Which meant that on Monday morning, in the same room where the Board of Inquiry had sat, Captain Judd Crocker faced the court-martial alone. Only his father was there, waiting outside for the verdict. And for three hours, the former commanding officer pleaded his case, explaining the circumstances, trying to explain his XO’s mistake.
But there was no pleading here. The Navy wanted a conviction, to get everyone off the hook. The President wanted a conviction, to get his son off the hook. This was a trial that was lost before it was held.
At 1625 on the afternoon of Monday, October 2, Captain Judd Crocker was found guilty of gross negligence, effectively “on grounds that he had been absent from his place of duty in the face of the enemy.” He was relieved of command and issued a letter of the severest censure, with a recommendation that he leave the service forth-with.
1400. Tuesday. October 3.
Office of the National Security Adviser.
Admiral Morgan had just proposed to Kathy O’Brien. “Thought I’d get that absolute formality out of the way before I go along and tell the Chief I’ve resigned,” he said.
“Well, yes. I will marry you. But this is all a little sudden. I presume it’s about Judd Crocker’s court-martial?”
“Not quite. It’s just that I can no longer give my loyalty to a man like President Clarke. This whole thing has been riddled with dishonesty and corruption. Nothing’s ever been straight, right from the start. And I cannot put up with it. I’m outta here, though he will not know that for a couple of days.
“I’ve been in the United States Navy almost all of my life, and I have never known such a series of totally shocking events. Losing Joe Mulligan? Archie Cameron? Disgracing our best submarine CO? All for this little shit Linus Clarke? No, Kathy, I’m not having it. I’m out.”
Then the admiral was gone, on his way to the Oval Office, taking with him his letter of resignation, effective Friday.
The President was stunned at his decision to quit on him.
The two men talked for an hour, John Clarke trying to persuade Arnold Morgan not to leave the ship. But there was no changing the mind of the National Security Adviser. He simply felt he could not offer this President the kind of loyalty he needed.
They shared a pot of coffee, and just as they were preparing to shake hands, there was a tap on the door, and a thoroughly distraught Kathy O’Brien came in slowly, a white handkerchief pressed to her face.
“Sir,” she blurted out, “Captain Crocker has shot himself. He’s dead.”
President Clarke went white. His hand was clasped across his mouth as if trying to” stop himself from crying out.
Admiral Morgan steeled himself and put his arm around Kathy, guiding her out of the room. Just before he walked out through the doorway, he turned and said, “Corruption, sir, when you’re dealing with men of honor, sometimes carries a very high price.”
EPILOGUE
They brought Judd Crocker’s body home by military aircraft, landing at Cape Cod’s sprawling Otis Air Force Base. His heartbroken family arranged a small private funeral on the outskirts of Osterville, just for relatives and the small contingent from Washington — the President, Admiral Morgan and Kathy, and Admiral Joe Mulligan. However, Lt. Commander Rick Hunter flew in with Brad Stockton on a military jet from San Diego, and they flanked Nicole and the two little girls throughout the proceedings.
The service was conducted by the local pastor, and they laid Judd Crocker to rest near the grave of his grandfather in the hillside cemetery. The President himself looked as if every one of his worst dreams had just happened.
Here, in this village by Nantucket Sound, he faced for the first time the consequences of his actions. The entire place was in mourning for a native son who had died by his own hand. Down at the Wianno Yacht Club, where Captain Crocker had learned to sail as a boy, the flag of the United States flew at half-staff.
It was the same in the center of the town, outside the country store, where the town flag was also at half-staff. Shops all along Main Street were closed for the funeral, and a huge crowd was gathered on the sidewalks all the way down to the cemetery.
There had been just enough in the newspapers and on television for everyone to know there had been something highly suspicious about the court-martial. No one believed that Judd Crocker could possibly have been solely responsible for the loss of the Seawolf.
And now the President seemed to be in shock at the outpouring of hometown grief. The worst news he heard was that Admiral Nathaniel Crocker had told the Cape Cod Times that he would devote the next five years to writing a book about the loss of the submarine, and his son’s part in the disaster. He had, he revealed, been promised total cooperation by many of Judd’s crew.
In the event, the final word, perhaps, went to Admiral Crocker, who waited for the President after the service.
Judd’s father walked up to him, and he did not offer his hand. He just said softly, “I wonder, sir, whose son has the greater honor, yours or mine?”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For my fourth military novel, my principal adviser was again Admiral Sir John “Sandy” Woodward, who was thus obliged to steer me through the dangerous waters of the China seas in a large nuclear submarine.
Where I wanted to go was often impossible. “Depth, man, depth, for heaven’s sake watch your depth!” Will I ever forget his admonishments as he paced the office glaring at the charts? While I tried to grapple with the subtleties of English prose, he mostly talked to me as if I were a petty officer third class wrestling with the conn.
But the admiral and I have sailed difficult literary waters before, and somehow we made our way around the course. I am deeply indebted to him for his insights, incomparable knowledge of the operation of a submarine, and, in this case, his knowledge of nuclear physics. He’s pretty good on the construction of a plot too — radar-alert to the weak, the unlikely, and, to quote him again, “the grotesquely impossible.”
The highlight of writing one of these novels is, for me, the moment the admiral concludes months and months of scheming, criticizing, and checking with a curt nod and the words, “That’ll do.” I am sure his commanders in the 1982 Falklands War saw that decisive finality many times.
It’s reassuring, of course, to have an ex-Battle Group commander, and the Royal Navy’s former Flag Officer Submarines, in your corner. But no one ever said it was supposed to be easy.
For this book I also required expert guidance from officers who had commanded Special Forces. For obvious reasons, none of them ought to be named. However, I am profoundly grateful for their advice and insights into a large-scale assault action.
I thank also Anne Reiley for her eagle-eyed appraisal of certain Washington landmarks. And also my friend Ray McDwyer of Cavan, Ireland, for providing me with a haven on the south side of Dublin City, where I annually carry out the lonely task of writing a 400-page novel.
Patrick Robinson
About the Author
Patrick Robinson lives in Dublin, Ireland, and on Cape Cod, Massachusetts. He is the bestselling author of three novels: Nimitz Class, Kilo Class, and H.M.S Unseen.
Books by Patrick Robinson
Hunter Killer
Scimitar SL-2
Barracuda 945
Slider
The Shark Mutiny
U.S.S. Seawolf
H.M.S. Unseen
Kilo Class
Nimitz Class
True Blue
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U.S.S. Seawolf am-4 Page 47
