“Hmmm. Then I suppose we better give old Nikolai some kind of a time limit, two days maybe, to make sure the submarines do not go to China. Don’t hold out a lot of hope though, how ’bout you?”
“None. But that’s the way we have to proceed. And when he refuses?”
“You know the President’s views, Arnold. He would just like the plan carried out in the most discreet way possible.”
“Right. Where we gonna meet the ambassador?”
“I think in this instance your office. There’s a kind of natural, hostile, quasi-military atmosphere in there. And we might just have a better chance of frightening him.”
“Okay, see you there at 1700, right? He ought to make it by then.”
“Correct. And by the way, you wouldn’t be civilized enough to produce a cup of decent coffee, would you?”
“Very possibly, but don’t count on it,” the Admiral called back. He was already thundering down the corridor, back to his lair, in which he intended to unnerve the senior Washington representative of the Russian government. He was good at that type of bare-knuckle diplomacy.
Harcourt Travis showed up on time and confirmed that Nikolai Ryabinin, the Russian ambassador, was on his way over to the White House, as all ambassadors surely must be, when summoned by the most senior representatives of the President of the United States.
Mr. Ryabinin was a short and stocky, white-haired career diplomat of some sixty-six summers, or in his case, winters. He was a native of Leningrad and had survived an early setback to his career when he was expelled from the Soviet Embassy in London as a spy after working as a junior cultural attaché for only three months. That happened during Sir Alec Douglas Home’s sudden purge in the mid-1960s along with about ninety of Nikolai’s more senior colleagues, who were also suspected of skullduggery.
But Nikolai had survived. He had represented the Kremlin in various posts in the Middle East including Cairo, and served as the Russian ambassador in Paris, Tokyo, and then Washington. He was wily, evasive, and extremely sharp. Deceptively so.
He now entered the West Wing in the company of his Naval attaché, Rear Admiral Victor Scuratov, a tall heavily built Naval officer who had until very recently been in charge of combat training programs in the Baltic.
The two men looked extremely uncomfortable as they were shown into Admiral Morgan’s office. Nikolai himself had been so concerned about meeting the former lion of Fort Meade that he had taken the trouble to call Admiral Vitaly Rankov, now ensconced in the Kremlin as the Chief of the Main Navy Staff, for a quick brief on what he might expect from the Americans.
“Arnold Morgan will not hesitate to have you removed from the United States if he feels you are not playing straight,” the Russian admiral had cautioned. “He’s a ruthless bastard and I’m glad I’m not in your shoes. Just remember one thing: if he makes a threat he will carry it out. So don’t even think of calling his bluff. Be honest with him, as honest as you can. His bark’s bad, but his bite’s worse.”
Mr. Ryabinin was not encouraged. And now he stood in the lion’s den, shaking hands with the lion himself and being told to “sit down, and I’ll give you a cup of coffee.”
The four men sat around a large polished table at the end of the room. Harcourt Travis came to the plate and said he presumed the ambassador and his attaché knew why they were here. They confirmed that they did but were very afraid that progress might prove extremely difficult. The Ukraine problem was not easily solvable, they explained, and if the Chinese did not get their submarines, there would be no completion of the aircraft carrier. This could cost the current Russian leader his Presidency, given the resulting unrest in the Ukraine, not to mention the despondency in the great Russian shipyard cities. And in Mr. Ryabinin’s view, the Russian President would rather have an angry America than no job.
“Do you have any idea how angry, Mr. Ambassador?”
“Yes, I do. And to make matters rather worse, I also understand why. My own view is that we should think very carefully about this. But in the end, the President of Russia will have to decide between a peaceful solution with yourselves, which would involve not selling the ships, and losing the next election. It would also involve seriously upsetting our biggest customer.”
“But if you do not do as we request, relations between East and West may revert to the dark ages of the Cold War, which in the end would be far more damaging for Russia than losing an order for a half-dozen submarines.”
“I understand completely, Mr. Travis. But it must be my unhappy task to hand this over to my President, and shall we agree that most men who have attained very high office have a self-interested streak?”
