Arnold Morgan thought carefully, and then he said, “I suppose you’ve considered the consequences of a phone call like this. Bypassing the regular channels of command?”
“Yessir.”
“But you decided to take the risk anyway?”
“Yessir.”
“Now, I’m going to be very formal with you. Lieutenant Ramshawe, it is entirely out of order for you to have taken this action. You must return to Fort Meade and place the entire matter with Admiral Borden. It is essential you use our regular channels of information. Neither the Navy nor the Intelligence services can afford this kind of undisciplined and unorthodox method of operation. Kindly see that it does not happen again.” At which point he put down the phone.
“Kathy,” he said, “that was rather an interesting phone call. It confirmed what I have unfortunately suspected…that the man sitting in George Morris’s chair is a total asshole.”
Back in the Australian Embassy, Jimmy Ramshawe was perplexed. “He listened carefully to all I had to say,” he told Jane. “Then he gave me a right choking off for not going through Admiral Borden…Jesus, I was only calling him because I could not go through Admiral Borden.”
“Well, I’m sure he understood that,” said Jane. “Even I understood that, and I only heard one half of the conversation.”
“Right. But it still puts me in a no-win situation. If Admiral Morgan believed me, he’ll probably call and report me to the Director, and use the information to give him a right bollocking. If he didn’t believe me, he’ll probably call anyway and recommend I be removed from any position of trust. The ole bastard never even gave me a chance to ask him to keep it confidential.”
“Jimmy, Arnold Morgan did not get where he is by being stupid. I’m sure he plugged right into the situation and will very likely be grateful for the call, may even act on it. He’ll appreciate what you did, and I don’t think he’ll betray you.”
“Christ, I hope you’re right…. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
Jimmy and Jane did not dine as well as Arnold Morgan and Kathy, nor in such opulent surroundings as Le Bec Fin. But they were not far away in a bar in Georgetown, eating a couple of cheeseburgers and drinking Budweiser instead of grilled prawns, veal marsala and Château Beycheville.
The Lieutenant was on duty at 0600, so he dropped Jane off at home sometime before midnight and headed back to the Watergate, a distance of less than two miles. Inside the apartment he kicked off his shoes, put the kettle on, checked his messages (none) and switched on the television, CNN automatically, muttering to himself, “Just better make sure no one’s declared war.”
No one had. The news, he thought, was unfathomably dreary, lightweight…health care, second-rate pop star getting divorced, famine in Africa, all-star third baseman dying of drugs. Blah-blah-blah, grumbled Jimmy to himself. These guys ought to be called The Four Newsmen of the Apocalypse: Conquest, Slaughter, Famine and Death. Especially Death, on his pale horse. That’s all they bloody think about.
But then he stopped dead in his tracks as he headed back to the kitchen, half listening to some other late report from the newscaster:
“Reports are coming in of a major oil spill in the Gulf of Iran. A giant crude-oil tanker is currently listing off the coast of Oman, with an apparently damaged bow section. According to Dubai shipping sources, oil is pouring out of her for’ard tanks.”
“HOLY SHIT!” The Lieutenant charged right back into the living room, but the item was over. They were back on the President’s forthcoming visit to India. Jimmy picked up the phone, dialed Fort Meade, spoke immediately to Lt. Ray Carpenter…. “You got anything on a tanker leaking oil in the gulf?”
“Come on, Jimmy. What do you think this is? Greenpeace? Nothing right now.”
Despite himself, Lt. Ramshawe laughed. Then he called CNN news headquarters in Atlanta and asked if they had an accurate fix on where the tanker was. He announced himself as a director of Texas Gas Transport, told them he was afraid it might be one of his ships. In return he’d keep them posted if it was.
The CNN foreign desk was not much help but said he was more than welcome to call their man in Dubai, since it was already almost nine o’clock the following morning in the Middle East.
He thanked them profusely, dialed the number in Dubai and spoke to the reporter, David Alidai.
“Sorry, pal. I’m dealing with the Omani Navy’s public affairs office. The only person in there’s called Hassam, but he doesn’t know much. I think he’s been told to shut up until they assess the damage to the environment. But if you guys own the ship, he might be a bit more forthcoming. I’ll give you his number…. Good luck.”
Jimmy hit the dial buttons to Oman, and was put through to the aforementioned Hassam.
“I’m sorry. I cannot tell you anything. We know very little ourselves.”
“Listen, Hassam, this may be our ship. We had a VLCC right in that area…. I’m just asking for a position…. Surely you can provide us with that…. Please try, otherwise I’ll have to speak to the Admiral.”
Jimmy had no idea what Admiral he was going to speak to, and Hassam could not have cared less, kept him waiting on the line for five minutes. Then he came back and said, “Mr. Haig, the damaged ship is positioned at latitude 26.19 north, 56.49 east. She’s in 250 feet of water.”
“Hassam, I’m grateful. But I don’t think that’s us. It’s a bit too far south. Do you know if there are any other ships in the area?”
“Well, we have two Qahir Corvettes out there trying to keep order. The strait is very busy. All tankers are being brought to a halt right now…. I believe there are two Iranian frigates out there also, but I can tell you no more.”
Jimmy hung up and sprinted out of the apartment, willing the elevator to take him instantly down to the parking lot. He unlocked the Jaguar and retrieved the chart that he had left in the leather side pocket. He relocked and sprinted back to the elevator, which had not yet resumed its upward journey.
Inside the apartment he spread the chart on the dining table, scrabbled around for a ruler and measured. The stricken VLCC in the Hormuz Strait was only nine inches from the missile site, a fraction less than 18 miles. It was six inches from the Global Bronco, just less than 12 miles.
And it was pretty much on the line that joined the Iranian missile site and the spot where the Bronco had exploded yesterday.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” breathed Jimmy. “The bastards have mined the strait. And it’s dollars to doughnuts the VLCC hit one of ’em with its bow.”
He reached into his pocket and found the scrap of paper with the White House phone number. He checked his watch and saw it was 12.45 A.M. “Well, I didn’t manage to get fired five hours ago, but I’m damn sure certain I’m going to pull it off now.”
And he dialed the main switchboard of the White House. When they answered, he said, “This is Lieutenant Jimmy Ramshawe, Chief Surveillance Officer Middle and Far East, National Security Agency, Fort Meade. I need to speak to Admiral Arnold Morgan on a matter of extreme urgency. He WILL take the call. Please make it and then patch me through.”
For the second time that evening, the White House interrupted the fearsome Security Chief. He and Kathy were home, sipping a glass of their favorite sauternes, a sweet, silky 1995 dessert wine from the Gironde, before going to bed, when the phone rang.
“Sir, this is the White House main switchboard. We have a Lieutenant Jimmy Ramshawe on the line, who would like to be connected to you.”