But the general consensus was that they were headed to a point somewhere on the far eastern seaboard of the continent of Asia, either China or Russia. Taiwan was the favorite, because most of the men knew there was constant trouble out there. But no one had written off the 1,500-mile-long stretch of the Kamchatka Peninsula because of the big Russian naval base on the edge of those freezing, lonely waters. One thing they all knew: Seawolf was headed due west right now. No arguments there.
But the mere fact that they had not been told their destination suggested that this was no ordinary mission. Seawolf was heading into very serious waters, of that there was no doubt.
Admiral Arnold Morgan was lighting the barbecue grill. He was using one of those “chimneys” that require only lighted paper to start the charcoal burning. However, he had used four times more paper than was required, and he had used Match Light charcoal, which did not even require any paper. The result was a kind of controlled blaze upon which Dante himself might have roasted a few sausages.
Inferno was the word, and the admiral gazed at it with some satisfaction. “Get some goddamned power in there, right?” he told Kathy’s Labrador. “Get a little real heat going. You wanna cook lamb, you need power, right?”
Kathy, accustomed to Arnold’s unique view of how to light a barbecue, emerged from the house carrying a large platter on which was placed a large, marinated butterflied lamb, cut from an entire leg bone. She took one look at the fire and cast her eyes heavenward. “In case you hadn’t noticed, this is not a butterflied brontosaurus,” she said. “Just a regular leg of lamb, which requires nice hot gray coals, under the lid for about an hour. It does not require flames three feet high, nor will it taste any better for having been roasted in your personal version of Hiroshima.”
“I’m getting there,” he muttered, grinning. “Just gotta let the heat subside a little.”
“Oh, it should be just about perfect sometime on Tuesday evening. How about a drink while we wait?”
The admiral took the heavy plate from her and placed it on a small red table next to the inferno-grill. Then he placed his arm around her shoulder and told her he loved her as he did every evening before dinner. Then he asked her to marry him, and she said no, and he headed for the fridge to retrieve a bottle of her favorite 1997 Meursault and poured two glasses.
It was a ritual that amused them both, an affirmation that she would not become the third Mrs. Arnold Morgan until he retired from the White House, on the basis that she had no intention of sitting at home alone in Chevy Chase while he ran half the world.
The sun was setting now, somewhere out behind the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. And they sat outside watching the dying flames — of the sun, not the grill — in the clear light blue of the evening sky.
The cool, pale gold taste of the perfect dry wine from the slopes of Burgundy relaxed them both, and they discussed the possibility of taking a break together, perhaps to go back to Europe and visit their old friend Admiral Sir Iain MacLean in Scotland.
But Kathy did not hold out much hope for that. “You’re very preoccupied this past couple of weeks,” she said. “Is it China?”
“Uh-huh,” he said. “They’re a goddamned PITA.”
“A what?”
“A PITA.”
“What’s that? You always have initials for everything…SUBLANT, SUBPAC, SPECWARCOM…what’s a PITA?”
“Pain in the ass, stupid,” he said.
Kathy’s laughter took her unawares, and she only just managed not to blow Meursault down her nose. When she recovered her poise, she said, “You are not only crude to the point of absurdity, but I feel like I’m in love with Mao Zedong. China this, China that…it’s about a million miles away. Who cares?”
“My publishers, for a start. They’re just beginning to prepare The Thoughts of Chairman Arnold.”
Kathy shook her head, smiling at the ex-submarine commander to whom she had lost her heart. She had loved him since the first time she ever saw him, three years earlier; ever since that first day he had come growling into the office as the President’s National Security Adviser and told her to “get Rankov on the line and tell him he was, is, and always will be a sonofabitch. A lying sonofabitch at that.”
Stunned by the instruction, she had inquired lamely, “Who’s Rankov?”
“Head of the Russian Navy. He’s in the Kremlin. Oughta be in a salt mine.”
Amazed that the admiral still had not looked up from his papers, she had said, “But, sir, I can’t just call him in his office and call him a sonofabitch.”
“A lying sonofabitch.”
“Sorry, sir. I actually meant a lying sonofabitch.”
Then Admiral Morgan had looked up, a faint smile on his craggy, hard face. “Oh, okay, if your goddamned nerve’s gone before I’ve been here ten minutes, I’m sure as hell gonna have to whip you into shape. How about a cup of coffee, but get the Kremlin on the line first, willya? Ask for Admiral Vitaly Rankov. I’ll talk to him.”
Kathy had retired to order the Admiral’s coffee, and when she returned, she heard him yell, “RANKOV, you bastard, YOU ARE A LYING SONOFABITCH.”
She did not, of course, hear the great roar of laughter from Arnold’s old friend and sparring partner in the Russian Navy, and she could only stand there in astonishment. Kathy O’Brien had worked in the White House for several years, but never had she encountered a man such as this. She’d worked for confident men before. But not this confident.
The relationship between the twice-divorced admiral and the spectacularly beautiful private secretary had taken months to develop, mainly because it was beyond Arnold’s imagination that any woman this pretty, this smart, with her own private money, could possibly have any interest in him.
In the end it was Kathy who made the running and invited him to dinner. Since that evening they had been inseparable, and everyone in the White House knew it, though no one ever mentioned it, mainly from fear of the admiral.
The President himself was very aware of the romance, and equally aware that the future Mrs. Arnold Morgan would not marry him until he retired. He had asked her personally about it once, and she told him flatly, “His other two marriages failed because he happens to be wedded to the United States of America. His other two wives did not, I believe, understand how important he is. All they knew was that he was in the office and not at home. I’m different. I know why he’s in the office. But I’m not waiting at home for him. I’ll marry him when he retires.”
Which was why they lived almost all the time at Kathy’s home in Chevy Chase, and found a way to have dinner together every night. And with every passing week, Kathy O’Brien loved him more, not so much for his power to terrorize global military leaders, but for his intellect, his knowledge, and always just below the surface, his humor.
Kathy O’Brien understood that even in his snarling, sarcastic White House mode, Arnold Morgan was amusing himself mightily, toying with the opposition, dazzling even himself with his brilliant nastiness.
Just then the phone rang, and Kathy, looking comfortable, said, “You better get it, darling. That’s your secure line.”
The admiral strode to the phone, and the voice at the end was deep and strident.