selection for the post he now held. “Take a seat.”
Walter sat stiffly in the hard chair placed directly in front of the CNO’s desk while the man in whose purview his career rested resettled behind his gleaming, uncluttered desk.
“You’ve had a Hell of a ride these last few weeks, Commander,” the older man observed ruefully, understanding the thoughts and worries which must even now be rushing through the young submariner’s mind. “Well, we all have, I suppose. Things should settle down a little in the coming weeks and months. Unless something else goes wrong, that is.”
Walter found himself reflecting back the Chief of Naval Operation’s grin, relaxing a fraction. He said nothing.
“The investigation of the chain of command issues brought to the attention of the Chiefs of Staff by Admiral Braithwaite, Commander Simms and yourself have hit a brick wall,” McDonald confided matter-of-factly with the mildly irritated sangfroid of a combat veteran who knows that in war things sometimes go wrong and that there is absolutely nothing you, or anybody else can do about it. “The section of the Pentagon where the joint inter-service, FBI and Secret Service investigative task force was based was over-run during the ‘rebellion’ and the critical primary command files and logs that were the subject of the investigation were all destroyed. Sadly, few senior members of the task force survived the fighting at the Pentagon. New investigations were instituted almost immediately after the rebellion was contained but,” the Chief of Naval Operations pursed his lips for a moment and shrugged, “little progress has been made other than to establish, circumstantially at least, that many of the men under suspicion either died in the rebellion or have disappeared.”
Walter kept his mouth firmly shut.
McDonald had a slim Manila file on his blotter which he opened. He paused briefly to reacquaint himself with the summary sheet.
“I have here letter of thanks and commendation signed by the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, Mr Rowley the Head of the Secret Service, and,” he hesitated, “and Mr Hoover, the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation in connection with your contribution to the successful interrogation and debriefing of Mrs Edna Maria Zabriski. Your conduct in this matter reflects great credit on you personally and upon the US Navy. These letters will be attached to your Service Jacket.”
“Thank you, sir. I was only doing my duty.” Walter took a breath. “Nobody gave me any indication what was likely to happen to Mrs Zabriski, sir?”
“The Department of Justice’s shrinks don’t think she is fit to stand trial for her crimes,” McDonald reported. “Deputy US Attorney General Katzenbach authorized me to inform you that Mrs Zabriski will be detained at a secure mental hospital in lower New York State until further notice.”
Walter’s father had already told him that the British authorities had washed their hands of the whole thing. Prime Minister Heath had been assassinated on American soil; therefore the British had no jurisdiction and that was an end of the matter.
“Thank you, sir.”
McDonald closed the Manila file.
“You were listed for the next nuclear boat command course at Groton,” he went on. “That course has been scratched. Candidates like you are needed to support the re-mobilization program green-lighted by the President. Your name will be at the head of the list for the 1965 command course.” The Chief of Naval Operations viewed the younger man thoughtfully, pausing to assess the impact this news had had on him. “In the meantime I intend to ensure that you are gainfully employed by the Service.”
Walter sat up even straighter in his chair.
“The Kitty Hawk is being readied for sea at Kobe at this time. Several key members of her operations staff were flown stateside to join the Enterprise Battle Group ahead of its deployment to the Mediterranean. This means that there are active duty seagoing vacancies on the staff of CINCPAC, Vice Admiral Moorer. I’ve spoken to him about your employment between now and next year’s nuclear boat command course. You’ll be going out to Japan to join the Kitty Hawk as her Assistant Anti-Submarine Warfare Officer. At the discretion of the Captain of the Kitty Hawk you will qualify as a watch keeper.”
At this juncture the Chief of Naval Operations smiled wryly.
“So, in a couple of month’s time you’ll get to drive the second biggest carrier on the planet!”
Chapter 63
“They say in ten or fifteen years the city will swallow up these hills,” the gregarious old man who ran a string of horses out of the ramshackle falling down huddle of buildings called Lincoln Farm declared, puffing on his pipe as he led the father and son towards an ‘outhouse’ half overgrown behind the stables. Most of the horses were out in the two big fields close to the dusty track that headed down towards Interstate 85. Out here in the country it was easy to forget that North Druid Hills was less than ten miles from the center of Atlanta.
“That’s the way of things,” Galen Cheney agreed, scowling as the vile stench of the weed in the old man’s pipe wafted in his face.
“Shouldn’t be too many snakes,” their host continued complacently. “Not this time of year. They said you needed to hole up someplace?”
The tall, forbidding man in the dusty jeans beneath his trademark Sedona halted in his tracks. The brim of the hat cast his face in a deep shadow; the sun was high in the sky and the air was warm, humid.
“The boy and me are here to do some hunting, Mister Jackson,” he said slowly, carefully enunciating ever syllable as if he was talking to a man he regarded as a moron.
“Whatever you say, Mister.” Horatio Jackson was in his sixties, his pudgy face bucolic and his sagging frame heavy footed and clumsy as he moved. His eyes were narrow and when he opened his mouth he was gap-toothed. He stank of stale alcohol and bad tobacco and Lincoln Farm spoke to the indolence and laziness of his character. “Just so long as I get my twenty bucks a day I don’t give diddly squat what you people are about.”
“Snakes?” Isaac asked worriedly; he hated snakes.
“You just mind where you put your feet, son,” Jackson guffawed, “and you’ll be fine.”