On Sunday morning, July 14, rested and dressed again in his newly pressed Naval uniform, Bill headed out to the Cherokee where Ray was waiting. Just as he opened the door, his mother hurried down the veranda steps. “Billy,” she called. “Before you go, just one thing…try to remember…to take care of yourself,” she said, reaching to embrace him.
“Don’t worry,” he reassured her.
Bill had told her nothing of where he was now going, but she was aware of his uneasiness. She sensed something sinister would accompany her last Naval officer, on his last mission, and Emily Baldridge watched in silence as the Cherokee drove out to the prairie in a cloud of dust.
6
1730 Sunday, July 14.
LIEUTENANT COMMANDER BALDRIDGE ARRIVED AT Boston’s Logan Airport late Sunday afternoon. Outside, the temperature was still 92 degrees under clear skies. He picked up his suitcase, headed for the American Airlines counter, and handed over his economy-class ticket and passport. A slim dark brunette from Customer Service approached him. “Mr. Baldridge?” she inquired.
“That’s me.”
“Come this way, and I’ll take you down to the Admiral’s Club. I’ll bring your ticket and passport.”
Baldridge shrugged and walked down the wide corridor, through the security check, and crossed the concourse to the big oak door guarding the first-class lounge. His escort pushed the door open, gave a cursory nod to the attendant, and led him to a private corner table marked “Reserved.” A telephone was positioned next to his deep armchair, and someone was asking him whether he preferred a drink, or perhaps coffee.
“Coffee, please,” he said. “Black, two sugars. Thanks, ma’am.” Someone in high authority had cleared his path, he had no doubt of that.
No one at American Airlines, nor indeed at the Royal Navy’s headquarters, had the remotest idea of the young American officer’s mission.
When the flight was called, Bill was escorted to a first-class seat. There was no one in the seat next to him. He had a couple of large glasses of fresh orange juice, an early dinner of steak fillet and fruit salad, and slept for the rest of the night. The six-hour journey passed quickly, and the flight attendant awakened him with a pot of fresh coffee. He drank it, disappeared for a shave, and stepped down the jetway into London’s Heath row Airport at 7 A.M. refreshed but in a somber mood.
He was escorted through passport control, his bag was brought to him in the customs hall, and he walked straight out through the “Green, nothing-to-declare, lane,” into the safe custody of a Royal Navy staff driver and a female officer.
He sank quietly into the backseat, and left it to the driver to fight his way through the rush-hour traffic out onto the M4, and from there onto a circuitous route through the western suburbs to the tree-lined, unprepossessing military base in Northwood, some fifteen miles from central London. From a bunker beneath these bland modern buildings, Margaret Thatcher conducted the Falklands War in the company of her generals, admirals, and air marshals. Only the forest of radio and satellite communications which protruded from a half-dozen roofs betrayed this place as a secret citadel of Great Britain’s military defenses.
They passed through the guards at the gate, drove on down the hill, and stopped outside the main building. “I understand you will be here for most of the day, sir,” the driver ventured. “Leave your bag. I’ll be waiting.”
Bill was escorted up the steps, through the glass doors, and up two additional flights to the offices of Admiral Sir Peter Elliott, the Royal Navy’s Flag Officer Submarines. He was greeted by the Flag Lieutenant, Andrew Waites, who shook hands and hustled him next door to meet the admiral’s Chief of Staff, Captain Dick Greenwood. The place left an impression of battleship gray, steel desks, slightly tired carpets, cluttered tabletops.
It was the people who set it apart, as indeed they set apart the Navy offices in the Pentagon. Here in England each man was dressed in his “number twos,” dark blue trousers, white shirts and black ties, navy sweaters with high round necks and lapels. A small insignia on the shoulders indicated rank. All the faces, the manners, the attitudes were those of highly trained, confident, fit men.
The Royal Navy appeared to Bill to have misplaced a submarine of their own, judging by the conversation—a couple of “Oh shits,” three “Jesus Christs,” and a loud “Well, send him another fucking message.” Baldridge grinned. It was the same in every top submarine service. The sheer difficulty of communication with an underwater warship, which couldn’t hear a goddamned thing most of the time, was the most frustrating aspect of the job.
The COS was brisk and to the point. “I don’t see any reason to hang around. Tell me how you like your coffee and we’ll pop straight in and see the boss.”
The Royal Navy’s Flag Officer Submarines (FOSM), Admiral Elliott, stood up behind his desk and shook hands with the American. He was not as tall as Bill, but he was slim and stood very erect—unmistakably a military man. The eyes were piercing blue, the dark hair graying at the temples, the skin still tanned. The expression wide open, but wary. A man who has spent a lot of years at sea, Bill thought. What he did not know was that Admiral Sir Peter Elliott had been an outstanding submarine captain, commanding a Polaris in the 1970s, and a nuclear hunter-killer in the Falklands. He had also been the Teacher at Faslane. So indeed had Captain Greenwood, another nuclear boat commander.