“Well, Mr. Ambassador, I think you must understand we feel very strongly about this, and if you do proceed with the Chinese order there will be a few hard financial truths for you to face in your future dealings with us. You realize we are able to make things difficult for any Russian President, including this one. On the other hand, we can be, and are, extremely good friends to you.”
“So, I am afraid, are the Chinese.”
Admiral Morgan, who had been silent until now, decided it was probably time to fire a shot or two across the Russian bows. “How would it be, Ambassador, if we went out and blew the two Kilos out of the water, and then told the Chinese you knew all along what was going to happen but deliberately failed to warn them in the interest of keeping your hot little hands on that huge bundle of Chinese yuan and your President’s job?”
Nikolai Ryabinin was shocked at the frontal assault. So was Harcourt Travis, who dropped his expensive gold pen on the table with a clatter.
In flawless English, the veteran Russian diplomat, mindful of the warning of Admiral Rankov, said quietly, “That would be widely construed by the international community as an unwarranted act of war. Unworthy of the United States of America. A large number of dead sailors, whatever their nationality, does not play well in front of a large world television audience.”
“How about if we did it in secret and then somehow alerted the Chinese Navy that your submarine had sunk the Kilos, as a way of holding on to the export order and keeping us happy at the same time,” Admiral Morgan said impassively.
Harcourt Travis went white. The ambassador made no reply. And the Navy attaché just shook his head.
“Admiral Morgan, I do not think even you would try to pull off something like that,” the Ambassador said finally.
“Don’t you?” growled the Admiral.
It was now clear that the Ambassador was not going to change his President’s mind despite Harcourt Travis’s firmly reasoned statements. The meeting was going nowhere. And he called it to a close by informing the Russian Ambassador that he had an official communiqué from the President of the United States, “who formally presents his compliments to the President of Russia, and requests that he give very serious consideration to not fulfilling the Chinese order for the submarines.
“We are formally submitting this request through your diplomatic offices and would like your assurances that it will be transmitted to your President within a half hour.”
“You have those assurances, Mr. Travis, despite the disagreeable hour. It’s about 0200 in Moscow now.”
“Thank you, Ambassador. We are giving your President exactly forty-eight hours to inform us that he has canceled the order before we shall be obliged to consider different options.”
“I understand, Mr. Travis. And hope, most respectfully, that this does not affect our own personal relationship in the future.”
He held out his hand to receive the white envelope. And Admiral Morgan added, “A whole lot of things are going to be affected most respectfully if those goddamned Chinese make even one move toward shutting us out of the Taiwan Strait. Especially if Russian-built submarines are deemed, by us, to be the culprit. And that you guys, knowingly and willfully, let it happen.”
The time was 1810 when the Ambassador left. “I guess we just have to wait it out,” said Harcourt. “Wa
nt some dinner?”
“No thanks. I wanna get back to Fort Meade to see what’s going on in the world. I’ll get a sandwich there. Since the die is cast and time is running out, the whole drift is now toward the CNO. The President does not wish to be informed further, and as you know, the communiqué asks that the Russian reply be directed to the Navy office.”
“I realize that, Arnold. It’s a pretty weak attempt to lower the profile. But it’s better than nothing. Anyway, I don’t think there’s going to be a reply. Let’s have a chat sometime tomorrow. In private.”
“Sure, Harcourt. Anything big happens, I’ll let you know later.”
Two days later, on December 14, the digital clock on the wall of the CNO’s office showed 1830. No message had been received from the Russian government. Admiral Morgan was checking with the White House and the State Department. There was nothing. Admiral Mulligan was pacing the length of his office. Commander Dunning sat quietly in an armchair. Like the Russian President, he too would say nothing. He had a great deal on his mind.
As the clock went to 1836, the CNO said: “Okay. Let’s go down and see the Chairman.” They left the office, walking briskly onto the eerily deserted E-Ring.
