Admiral Morgan raised his eyes heavenward. But he took the call. “Jimmy,” he rasped. “This better be awfully important.”
“It is, sir. There’s a second big tanker crippled in the Hormuz Strait. I just heard a flash on CNN. But I called Dubai, then the Omani Navy, and I got a position on the ship. It’s eighteen miles from the missile site I mentioned, and it’s twelve miles from the Global Bronco. More important, it’s on a dead-straight line linking the two ships and the missiles. The odds against that have gotta be a zillion to one. They’ve mined it, sir. Of that I am now very sure.”
Arnold Morgan hissed his breath inward. His thoughts raged through his mind. “Jimmy, where are you?”
“I’m in my apartment, sir. The Watergate.”
“You are? Hell, I used to know an Australian Admiral who lived in there. You any relation?”
“My father, sir. Naval attaché here a few years back.”
“Jesus. This is getting worse and worse. Your dad and I had a few times together. Lives in New York now, right? With Qantas?”
“That’s him, sir.”
“Okay. Now listen. I want you to meet me in my office in the White House in twenty minutes. I’m leaving right now. I’ll have an escort for you at the West Executive Avenue entrance. You know where that is?”
“Yessir.”
“And, Jimmy, speak to no one. Not a sentence. Not a phone call. This is very important. Believe me.”
“Yessir.”
“And, Jimmy, make sure you bring your working chart with you.”
“Yessir.”
Arnold Morgan stood up and walked to the top of the basement stairs in Kathy’s large Chevy Chase home. He yelled instructions to his Secret Service detail, organizing Lt. Ramshawe’s escort at the White House. He kissed Kathy good night, pulled on his coat and headed outside where his car and two agents were waiting.
“Straight to the factory, sir?”
“You gottit.”
It was almost 1 A.M. when the black White House staff car came barreling over the Taft Avenue Bridge, driving swiftly down Connecticut Avenue. It was raining now, and the city was quiet. They crossed Dupont Circle and made their way to Seventeenth Street, swinging into West Executive Avenue from where they could see a Jaguar already being waved through to the West Wing.
Admiral Morgan met Lt. Ramshawe right outside the door, while four duty agents attended to his visitor’s pass and parked his car.
The Admiral stuck out his hand, smiled, and said, “Hello, Lieutenant. Arnold Morgan.”
Jimmy Ramshawe had met a few major men in his life, but this was different. The Admiral exuded power. He was all of seven inches shorter than Jimmy but his gaze was dead straight, his eyes bright blue and his grip strong. The Admiral’s dark gray suit had been tailored somewhere in heaven, and his black lace-up shoes were gleaming. The perfectly knotted tie was that of the Naval Academy, Annapolis, a place and experience that Arnold Morgan had never forgotten, and never would. He made Jimmy Ramshawe feel like a little boy.
And in response to the Admiral’s curt but warm greeting, he just managed, “Sir.” He’d used up all his daring and bravado for one night, making two unauthorized calls on the private line to the right-hand man of the President of the United States.
“Follow me,” said the Admiral, to anyone who might be listening, which included the two Secret Service agents who were with him at all times, four White House agents, and Jimmy. And, line astern, they set off in the wake of the Admiral, who never walked; he kind of pounded along the carpet, chin out, shoulders back, dead upright. If a regular wall had suddenly appeared in front of him, he would have crashed right through it, like a Disney cartoon, leaving just the outline of his silhouette. He conducted the business of the United States of America along very similar lines.
At the big wooden door to his office he came to a halt, and his commands were sharp…. “Get me a competent secretary to sit in Mrs. O’Brien’s chair right now. Tell someone to bring us coffee…. You hungry, Jimmy?”
“Yessir.”
“Chicken sandwiches for the Lieutenant…and make sure someone’s attending to my phone exclusively at all times…Aside from that, my regular agents take up positions right here…and have the hot line to the President on high alert…I may have to speak to him in a major hurry.”
Everyone nodded. Admiral Morgan glared; turning to one of his regular agents, he barked, “No bullshit, right, Bobby?”
Bobby snapped to attention. “No bullshit. Sir, nossir.”
It was a well-practiced routine, and everyone laughed.
“Okay, gentlemen, that’s it. Lieutenant, let’s get to work…and tell ’em to hurry up with the coffee in case we both fall asleep.”
Inside the office, Jimmy spread his chart out on the Admiral’s big desk. Arnold Morgan stared hard as the key spots were pointed out to him…the missiles, the Global Bronco, the stricken VLCC, currently pumping oil into the strait.
“Okay, Lieutenant, first things first. I want to know what the master of that ship actually saw. I guess if they slammed into a mine…What was it, a contact PLT-3 from Russia?”
“That was what the Chinese ordered, sir. So I’m assuming that.”
“So’m I. Well, they make a pretty big bang in the water. The Captain must have heard something.”
“I agree, sir. But the guy I spoke to in the Omani public affairs office was giving nothing away. It took me all my time to get him to tell me where the ship was.”
“Well, if that’s the case, I may have to kick a little ass. Hard. Do we know the name or the nationality of the ship?”
“Nossir.”
“Okay. Well, the news guys will have that very soon. Meantime I’m gonna get the Royal Navy in London to do our work. The Brits are well in with the Omanis, have been for years. Just about every warship they own is British.”
He picked up the telephone and ordered the new secretary, “Get me Admiral Sir Richard Birley on the line in Northwood, England. The numbers are in my big blue book, top right-hand drawer…. He’ll be at home, right near the base. He’s head of the Royal Navy’s submarine service.”
Less than two minutes later, the Admiral’s old friend from London was on the line. The two men exchanged greetings, and the English submarine chief instantly agreed to have someone call the Omanis and find out precisely what was going on, who owned the ship and what the Captain had to say.
“I’ll be back inside the hour, Arnie…. By the way, may I ask why you’re treating this so urgently?”
“Not right now you can’t.”
“Well, you always have to wonder in those waters, hmmmm?”
“You always have to wonder. Talk to you later, Dick.”
The Admiral turned back to Jimmy Ramshawe, and he said quietly, “Lieutenant, I want you to listen very carefully. Only two people in this country believe the Iranians and the Chinese may have put a minefield across the strait. That’s you and I.
“We may be wrong. But I think not. Your straight line on that chart is just too much of a coincidence. And I would not be that shocked if another ship blew before we’re much older.
“But this is what I want you to understand: If this turns out to be true, we’re going to be sitting on a colossal world oil crisis. The gulf will have to be shut down while we sweep and clear it, which is going to take weeks. Oil prices will go through the roof. The entire global economy could go berserk. Japan could come to a complete halt. A gallon of gas could go to six bucks right here in the U.S…. and what I’m trying to do right here is avoid a national panic, if that is at all possible.”
“Yessir.”
The chicken sandwiches arrived, a large plateful. Jimmy Ramshawe attacked them, and the Admiral had one himself while they waited for the English Admiral to call back.