The three men sat down and chatted briefly about the hot summer, both in England and the United States, and then the Royal Navy’s submarine Flag Officer asked Bill Baldridge precisely what he wanted.
“I have been given no briefing from the Admiralty, save a message to suggest I cooperate with you within my discretion. It may also be within my discretion to report our conversation to the Ministry of Defense, and I think you should understand that before we proceed.”
“I understand perfectly, sir. However, I have been asked by the CNO to make all of my inquiries here as discreet as possible.”
With the playing field now clear of minor obstacles, and the slow Kansan drawl of the American settling easily on his ears, the British admiral smiled and said quietly, in an impeccable English accent, “Well, Mr. Baldridge, how can I help you?”
“Sir, I would like to request your permission to review your files of foreign officers who passed through the Commanding Officers Qualifying Course at Faslane during the period from 1982 to 1992.”
Admiral Elliott shot a glance at Captain Greenwood, who imperceptibly shook his head—a shake of such infinitesimal motion, Bill was glad he caught it.
“Impossible for several reasons, I am afraid, the most obvious being that the material is highly classified.”
“Hmmm. Can I get around that?”
“Well, perhaps if you were to tell me what you’re looking for, that might be a start.”
“I don’t think so, sir.” And then, “I am not really empowered to do so,” he lied.
“You must understand one thing. Even if I gained the necessary permission to show you the documents, I would have to clear each one with the respective embassy of the officer concerned. Before I showed you one word.”
Bill now knew he was in a serious game of poker. “Well, sir, I would remind you that I am here on the highest possible authority.”
“I do not really have proof of that. I would most certainly require you to verify it. How far up can you go—I mean to a U.S. official we can contact right now.”
“Quite high, sir. The Chief of Naval Operations at the Pentagon, if necessary. If that won’t do, the Secretary of Defense. Failing that, the President of the United States. Even at this early hour of the morning.”
“Yes,” replied the admiral, slowly. “You really do want to see those records, don’t you?”
“Yessir. Yes I do.”
“Okay, Bill. I am going to ask you formally, now, and I want you to answer me, otherwise I shall have no alternative but to refer your inquiries to Whitehall, which has a way of holding things up for several weeks…sometimes
years!”
“Sir, if I have to, I’ll have the President call the Prime Minister….”
“I know you can, and I know you will. But all of that may not be necessary. Answer me. Tell me why you want to see my records.”
“Because I’m looking for someone, sir.”
“Yes, I have worked that out. Who are you looking for…?”
“I can’t say, sir…well, not really.”
The admiral stood up, smiled down at Bill, walked over to a table, and poured three cups of coffee, two sugars for Bill. “Very well,” he said. “Let me ask you a question. And I require you to answer it honestly.”
“Okay, Admiral,” said Bill.
The admiral swung around, stared straight at Bill, and said sharply: “You think some bastard blew up the Jefferson, don’t you?”
“Yessir. I do.”
“So do we. Matter of fact we’ve been waiting for you to show up for several days now.”
Lieutenant Commander Baldridge’s face expressed pure relief. For the first time he knew he was among friends.
“May I assume, Commander, that you are working on the theory that the carrier may have been hit by a torpedo delivered from a submarine?”
“Yessir.”
“What kind of a submarine?”
“Small, sir. Non-nuclear.”
“Built where?”
“Either here, sir, or Russia.”
“Exactly.”
“You don’t suspect us, do you?” interjected Captain Greenwood, a trace of indignation in his voice.
“Nossir. That’s why I’m here.”
“Suspects?” snapped the admiral.
“Oh, Middle Eastern, I suppose. The usual identity parade, Iran, Iraq, Syria, Libya…possibly Pakistan.”
“Hmmm. Well, Bill, let me put my cards on the table. I don’t need to have higher clearance to give you access to the records. But I was required to hear from you exactly what you were investigating. I guessed anyway. Now we both have what we want—and I would like you to inform your CNO, and your government, that you will have, as always, the complete cooperation of the Royal Navy and, I am quite certain, of Her Majesty’s Government.”
“Thank you, sir. Could I ask you a question?”
“Shoot.”
“When did you first realize the Jefferson had been hit?”
“Well, I heard about it toward the end of the ten o’clock news on the evening of the disaster. They showed live film of Scott Dunsmore making the announcement. I suppose by about 2235. I was pretty leery about an accident. I always considered sabotage a possible but rather silly theory. I spoke to the First Sea Lord at about2245. He agreed with me. I spoke also to Dick here, which made three of us nearly certain there was a bit of skulduggery. Been waiting to hear from you ever since.”