The guards in front of the Chairman’s office immediately escorted them into the inner office, where Admiral Scott Dunsmore awaited them.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said. “Any news?”
“No, sir,” replied Admiral Mulligan. “We have received no reply to the President’s communiqué.”
“Very well. I believe we are all clear as to the wishes of the President,” said Admiral Dunsmore. “I would like you to set those plans in motion immediately. Needless to say the operation is Black. No one will discuss this with anyone who does not already know—just the President, Harcourt, Bob, and the Director at Fort Meade.”
All three men nodded. No further words were spoken. The ruthless near silent efficiency of the US Navy was on display for their military leader. Admiral Mulligan led the way out, followed by Admiral Morgan. Commander Dunning brought up the rear. And as he made his exit, he heard the Chairman say in a soft voice, “Boomer…good luck.”
3
JO DUNNING WAS NOT HAVING MUCH LUCK attempting to back the family Boston Whaler into the garage for the winter. She had run over and probably ruined an expensive deep-sea fishing rod, and had somehow succeeded in jamming the white forty-horsepower Johnson outboard motor on the stern of the boat firmly into the right-hand wall of the wooden garage. She was not anxious to drive the jeep forward, in case she went over the fishing rod again, and anyway she was half afraid the entire building might cave in.
The phone was ringing in the house, however, and with huge relief she opened the door and fled the hideous scene, hoping against hope that the call would be from Boomer. Even harassed and angry, dressed in old jeans and a white Irish-knit fisherman’s sweater, Jo Dunning was a spectacular sight. Her long, dark red hair, long slim legs, and what Hollywood describes as “drop-dead good looks” somehow betrayed her. It was impossible to believe she was merely a Naval officer’s wife: here, surely, was a lady from show business.
Half right. Jo was very definitely the wife of the nuclear submarine commanding officer Boomer Dunning. But she had retired from her career as a television actress on the day she had met him, fifteen years previously. This was not, incidentally, an incident that had threatened to bring CBS to its knees, since at the time Jo had been resting for several months and, in the less-than-original words of her own mother, was wondering if indeed her “career was down the toilet.”
And now, as she ran to the telephone in the big house that would one day be theirs, she hoped her luck on this wretched day would change—that Boomer would be calling to confirm their plans to spend three days at Christmas together with the children in this waterfront house on the western Cape.
But Jo’s luck had not turned, except for the worse. The voice on the line was that of a young lieutenant junior grade from the SUBLANT headquarters in Norfolk, Virginia, where Boomer was now stationed.
“Mrs. Dunning?”
“Speaking.”
“Mrs. Dunning, this is Lieutenant Davis down here at SUBLANT calling to let you know that Commander Dunning has been assigned to a special operation, beginning immediately. As you know, it will be difficult for him to speak with anyone outside the base. You may of course call here anytime, and we’ll do our best to let you know how long he’s going to be. But for the moment, he’s terribly busy—he’ll try to call you tonight.”
Jo Dunning had had a few conversations like this before, and she knew better than to probe. She was so anxious about Christmas, however—which would be their first together for three years—that she asked the question directly.
“Will he be home in a few days?”
“No, ma’am.”
Her heart fell. “How long, Lieutenant?”
“Right now, he’s expected to return toward the end of January. We’re looking at a five-week window.”
“A five-week widow,” she murmured. And then, “Thank you, Lieutenant. Please tell my husband I’ll be thinking of him.”
“I certainly will, ma’am.”
“Oh, Lieutenant, are you going with him?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Tell him to drive carefully, won’t you?”
“I sure will, ma’am.”
At which point Jo Dunning put the phone down and wept. Just as she had wept last summer when all of their plans were ruined because of another operation at the end of the world down in the South Atlantic. Except she had not known at the time where he was.