“You were a bit quicker than we were, sir.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t worry, Bill. It’s sometimes easier to be clear when you are far away and not so embroiled. Anyway, we’ve been at it a bit longer. Admiral Nelson would have opened fire on Baghdad by now, if he could have got Victory up the river!”
Bill looked up. He considered discussing the Iraqi theory with this very hard-eyed British submarine chief, but decided to say no more than he had to. For the moment.
“Yeah, I guess he would at that. Meantime, to get back to my assignment, perhaps I could spend a few hours looking at the records, and then come back and discuss the best way to proceed.”
“Perfect…Dick, take the commander out to Andrew’s office and then find him a space where he can work in private. Andrew should stay with him, and with the files, as a matter of security.” The admiral offered another handshake, smiled, and observed that he had enjoyed their brief meeting.
But as the American reached the door, the admiral called out, “Oh, Bill. Good luck, old chap, we’ll find him. I was told your brother was on board. I am very sorry.”
“Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.”
As he left, Bill heard the admiral call out, somewhat informally, “Have we found that fucking submarine yet?…Good…what was it?…radio mast…bloody things are always going wrong.”
And now he followed the Flag Lieutenant downstairs to the basement. They entered a very private room, with a long table, no windows, many telephones, a television, and the kind of upholstered armchairs arranged around the table which suggested this room was sometimes occupied by persons of high standing.
“Sit down here, sir,” said the lieutenant, respecting the American’s rank, “and I’ll nip upstairs and collect the files. It’s just the foreign Perishers, sir, right?”
“Right,” said Bill, grinning. “Just the foreign Perishers.”
“Oh, sir, are you interested in the ones who failed? There’s a few of them.”
“No, Lieutenant. My Perisher passed. I suspect with flying colors.”
“Quite so, sir,” said the lieutenant, with a slightly knowing grin, and bounded back up the stairs. He returned quickly, with a surprisingly small file. “I think most of ’em are in here,” he said. “But there may be one or two others. I’m going to run through the whole list again. Back in ten minutes. No hurry. The admiral wants you to have lunch with him—three hours.”
Bill Baldridge opened the file. There appeared to be about four sheets of paper on each man, clipped together in a red cardboard folder with MOD stamped on the front. He glanced first at the format without bothering to read the details. The top of page one gave the man’s name, rank, and nationality. It also gave his home base and a brief summary of his experience as a Naval officer. It then carried a succession of reports charting his progress, his examination marks, with comments. There followed a detailed assessment of his personal and professional character, his strengths and weaknesses, on what was clearly an official report. It was signed on the last page by the Teacher.
Also on the table in front of him was a big Navy writing pad, yellow pages, lined. Bill tore one out and folded it neatly in two. He decided to open each file and then clip the folded paper to the top of page one, covering the part which gave the details of the man’s background. That way he could read the report carefully, with an open mind. No prejudices, no preconceived ideas. If the report showed a potentially outstanding submarine officer, then he would go back and uncover the personal details. And the nationality.
The first file was a bit of a joke. A young commander from Saudi Arabia. Passed the course, just, but in the opinion of the Teacher possessed “no flair, no inspiration, and little imagination.”
“That man,” muttered Bill, “did not blow up an American carrier.”
The next three files were more promising, but again there was no evidence of flair, nor inspiration, nor even daring. Their marks were not bad, and having read four reports now, Bill realized the key passages were those written about each man by the Teacher. So far he had read reports by three Teachers, but two of the reports, both completed in 1987, were penned by the same man. They were signed, Commander Iain MacLean. “Now there is a tough ole sonofabitch,” murmured Baldridge. “Trying to get a compliment out of him must be like climbing mountains in Pawnee County. Maybe he just doesn’t like foreigners.”
He read two more reports. By this time Lieutenant Waites was with him, reading as well, keeping the files straight.
“Andrew,” said Bill, “can you get hold of another couple of files on good English guys who passed? I’d like to compare how the Teachers write about nationals as opposed to foreigners.”
“Sure. I’ll just get it cleared by the boss, and bring ’em down. There’s two more foreign reports also coming down in a minute. They were in a separate file.”
“Okay. I’d just like to get a feel on how harsh these Teachers are. I’m telling you…this guy MacLean, what a tyrant. Glad he didn’t mark my stuff at MIT. I’d still be there.”
“I’ve never met him, sir. But he certainly does tell it like it is.”
The final two foreign reports arrived, and the young Flag
Lieutenant checked them in, and then went back upstairs to retrieve a couple of the English documents. Bill Baldridge opened the first of the newly arrived files and carefully placed his folded paper over the identity section on page one. He skimmed the results, noting the highest marks he had seen on any of the foreign papers. He skipped quickly to the Teacher’s comments, and his heart pounded as he read just six words. “The best Perisher I have taught yet.”
Nimitz Class (1997) Page 18