And as she sat now in her father-in-law’s wooden rocking chair, staring out at the sunlit waters of Cotuit Bay, she could think only of the terrible, deep waters in which she knew her husband worked, and the monstrous, black seven-thousand-ton nuclear killing machine of which Boomer Dunning was the acknowledged master. No one, in all of military history, had ever hated anything quite so badly as the lovely Jo Dunning loathed the United States Navy at this particular moment. Her tears were tears of desolation. And fear. No one ever said it, but everyone even remotely connected with the submarine service knew the dangers and the anxiety that pervaded every family whose father, son, or brother helped to operate America’s big, underwater strike force.
It was not that she couldn’t cope with it. Jo thought she could cope with anything, even, if it came to it, the death of her husband in the service of their country. It was only the hateful unfairness of it all. Why Boomer, why her wonderful sailor-husband, and not someone else? But she already knew the answer to that. She’d been told often enough. Because he was the best. And one day he was going to be a captain, and then an admiral, and then, who knows, she said aloud, “President of the Universe for all I care.”
Jo composed herself quickly. At thirty-eight, she still looked perfect, and she was still dewy-eyed over her husband. She adored even the sight of him in uniform, this handsome, commanding man, about a half inch taller than six feet, blond hair, massive arms and tree trunk legs. Boomer looked like what he was: an ocean-racing yachtsman when he had the chance, a man who was an America’s Cup-class sailor, a true son of the sea. His father had been very much the same but had left the Navy after World War II, as a lieutenant commander, and proceeded to make a great deal of money with a Boston stockbroking firm.
Jefferson Dunning was close to eighty years of age and was busily spending some of it wintering on a Caribbean Island. But he had deeded the house on the Cape to Boomer years previously, in order to skate around heavy Massachusetts inheritance taxes. Boomer was a better sailor than his father had been, just, but was not as financially astute. He would have no need to be. He would inherit a reasonable amount of money, and Jo herself would one day share with her two sisters the legacy of the family boatyard up in New Hampshire.
She was a curious dichotomy, Mrs. Boomer Dunning. A lifelong dinghy sailor, she was an ace racing the local Cotuit skiffs, and she could hand
le any powerboat around. She’d been doing that all of her life. Jo was, however, a lousy driver. Which was why at this moment the Boston Whaler was jammed into the side of the Dunning garage. Jo judged water distance better than land distance.
She was never really comfortable amid the glitz of the acting trade, although her looks might have carried her far. She had quite enjoyed living in New York and attending acting classes. But her first television soap opera part had been, well, a bit wooden. The Hollywood producer who had once written of Fred Astaire, “Can’t act, can’t sing, can dance a bit,” would probably have remained unimpressed had he studied the young Jo Donaghue in screen action.
She had a couple more chances, including another soap, which ran for eight weeks, after which things went quiet. At twenty-three, she was going nowhere. In the spring of 1988 she was introduced to a young Navy lieutenant at a yacht club dance in Maine. Cale Dunning had just crewed on a big ketch up from the Chesapeake. He was from Cape Cod, and they were married within five months, just before he decided to spend his career in the submarine service.
Even now, on this sunny but now depressing Saturday morning, Jo would not have traded one day of her life as Mrs. Dunning for the leading role in any movie. All she wanted was for him to come home for Christmas. And that was not going to happen.
Their own house was in Groton, Connecticut, near the big US submarine base, New London. But she and their two daughters, Kathy, thirteen, and Jane, eleven, often came up to their grandparents’ Cape Cod house during the winter when it was empty. The whole family had been together here during the Thanksgiving holiday three weeks ago, and this particular weekend had been arranged for Jo to put the house in shape for Christmas next week. Now none of that would be necessary. Jo and the girls might as well stay in Groton, where there were other Naval families close by, old friends who would invite them to parties where no one would mention the absence of Commander Dunning. Special Ops were like that. They cast a cloak of secrecy over their participants, and all of those on the fringes. Jo knew she could be talking to a colleague of Boomer’s who had at least some vague idea of where Boomer was on Christmas Day, but that nothing would ever be mentioned between them. That was how it was, and she was not some skittish television actress anymore. She was the wife of a US Navy nuclear submarine commander, and she might one day be the wife of an Admiral.
Kilo Class Page 8
